His name is Penis

As I embark on my 5th week of freelance, I am stopping to take a moment to think of the lack of penises I've met along the way. All but one penis, with whom I am currently sitting on the same table.

For the sake of continuity, let's just call him Penis.

Now we, as in me and my work partner, met Penis on our first day at our new gig. He seemed ok, but he was a big talker - a lot of talk to say not much. And a starer. Both of these attributes tire me.

For the first three days, we were away from Penis. Life was good. You know, quiet. Now, on day six, we are both tired of the Penis with his talking and staring. But why this dislike you may ask? Well, firstly, he's nosey. Secondly, he has an annoying voice. Thirdly, he has one of those jobs that he's clearly made up himself. Fourthly, he whinges about working hard. Welcome to advertising d-wad.

Today, Partner Dan (I'm not sure where this name has come from but I'm feeling kind of Western) was scamping. As I was image searching (sorry for the boring detail), I noticed Penis doing his usual peering. I kept my eyes straight except to check whether Partner Dan had clocked Penis. PD was scamping very intently, refusing to look up, which was unusual, as PD will usually find any excuse to be entertained by anything else other than work. After a good THREE minutes of staring without results, Penis went back to his work.

Me to PD [whispering]: Did you...

PD: Yes..

Enough was said. We continued working silently, in unity, to defer any entry Penis might have into a conversation.

Penis defied. Take that Penis!

Wrinkly love

I was looking at a couple on the tube the other day. They were married, in their late fifties, trying to navigate their way around the Central Line. I think one of them might have been wearing a bum bag which, by the way, while I can see the practical benefits it is still unforgivable unless you are a carnie/pikie (like how I'm catering for my audiences?). She, was a little thick around the waist with a crazy, crazy, boof of hair and he, thicker, less hair with a large serving of grey. At first, it made me wonder what they were like at 28, which then led me to wonder how they saw each other - whether it was of each other now or, of each other young.

Aging is a peculiar thing. Naturally, none of us really look forward to it. Shallowly, it's kind of cruel. Emotionally hard and sad to grasp yet mortally, totally understandable. Truthfully, I'm not sure how well I'm going to take aging seeing as though the prospect of 30 is giving me tri-monthly freak outs and raised veins and loose skin makes me have to shut my eyes and go to my happy place. But all of that aside, when you age with someone, you have a mirror to your own change. It must be a strange yet comforting experience to grow old with your partner and similarly, your friends. Every wrinkle of yours will be matched by theirs, every grey, every bag, every added inch to the waist you once had. But with every gravity defying year also comes another series of moments shared. And that, is a beautiful thought.

So that takes me back to my original question, when you've spent the good part of 20, 30, 40, 50 years with someone, when you look into the eyes that haven't change, but everything around them has, which version of them do you see?

Full of none of the right stuff

Sometimes I get worried, genuinely worried, I don't know enough stuff. I can't begin to tell you how many times I've tried to fill in the many gaps but no matter how much I try (and honestly, these tries are probably rather half hearted) I can't retain information.

Ask me a famous person's baby name and I'll tell you. Ask me the about some of the most insignificant moments of my life and I'll recite them perfectly. Ask me me a Dean Cain fact and I'll bore you for hours.

But I can't work out percentages. I don't know what most big words mean. I don't know plant types, dog types or even religious types. I don't know how long cooked meat should be left in a fridge and I ashamedly can't remember the finer details of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. How can I possibly ever have children when I have the most useless information to pass onto them?

"Mummy, tell me about the Cold War"

"How about we ask Google?"

FOR FUCK'S SAKE, I CAN'T EVEN REMEMBER WHERE INVERTED COMMAS GO. AND NOW I'M HAVING A MENTAL BLANK, ARE THEY CALLED INVERTED COMMAS OR QUOTATIONS?!

My brain is a murky pond of plankton, and not much else. By my age, I'm supposed to know more. I know I am.

I even tried consulting Bill Bryson's Short History of Nearly Everything. It was really interesting. I wanted to retain everything I read so badly. I read about how the universe was created and about atoms and neutrons but fuck, the plankton is infiltrating my brain's best intensions and I think perhaps neutrons might belong in your brain and not in the stratosphere.

Oh god. I'm confused. I think I need to lay down.

Innies and outies

Large groups of people make me shrivel back into myself like an old man's penis.

One of two things happen. I either say nothing at all or what does manage to come out of my mouth makes people look at me like I've just wet myself. Before you start thinking I'm a complete social retard, I'm not. Sometimes I'm actually ok, but as a general life rule, I just don't do small talk well. And in the instances I'm under performing, the following happens.

Let's pretend I'm in a scenario where I'm running around holding up alphabet letters while being filmed. I'm with a big group of people who seem to say funny quips straight away rather than thinking of them half an hour later. These people are 'extraverted'. Now people who are loud and have 'high levels of outer excitement' make me sleepy. And the bouncier they get, the more unenthusiastic I become. It's like I have to balance out the situation. Most of the time, I end up having to use my back up energy sources for fake laughter. Then I have to remember to keep my lips from curling into bitch face in between the good humored ha ha's. This leaves me running at -24 and needing a nap.

Now let's move to the second scenario when I'm shriveling out of my penis and going into saggy old man's balls scenario (I believe either one of the two happens when you get older, please correct me if I'm wrong) i.e small talk. Now, I've mentioned this problem a few times, but I have a new scenario I thought I'd share.

I recently had a job interview where my mouth decided to take the mic. Usually when this happens I have absolutely no idea what's going to come out.

Important man: So, er, how was your weekend?

Me: I bought an iron [oh god, I think I was supposed to talk about films or something]

Ha. I haven't ironed in four years. Ha. But I have a pair of 'fun pants' that need ironing so I had to give in. Ha. [brain, abort]

Yeah and do you know you can get an iron from Argos for £3? Ha, I can't believe I waited this long. Ha ha ha [abort, abort]

So now I'm an ironer, ha.

[abort signal accepted]

I think it went well.

Stripes, arrows and roots

I have nothing of interest to write about, so instead, I'm just going to write a story, straight from my brain, un-edited and see what comes out.

Here it goes:

Once lived a loser mouse called David-Peter-Steve. He was given three first names because his mother, Sue, couldn't decide which one she liked better. David-Peter-Steve was a loser because when they were handing out life labels to the new borns, Sue was too busy eating her jelly to go and get a good one. So while David-Peter-Steve could have been a 'winner' or even 'smack bang on average', he was stuck with being a loser for life. But being a loser was ok. He was pretty good at it. Along with his life label he got a list of instructions on how to be a loser. He went through his first couple of years sticking close to the list, but recently, he had gotten creative. David-Peter-Steve's favourite loser activity was clicking his paws. It made the same noise as a human finger click and he clicked everywhere he went. In fact, there wasn't a single second of the day where he wouldn't finger click. Another day, he kept a leaf of spinach in between his teeth and inserted his finger up his nose where it stayed breakfast, lunch and dinner. And another day, David-Peter-Steve yelled 'car' every time a car went past on the highway where he lived.

Yes, David-Peter-Steve was a loser.

David-Peter-Steve's best friend was a 'winner'. His name was Number 1. Now Number 1 had been very lucky. His mother had been first in line on his day of birth, forgoing the free maternity ward jelly. So Number 1 breezed through life. One day, while David-Peter-Steve and Number 1 were out, David-Peter-Steve, mid paw click, found a life label on the road. It said 'A-Ok'.

...to be continued, or not.

Bunting update: Two letters sewn, chances of me finishing it are slim.

Today

I used my brain. It hurt and the stuff that came from it won't change the world. In fact, it will probably do more harm than good, but lets not dwell on that (perhaps I will elaborate on this at a later date). The brain usage was great, it really was.

MY BRAIN WORKS!

P.S I'm currently creating some bunting, I know, very out of character, so I thought I'd give you an update of my progress. I have 10 flags* to sew on, and have 8 more to go. I'm so womanly, really I am.

*Cut out complete with letters also cut out and sewed on

Newness

Friday marked the end of something which pretty much started bang on three years ago.

My new life in London started all in one go. Pretty much straight away, I got a job, a house and well, a life. All the elements transitioned so seamlessly that I didn't really notice that this 'everything' was going on in a foreign place. Whether it was actually seamlessness or ambivalence, who really knows. But since then, some parts have changed, but the constant has always been my job. It has represented a massive chunk of my time here; both good and bad, and has shaped my experiences and perhaps who I've become as a person in a lot of ways that I probably couldn't even begin to explain.

Now, newness is here and again, the transitions are happening so seamlessly that the ambivalence has once again set in. Is change supposed to feel a certain way? Am I supposed to feel satisfied, relieved or even excited? I recognise none of these things, I feel as robotic as my earlier sentence sounded. Don't get me wrong, I'm looking forward to the future, but not in the anticipatory, I'm about to pee my pants way of an upcoming holiday or, I don't know, if I was about to bathe in Belgium chips with ketchup and mayo. I guess I thought the end of my sometimes vein popping (insert your own hateful thing here) job would feel different, but it doesn't.

Clearly, I'm dead inside and the only thing keeping my heart beating is the promise of tomorrow's breakfast.

Wish me luck for tomorrow. Oh wait, I don't care.

I bought an iron

I know.

I know.

Frankly, I feel a little disappointed in myself. I mean, I've gone four whole years without ironing. Four. I've hung clothes in the bathroom while I've showered (doesn't work as well as you think), I've shook things, I've even tried sitting on my clothes - pulling them to make them straight (this doesn't work either).

I guess on the other hand, it's a turning point in my maturity. People who are 28 on the cusp of 29 should really iron their clothes, right?

Right?

Thank you little German lady

This is a story of timing. Timing so beautiful, it deserves sonnets, birds and shiny haired Chinese children playing the violin.

Now, we all avoid people. My personal technique is the stare through (ST). First timers, please, please, don't try it out on an important avoid because it can go wrong. The ST is my most used avoidance technique, mostly because it comes quite naturally. There are two ways I perform the ST. The first is when I haven't seen the person because I don't have my glasses on (this is err, why it comes naturally). The second is when I incorporate my double take of the noted person with one long ST. I gradually make my face become more fixated and animated upon a certain object, as if yes, I'm trying to read that street sign across the road. Now the ST only works if there's a mutual avoidance understanding (MAU). However, more often than not, it's only a one sided understanding and you end up having to talk to the avoided, usually about what they did/are going to do on the weekend. This is where it all goes wrong so you must prepare for a solid ST performance.

Sorry, that was way longer than expected.

So back to timing and the Chinese children: cue birds.

This morning, I was walking to work. I was at the crucial point of the journey where MAU's are often had or are broken. Twelve minutes from my destination I saw a lady in her fifties looking at a map. Inexplicably, I was drawn to her which resulted in my very uncharacteristic and unprompted helpfulness, asking her if she needed help getting somewhere. Sure enough, she needed the Millennium Bridge which I very enthusiastically showed her with large arm movements. I left, feeling pleased with my deed. I was so very pleased with myself, that I then decided it was likely I was going to soon be run over by a car before being able to brag about my Jesus like behaviour. So while still congratulating myself yet looking both ways while crossing the road my eyes were drawn to a head, a known head, let's just call this person Carpet Face. Even without my glasses, I knew it was a head I should avoid. If I had not stopped to help the little German lady, I would have bumped smack bang into Carpet Face with whom I do not have a MAU.

I learn lessons and then pass them on. Seriously, I'm like a guru.

Grandad fantasy dirtified

Imagine me, walking to work. The sun is shining and I'm feeling generous with my positivity; like in a I could probably hug puppies and pat toddlers on the head kind of way. I have my headphones on which I did think were cool and if I'm honest, a little street, up until a day ago when L asked me if I had stolen them from the plane.

So I'm powering away when I see four little boys running over the pavement, trying not to step on the cracks. 'Oh how sweet', I think as I am pretty much high after four straight days of English sunshine. Then I spot their 60 year old (give or take), grandad, ambling behind the little monkeys. I decide he looks like a good old sport, and probably even whittles some soldiers out of wood in his spare time while whistling old show tunes.

I begin to think about how kind it is that he's accompanying them to school. I imagine him telling the boys stories from his youth, most probably by some kind of fireplace and him slipping them chocolates before dinner time. I'm totally caught up in this wholesome fantasy until I walk past him and he slurs 'hell-oo sexy' in the most dirty, I need to go home and wash myself kind of way.

Sleazy fucker.

Rap

I’m procrastinating, so I’m going to write some kind of rap instead. I’m not going to delete anything so the following is rap via a stream of consciousness.

Here it goes:

Yo, yo, I’ll tell y’all what I know,
Don’t go chasin’ peeps without a bow
Run little dawg, I’m coming after yo
Be scared, but don’t stoop too low

Low, low, how low can you throw
Skim the fields with one swoop yo
Low, low, how low can you throw
Skim the fields with one swoop yo

I go through bins, I leave scraps on my chin
But I’ll tell y’all somethin’, this is how I win
I won’t pay no tax, I let da man swallow my sin
And now I got more to leave to my kin

Low, low, how low can you throw
Skim the fields with one swoop yo
Low, low, how low can you throw
Skim the fields with one swoop yo

That's enough, I'm going to have lunch now.

Moments of realisation: number 76

I wasn’t meant to act.

I wasn’t meant to lose my inhibitions amongst a bunch of strangers in Finsbury Town Hall.

I wasn’t meant to pick up imaginary flowers and pretend to smell them.

But this is ok, because now I know, right?

Missing out

Numerous exciting things have happened to me in the past week. Actually, two, but still, it's enough to write about.

Firstly, I finally resigned. Let me emphasise on the word finally. After a much anticipated build up of about a year and four months to be exact, it ended up being one of those things that could be filed under 'the biggest let down ever'. It was fine, you know, I could easily describe it as pleasant. I guess I wanted to feel some kind of post resignation satisfaction. I don't know, like a great weight had been lifted off my burnt out shoulders. But there was nothing. Perhaps it's because I'm dead inside. Clearly, being so icy makes it hard to determine these things called feelings.

Hold, there's a pang of excitement. 3 MORE WEEKS. Yep, there it was - excitement. The inquisitive ones may ask, what are you going to do when you find yourself unemployed in three weeks time? Finally fulfill my dream of being a garbo? Perhaps read to sick puppies while they paw gratefully at me, touched by my soothing voice? Spend more time familiarising myself with the bible? No. No. And no. I shall freelance. Lets take a moment to think about the word 'free' for a moment. Stop now, I have more exciting news: we got an electric toothbrush yesterday and I really have to tell you about it.

Firstly, it's amazing.The toothbrush cleans my teeth in a way that I didn't think was possible. It's like a professional clean, everytime. Honestly, it's fantastic. So much so it's in the top five things I own. Shall I list them? Ok, in no particular order:

The electric toothbrush
The bookshelf
My laptop
Dim sum steamers
The free mirror we picked up off the side of the road

So it started to make me wonder what else I'd been missing out on for all these years. What other contraptions, hobbies, people or things have I deprived myself of due to the stubborn nature of not wanting to replace the old with the new? For years I resisted the electric toothbrush and for what? Plaque ridden teeth? Well no more. Give me new things and I'll try them all. For the better I'll add. Go on, throw them at me and I'll try them like a teething baby.

Nothing says end of holiday like a Korean poo cleaning AND drying toilet

So I've decided you haven't lived until you've sat on a toilet and had a cold pistol of water shoot up your ass. Or have had the ability to then dry it with some kind of in built butt hairdryer. If you have yet to experience this, I suggest you calmly shut down your computer and then get yourself on the next plane to Seoul.

In other news I'm back in London. I almost cried on the tube ride back from Heathrow. That's until I remembered it would be totally pathetic and I'd lose all credibility as a girlfriend with no heart. That's right, I eat babies for an afternoon snack. But I digress. Australia was everything I wanted it to be. Although I guess the problem with belonging to two countries is, the longer you spend in one, the more detatched you feel from the other.

As you'd expect, everything moves on without you. It was great to see my family and friends and for the most part, time and distance makes no difference. Laughing at farts is without borders, but it became even more apparent how different my life is now to most of my friends back home. I'm not saying either mine or theirs is necessarily better, rather, they're just different. Luckily, for the most part, it felt like it was only the other week I last saw them.

It's a little strange to see how your life could have panned out. I could be a home owner. A gardener. I could own a BBQ. I could have kids or a dog. Sure, the me in my parallel life would have been happy. But thanks to a strange kind of distance created hindsight or is it foresight(?), I'm pretty happy where I am now with my mortgage free, kid free and sprinkler system free life.

But Australia, it was bloody good to see you.

Waiting

I'm bored.

My legs are jiggling uncontrollably like an impatient Chinese man.

I'm annoying everyone with my happiness.

I even tidied my desk.

I'm contemplating the risk of eating another banana.

And I think I've outdone myself with my packing. Not only is it light and minimalistic but it's organised too. I have morphed into my mother with full force. Hand sanitiser? Yes. Spare plastic bags? Fuck yes - take three. I've even applied three coats of organisation to my nails. The first is an undercoat. Then two layers of grey. Then a final coat to seal it so my nails will be able to endure 3.5 weeks of hardcore fun. Shit, that's 4 coats of organisation. Arghh. Why can't I ever be a proper half Chinese person and add up correctly in my head?

4 hours til I can go to the airport.

7 days

This time, this exact time in a week, I’ll be packing my things up (by packing up, I mean shoving my laptop somewhere) and leaving grey behind for three and a half weeks. Do you hear me people? Three and a half weeks! This calls for more exclamation marks!!!!!

It’s strange, mostly, I don’t think of my other home much. And by that, I don’t mean the people, it’s more the physical nature. I don’t think about the roads, the trees or the shops. And of course, I don’t need to think of these things, because everyday life is in London, but as the days draw closer, they’re appearing again. I’m suddenly having flashes of ‘home’. I’m remembering street names, shops, foods, I’m even thinking about how I’d get from the city to the beach and where I’d park. It’s a strange mix of comfort and excitement.

And for the first time, I’m showing my home to someone else. Being over here has changed how I perceive Australia and Australians. Instead of being proud, at times it has made me cringe, made me embarrassed and made me ashamed. Of course, it’s not all bad. I know it’s not. I guess I want L to see the best part of my other home, because I know how great it is. I want him to see it how I left it, not how Aussies abroad ruined it.

But the most important thing is, I'm coming home. I can feel sun on me. I can hear the crickets at sunset and the smell of eucalyptus. I'm walking slower already and smiling at strangers (actually, not yet, but I might). I'm coming home and I can't wait.

Incompetent voice projection

You know how every so often you have moments of self affirmation? I often have them about aspects of my personality that I have forgotten or perhaps chosen to ignore. For example, sometimes I forget I'm bossy. But, whenever that happens, I'm quickly brought back to reality when I have a tourette's like moments. Such incidents have included other people doing the following (and this is by no means an exhaustive list): continuous pulling apart of Blu-Tac, slow walking, fast walking, cooking in wrong pans, bags on tables and so on.

I have recently started classes at a new type of gym. By 'new type' it's not really a gym, more an establishment that holds a variety of interesting classes. Don't worry, there's a point to this. The point is, I recently had a moment when I remembered I'm not a class participator. So everyone can relate to this, I've prepared a list of non participating examples for various stages of life. Yes, all are from my life except the last. I don't know anyone called Lorraine.

School: never really asked questions. Probably because I wasn't listening and was too busy trying to draw the perfect Superman symbol (see previous posts re. Dean Cain).

Uni: never participated in discussions. Probably because I was in shock (for three years) that after having gone to an all girls high school that the only boys to look at were mature age Trekkies.

Work: only ask questions if I'm in a challenging and perceptive mood. This depends on how much sleep I've had and my corresponding intelligence levels. If other people prolong meetings by asking too many questions, I WILL glare at them.

Retirement: you go to your watercolour class, but you spend limited time asking the teacher how to draw the perfect vase. You roll your eyes at Lorraine who hogs all the teachers time asking banal questions about circles.

So my recent re-realisation is that I have a quiet voice that doesn't project in gym/group like situations. When the instructor asks if everyone's warm, I will answer, but in a voice like the smallest doll in the toy pile, well, that's if dolls could fucking talk. I don't know why, but I can't get loud enough. And this is the one time in my life when I'm quite enthusiastic about something yet I can't muster enough volume to make myself be heard. I remember in another class, our instructor used to make us count down our squats. I was never that person you could hear. He'd even come up to me and I'd do this weak as shit, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 - pathetic. But it's not just in gyms I can't make myself heard. Put me in a loud pub and half an hour into talking, I'll have lost my voice.

After having given it some thought, both medical and philosophical, I think I have half a genetic reason as to why I'm poorly equipped in the vocal department. I remember learning when I was 12 that Asians have small lungs, so knowing me, I got the small lungs as well as the short eyelashes. Oh and slow legs. At least I am good at squatting.

Unnecessary high fiving

Now, let me just start by saying, I like the odd high five. But it should only be done occasionally. Like once every three months and only if something really good has happened. For instance, if you’ve finally mastered juggling or if you’ve been learning how to tie nautical knots and can do a double loop bowline with your eyes closed.

I am exposed to a high fiver. There are many problems with this. The first is she does it too hard. She leaves a stinging sensation on my left hand. She is muscley and doesn’t know her own strength. Secondly, she makes me high five things I don't believe are warranted. I get to work late again on your job? High five. Let's make logo take over the entire page? High five. It gives off the impression we are ‘all on the same page’ but in reality, I'm reading 'What's my poo telling you' and she's half way through 'Eat, Pray, Love'.

Now, I like the girl, so I go along with the slapping, but I really want her to stop it or at least make the slap softer. I guess I could just completely miss her hand one day and then she might feel awkward or sorry for me and NEVER DO IT AGAIN.

Good idea?

People who end their emails with an initial

So, like most things in my life, I started off in awe of this new thing I'd learned. It was in my first job and my kind of boss was called Sara. She used to sign off all her emails saying 'thanks, S'. I thought it was so, so clever. So working girl. What was this innovative and quick way of signing off emails? As someone with seven letters to type, I was blown away with this new world that working had opened my eyes to. However, I never thought I could adopt it as a practice of my own. Sure, I was even called 'V' as a nickname so I was pretty much entitled to it, but I couldn't, for I decided it was as uncomfortable fit as me suddenly calling people 'sweetie'.

In my second job, I learned the sign off 'cheers'. Cheers? I'd never heard of it as an email ending. It was so casual, yet friendly. So new age. Fuck 'regards' I thought, 'cheers' is the new way forward and it was, until I realised it was stupid.

So my new life rules are:

I will accept email endings with an initial if you have a first letter that ends in 'ee' so G, B, D etc. However, if you are an S, H, A etc, and use the afore mentioned letters as an ending to your correspondence with me, I will roll my eyes and internally ridicule you. If you choose to ignore my personal and, of course, ridiculous wrath, simply take a long, hard look at yourself in the mirror and then repeat your prohibited initial fifty times.

A conversation with the 14 year old me

The follow imaginary conversation will feature me now (MN) and me then (MT).

(MN): Yo, V dog (you may think this is a classic old person getting into the young person vibe but it's not. I was heavily into R&B from 14-16 and I would have appreciated the lingo from someone as cool as myself at age 28)

(MT): Hey.

(MN): Listen, I just wanted to let you know a few things; you will get a boyfriend one day. Oh and you'll grow into your nose.

(MT): Really? Thanks, you know how much I hate this honker. Will I ever marry Dean Cain?

(MN): Dean Cain will grow into a fat old man with moobs. You will outgrow your obsession in about three years. In another ten years you will be embarrassed when your work colleagues learn of your teenage fantasy and put a picture of him wobbling out of the water on your desk filed under 'celebrity has beens'.

(MT): No way. I'll always love Dean (draws a superman symbol on her homework)

(MN): Whatever, so I'm going to tell you some more insightful things.

(MT): Yeah, like what? What am I going to do for a job? Am I going to be, like, successful? God, by 28. I'm probably going to be married, have a house. Oh my god, maybe have a baby!!

(MN): Erm. The success thing is somewhat debatable. The rest, well, let's just say no to all the above but you will have gone on some amazing holidays and done some really cool things.

(MT): Oooooooh, like what! Hang out with famous people?!

(MN): Umm, no. I can't think of all of them right off the top of my head, oh wait, like live in London?

(MT): London, no way, I want to live in America. I might meet Dean Cain or Jonathon Taylor Thomas. Someone might discover me in a mall.

(MN): Stop fucking talking about Dean Cain and trust me, you'll lose this America obsession. Oh, here's something. People will still be telling you to smile more in 14 years time. How's that for annoying?

(MT): OHMYGOD. I HATE people telling me that. I'm daydreaming, why don't they realise?

(MN): Because people are dumb. Hey listen, I have to go.

(MT): Why, are you going out clubbing or something?

(MN): Err, something like that. Although a more accurate description would be going to bed.

(MT): God you're old. Man, if I was allowed to, I'd go to the R&B clubs EVERY SINGLE NIGHT.

(MN): That's because you don't know any better. Goodbye and please, stop wearing those baggy jeans, you're going to go to France with mum soon and some American girls are going to laugh at you. You'll then leave them in France in embarrassment when you could have saved you some room in your suitcase. Oh and don't let mum buy you that leather hat in Florence because Stephen will tell you you look like you belong in a gay pride march.

(MT): Um, ok thanks. I just wanted to say:

I'LL LOVE DEAN CAIN FOREVA