Ex R bought a new Audi A3 turbo. In gun metal grey.
If there was any injustice done in the world, it is not one, but BOTH my ex’s owning the car I lust after like an undersexed camel lusts after a procreative shag after trawling through the Sahara for five solid weeks, dragging its decidedly blue testicles behind it on a donkey cart.
Or like how the collective Chatsworth lusts after a spicy vindaloo. Or like how a Brakpan housewife lusts after a velour Morkels sofa set. Or like how a gold digger lusts after an Oppenheimer. This, for those that have quantitative retardation, is a lot of lust.
I’m a woman of simple tastes. All I need out of this world, in a material sense, is an Audi A3 Turbo and heels from Socrati. If it meant I had to live in a box on the side of the William Nicol, because I was paying off an A3 Turbo and exquisitely hand-crafted Italian spike heel uppers, I’d be one happy high-maintenance bitch.
“Can I at least drive it round the block? Just once?”
Ex R: I’ll think about it.
(Is he shitting me?)
I’m so jealous I could eat my own kimono.
PS: I received an email this morning from Media24 who kindly informed me that I came second in the Great South African Blog Off competition. I am R2 500 richer!! I can now service my car! Wonderful news! (Thanks Media24).