So I spent Easter pretty much like how I spent Christmas. It was just another day. (Christmas was spent in Buenos Aires though; slightly more exotic than Craighall.)
Did go to a restaurant though, order their finest thermidor and a glass of house, for lunch.
When dining alone, always take a book. I’m learning fast. Otherwise people automatically assume you’re lonely and are desperate for conversation. When all you wanna do is be left alone, to watch other people and talk to yourself.
(Under your breath. Talk all you want, but keep it down. Learn from the pro. Otherwise you will definitely get unwanted attention. Possibly from the other demented dude who is singing on the corner.)
Like any mad person; we need our peace and quiet. And that’s what I got.
I spent a bit of this weekend imbibing wine with friends in various locations and one offered me one of those Caramel Cream eggs everyone is hyperventilating about.
Firstly, chocolate in very small doses is average. It’s just OK. If I was stranded on an island and couldn’t see chocolate for a year I’d be crazily fine. Some people need chocolate like they need Carrol Boyes salad servers. (Please. No more fucking Carrol Boyes. Please.)
I need cheese, or else I die and slow painful death. Camembert and brie, tubs full of those bad boys.
Whatever, so I ate this egg. To see what all the fuss was about, and immediately hit the ceiling with blood sugar levels reaching fever pitch and one mother of a migraine.
Sorry, but it’s total overkill. People give this to children? Five could kill a grown man. That dark Lindt stuff is the way forward, with a cappuccino. Like they serve you at Vida.
So I spent much of my weekend doing the usual: wanking, cleaning, watching Playboy Girls marathons and reading this fuck off interesting biography of this woman who fled her Amish life. She grew up in one of the strictest Amish sects in America.
I read hectic biographies ok. The one about Fritzl, the one about the Belgian girl who escaped her paedophile’s cellar, and now this.
Crossing Over it’s called. She fell in love with a dude from ‘the outside’ and fled to Kentucky full of lust and wonton, (bless), while these Amish folk tried to hunt her down and manipulate her back into the clan. Not so bless.
Dude. She didn’t shave her legs until she was 21 and en route to another state, with an electric razor in the getaway vehicle.
The excitement for our trip – in 10 days – is climbing to a crescendo to the point of implosion.
Dove and I are going to be like The Kerrigans inThe Castle. People that have never flown somewhere before, basically. (‘We got two choices for deener, Ded, and we watched Jumanji.’)
Or worse, like Kevin & Perry Do Ibiza or whatever (‘All I wanna do is do it.’) We’re going to be embarrassing. I can just see it. The excitement is going to be embarrassing. Come nexxxt week Friday, we’ll be swinging off the oxygen masks, taking pictures and generally being juvenile chavs.
I’m now starting to imagine those nubile German chaps clad in their little skinny jeans, and I’m starting to find it sexual.
Shit. WTF is going ON?
I’m thinking a bunch of Aryans packing pecker into jeans that Pete Wentz wears, is suddenly sexy now.
Christ, I have German fever so badly at the moment, I really honestly don’t know what to do with myself. I’ve always loved German men, but this is ridiculous.
Nothing is helping. And I mean nothing. I’ll let you in on one secret: I have the hots for 3 German individuals at the moment.
Not one, three.
Three is better than one. More options. Splits my time too.
So I’m thinking about each German man in the bedroom for most of the weekend, except one brief period when a friend told me she got caught picking her nose the other day.
She hates the word ‘wanking’ (why? Seriously, how could you hate a word that brings so much self-pleasure?), and I cannot stand the thought of someone picking their nose and eating it.
Eating Snot. That is the worst thought I can ever think of ever. Ever. God help me I’m going to vomit.
Are we all animals? Seriously are we all cave creatures that haven’t had society bang this out of us? Someone pass the cotch bucket. It kills me. She was joking about eating it, but not about the initial diamond digging.
That image should improve my ‘get smoking hot for Germany’ diet quite a bit.