it's happening

I'm about to part with my first piece of big furniture.

I lay in bed last night tossing and turning.

Booking a one way ticket freaked me out, but I didn't lose sleep over it.

Getting a visa only induced excitement which lead to mass celebrations that took place in aviator sunglasses on top of a bar counter.

But now, a friend who is buying my couches is collecting the first couch this weekend.

The empty space (what will I put there in the interim?) has unleashed the beast.

I am immigrating. In the name of good fuck, I'm immigrating.

The first couch that I ever owned (Furniture City), is going to a new home this weekend.
It's been privvy to my entire 8 year existence in Johannesburg. It was Scotch Guarded luckily, as it's had it's fair share of red wine splattered over it during karaoke parties.

It's seen boyfriends come and go, it's lived in three apartments, it's been fornicated on, and leading on from that, the covers have been through around 45 washing machine cycles.

If I'm crying over a stupid couch, what the hell am I going to do when I have to part with my Beetle? Run behind it for two kilometres as the new owner makes me eat dust?

I'm getting rid of my stuff. The process has started, and my flat is starting to look threadbare.

Eeeek.

tracksuit & seating material

God, for once there was something worthwhile on the box last night.
VH1's 100 One Hit Wonders countdown.

Dude.

What a fantastic evening I had lazing on the couch, eating strawberries and drinking water, pondering the fact I have exactly one week left of smoking.

And if the ghost of Allan Carr can't make me stop, then I don't know. I'm out of ideas.
Yes, he died of lung cancer eventually. Big bummer.

I have an A Game to bring to my little do tonight. That A Game includes one fucking hot Greek tracksuit dress.
I get that people have a penchant for tracksuits in Doncaster. I know that velour, in particular, is pretty popular in Scunthorpe.
My dress flows, doesn't say Well Bing Bing on the ass, and it's certainly not velour.

I'm thinking I'm going to Safe Cab my night tonight. The second sensible thing I have astutely arranged for this weekend. The first is that my birthday is actually on Sunday, but I figured having a Saturday hangover is more responsible than having a Monday hangover.

On Sunday, It'll be exactly two years until I'm 30. What a relief, Christ. At 30, woman are in the throes of their sexual peak. And if it's better than now, then fuck me. I'm in for quite an orgasmic ride.

Is all I'm saying.

Maybe by then, I'll even think about investing in property. For now, the savings are all going to towards travel and Operation House.

I bought myself a spanking new couch. 'Happy Birthday Peas, Love Peas.' It's red, and it's fucking insane. Insane beautiful, that is. A three seater and ev'thing.

OK let's not rip the ring out of it. A couch is a standard seating structure in any home, but it has one defining element: it's long enough for shagging on.

The other couch, although comfortable with it's popped spring, with a bucketed out indentation on one side that fits my business end like a fucking glove, is only a two seater. Which means lots of legs up in the air. Never been a problem, but it is nice to have the choice.

Is all I'm saying.

PS: And let's not forget the rug.