Not.
I’m up, drunk and awake.
It’s late.
Yet, no texts so far.
She must be with her new lover now.
But I’m cool about it.
Honestly.
“Don’t bother”, she says
“With what?”, I ask
“Being nice to me in public”, she says
Now why didn’t I learn English at school like this? By the Hypostatic Union, how I miss traveling to China.
Here you can find more.
Currently and professionally, on one of my many travels. Will they ever stop? Would I want to?
Has been impossible to post something. Up until now where I’m sat in this lovely, quiet, almost rustic airport waiting room. Not.
Text from A late last night: “in [name of club] soooo drunk wish u were here”.
She has done it so many times before. Standard procedure states that shortly afterwards I will get another text asking if I am still awake. Standard procedure response reads, “I am now”. She will then text straightaway if it would be ok for her to stay over. Half an hour later I open my front door to find her uncoordinated, wobbling on her feet, confirming over and over again how pissed she is. While I make her a cup of tea, she comes on to me. Big, large, huge, hazy, unfocussed Tyrrhenian eyes. Next step, she will use my electric toothbrush to clean her teeth with her very own personalised colour identifiable brush head which I keep for her. We go to bed and advance to our very own personalised health and safety procedures.
In the morning she gets up at an early hour complaining over and over again about her hangover. I feed her cereal and tea while she tries to shy away from my attentions. No taking care of dental hygiene this time. A shared electric toothbrush is after all the corpus delicti of love to paraphrase Milan Kundera. I give her a lift in my car and when she gets out, offers me a quick cheater’s kiss. You know, in no man’s land where no procedures rule, somewhere between the corner of the lips and cheek. And off she goes to her parents’ house to change and get ready for her morning lecture slamming the passenger’s door shut far too loudly.
Oh, to be woken by the warning sound of a text message received late at night. Will they ever stop? Would I want to?
You see, in my opinion, interesting blogs are well written. Full stop. That’s all. The theme, topic, subject matter, concern or point of view does not have to appeal to me. At all. As long as it’s well written. One exception. My own blog. In order for Fall On Me to become interesting to me, I need to take risks in life, so I have something worth exploring, worth reporting. As a non-native speaker, I’m struggling enough as it is with getting the word order right in English, let alone trying to write like Belle de Jour’s entry on vendredi, novembre 16. Now that is just awesome.
You see, I could have had something really interesting to explore, to report today. Could have.
You see, on Saturday night I was invited to a dinner party where the combined chemistry of all people attending would be enough to trigger a melt-down in me not seen since Chernobyl. Or that bloke from Heroes. So to warm up and in preparation, my drinking kicked off at the same time as Scotland played their Euro qualifier. About 5 in the afternoon. By the time the Scots had their own reason to find solace in alcohol, I was on pint number 5 and had an hour to drag myself to this British middle-class form of Saturday night entertainment. Where ‘fab’ food and fine wine was awaiting. And A. My very own personalised A-bomb.
You see, I wasn’t feeling particularly peckish. Or middle-class. And wine never tastes good after you have been enjoying Guinness. And the Guinness was being really good to me. Just like it says on … Okay, so I chickened out. “Terrible man-cold. Feel really really guilty for all the food that you have cooked.” Instead, I went on a pub crawl, bumped unexpectedly into some friends not seen for a long time and managed to have an excellent working-class form of Saturday night entertainment. In old boozers which actually smell of beer rather than Chanel no 5 with pool tables and dart boards and pork scratchings and pickled eggs and superb bitters.
You see? Two sentences. That’s all there is to describe my Saturday night out.
You see? Life as a chicken is not interesting for Fall On Me.
Tonight, I’m meeting L, A’s new lover. L already has both a male and female lover. Two was obviously not enough, so he set his eyes upon my lover and as with everything, he got what he wanted. L rushes through life with a uncanny ability to emotionally detach himself from everything and everybody almost autistic like while approaching it all as one big, hugely amusing game. We couldn’t be more different which may be the reason we get on so well. And the reason he has so many lovers. And me none.
Last night A became temporarily L’s old lover and my new lover. To make it all even more complicated, L’s male lover once made a move on me. Unfortunately for him, I’m straight so I turned him down. Unfortunately for me too because I reckon I am missing out on some serious entertainment here. Nevertheless, he didn’t take the rejection very well, so every time we meet, the Guinness just tastes a tad more bitter.
Tonight, all the principal lovers will be on show with L on centre stage. Life and how to live it.
I’m gonna make sure I’ll be enjoying my Guinness well in advance.
“Honestly. Husten, he is not what they make him out to be”, cuddling up to me in the pub, making sure I’m looking into those blue Tyrrhenian eyes.
Her new lover has a prior engagement, so it seems.
“You wanna sleep at mine then?” trying to sound cool.
“Yeah, let’s go home, to your place, I’ve had enough”
Not so cool.
But we did anyway.
Never realised that Wikipedia could be funny. I was checking up on the band Yo La Tengo and found the following:
The band’s name comes from a baseball anecdote. During the 1962 season, New York Mets center fielder Richie Ashburn and Venezuelan shortstop Elio Chacón found themselves colliding in the outfield. When Ashburn went for a catch, he would scream, “I got it! I got it!” only to run into the 160-pound Chacón, who spoke only Spanish. Ashburn learned to yell, “¡Yo la tengo! ¡Yo la tengo!” which is “I have it” in Spanish. In a later game, Ashburn happily saw Chacón backing off. He relaxed, positioned himself to catch the ball, and was instead run over by 200-pound left fielder Frank Thomas, who understood no Spanish. After getting up, Thomas asked Ashburn “What the heck is a Yellow Tango?”.
