proclamations of love

'Tis the day that could be the very blight of humanity's compassion.
The day of Hallmark love. Allow me.

If you're not one of the Smug Couplings out there and face this day with fear and loathing [in Las Vegas,] then don't bother reading this post. I love love too much to miss this opportunity folks. And hey, even if I was in love with a statue that didn't return my feelings - this is me, pondering love on Love Day.

Firstly, to the person who makes my legs feels like noodles:

Thank you for being there for me. Thank you for understanding me, knowing more about me each day and still loving me all the same. Thank you for making me laugh. Thank you for so many things. You're my favourite curly-haired, Little Britain-loving, cricket playing, Eastern Cape accented, merino wool-wearing, techno-listening, drum & bass knee-dancing man, in the whole world. I just frigging adore you.
Bless your cotton wifebeater. The one you wear just to get my reaction. And I don't think I'm alone here. With that reaction.

Right, so what is love? (Baby don't hurt me.....)There're a million and one definitions of love, so here're mine:
Love is finding his untimely flatulence adorable. Love is meeting someone on an aeroplane you didn't want to have anything to do with, then (ok.....this is embarrassing...)....then just before the return flight, spraying your perfume on the blazer he leant you over the weekend before you give it back to him. And my best mate caught me doing this. How embarrassing.
But what the hell, it's V-Day, so there you are.

What are you doing?
Nothing. Nothing.
You just sprayed, ha ha ha, YOU JUST SPRAYED HIS BLAZER WITH CHANEL CHANCE, Oh My God Peas, that's hilarious.
No I didn't.
The bottle is in your hand, I just caught you, oh my God, you LIKE [Mr 747!]
NO. I DO NOT. I just wanted to make sure...it smelt nice before I return it. I WAS BEING CONSIDERATE, Poen.”
You like him, you like him, you like him...
OK shut the fuck up. I have to sit next to him again on the aeroplane. Please just hush. This is ludicrous anyway, we know I can't go there.
You like him, you like him...
WHA-EVA. ....But if you tell him, I'll die a slow and painful death in seat 15C.

Blind one. Love is letting them believe their historical fact is right, by pretending you know no different. Love is them feeding you, mouthful by mouthful, while you drive back from a party at 2:00am.

Love is physically aching when they're away. Love is still asking them how they take their tea, because sometimes they like milk and sometimes they don't. Love is sucking it up when they see ex's, but still getting jealous deep down inside.

Love is somehow managing to pop their name into a sentence every five minutes. Meetings, bathroom queues, the Samoosa Lady... Love is not only accepting their bunion, but finding it sexually attractive.

Love is feeling projected and endless sadness for them when they're sad. Love is thinking about their legs All. Day. Long.

Love is them being the first person you call when:
You get big news
Have a crisis
Have to tell someone something hilarious
Sky News says another tube caught on fire [Love is] Two persons who have chosen each other out of all the species with a design to be each other's mutual comfort and entertainment have, in that action, bound themselves to be good-humored, affable, discreet, forgiving, patient, and joyful, with respect to each other's frailties and perfections, to the end of their lives. - Joseph Addison.

For the Lionel Richie in all of us. (He lives within. He does. You just deny him that's all).
Happy Valentine's Day!

Sometimes I wonder

...whether people think I'm a nice person

...whether I am truly loved

....and if I'm not, is it totally terrible?

...whether those close to me can be trusted sometimes

...whether my father has ever truly listened to what I have to say

...whether if agreeing with whatever drunk people say is ethically correct

...if patience can be learnt

...if dishes can miraculously wash themselves. Mine did, but what about Martha's sink?

...if giving yourself a bald eagle is a good idea, because it's not that sexy. (Mates are in the pub, I'm in the bathroom. Why don't I just give myself an all-over poen wax?)

...how nice it is that it's 7 months today, with 747

...whether I prefer cherise or red

...whether alcohol is the fluid that binds nations and simultaneously tears families apart

...whether crack is the new black

...whether I'll be able to next go on holiday. All I can see in my daydreams is an isolated, deserted place....the peace and quiet. And a bottle of Mampoer.

...whether I'm just surrounded by a world of pretenders.

...whether I am worth it, I am such a small speck on this ginormous globe.

...whether today, TODAY, I will get on that fucking bike. Get my ass to reform itself into an exquisite yet beautifully provocative proboscis-like body appendage.

Dear Peas

This is Future Peas. You've only been in contact with Past Peas, so here's a little note from me: get the hell on that bike. Jesus. Just do it. Today. Now. Today. Do it. This is mental preparation gone way too far woman. You've been promising for months. Do it. Today. TODAY.

PS: An SMS I received last night:

ROB I LOVE YOU AND PLZ STOP WORRYING ABOUT GARY HE IS JUST A FRIEND OF MINE OKAY AND PLZ REPLY ME BACK MY AIR TIME ITS OVER

I replied to this person: Hi there. This is most likely 100% probably the wrong number. I'm not Rob, but hope it all works out.

Almost immediately straightaway I get a call from the same number. (The airtime has miraculously rectified itself)

It giggles and puts down the phone.

Teenage love. It's a beautiful thing.

boho adversity

My mate The Dove decided to descend on my person yesterday, her personal love advice.

She knows me well, but actually thinks she can steer me towards 'bo-ho' men. And reckons these types will be my saving grace. Frankly put, I really don't think so. They're really not...me.

Right. As one of your best mates, it's only fair I give you straight-up advice. This is what I think:
1)Go hang out in Melville/Newtown/somewhere that might contain some species other than those who find rugby and statistics fascinating.
2)Avoid the ones who look like they purposefully slept in a dustbin and rubbed their hair in dog crap before going out for the 'naturally bohemian' look - they are fakes.
3)Avoid those who claim that drugs are good for you as they 'open one's mind'
4)Avoid those who wear wrist bands and leave their skateboards at the door
5)You won't find these types at Manhattan's, or lurking outside the JSE. So you need to stop going to the vomit-pit, for Christ's sake.
6)And most importantly - don't just go for anyone who might show you some affection.

I thanked her, politely declined – mainly because I like my men more sort of...straight down the line, if you will. And the one's I go for are in financial, law, engineering or IT fields. And wear collared shirts and have a clean-cut face.

Asked her how her latest shtoink was going.

Dove: Well we met for coffee, and later we...
Peas: [Sigh] You pomped him senseless.
Dove: Well no. After having an actual conversation with him, I realised he is about as exciting as a wet day in Milton Keynes when the pub's closed. He is the only person who I have absolutely - and I mean absafuckinlutely - have nothing to say to. So....no. When I left, I texted him, and said 'Hey, if we're ever in the mood for it, maybe we should just stick to sex, 'cos our conversations go nowhere....'
Peas: That's pretty blunt, dude. You might have just lost the buddy in your fuck buddy.
Dove: Buddy? I'd have a better friendship with the Spanish chef on TV that I watch occasionally and don't understand.
Peas: Maybe I should introduce you to some people who can hold a conversation?

I had dinner last night with C4 and the girls. Twas lovely. Topic of the evening? Orgasms.

good vs bad

OK, I'm going to try and look at the good in everything too, because I'm about to tune you a rant.

While I bitch, I will also wax lyrical. Deal? Then I won't sound like the crusty, sock-wearing, silly bitch I really am.

The Bad: The crime in this country is out of control. It's madness, it's a serious frigging problem. It makes me want to move to Guam immediately.
The Good: Sorry am trying to find a good thing to say about crime, but after 5 minutes, this appears to be a fruitless brain-wracking. I actually can't say anything good about the government's attitude towards crime, poverty, violence, looting and pillage. Sorry.

The Bad: It's forking freezing in Joburg. Heaters, socks, three layers of polar wear (Sheksie. People love humping polar bears in nightclubs), toes that burn off in a luke-warm bath 'cos they're frozen numb, an empty, cold bed, seasonal depression.
The Good: Last year's winter was colder. No really.

The Bad: Feeling a bit unloved. By the whole world.
The Good: My gran loves me.

The Bad: Painting one's nails compulsively all day can turn into an obsession. Somebody help me, I need help: Twice on the runway, thrice in a bar over the weekend, twice in the car, once before work. It's my little 'thing' ok, it's what I do at the moment. It helps me focus on little distractions. But it's also an expensive habit when you're using Essie nailpolish.
The Good: My nails look bright and colourful, a little sexy, a little playful, and I'm now a PPP (polish painter pro.)

The Bad: Grey's Anatomy makes me cry. And Meredith Goody Two Shoes I'm Dating Two Apparently Desirable Men (Choose Finn, for God's sake woman! McNotdreamyatall is such a dork!) is so annoying I just want to gag her. The other characters on the other hand are Value Add. But Grey's still makes me cry like a girl.
The Good: Between 7:30pm and 8:30pm on Monday nights I don't answer phonecalls, or even paint my nails. I'm too glued to the TV to snack on chocolate. For just that hour: I don't care what the fuck is going on in the outside world.

The Bad: I'm not very computer literate. I wish I could programme shit, and design beautiful things and understand code, and crack gaming programmes, and hack into Absa, etc etc...but alas, I can't. I need to go on a geek course.
The Good: I discovered the tags element to Blogger. Good times.