Tuesday, 8 February 2011

Spurious Update and a Note to The Recently Deceased Rupert Wanderlust...

First off - an open question - who the fuck decided to stalk my blog to borderline compulsive levels this afternoon?

My stats counter went utterly insane between 3 and 5pm and, being that I haven't had Internet access for most of the day (between trips to the dry cleaners, sewing on a multitude of missing buttons and buying 'it's OK you're practically a spinster' cake from The Manna House), it can't have been me...

Not that I purposefully bump my hits anyway.


Swiftly changing the subject, I'm actually feeling a damn sight more cheerful than I've been for a few weeks.

After being called to retrieve my flatmate yesterday evening (who had been drinking for going on sixteen hours), apologising to the bar staff and dealing with his distinctly not manly, possibly more candid than intended emotional breakdown, I eventually realised that this not drinking lark is doing me the world of good.

Alcohol makes me a twat.

I'm also, slowly, regaining my full lung capacity - should the weather improve I may even be tempted to re-establish my position within the ranks of joggers trailing round Holyrood Park at absurd times of the day.

[God knows I could do to lose a little winter weight.]

Urgh, this whole thing has taken on a rather rambling tone but I guess I'm just avoiding getting into anything too heavy after the past few weeks of being thoroughly morose.

Before I round up with something vaguely meaningful - a lovely little note of congratulations goes out to Pixel Dot. my wonderful (albeit absentee) flatmate who made his first television appearance this evening.

I'm a very proud mother hen.

Now for the good bit...

Hello stranger,

I know you're not talking to me.

I'm also fully aware I started it.

Though, at the time, I was happy to give you the last word and be done with it...I've reconsidered my position.

In response to our last correspondence, with a little elaboration:

We're not opposites.

I'm what you wish you could be but are too scared to realise.

I'm also not mad; that's part affectation, a dash of habit and a whole lot of (reconsidered) lifestyle choice.

My lascivious nature and questionable morality is just a symptom of being significantly younger than you and, I'd like to point out, far less emotionally stunted.

Your life isn't chaotic - you might be disgustingly musically talented and a wee bit of a smouldering, foxy front man but you've taken the entirely non rock and roll option of basically dating your mum (except without the incestuous intrigue).

[God, it feels good to say that.]

The small part of me that doesn't want to undo your trousers with my teeth, sort of pities you for not letting me - I still remember the insanely satisfying spike of arousal when your hands first snuck under my jumper in the Fab Cafe.

I bet you do too.

I might be a fan of your band but my lyrics will always shit all over yours...sorry.

I miss your chat.

Given half the chance, I'd still fuck you senseless and we're both fully aware that as a side-of-stage girlfriend I'd be bloody marvellous.

Unfortunately it's recently come to my attention that I'm far too cool for you.




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