Yesterday, I likened the loss of another year of youth like the slow draining of Halal meat. Of course, I recognise the over dramatising of this inevitable situation. It’s just a birthday and I’m just another piece of aging meat. But you know, no biggie. I’ll just be over there, hanging upside down, dripping, ready to be devoured by mankind.
Sorry.
As a sign of my new found maturity (I think I might be finding it this year) I have managed to complete most things on my list. Sure, my financial awareness is still low and I’ve failed on the one dream I have (to get an article published), but hell, at least I’ve managed to make sushi.
The list for next year might perhaps be grander, more worldy and wise. It might include things like ‘clean venetian blinds’ or ‘learn correct use of apostrophes’. It might even include climbing some sort of mountain. Note, during that last sentence, I just had a brilliant, mature, go-getter thought! I’ve decided to make the list 30 things to do before 30 and goddamn it, I’m going to tick off every fucking one.
To aging and blessed meat!
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Sausage swapping
I held hands with a man last night whose fingers were like uncooked sausages.
I also held hands with a man wearing a spotty neck kerchief and whose name was probably Marc.
And finally, I also held hands with a man, who, if he ever managed to have sex with someone, would afterwards stain a dozen white roses in droplets of his blood and then stand outside that someone's bedroom window pulling off each petal and licking them. Or something to that effect.
Swing dancing classes are as equally fun as they are disturbing. It's the single freak man's dream. Not only do they get to touch a real life woman, they get to touch a roomful of WOMEN. It's the ultimate excursion from porn. For someone who doesn't like being touched by strangers, let alone petal licking freaks, I had to make a conscious effort not to do 'my face'. For those who haven't seen this afore mentioned 'face', it can only be described as what your own face would look like if a stranger took a shit on your shoe, but a lot less animated. So I guess it would be, more accurately, deadpan shit on your shoe.
But back to the lessons.
The whole swing dance thing is almost literally swinging. You can go to these lessons alone or with a partner, it doesn't really matter because you end up swapping. A lot. Good for singles, good for first time women touchers, not good for those who when faced with raw sausage hands wants to vomit. With each new partner, it's such an intimate position and situation that you don't know where to look. You can't look into their eyes because that's just excruciating (especially if they're counting at you 'one, two, rock step'), so you both look at the floor, or a shoulder, anywhere to avoid that awkward moment of eye contact that inevitably happens. And then it begins again with the next call of a partner swap. But it's not all bad, it's actually quite fun, especially when you get back to the person whose hands you'd much prefer to be holding. Oh and being able to wash your hands after. Twice.
I also held hands with a man wearing a spotty neck kerchief and whose name was probably Marc.
And finally, I also held hands with a man, who, if he ever managed to have sex with someone, would afterwards stain a dozen white roses in droplets of his blood and then stand outside that someone's bedroom window pulling off each petal and licking them. Or something to that effect.
Swing dancing classes are as equally fun as they are disturbing. It's the single freak man's dream. Not only do they get to touch a real life woman, they get to touch a roomful of WOMEN. It's the ultimate excursion from porn. For someone who doesn't like being touched by strangers, let alone petal licking freaks, I had to make a conscious effort not to do 'my face'. For those who haven't seen this afore mentioned 'face', it can only be described as what your own face would look like if a stranger took a shit on your shoe, but a lot less animated. So I guess it would be, more accurately, deadpan shit on your shoe.
But back to the lessons.
The whole swing dance thing is almost literally swinging. You can go to these lessons alone or with a partner, it doesn't really matter because you end up swapping. A lot. Good for singles, good for first time women touchers, not good for those who when faced with raw sausage hands wants to vomit. With each new partner, it's such an intimate position and situation that you don't know where to look. You can't look into their eyes because that's just excruciating (especially if they're counting at you 'one, two, rock step'), so you both look at the floor, or a shoulder, anywhere to avoid that awkward moment of eye contact that inevitably happens. And then it begins again with the next call of a partner swap. But it's not all bad, it's actually quite fun, especially when you get back to the person whose hands you'd much prefer to be holding. Oh and being able to wash your hands after. Twice.
Sunday, August 08, 2010
Snoozing stars
I was pretty sure my half an hour Planetarium visit this weekend was going to be the cliff notes version of Bill Bryson's A Short History of Everything (while this is a VERY interesting book, my retention rate is about 1 - err, neurons or something?). Anyway, I thought my brain might go all spongy and I'd be able to report back and tell you everything about the universe etc.
Turns out the Planetarium seats are VERY comfortable.
So much so, after noting that the whole reclining back and shooting through the night's stars was very cool, I suddenly found myself extremely sleepy. I tried blinking a lot. Moving my head around. Wiggling. Doing large, wide eyes to stop drooping.
It didn't work. I fell asleep with my mouth open as we learnt about dwarf stars and what planets we could see in that night's sky.
So disappointing. I guess I can report an astronomer with a west country lisp talking you through space is VERY soothing.
Turns out the Planetarium seats are VERY comfortable.
So much so, after noting that the whole reclining back and shooting through the night's stars was very cool, I suddenly found myself extremely sleepy. I tried blinking a lot. Moving my head around. Wiggling. Doing large, wide eyes to stop drooping.
It didn't work. I fell asleep with my mouth open as we learnt about dwarf stars and what planets we could see in that night's sky.
So disappointing. I guess I can report an astronomer with a west country lisp talking you through space is VERY soothing.
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