I spent most of the week cruising other people's blogs like a creepy geezer.
BALLS to your fancy, beautiful, established blogs with scrags of followers.
Electric Sex Pants has INNER beauty.
BALLS I say.
Ever seen Independence Day? I saw the sequal; 2012. Chiwetal Ejiofor (you saw him in Serenity) is the philosophical scientist who figures everything out and muses piously on the ethics (Jeff Goldblum). John Cusack is the estranged father who manages to make good at the end and Woody Harrelson plays a stoned-off his hackysacks conspiracy-theorist hippy who lucks onto the truth (Will Smith/Randy Quaid).
Smashing.
20 minutes and 8 scenes of aeroplanes lurching dramatically out of thick black smoke (or lava, or gigantic earth-cracks, or over avalanches, or tsunamis etc) into the 'film' The Boyfriend turns to me and says "I'm sorry". I say "if we slip out now we can still get our money back".
But I'm glad we stayed. Not only did we get to see Danny Glover as the elderly Obama-type president of the USA (were his last words really "Earth has turned into a Lethal Weapon?") but I think I saw a Lama looking wistfully at a llama during a scene where a family of Tibetans smuggle themselves onto Noah's Arc.
The heartwarming theme of this epic is hammered home by the 7 year old girl who by the end of the 'film' has literally learned to put on her big girl panties. No shit.
No doubt, grown-up grundies or not, this will emerge painfully during her teens as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
Meanwhile in the real world The Boyfriend and I are considering moving in together...
But will I ever be able to look at him the was I used to? He chose that movie.
16 November 2009
06 November 2009
EL CHUPACABRA AND A LUSTROUS BEARD
I'm cheating on The Boyfriend.
I KNOW! It's wrong. It's sick. It's a sin.
I had to tell someone, to let it out, to confess.
So far, it's only emotionally. I don't know if that's better, or worse. I don't think it will ever progress further than this but I need absolution.
It's The Beard. The Beard is a softly-spoken American surfer. He jokes about chupacabra and philosophises about crinkle cut potato chips. But it's not The Beard I'm cheating with, it's his beard. The beard that gives The Beard his moniker.
It's a beautiful beard, grown from convenience, maintained by love. This thick, unpretentious patch of face-hair has a character of its own. It's clean, it's quiet, it's flexible, it's very very soft.
It's located, in the tradition of the majority of beards I've met, at the lower-half of The Beard's face. Around the mouth, under the ears and nose. It extends below his chin, the excess varying somewhat due to humidity. Thick, shiny, dark-brown curls. Turkish, fortune-telling curls. The Beard, being more than 6ft when vertical, generally keeps his beard up there near his face, which means that the enticing curls separate me from him when we speak. This makes it almost impossible for me to avoid the beard if I'm speaking to The Beard.
You see my dilemma.
And I adore this beard. My friend, The Beard is also superb, in that way that people sometimes are. And I would love to pass The Beard around my single friends. He would be appreciated, I know this.
But I fear.
I fear some overzealous girl will persuade The Beard to shave the beard. And what will happen after that?
A shaved beard is just a pile of hair.
DON'T TOUCH THE BEARD.
I KNOW! It's wrong. It's sick. It's a sin.
I had to tell someone, to let it out, to confess.
So far, it's only emotionally. I don't know if that's better, or worse. I don't think it will ever progress further than this but I need absolution.
It's The Beard. The Beard is a softly-spoken American surfer. He jokes about chupacabra and philosophises about crinkle cut potato chips. But it's not The Beard I'm cheating with, it's his beard. The beard that gives The Beard his moniker.
It's a beautiful beard, grown from convenience, maintained by love. This thick, unpretentious patch of face-hair has a character of its own. It's clean, it's quiet, it's flexible, it's very very soft.
It's located, in the tradition of the majority of beards I've met, at the lower-half of The Beard's face. Around the mouth, under the ears and nose. It extends below his chin, the excess varying somewhat due to humidity. Thick, shiny, dark-brown curls. Turkish, fortune-telling curls. The Beard, being more than 6ft when vertical, generally keeps his beard up there near his face, which means that the enticing curls separate me from him when we speak. This makes it almost impossible for me to avoid the beard if I'm speaking to The Beard.
You see my dilemma.
And I adore this beard. My friend, The Beard is also superb, in that way that people sometimes are. And I would love to pass The Beard around my single friends. He would be appreciated, I know this.
But I fear.
I fear some overzealous girl will persuade The Beard to shave the beard. And what will happen after that?
A shaved beard is just a pile of hair.
DON'T TOUCH THE BEARD.
02 November 2009
START HERE
I have so many thoughts whooshing around in my head it seems I should try a blog, yes? YES. And luckily, anciently-setup and nearly-forgotten blog-page has blankly and loyally waited. STAY. Good blog.
Thanks to Kate *does 'Kate-side' gang-sign* If you don't know it, you're not in it.
It's just so damn late and insomnia is making the thoughts whoosh and bash into each other. Bette Davis in Watcher in the Woods and Look Around You (module 2) and my friend who finally read One Hundred Years of Solitude and the pretty hat I saw today but couldn't afford, and a limping old dog on the beach... all just whooshing around in there knocking other thoughts off tables.
Should there be a creed, a motto, a mission statement for blog?
HELL NO
It's too late. Get over it. Besides, it's not like any motto of mine would make stupid promises about writing regularly or saving the environment or drawing attention to My STUpid Cause. Any motto of mine would be some bullshit about coffee and having a Mental Illness (scary CAPS yes) and my boring old whooshing thoughts.
On the weekend I slapped myself silly with The Boyfriend's iphone... I know. I won't explain - it's embarrassing. But now I have a dark red mark under my left eye... and a bruise, a green bruise. It hurts when I poke it. In the interest of science I'm going to stop poking it - see if it makes a difference.
In the interest of science I'll use my right eye as the 'control' eye
Science
On Sunday The Boyfriend and I had a picnic in my backyard in the sun. Blanket, strawberries, avocado on crackers, coffee and Monopoly. Monopoly = a stupid idea if you like your relationship. We almost broke up over the Monopoly. You can't collect rent when you're in Jail - or can you? And I have lost one of the dice... we had to roll twice, each time. 'Was that a five?' 'NO. That was a six. Stop cheating!'
Connect Four next time. Monopoly: tester of relationship. Connect Four: untested at time of printing.
This afternoon I noticed I had eggs left over from my humungous tray of eggs (see previous posts). The expiry date says 'hurry up' so I made 60,000 meringues and a cake. Baking suspends old eggs between here and egg-valhalla. It should prevent food poisoning related sickness/death I think. So I am happy with meringues and cake. After noticing my near-dead eggs I cleaned out some other oft-ignored ingredients. The cake has lemon rind, sultanas and cinnamon. I decided against the curry powder.
Also on the weekend I further increased The Flatmates' suspicion that they are living with a crazy insane-lady. After being outside in the fresh air testing our relationship with Monopoly I re-entered the house where The Flatmates were slotted into the sofa watching the box and I said 'I need to open a window in here'.
Into the kitchen to put on the kettle
My brain starts to replay 'I need to open a window in here, I need to open a window in here...'
Have I offended The Flatmates by inadvertently implying they are stale as old eggs?
Have I committed flatting hate-crime?
Made dangerous enemies?
Here starts the nervous kitchen-pacing (imagine that scene from Vertigo where James Stewart's silhouette falls into a big red spiral of madness)
To correct this I burst Kramerishly back into the lounge and breathlessly apologise about the Terrible Window Insult. I explain I will happily close window. They smell daisy-fresh. In fact, they could be the nicest smelling flatmates in our suburb - or parts of unexplored South America even (embellishment is allowed when apologising).
Naturally this is met by six dead-fish-eyeballs on the sofa
FUCK I hate dead-fish-eyeballs
Dead-fish-eyeballs mean The Flatmates have no idea what I'm on about. Dead-fish-eyeballs mean I'm making a scene. Dead-fish-eyeballs mean they think I'm one tiny step off coating myself in maple syrup and proclaiming myself the Duchess of Pancakes.
I might also have been interrupting the rugby
Blog: unspellchecked at time of printing. xxx
Thanks to Kate *does 'Kate-side' gang-sign* If you don't know it, you're not in it.
It's just so damn late and insomnia is making the thoughts whoosh and bash into each other. Bette Davis in Watcher in the Woods and Look Around You (module 2) and my friend who finally read One Hundred Years of Solitude and the pretty hat I saw today but couldn't afford, and a limping old dog on the beach... all just whooshing around in there knocking other thoughts off tables.
Should there be a creed, a motto, a mission statement for blog?
HELL NO
It's too late. Get over it. Besides, it's not like any motto of mine would make stupid promises about writing regularly or saving the environment or drawing attention to My STUpid Cause. Any motto of mine would be some bullshit about coffee and having a Mental Illness (scary CAPS yes) and my boring old whooshing thoughts.
On the weekend I slapped myself silly with The Boyfriend's iphone... I know. I won't explain - it's embarrassing. But now I have a dark red mark under my left eye... and a bruise, a green bruise. It hurts when I poke it. In the interest of science I'm going to stop poking it - see if it makes a difference.
In the interest of science I'll use my right eye as the 'control' eye
Science
On Sunday The Boyfriend and I had a picnic in my backyard in the sun. Blanket, strawberries, avocado on crackers, coffee and Monopoly. Monopoly = a stupid idea if you like your relationship. We almost broke up over the Monopoly. You can't collect rent when you're in Jail - or can you? And I have lost one of the dice... we had to roll twice, each time. 'Was that a five?' 'NO. That was a six. Stop cheating!'
Connect Four next time. Monopoly: tester of relationship. Connect Four: untested at time of printing.
This afternoon I noticed I had eggs left over from my humungous tray of eggs (see previous posts). The expiry date says 'hurry up' so I made 60,000 meringues and a cake. Baking suspends old eggs between here and egg-valhalla. It should prevent food poisoning related sickness/death I think. So I am happy with meringues and cake. After noticing my near-dead eggs I cleaned out some other oft-ignored ingredients. The cake has lemon rind, sultanas and cinnamon. I decided against the curry powder.
Also on the weekend I further increased The Flatmates' suspicion that they are living with a crazy insane-lady. After being outside in the fresh air testing our relationship with Monopoly I re-entered the house where The Flatmates were slotted into the sofa watching the box and I said 'I need to open a window in here'.
Into the kitchen to put on the kettle
My brain starts to replay 'I need to open a window in here, I need to open a window in here...'
Have I offended The Flatmates by inadvertently implying they are stale as old eggs?
Have I committed flatting hate-crime?
Made dangerous enemies?
Here starts the nervous kitchen-pacing (imagine that scene from Vertigo where James Stewart's silhouette falls into a big red spiral of madness)
To correct this I burst Kramerishly back into the lounge and breathlessly apologise about the Terrible Window Insult. I explain I will happily close window. They smell daisy-fresh. In fact, they could be the nicest smelling flatmates in our suburb - or parts of unexplored South America even (embellishment is allowed when apologising).
Naturally this is met by six dead-fish-eyeballs on the sofa
FUCK I hate dead-fish-eyeballs
Dead-fish-eyeballs mean The Flatmates have no idea what I'm on about. Dead-fish-eyeballs mean I'm making a scene. Dead-fish-eyeballs mean they think I'm one tiny step off coating myself in maple syrup and proclaiming myself the Duchess of Pancakes.
I might also have been interrupting the rugby
Blog: unspellchecked at time of printing. xxx
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