Lessons learned this weekend?
Securely knot your tie before repeated rolling in lavender bushes, you can't pick a lock with tweezers if there is no lock because the door handle fell off, plastic cheese is still cheese with dairy in it, berets the exact same colour as your hair are rather fetching when worn jauntily.
Oh. I am a dickhead. Who is the most inappropriate person to phone and confess all things imbibed whilst at party? Elliot. He said, You are a dickhead but I have always known that you were a dickhead and it hasn't stopped me liking you yet. He has been rather forthcoming with the I like yous (how do I make that plural, blah head stupid) lately which I am finding odd but not unpleasant. Oh good lord now I am getting all Elizabeth Bennett, that is never a good sign. But this is about me and not Elliot.
I had a marvellous time at the party. It was in fact a marvellous party. I've been to a marvellous party, we played a wonderful game: Maureen disappeared and came back in a beard and we all had to guess her name. Cecil arrived wearing armour, some shells and a black feather boa. Poor Millicent wore a surrealist comb made of bits of mosaic from St Peter's in Rome. Oh go on. Surely everybody loves The Divine Comedy? I can't wait until Neil Hannon is an aging rocker.
I did have something to say but it has escaped my head and gone whizzing off somewhere stupid like Paddington. I hate Paddington. There was a man on Australian Idol that looked like he was from Paddo and I thought Yucky. It is sometimes hard to hear when people are singing on Australian Idol because The Spatula sings along with the telly. I don't really mind this because she is an excellent singer, usually much better than the telly itself. If I was a man I would marry Myf Warhurst but then we would get a divorce quite soon afterwards which would be sad and of course disruptive for the family. Oh my cigarettes are in the kitchen and I am sitting in bed under the doona. Time for a mission.
Right, am back. Cat was yelling like banshee asking for second dinner but I am very mean and never give in to what is clearly an ambit sort of claim. Do you know I have never had a pedicure. I have suddenly begun to think of Elliot as my own personal minotaur, perhaps I should lock him in the Marrickville Metro.
I have not cleaned my teeth. Maybe I did earlier in the evening? Before dinner? I am not going to get up again. All teeth will fall out and I will have to start business operating from other side of glory hole. Disgusting! Will clean teeth twice in the morning. It is midnight and clearly I must try and go to sleep or will be zombie all day tomorrow. I wish I could press pause and have a lovely little type and then read some of my book and then get fifty million hours sleep before morning when I would have time to wander about and have two cups of tea and some toast before showering and dressing for the office. Instead I will do my usual one hour delay day in bed before racing around spending seven minutes getting ready for work and bolting out the door with only an avocado and no bread to put it on.
Securely knot your tie before repeated rolling in lavender bushes, you can't pick a lock with tweezers if there is no lock because the door handle fell off, plastic cheese is still cheese with dairy in it, berets the exact same colour as your hair are rather fetching when worn jauntily.
Oh. I am a dickhead. Who is the most inappropriate person to phone and confess all things imbibed whilst at party? Elliot. He said, You are a dickhead but I have always known that you were a dickhead and it hasn't stopped me liking you yet. He has been rather forthcoming with the I like yous (how do I make that plural, blah head stupid) lately which I am finding odd but not unpleasant. Oh good lord now I am getting all Elizabeth Bennett, that is never a good sign. But this is about me and not Elliot.
I had a marvellous time at the party. It was in fact a marvellous party. I've been to a marvellous party, we played a wonderful game: Maureen disappeared and came back in a beard and we all had to guess her name. Cecil arrived wearing armour, some shells and a black feather boa. Poor Millicent wore a surrealist comb made of bits of mosaic from St Peter's in Rome. Oh go on. Surely everybody loves The Divine Comedy? I can't wait until Neil Hannon is an aging rocker.
I did have something to say but it has escaped my head and gone whizzing off somewhere stupid like Paddington. I hate Paddington. There was a man on Australian Idol that looked like he was from Paddo and I thought Yucky. It is sometimes hard to hear when people are singing on Australian Idol because The Spatula sings along with the telly. I don't really mind this because she is an excellent singer, usually much better than the telly itself. If I was a man I would marry Myf Warhurst but then we would get a divorce quite soon afterwards which would be sad and of course disruptive for the family. Oh my cigarettes are in the kitchen and I am sitting in bed under the doona. Time for a mission.
Right, am back. Cat was yelling like banshee asking for second dinner but I am very mean and never give in to what is clearly an ambit sort of claim. Do you know I have never had a pedicure. I have suddenly begun to think of Elliot as my own personal minotaur, perhaps I should lock him in the Marrickville Metro.
I have not cleaned my teeth. Maybe I did earlier in the evening? Before dinner? I am not going to get up again. All teeth will fall out and I will have to start business operating from other side of glory hole. Disgusting! Will clean teeth twice in the morning. It is midnight and clearly I must try and go to sleep or will be zombie all day tomorrow. I wish I could press pause and have a lovely little type and then read some of my book and then get fifty million hours sleep before morning when I would have time to wander about and have two cups of tea and some toast before showering and dressing for the office. Instead I will do my usual one hour delay day in bed before racing around spending seven minutes getting ready for work and bolting out the door with only an avocado and no bread to put it on.
Comments
I guess you hit a nerve.
Re: Banshee cat from Irish mythology
My god does my cat also wail for a second dinner. In fact, any action remotely connected with the sequence of events that result in him sticking his face into a bowl of almost meat sets him off. This includes: opening the fridge door at any time of day or night, walking to the laundry (where he gets fed) from any room in the house, doing anything in the laundry, doing anything in the kitchen, opening up a can from anywhere within a ten kilometer radius, patting him, miaowing at him (which I'm embarrassed to say I frequently do), looking at him, or in any other way interacting with my little Felis domesticus.
I'm starting to think he only loves me for my ability to alleviate his hunger pangs.