Thursday, 10 December 2009
That's not pizza. That's afterbirth.
Seems like my friends on here seem to blogging about their daily lives. I decided that as I have yet to do so, today may as well be the day.
I awoke to the delightful sound of my delicate ears brushing against the soft, downy flannel of my pillow case. I writhed back and forth for a few minutes pretending I was a human rolling pin, crafting some kind of pastry made out of a duvet. Might make a shit strawberry tart but made for a very enjoyable first few moments of waking...
...considering the disturbing as bollocks dream I had seconds before! (Which I have to tell you about cause it was fucking odd) The final moments of dream were as follows: I was a bloke, in a bedroom and in the room stood before me was the man who was about to kill me. All of a sudden, he was gone and a woman lay on the bed, her head resting in the crook of her arm, her legs tucked under her bum. I took a side step right and looked into the walk in wardrobe, and could see the face of my murderer staring out at me from a nook, smiling. I walked back to the woman, who had been talking to me this entire time. Before I knew it, the man had re-appeared in front of me, stabbed me repeatedly and then disappeared -- and as I lay dying, I was watching myself back in the same position I had been stood in for the entirety of the dream. I looked at the woman on the bed who now turned into a friend. She looked at me and smiled. Then each quadrant of her face slowly turned black, like the second hand on a clock (actually like the clock on Countdown, to be geek precise), sweeping around until her face turned bruise black, then another sweep removed her skin, and again, and again until all I could see was muscle and eyes staring, smiling at me. I turn to look at my corpse on the floor, and he is the same. I scream, and scream and wake up to hear that lovely sound of my pillow.
The description of my dream serves no purpose whatsoever, other than the wonderful dichotomy of emotion it represents in that I felt peaceful when I woke up. Bizarre as buggery, I felt joyous and excited to be awake and bounded downstairs for morning brew and porridge. I consumed both while reading my book, the latest Nick Hornby which is pacy, funny, insightful and true. I love it. The house was empty so I could have either romped about naked (such a cliche) or done my daily exercise without interruption. I chose the latter. I do enjoy a good bike ride as I get incredibly out of breath, sweaty and feel psyched up and ready for action. Usually when exercising I will watch a music dvd or listen to tunes, alas today was to be different and I opted for Mad Men season three. Can be a little difficult getting worked up and feeling healthy watching this show. Perhaps this is why immediately after 30 minutes of bike riding followed by 20 minutes of freeweights and 10 minutes of what I call "mat activity" -- I sat in the kitchen and had a fag. Eh, maybe I was trying to encourage an unruly poo. Who knows? It's highly likely as I am obsessed with bowel movements and how often I have them, and they are rated on a scale of satisfaction.
After showering, dressing and spending a considerable chunk of time berating myself and being quite negative about my appearance -- I left the house and headed off to catch the bus. I only mention my self-deprecating behaviour as it does take up a lot of my time and I am growing increasingly bored with it. I'm a 27-year old woman and I am hoping to find a smidgen more self-love to extradite such feelings. Possibly to Bromley, or somewhere else ghastly and provincial.
I had my hair cut. I am certain no-one will notice as it was a pre-emptive cut. Subtle changes were made to amend the outcome in the future. I had my last hair cut in June, in New York while under the influence of Jim Beam. From what my hairdresser told me today, apparently so was the woman who cut my hair. It seems both sides of my hair were different lengths, had varying styles of feathering (which to me, always makes me think of a barbaric sexual act involving fisting someone with a bunch of feathers -- also note, second time fisting mentioned in blog. Must take steps to ensure this does not happen again so soon), AND it was just a bit shit. I've never warmed to having my hair cut because it requires a static amount of time sat infront of a mirror and I do not like mirrors. At all. Long story. But, if you take a photo of me and immediately want to show me, and I get antsy, please let it go. It's the same thing for me.
After leaving the hair place, I trotted towards the bus stop to catch a ride to my friend Rob's house. Feeling in a good mood (as someone wolf whistled me immediately after exiting the salon....hehe, brillo) I even crashed a 15-year old a cigarette, and spared them the speech I have reserved for this kind of situation (which most likely makes me sound like Mary Whitehouse.) Unfortunately I was on the bus at 3.30 which meant, a gaggle of horrendous school children boarded shortly after me and sat infront. I need not say anymore as everyone knows the offense which 13-year olds summon in anyone over the age of 25. They were the kids that bullied me at school, and hearing them mock and insult other kids on the bus (the goths, the punks, the me) I fought anger and traded it for humility. And for the understanding that this is children. They hunt in packs and forage for sustenance in each other's weaknesses. I, was not one of those kids at school. I was their plaything, and I had to stop myself speaking out because, how many times can you fight a continuing battle? And for me, it's a battle won recently.
Plus the language they used was of such a diabolical standard, I doubt they would have understood me.
The friendly bus driver failed to tell me where exactly the stop was I required. As I noticed the bus heading back towards town I exclaimed "cockfosters!" and leapt from the bus and began yomping in the direction of Rob's house. I arrived to find Rob and his wife being quiet as their beautiful baby girl was dropping off to sleep (I had interrupted by banging loudly and asking for beer.) I hadn't seen Rob in months, and it was lovely to spend a few hours with him and his family. He's besotted with his daughter and his wife, and it makes me proud knowing that a friend of mine is such a good man.
This evening I watched some Bottom, and a few episodes of Bones (season four -- brilliant, i think someone goes gay really soon! HURRAH!) during which my Mother fell asleep, and is indeed, still asleep. I am excited for tomorrow, two of my best friends are coming around in the morning for a brew and a chat. Then I head off to Bernard's to prepare the house, make food, bake a cake and drink entirely too much gin before anyone else arrives, for Pinty's birthday.
Tonight I shall leave you with this: remember that ad ages ago on tv wherein the little girl is asked "Daddy or chips?" I wish to ask you a similar question...
...donut or beard? One is a confectionary snack, the other, a facial adornment. Or is that what they want us to believe?! Who says you can't wear a donut on your chin and eat a beard? Fuck stereotypical behaviour. I'm off to eat a beard.