The Ant is in town.I haven't seen my little Italian amica in so long, too long. She came round for dinner which I cunningly prepared by throwing in a whole lot of Woolies chicken a la Kings into pots and pretending, too humbly, that I crafted it by myself.
Even if she saw the empty boxes in the bin, it was a good show.
We exchanged birthday presents, had a fair bitch about this and that, and bloody hell, how fucking hilarious is this birthday card:
Christ what a hose.So instead of wallowing, we popped a champagne cork and caught up on weeks and weeks worth of gossip and trouble.
And the best news? She's coming back. Ant is leaving the Poenda, and heading back to the corporate cattle barn of Johannesburg. That's just about all the right news I needed to lift me out of the “Hello I'm Peas 'Strike Rate' On Toast” scenario.
I plan to embrace my strike rate synopsis.
What does this look like? [Holding up a pen]
'Your strike rate Peas.'
What does this remind you of? [holding up a tub of frozen yoghurt]
'Your strike rate Peas.'
I'm talking about my current unflailing ability to pick up men of course. My NBGF (New Best Gay Friend - the one who works in my building) seems to think rentagent.com should be my next focus. Bless him.
I'm feeling better. Pilates also hammered me the fuck out of my funk. God, did my trainer not decide to lambaste my arms.
If she's not careful, she is going to find herself as 1 in 3 million in my B Team.
Picking up a pen today and pronouncing how great my strike rate is, will take a mean bit of effort and wincing.
Anyway Ant and her dude are moving back to The Big Smoke (although Secunda could be called the same thing; that place smells like 1 in 3 million rotten eggs.)
I'm so excited; she'll be back in December.
She bought me a kiff plant for my house as well. A plant that needs water maybe every 10 years. That's my kind of plant. She called it Faivel.
I'm stoked, and my head is a little sore today.
At least I'm not helplessly staring at a wall. Just saying.
