my club & taking stock

So, what have I done for my sordid state of consciousness this week?

[I’m a self-correctional maniac at the moment. So I do apologise for thinking out loud in advance].

1) Booked in for a massage and facial on Saturday morning. Stress has caused my back to muscularly-implode, if not go on a full-on vertebrae strike. I don’t do the regular massage thing; it’s usually a present or a special occasion. But this is an emergency, just short of going to a fucken chiropractor. Or buying a fuck-off ergonomic chair.

2) Speaking of strikes, and the French inclination to strike every time someone so much as drops a spoon, I’ve done it; I’ve joined a club. After exhaustative research, involving criteria like:

i) Do they throw in consumer merchandise emblazoned with said club jingles all over it, [ “Bats Rule, So Get Bent”], like fridge magnets or oven mitts? Or an ironing board cover? Even if I don’t use it? Which I won’t?

ii) Are they weird? The people I will be spending time with at this club, are they nuttier than a fruitcake?

ii) Do they dress only in black and discuss wingspans?

iv) Will I learn something and meet interesting people, andhave fun and do cool stuff?

v) And most importantly – will I be top of the class? I’m competitive like that.

With all these criteria in mind, and also because it will help my career, I have chosen to do Advanced French.
I’m going to French it the fuck up.

I’m going to capitalise on what already I know, crank it up to turbo speed, eat a baguette twice a week, and get to parlez-vous with people who already speak the language. And therefore also satisfy my intense thirst for European culture at the same time.

I’m now a proud member of the Alliance Francaise in Johannesburg.

[Sidenote: Google French military victories and click ‘I’m Feeling Lucky.’ Now there’s search engine humour if I’ve ever seen it:]

I have night classes that only begin in September, but with any luck, I’ll ace them. Because I speaka ze Franch already, alors.

After two months of that, I’ll join the Goethe Institute and see if I have better success learning German there than the online modules I’ve been fannying about with.

And maybe, just maybe, I will get to wear a beret and have conversations about the consistency of foie gras from the Gascogne.

Please may not all my class members be over 70. Please. For the love of bollocks, please.


3) I have gone to bed naked at least 4 times this week. SCORE.
It was cold, but then, that’s why I have a dildo and that’s why I sleep on 200 threadcount sheets, so…do one.

4) Haven’t had my howl yet. Need to cash in. Wwas aiming to do so tonight, but have a dinner in the south with Ant. Was close yesterday, and then figured I just need to rip open a bottle of Diemersfontein, whack on a Whitney, and think about my frustrating love life.

I’ll ghd my hair for the occasion.

If you knew what was going on my world and head right now, well, it’s a long story, and it’s a frustrating one.
Let’s just say I’m at least 10 000 kilometres of where I’d like to be. But then, next week I might not want to be there at all. God, my poor head.

Yeah, that should get the tears rolling. Wish me luck. I’m hostess of one helluva pity party tonight, before dinner. When I’m done, I’ll actually spend the rest of the weekend in a social embrace.

But for now, check my bad self out. I’m actioning shit. Maybe I’m not even a total and complete loser.

Oh and a really cool celebrity gave me cold sore advice.

I don’t get to say that everyday.

Cut it, edit it, wrap it up, and make it a music video.