fossils & new friends

I’ve made a new friend.

When times are dull and you’re whordering the complete box series of Friends (that comes in crate format to your hoffice, FYI), and your best mates are moving to Kenya, or otherwise involved in other issues, and you’re desperate for something new in this town, because all you can think of is moving elsewhere, fresh faces are always super minna minna welcome.

I’ve made two new guy friends, actually, who actually live in Johannesburg, and seriously, I'm as stoked as Princess Beatrice when she realised she doesn’t have to be as monarch-like as her cousins when she’s pissed out of her bracket after a night out in Chelsea.

Right.

So I went out for a drink last night with 8Ball, to our local – ye good old pub in our neighbourhood – and after a particularly fucking crazy pilates session – dude. Dude. I have hamstrings. Or I did. Yesterday. Until she snapped them on some spring machine – fuck me Richard Hammond - it was nice to talk to someone new and refreshing last night.

And then got home with stomach ailments, probably only because my stomach is used to Diemserfontein Pinotage, and not some other excuse for red wine bollocks, to watch Series 1 of Friends.

Instead of buying a cat, I invested in the Friends series. One step to spinsterhood, one purchase at a time.

Also, and I mentioned this like 3 years ago, how much I love this fossil, but seriously - I’ve been listening to Tchaikovsky all day.
Dude. I love him. He was super gay, and broke both his pinkie fingers to play better, but he’s nothing short of a farken genius.

His music is just insanely beautiful. I had the most productive day yesterday, blaring him directly into my earlobes – all day, his Piano Concerto No.1 - all Movements.

I studied classical music in high school, but, in all honestly and adversity, this beats the shit out of Beethoven. Tchaikovsky appeals to the romantic senses.

Totals.
And you want to die in a bath full of crème brulee, with him on in the background. If you do, of course, have a choice, in which manner you’ll kick the bucket.

That Russian bastard will own you if you let him.

Besides productivity, Tchaikovsky will give you:
1) A very musical orgasm
2) Purity. His music is so pure and Austrian Alps-like
3) Reminds you of no one. Just gets your soul all excited and happiness-bursting for no reason except for crazy ass utopia piano concerto-ness.
4) Taps into your classical musical nerd

Pass me an apfel strudel. He sorts me out more than Brad Pitt ever would.

Brad Pitt could stand in front of me, dangling his nomthondo in front of my face, and Tchaikovsky still wins, because he actually gives me something. He feeds my soul. Brad would only feed my….sexual cavity, if I’m gonna be blunt.

And yay, I have a new friend.
Bless.