so it’s been a while.
sorrry
things happened, updates to follow covering the list below:
1) Lies, lies and more lies.
2) lies
3) some lies
4) D&G’s new girlfriend (NOT me)
5) why i saw a cluster of chavs (that’s British slang for ‘unable to comprehend fashion’) today wearing singular flourescent pink legwarmers in a gale. Is there such thing as a singular legwarmer, in the sense that you have a pair of socks, a pair of stockings; unless you are an unfortunate 1980s disco amputee why would only ONE legwarmer be required. Well it turns out there is a justification. Explaination to follow once I have got back into the ‘blogging thing’.
Oh… and Me and MR are in love again. Hence the two weeks none presence.
Happiness is TWO legwarmers and a man to wrap your wool-sheathed legs around.
Permalink
Leave a Comment
I’m dying.
Had to come home. My life was going smoothly. Everything was swimming a comfortable backstroke with the sunshine on its shiny happy face, and then I caught death by the lapels and called his mommy a whore. Pride comes before a fall ‘they’ say, well before mine there wasn’t much pride, I fell first (between floors three and floor of a warehouse),
his was not a wise idea. I have been struck down in my prime. I have been cast assumder into the pits of my duvet. I am rendered useless by forces outside my control.
I have the flu. I am 24 hours into it and have my eyes on the clock, when they can focus. MR is busy and can’t come spoonfeed me soup, but I sit here with my mouth wide open anyway in the hope that perhaps he will arrive…
I have a jumbo bag of a popular brand of malted chocolate balls in front of me and a mountain of pillows behind me. At the end of a sea of fluffy cream bed linen my toes are sweating. Who knew that was a symptom? I don’t get sick very often, so when I do everyone suffers. I call people. People I haven’t spoken to in months, days, hours, and minutes receive text and updates about the state of my phlegm. I sent a mass text to everyone I knew. Everyone in my phone onto which I imported numbers when in store, received the following.
Missy 13.00pm
“Am sick. Send help.”
Turns out that this is the last time I am going to do this. While most people kindly ignored this abuse of the Intergalatic Satellite system those responses I received were well wishes, arrangements for when I’m feeling better and promises of bags of oranges to be couriered over posthaste (thank you VC for the VC). Oh, and there was this one…
My iPhone at 13.19 records the following message from an X (two years ago he dumped me for a woman with electronic breasts, her name was Lara, and apparently she dealt with his needs better than I did…)
X 13.19pm
“OMG, Hw lng iz it snce I herd frm
u. wht uup 2? If ur sick I cn rub sum
vix n ur clt…dz wnderz.”
What happened there was X mistook me being sick and in need of attention from the masses of aquaintences I seem to aquire for the possibility of rejuvinating a terrible relationship, an appalling sexlife and what was essentially a three month bout of emotional self-abuse (dating him I was punching well below my weight because at the time I was feeling “emo”).
Response was the following.
Missy 13.25pm
“Contrary to popular opinion vowels
cost nothing and can be brought on
the open market…like your mother.”
Turns out culling your address book of detritus is actually very cathartic, and not a little bit medicinal.
Permalink
Leave a Comment
Chowing down on sugar free strawberry and lime flavored bubblegum twelve hours out of a twenty four hour day is bad for the cerebral cortex.
Or so I’ve got to assume. All that rampant mastication must have aggravated my brain-gland.
I hiphopbop to Fat Freddy’s Drop as the night draws in, my mouth tastes of summertime says MR, tippy tapping accross the tile in Bathroom disgrace, delcious Bedready undress. He kisses me before I scrub down the toothypegs with mentholated LSD. But it’s no good. I wish I dreamt of MR. All that flavor has gone to my brain CRAZYLIKE. I dream of skydiving ducks, oddshaped vegetable salesmen and wonderful afternoons spent pogosticking naked through Central Park.
It wouldn’t concern me, except I went onto the Sugar-Free variety to smooth my REM. What a waste. Back to full-sugar jucification tomorrow.
Permalink
Leave a Comment
