Thursday, June 04, 2009
is it friday yet?
You know you’ve had less stressful days at work when:
You drink Heineken at 5:00pm.
Not out of choice. Out of delivery. Beggars can’t be choosers, and fuck did it go down like a hash brown in China Town. When Farmer Brown dresses up like a clown. And doesn’t know the definition of a noun and has a down down on the crown. Of his head.
You say obscene things at high-tempo and regularly, in a public arena, while clumps of hair start falling out of your skull
The last I remember was something like, “Oh my shattered FUCK. Balls. Round balls, oval balls, hairy balls, bouncy balls, low-hung balls, I’m about to have a FUCKEN heart attack over here.”
You miss pilates
Now not being the most avid sportswoman on the planet – still don’t get, or understand the rules thereof, or can justify, cricket or golf – gaaaad - however I am loyal to my pilates class. For one, I go with a partner which is good motivation, and two, double-timing on stomach crunches over a beach ball does tend to release the frustration of the day.
No, instead I was working late. Pawing at my face like a mental patient.
You rip a nail open and don’t even notice
It was off the chain.
Thinking of the exotic location you’ll be in 10 days from now doesn’t even cross your mind
I have the Wallpaper Guide of Istanbul in front of my screen. And haven’t even demarcated the pages. Although we’ll be working, we’re also planning to see shit. Been told two things: 1) Have to go to the Blue Mosque and wear tea cosies on our heads. 2) Have to get a Turkish massage. Where a dude in a turban scrubs you raw with a loofah (I also wondered why this would be especially nice), and then massages you, and although unpleasant at times – you feel rather good afterwards.
While you thought you were a reasonable Type A, you’re actually not
Type A – get riled up easily; reactive; actions. Type B - chilled; handles a crisis with composure and indifference; thinks. Who the FUCK was I kidding. Type A. Extreme. End of spectrum. At least today. Tomorrow I shalt keep my cool and just surrender.
[Try to rely on the smidgeon of my French genetics, maybe.]
Turn to the Choonz collection.
This is dangerous. I’ve made many of my mates a Choonz CD. It’s my…personal compilation. And Christ Tobias, if it isn’t full of the best [porno] 80s and 90s shit the Earth has offer. The lucky fuckers who have received one of these bad boys from me, mostly listen to it once, admire the artwork on the front drawn in erratic koki pen, withChoonz – Orgasmic Tracks Of Magic scrawled across the front, and retire it to the back of the TV cabinet very shortly thereafter. E2 got me on Choonz again because she actually quite fucking liked it. It was their latest roadtrip CD! How amazing? She’s even commissioned a Choonz 2 – boy is she in for a special treat.
That Nissan Livina
Pick. A. Lane.
PS: Doesn’t your head have to be above the steering wheel in order to have a driver’s license? It’s time for that Skegway, Nan.