2004-07-27..4:50 p.m.
VICTUAL RITUALISM
During the week I eat breakfast at work as I invariably only really have time to hastily shower and glug back a pint of water* before I leave. This usually consists of pink pithy chunks of grapefruit, fleshy trapezoidal wedges of apple, and oblong slashes of banana followed by three cups of coffee and a cigarette. Cutting the fruit is a ritual secured calmly between emptying the dishwasher and pruning the florid bouquet that adds a notch of colour to the otherwise rather clinical reception. We�ve these impractically enormous Luxury First World-sized bowls that could in case of an apocalypse be used as a ceramic helmet (art project anyone?), and make my breakfast seem to straddle the line between puny and eating disorder. In the half hour before anyone else arrives and the phones start going I can stay blissfully half awake, check my email and forget the pigeons and street crazies that stumbled into my line of vision during my walk over.
*The pint of water is Very Important to my little morning ritual, like toe nails are to voodoo. It also allows me to say with perfect sincerity that �Without my morning pint, I just feel tired and achy all day�**
**O to sound like a soused up old lush.******I�m sure there�s a really horrible Ode to be found in there. I really must start writing really horrible Ode�s again. I went through a phase in highschool where everything could be summed up in a really horrible Ode. I became rather known for it in my wee circle of likeminded souls, though whether that was a good thing or not, I�ve never quite been able to suss.Midmorning Myra and I have fruit (again), this time an enormous mound of it. The sort that weighs down the desk in a manner that infuriates me when I�m in caf�s eking out my coffee and the party next to me dares to order such a fare that it threatens to collapse the table. As happened over the weekend in Crouch End. I�d just picked up The Anti-Death League (Amis the older), so it�s my own fault I had to resort to blowing smoke at them in vicious gasps. Of course the door was open so it all just spilled back at me, and I got ash in my cup. And I ran out of papers. So really I wasn�t so much silently covering them with a bilious veil of my own dissatisfaction as glaring a lot and remaining quite unnoticed. Instant Karma.
WENCHES CALLING
Last night I dreamt that I was involved in a goth escort agency as one of the high-flying tight-waisted girls with breasts out to there. My �uniform� was black and deep purple lace whale-bone corsetry pulled together with black silk ties, black suspenders-and-garter belt with fishnet stockings, and a trailing bustle of more black-and-purple lace and silk. I felt simultaneously ridiculous and sexy beyond belief. My dream came in during the company�s merger with a dominatrix escort agency called Vice Squad, and I had a whole new route to learn (among its wealth of features, the agency also offered a door-to-door service.) At one stop got told that I simply wasn�t Dom enough. The guy just shut the door, and so I there I was stuck in the middle of suburbia in all my gothic temptress finery just staring at the lawn and wondering where to go next.
I woke up then because the Boy started making loud sleep noises and started moving in for the cuddle. He�s on the touchy-feely side when he�s awake, but turn out the lights and send him to sleep and he sexes up the affection. The Boy has been away all weekend and to have him back telling me to ditch work and linger in bed is delicious.
Continuing with the whole whore thing, I found a discarded receipt in my bag upon which I�d written the disclaimer that �I am a WHORE for F. Scott.� There is an awful lot of truth to that, but I�m not sure why I was being so emphatic about it.
On the reverse I�d transcribed:
�My labia hurt�
�Which one? Inner or outer?�
�The right one.�At the time there was also an awful lot of truth to that, as one may expect after five consecutive nights with a new(ish) lover*. I wrote that out when walking home with Boy after seeing Spiderman2. On that walk we passed Kebab Express Printing and Stationary, which leads to innumerable questions about its lamb doner (Would you like a side of paperclips with that?) That was the night the Boy started calling me Stanlee (not so very odd if you�re so freaky with Spidey like me).*was that too much? When should I have stopped?
I have an awful habit of writing out little three word notes to myself and throwing them in my bag never to be seen again. Or rather, found weeks down the road with not a scrap of context to refer to. I�ve loads of spiral-bound pads of paper lying around my room half-covered in inky scrawlings. It�s not at all that I don�t mean to use them, as they get lost in the clutter. I have an awful lot of clutter. I�m using the word �awful� an awful lot today.
I�m not feeling very erudite today,
BUT I AM FEELING A LITTLE LINKY
Good golly! There�s a reason the call him Mister! But I�m not so sure about this. The fake tan scares me.
I could do with one of these. Perhaps in the form of a broken leg (dig them qualifiers!)
This makes me weak at the knees.
This frightens me somewhat, but mostly because the Boy would go apeshit over it. Sigh. He�s also crazy about the badger monkey debate, which was started here. I know. I don�t get it either.
But these Magnetic Fields are my favourite.
I�m off to see Tanya Donnelly tonight, of Belly glory. Should fabu like chai tea in November. The Badgercrazy One is taking me. I will be sure to not only enjoy it madly, but tell you all about it tomorrow!
****meep
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