Was going through my books last night.
First half the bookshelf:
It’s Called a Break-Up Because It’s Broken
Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus
(“We’re from Vaynus, Kim. Oh yeh, well you’re talking from your aynus”)
What Men Want From Women And What Women Want In Return
Hot Love: How To Get It
He’s Just Not That Into You
How Not To Turn Into Your Parents
Kama Sutra For Dummies
Then I stopped.
Holy fuckballs. Can I be any more like Bridget fudging Jones? OK, book three belongs to E2, but it’s been sitting on my book shelf since, like, forever.
Can I actually own every single self-help relationship book out there? Fat good they’ve done in my past relationships. (Although I’m still wanting to get my paws onto Why Men Love Bitches at Exclusive this weekend.)
I got laid good and proper and fantastically last night. It’s been a while, and one can never underestimate the urgency and latent aggression veiled by Make Up Sex.
My walls were a-shakin’.
Smoking Dick goes to the States tomorrow.
I also had a House Dream. I have these recurringly, and each involves fitful sleep and out-loud crying in the middle of the night. I dream, infrequently, about my childhood house, and that I'm being torn away from it somehow. It's pretty traumatic. Last night people were coming to remove the old place, and I refused - like a hippie - to leave the building. Even though they were trying to bulldoze it.
I'm pretty stuck on my childhood it seems.