I got home last night to an empty house, so I hauled out the dusty exercise bike, that I've used once my whole life, and did eight kilometres on it. I had sweat dripping from my face. It’s been a loooong time since that happened, and although you look disgusting, there’s nothing like the feeling of sweat drip off your nose. Steve came home later, and we both went into our separate rooms. He played his music loud. (He always plays Third Eye Blind when he's angry) I played my music loud (I played Jay to the muthafuckin Z). We both went to bed early, because the TV is still a contentious issue: I said he couldn’t watch it, yet HE owns DsTV. So without that, there is no MTV or Movie Magic. So I read a book instead. Shit it’s a lonely existence living in the same house as someone else and being absolute strangers. I had a lot of time to think and talk to Mason, my guinea-pig. And I was wondering:
Have you ever noticed that people go crazy around food? When you’re at a buffet thing, people get into an absolute frenzy, and pile their plates full of stuff they don’t even eat because they’re scared they’re going to miss out? Then of course there are those that hoard food in their handbags like hamsters.
One thing that does get to me is when people come round for a dinner party, and don’t bring anything but will take everything. (“Any leftovers, love?”)
One woman said that her folks had a mid-afternoon barbeque at their place and this couple rocked up and bought a two-litre bottle of Cream Soda. As everyone was leaving, saying their goodbyes in the driveway, they rolled off, but screeched to a halt at the bottom of the drive. She got out of the car and said, “Whoopsie! Almost forgot to take the Cream Soda!” It was three quarters finished.
Can you fathom?