Train tracks

Woah, yesterday was a day and a half. As horizon-widening as it is, I don't spend all my time using soaked earphones, you know, I also go places, do things, and getting ridiculously lost. Yesterday's things involved walking around a strange northern city in a concentric way until I found myself back at my exact starting point; yesterday's people involved a very friendly, very dykey policewoman who put me in a good mood for the rest of the day, and a very brisk brazilian orthondontist who just knew what to do to sabotage that mood- I'm not a wuss, lady, it's just that hitting my teeth with pliers does hurt a wee bit.

Now I can't eat and I look like a 15 year old. And not in a good way. Did I mention that I can't eat? Sweet Jesus, help me, but more importantly, help my friends who are going to have to put up with me.

Either a teenage moment, or a fairly rare disease

I don’t know what it was; yesterday I stared at men’s hands; the nice hands of the shop assistant who was wrapping up my purchases, then my hairdresser’s tan, muscular arms. I was staring at him in the mirror, so taken, somehow wanting to bite. Perhaps a strange case of misspent lust, perhaps the onset of rabies, I don’t know, time will tell.

This afternoon I was extremely sophisticated in an upper middle class hippie kind of way, sipping a soy milk latte and nibbling on a spelt bun, do you hate me? And checking out people’s asses from my vantage point. How disconcerting, I said to my soy latte companion, this week I’m finding men sexier than women.


He was ignoring me, so, slurping, I went off into a reverie about vague malecrushes I would now like to share with you. I tend to go for tortured, self-deprecating French singers/songwriters with messy hair.

Wouldn't you? I know I would.

C is for Crush

People of blogland, sit tight: tonight I’m going to tell you about a few of my unrequited crushes. Just because I can. Just don't tell my Special Lady Friend, ok? This is just between you and me.

Crush #1, 5 on the Richter scale, Circa 1990
Oh, that one. Oh yes.
This one got me out of bed every weekday for a whole school year, you see.
I don’t know what it was; the ponytail, the blue eyes, the make up, the carefully studied androgynous goth/grunge look, the one earring. I was inspired; I read so many books that year. My friends said he had greasy hair, but I didn’t care, he was a lovely school librarian.
About three or four years ago I was home and I saw him down at the swimming pool. He was balding and had a mean potbelly. I swam to the other end of the pool.
I’m so over it.

Crush #2, 8 on the Richter scale, Circa 1978-1985, and for this one I can provide a picture:
With her Christmas bonus, my mother bought our first TV set, and at dinner time I watched Albator.
Right. Pirate. Long hair. Scar. Black clothes. Big knee-length boots. Rebel.
Sometimes I couldn't even swallow my food properly.
All I can say is : there is no way Albator was really a guy. Pirate, yes; girl pirate.
Seriously, look: hips!
What am I saying, 1985; I’m still crushed out.

Crush #3, 9 on the Richter scale, circa now:
This delicious creature is called Bebe, and she’s a singer and she’s Spanish. Oh, the beautiful extremeno accent, the lovely way she has of skipping over consonants, the hand gestures, the voice, the eyes, the everything. I’ve gone all weak at the knees just watching one of her videos.
In fact I’m feeling a bit queasy now. It happens when I get all crushed out on someone unattainable.

I don’t have a punch line, blogfolks. So now I better go and have some alka-seltzer.

Busy

People of blogland, I’ve been:
- cooking (I can)
- sewing (yes, really.)
- sleeping
- chatting up strangers on the innernet.

I’ll let you know how I get on.
In the meantime, I’ll be trying to convince those complete strangers that what I’m looking for is the right company because in the right company, I have the potential to be fucking brilliant. So the responsibility is on them, you know?

The aim is to get a date before mid-April, do you think I can do it?
Back to tap-tap-tapping.

Afterthought : when I feel that I miss A, I remind myself that love is merely an addiction.