Tag Archives: Salvador Dali

Sourdough And Celibacy

10 Jun

ImageKnowing someone has a thing for you has its upsides; you get to pretend like you’re not in the least bit flattered yet secretly you enjoy the attention. You answer their overly personal game of twenty questions with nonchalance and shrugs. You drop subtle hints of things you want and/or need then they magically appear. You act aloof and disinterested even though on some level the potential of human contact is the greatest thing to happen to you since that time you decided to eat soup in bed and kept the spill on your pillow for a midnight snack. Minestrone, you old devil!

* Thanks, it’s my own recipe. I use cheddar cheese instead of water. *

But when you know it will never, ever, in a million years be a thing. Every tactless wink, every attempt at gratuitous body contact, every moment of plutonic banter and every time you catch them raping your unprotected body with their eyeballs makes you want to shrink them down, stuff them in a glass bottle, hide them in a HIVy gash and beat that shit like it’s a piñata on Cinco de Mayo. Especially when it’s at work.

*Never dip your nib in the office ink. *

In light of that particularly unfortunate situation I have been toying with the idea of celibacy. It makes sense. The thought of touching anything remotely phallic fills me with a mixture of anger and fear reserved for the Furby that I hid in my sock drawer at night in order to muffle its demonic phrases before I threw it out the window – not sure if actual childhood memory or plot to The Exorcist.

* I’m going to speak to some food about this. *

I don’t think I could really commit to celibacy though. Considering the pleasure I get from consuming a whole loaf of sourdough is tantamount to orgasm. It would just be wrong. I have been secretly hoping that a coeliac bites me and I become afflicted with gluten intolerance. Both celibacy and bread related abstinence seem somewhat unlikely after the cute sales assistant at the bakery correctly identified my Salvador Dali print jumper, smiled and made my tummy feel funny. Or maybe that was the couple of glasses of wine I had at 2:00pm. Either way, I’m back on the wagon.

* But I already have a drink. Do you think he’d buy me mozzarella sticks? *

So now that it’s well and truly wintertime down under. I can’t for the life of me understand why women continue to dress as though it’s the height of summer. It’s extremely frustrating. I understand that you have daddy issues and an overwhelming desire to parade around like a common whore. But can you please just wear some pants or a garment larger than your fake breasts instead of an outfit comprised predominately of bras and underwear. To those delightful women who scorn the latter please remember to carry a “slippery when wet” sign with you. Your trailing flaps have managed to make the sidewalk “slicker than cat shit on linoleum floor.”

* Mr. Gravity’s been very unkind to that woman. *

I realized that I’ve invested more time in this blog than into any one of my actual relationships. Probably because most of them acted like they were doing a fuck by numbers in the bedroom. And after reading that one in twenty five people are sociopaths I’m concerned that these last five months spent laying out my particular brand of crazy might not stand me in good stead for any sort of relationship; on the wagon or no. Oh well, what can you do? Lawyers are also the second most likely profession to harbor sociopaths. So what with my graduation looming and classes commencing in August at least I know I’m heading in the right direction. Now is a good a time as any time to watch The Pelican Brief and align my career once again with a role played by Julia Roberts. The former was finding a rich husband to take me to polo and curb my whimsical, slutty ways.

*Ugh, as if! *

I can do both.

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23

5 Apr

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Two days after turning 23, Friday night finds me alone after half a bottle of red, crying in the shower with sour cream in my eye. Let’s shift it back about half an hour before I had visions of the same scenario 30 years on where I break my hip and drown childless and alone smelling like a Cabernet cream sauce.

* This is worse than the time the raccoon got in the copier! *

I’ve just finished the four-course dinner I’d made for myself: bacon and eggs, crackers and dip, after dinner nachos followed by ice cream covered with the remains of a Lindt chocolate bunny. Lying on my bed, shirtless, but still in my work pants and shoes. I get some cat hair up my nose and start sneezing. Rubbing my nose and then my eye. I begin to feel a white-hot burning sensation. Lucky for me I was typing at the time. So in between realizing it’s not chlamydia and running to the fridge I managed to record my stream of consciousness:

THERE’S DEFINITELY SOMETHING WRONG…IT FEELS LIKE MY EYE HAS BEEN COVERED IN TABASCO SAUCE THEN ROLLED IN GLASS! IS THIS WHAT CHILDBIRTH FEELS LIKE?! IS THIS WHY WOMEN HATE MEN FOR GETTING THEM PREGNANT?! THERE’S DEFINITELY A GIANT FIRE DEMON BEING BORN FROM THIS PAIN IN MY EYEBALL! IT IS THE EYE OF SAURON!!!!!

* A woman’s whole life in a single day. Just one day. And in that day her whole life. *

Not to mention I’ve already put off exercise for a week because I’m now two years shy of a quarter century and my best years are behind me. I also feel like I’ve just killed Santa Claus. And not in the funny “I’ve got a new job ho-ho-ho” Tim Allen kind of way. The “I’ve just found out my childhood has been a cluster-fuck of lies and now I’m old and jaded and I look like a Salvador Dali painting without my clothes on” kind of way.

* Your life is like Gossip Girl, only everyone is old and poor. *

Even the angry 13-year-old girl that is my subconscious wants me to suffer. The two dreams I can remember having since Wednesday include:

  1. Going back in time to find my ex boyfriend, using my knowledge of future him to make him fall in love with me before telling him I was, in fact, from the future. Rookie error. Don’t ever stop giving them the love potion just because you think that they actually love you. That’s what the potion is meant to do. So of course, he tries to kill me.
  2. I meet a hot guy at a bus stop (I know, I know. My dreams may not be glamorous but they are realistic and depressing) who I try to flirt with and get shut down. He then proceeds to tell me he is in fact gay but not interested. Preferring instead to prod my body that wasn’t sculpted in the gay steel mills of America and giggle.

* I suddenly realized that unless something changed soon I was going to live a life where my major relationship was with a bottle of wine.[1] *

But enough of the self-pity, I also did stupid things while intoxicated:

  1. I swapped shirts with someone
  2. I played a version of 3 Men 30[2]
  3. It was 4 Men 30
  4. I got a bus home because I was saving money
  5. I fell asleep, drooled on myself and it looked like pee
  6. I sent an oddly coherent and cutting message to Mitch Buchannon
  7. I threw up in the shower
  8. I did some drunk online shopping[3]

Oh and then I applied for postgrad law.

* Do you think she just woke up one morning and said, ‘I think I’ll go to law school today’? *

Yep.

Time to put on Bridget Jones’s Diary and play my favourite game: Reciting all the lines word for word and finishing my bottle of wine.


[1] Coincidentally a close friend sent out invites to her party asking people to let her know if they wanted a plus one for their partner or in my case if I wanted to bring a “significant bottle of wine.”

[2] A game invented on the night of my 21st birthday where 2 friends and I had to hook up with 3 different guys in under 30 minutes.

[3] I really don’t need a minimalist poster of Finding Nemo or an UP Grape Soda pin replica. I blame it on listening to my Disney mix before bed.