So as some of you may know, Third World Ant my flatmate, is going to move out. Work has unexpectedly fucked her over, and she's looking for work and such closer to her boyfriend, the Gilb.
I'm sad as all hell, but I'll save the lament for another time.
A dude came to check out my flat on Saturday. I was on my best behaviour, so I don't think he realised his potential new flatmate was rolling around on the floor, doing the Fandango to Monster Hits and polishing off a bottle of Southern Comfort with the aeroplane dude the very night before.
The evening is a bit of a blur, and I'm not quite sure of minute details, but a lot of fun.
Unfortunately, I am sick. Perhaps someone sneezed on me at the post office, but I have unwittingly picked up an inconvenient cold. Saturday was spent with another equally sick mate, sipping wine and 'talking sloth' as she likes to say. It was fantastic. We only had to blow our noses 5 000 times in between wine sipping.
Seems the corner cafe guy doesn't have the hots for me anymore. Or maybe he found my blog. (More likely. It's hard to keep a secret for 2 years.) But he was not his usual chatty self.
I also cleaned out my closet Sunday. It took about 4 hours, because, trust me, it's like Darfur in there. A disaster zone. I found shoes, bras and shirts in there I forgot I owned. I folded and organised everything ever so precisely and found my low-cut black boobie top, which I thought had disappeared forever. Hurrah. That's got to be a good thing.