Finally. It happened.
(Didn’t get laid, but have this funny twitching down in the loin area, feeding directly from the synapses in the brain area, that says, ‘Peas, you will get laid soon. And you will get laid well.’)
But I did cry.
Check it out, am still a raving hormonal bird. Not a machiavellian fembot. Wonderful.
It happened without any foreplanning, or any Whitney, or any horrifying images of mass swine death on the telly.
Was sitting there, and got onto the phone to my mum, mainly to inform her of how much I’ve managed to save in my fixed deposit account, because she usually hassles me endlessly about things like this, and finally, I had some news for her that might make her finally believe that I am a responsible young adult and stop the incessant nagging for at least 5 minutes.
She does this a lot.
Peas: Mum…my bank account is working. Gulp, waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa Oh Goddddd waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa………..
Mum: Peas I can’t hear you, stop crying, what is it.
Peas: [Gasp] waaaaaadontknowwhy [gasp] waaaaaaaaa [gasp] Ican’tstopwaaaaaaaa [gulp] I’m crying, but LOOK I’M CRYING. [Gasp] waaaaaaaaa….I need to man up, god, waaaaaaaaaaaaaaa……
Mum: Should I call you back in 5 minutes, because I actually can’t hear you. You’re hysterical.
Peas: Iwaaaaaaahatewintersomuch waaaaaa I [gasp] actually [gasp] have hot tears [gasp] running down my cheeks. Oooh I’m so sad, I’m so very very sad.
Then we chatted about why I am really sad, and it definitely has root causes that go beyond the Augustine climate, which I shant bore you with.
I felt so incredibly tired and floaty after my wail. My eyes were puffier than Puffy MacPufferson’s cheese puffs, and my sinuses had issues. But definite relief. Wow.
I think, to celebrate, I’ll go to art exhibition opening tonight with some friends.
Drink some wine, talk design, and humour the arty folk with proclamations of ‘Ooh, look at that sturdy texture. And the symmetry. Just look at the fucken symmetry.’
Then launch into a rhetoric about the Bauhaus design programme; just the kind of philanthropic bullshit that gets these people off.
It’s at these things one gets the opportunity to:
1) Get out of the house, put a face on, and show the public my dangley earrings.
2) Walk up to an abstract cube and swoon, ‘Is that a dog? Oh….now I see.’ Then skulk away.
3) Check out gay men. It’s a start. I don’t reALLY bother to check out anyone these days. Maybe Starting with men who have aversions to other men won’t be so intimidating.
4) Be in a well-lit area.
5) Drink wine in a cultured venue. Although truth be told, we’ll probably head over to the pub afterwards.
Oh, I’m meeting Hillary Clinton on Friday. (I know?!)
For those of you who may not know, and live under the Earth’s crust in a watertight bunker, she’s the US Secretary Of State. And is married to The Kinky Cigar Dog, otherwise known as Bill.
Richard Hammond wrote her name on his car when travelling through the Deep South Bible Belt in the States, to provoke some kind of republican reaction.
And immediately almost got lynched by a clutch of mullet-wielding hicks.
After that amazingly heroic act by the man who makes my ovaries jangle with excitement, I wrote him a letter suggesting we should get married and make beautiful sweet
Maybe it never arrived, or his wife got threatened and tore it up into millions of pieces in a fit of rage. Bitch.
Anyway, back to Hillary.
Exclusive women’s luncheon or some such. My colleague was invited, and can’t go, so I’m next on the list. Sloppy seconds.com over here doesn’t care, its Hillary for God’s sake.