L’histoire du loup rose

1- Sometimes, we’re just not flexible enough to hear an alternative version.
2- Any discussion requires lexical clarification for all protagonists to truly understand each other.
3- Fairy tales can scar you for life.

When I was four or five, my father used to tell me the following story:
Once upon a time, there was a big bad wolf. He had eaten many children in his days, because that is what big bad wolves do for a living. However, as time passed, he grew remorseful; the devoured children came to haunt him, and he decided to give it all up. Reform. Repent. Live a new life as a brand new wolf. He became a strict vegetarian, surviving on berries that he gathered in the woods.
And then an incredible thing happened: his coat turned pink. And a new life began. […other adventures of the pink wolf..]
I bawled and screamed and generally freaked out every time I heard this story, for all I could seem to hear was the word ‘wolf’. Never mind his remorse, his pinkiness, his new resolutions; a wolf would be a wolf and that was a bad, scary thing with sharp teeth dripping blood. Traditional fairy tale conditioning [wolf=evil] had already done its job.

---

I had another Friend date on Sunday, Internet. I would like to express my doubts as to whether I will go on wild adventures with that person, for I was bored.
Maybe she thought the same about me. Who knows.

Fairy-forsaken

Still no trace of the Fairy Godmother.
Bitch.
Maybe she's just watching me struggle from her glitzy purple cloud; shrugging if she's French, gracefully because she's a fairy; but shrugging all the same. Or maybe she just gave up on me when she caught me reading through a very steamy story I wrote for.. for.. you know, Internet, that far-away person who split up with me.

I should have let the steamy story in its little folder; it's so full of her.

I think I can see the FGM shake her blue rinse all the way from here.

Poetry to the rescue

[Instructions and Posology:
Learn by heart and recite before and after every meal. ]

The Ambush

When the face you swore never to forget
Can no longer be remembered,
When a list of regrets are torn up and thrown away
Then the hurt fades,
And you think you've grown strong.
You sit in bars and boast to yourself,
'Never again will I be vulnerable,
It was an abberation to be so open,
A folly, never to be repeated.'
How absurd and fragile such promises.
Hidden from you, crouched
Among the longings you have suppressed
And the desires you imagine tamed,
A sweet pain waits in ambush.
And there will come a day when in a field
Heaven's mouth gapes open,
And on a web the shadow
Of a marigold will smoulder.
Then without warning,
Without a shred of comfort,
Emotions you thought had been put aside
Will flare up within you and bleed you of reason.
The routines which comforted you,
And the habits in which you sought refuge
Will bend like sunlight under water,
And go astray.
Your body will become a banquet,
Falling heavenwards.
You will loll in spring's sweet avalanche
Without the burden of memory,
And once again
Monstrous love will swallow you.


Brian Patten (from "Storm damage")

Makeover

Ta-da!
I went for tasteful, Internet. I hope you like it.

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Today's other piece of news is that the hole in my pyjama pants is not fixable.
I can feel a definite draught when I stand up.
I also have to walk around the house with my back to the wall in order to preserve the decorum of my peaches no, callipygian shyness, no, person.

Faced with a similar sartorial crisis, J blames it on his massive balls; but I do not have that option.

I'll miss my pyjamas. Now they look like a Union Suit, with the arse bit cut out.They saw me through many adventures!
RIP, nice pyjama bottoms. You cost me eight quid, six years ago, and I liked to depend on you.

---

(This spellchecker is shit.
It doesn't know the following words: pyjama, sartorial, callipygian, or arse.)

Rubik’s cube

A part of me is busy listening to J play a Chopin Nocturne.
A part of me wants to puke my guts out because of the American hostages who got beheaded by the crazy bearded men.
A part of me is busy fancying Margaret Cho.
A part of me is pleased with a job well done this week.
A part of me wants to go get a needle and some thread to fix the gaping hole in my pyjama pants; I believe that my arse is visible.
A part of me wants to go to Paris at the end of October.
A part of me wants a stiff drink.
A part of me is glad to be alone.
All the other parts of me are busy missing her.

the loneliness of the long distance bawler

Today I have :

- listened to very loud music and bellowed along
- listened to my shrink explain how he identifies with my tales of lost love across the world. It turns out that his story bears a strong resemblance to mine. Except that he knows how it turns out in the end..
- declined an invitation to a bikini-karaoke
- cleaned the house; as I was reaching out for a forgotten pile of porn, a much-folded and unfolded map of San Francisco fell on my head. I didn’t cry.
- Put on a pair of cashmere socks that my girlfriend ex-special lady friend got me some months ago. I cried.
- Found that two words describe my present state fairly well: sad, but resilient. The former was obvious; then I grabbed the latter and realised that it fits just right. It almost made me feel better, so I stopped crying.

I'm bigger than I think

I was in the middle of the formation of the Imperfect tense when my right thigh collided violently with the corner of my desk.
I had to pause mid-sentence; mid-word. The pain was intense. I pictured punctured skin, torn flesh, blood running down my leg and forming a puddle at my feet.
Twenty pairs of eyes were on me.
I valiantly jugulated the pathos and proceeded with verb endings.

The bruise is twice as large as the ones I sustained from paintballing. I admire it twice daily.

Jack in the box

So I'm told that I'm free now.

I'm trying to open the box, prop the lid up, and look out.

Things, people, places, events. Things to learn. Plans, even.


But I miss her; and some of the plans are somehow flavourless.

Deflated but still bouncy

So, internet, I had a date last night.
No, not that kind of date.
What do you take me for? Do you think I’m ready to go out and seduce people already? Even un-troll like people?
Well, I’m not.
Anyway, I had a date. With a girl, yes.
I know.
Trust me, internet, getting a date is the easy part. I probably don’t need to tell you that.
Anyway, it was a Friend Date. I think I made my terms clear.
I just won’t talk about the Break Up really, and since there is little else on my mind I’m just about the best listener in town right now. Take me out on a date, and you’ll see.
She was clearly very nervous to meet a complete stranger, so I did my best facilitator impression. After she was done being nervous, it became clear that she really really liked me; maybe because I just listened so well… so I took her for dinner to Garlic and Shots, where the aim of the game is to ingurgitate various garlicky comestibles. I thought garlic would act as a deterrent, you see.
I came back home fairly inebriated and with hyena’s halitosis.

Now I have a new Dyke Goth friend I can go on various outings with.I also have a splendid hangover.

(Boy, does she drink.)

Housewife

Yesterday after a 10 hour work day, I propelled myself to Argos and purchased a new hoover.The checkout guy said - Here's your B&D thingy - now don't work too hard, you look really tired. I thanked him politely and laughed at the sadness of it,then I took the bus home.

I wonder if I am unconsciously trying to push the Martyr Theme of my days..I could just let the carpet grow mould.