freckle fusion: no way shut up get out of town

Shit.
We do talk a whole bunch of crap when we’ve had too much wine.

Dove and I had some soup and rice crackers - we're both gluton-freeing it the fuck out - woohoo what a jol, at my house, and similarly drank a bottle of wine.

As per example, amongst laughing until we cried ('Peas tell me something you hate about me, it's fine, just tell me. TELL ME. Because THAT LAUGH China. I can't stand it,') we figured out that we have the same freckle structure going on. On our arms. Get a load of these bad boys. Of course, after much pinotage was had, this is hysterical:

In an evening of wine, we pondered a few things:

1) That after Dove got home and sent me an SMS that said, ‘Am home, love ya,’ I sent one back saying, ‘Love tou yoo,’ realised that we’d actually administered our own little Phuza Thursday in my lounge. Got a little juiced, in retrospect.

2) That guys wearing skinny jeans is just not acceptable. It’s just not a good look, I don’t care if you sing with The Killers. Or hang out at Mr Chow in LA. It shouldn’t be an option, at least not in this country. Dove reckons in Berlin it’s fine, cos that’s just how they wear their jeans. God I hope she’s wrong.

3) Now this is gross, but it must be said: if a dude, who say you’re sitting in a meeting with, has a zit, and it’s throbbing, has it’s own driver’s license, is a good candidate for Oxycutin’ Teen Of The Year – you know, a crazy ass chorb – and he goes to the loo and comes back with it suddenly gone, you look down and exit the meeting very quickly.

4) This is serious: don’t raise your middle finger to a taxi. Done it lots in my life, but was already rolling on the road, speeding away. Dove did this when trying to park her car in my driveway, when a taxi nearly took off her boot, and actually stopped and reversed after she administered Middle Finger Rage pointed in his direction. Hectic. It was fine in the end, but still: she shat herself.

5) Do you have to be Rod Stewart to buy black leather pants? Is this a terrible question? Is this crazy talk? Is this something I should even be thinking of? Shit.

And a little too much pino for a Thursday. Naughty naughty girls.

PS: Had to fix about 50000 spelling mistakes in this bad boy this morning.
50000. That’s how many times I want you to kiss my ass.

K.i.d.d.i.n.g. But it’s our new motto. ‘678790 times. And that’s how many times you can Kiss. My. Ass.’
Isn’t it fantastic? Isn’t it a peach? Or maybe it was just funny last night. Whatever.