I am Celine Dion

by Eman

Pique is not over it

In exactly two hours and forty minutes from typing this, Barcelona will play the second leg of the Champions league’s 1/8th finals against Arsenal (henceforth referred to as Arse, Arsmellnal or Cesc Poachers). I am not worried at all. Sure, our two best defenders are out and yes we’ve been suffering a streak of bad luck (bad luck meaning we’ve been winning matches with a one goal difference and not the usual 20) but I am not worried. I AM PUMPED!

Positive thinking works, right?

I digress, let me whine about my day for a bit. I am perpetually tired, and you can tell by the badly concealed bags under my eyes and the myriad of bulbous zits that pepper my once baby-butt-like face. The other day I was washing my hair and large chunks were falling out, and when my hair falls out it’s not like when anyone else’s hair falls out. No, it’s much more dramatic. The moment the hair follicle detaches itself from my scalp is pivotal. It is like when the Romans finally succeeded at destroying Carthage, except I’m Carthage. It is that significant. At that moment the earth stands still, there is complete silence and it is as if the water beating down upon me from the shower head is frozen in time. Nothing moves except for those strands of hair which dance in an invisible breeze, mocking me. My seven senses are completely dulled. I am nothing, there is nothing, I float in nothingness. Then, suddenly, it is as if life is on steroids – the shower becomes a flood akin to Noah’s, the lights become so bright my pupils scream in protest and there is a loud shrieking sound that pierces my soul and fills me with fear. Masked devils with manes of silky black hair dance in front of me waving their luscious locks before my face and laughing, little beetle-like creatures descend from above and start pulling at what’s left of my hair and I start clawing at them with my wrinkled fingers, screaming at them, desperately trying to reattach my hair to my scalp to no avail until I collapse in a blubbering heap and drown.

It’s a true story.

VISCA EL BARÇA!

hello miss, i like your face

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