It was a white Christmas. A lot of my RSS feed is unread, but since I have not packed and the plane will be taking off in a couple of hours, you can easily see how I deal with my priorities.
I leave you with the remains of 2008. The New Year is going to be tough and interesting, I know it, and I am looking forward to 2010, which is supposedly my year. So, all the best to all of us 
So, after the long dry spell, I finally see myself with the money, not all of it, in my account. What is my first thought? Not pay the credit, not pay the debts, and god forbid save some! Buy the freaking leather jacket!
I might just be.
And Merry Christmas and, eventually, a Happy New Year! It’s that time when I don’t have a day that’s not the birthday of a friend. Like my friends are competing with Christ or something (said the religious fearing Christian in me, awaiting lighting to strike).
Because, so far it’s been a year since our love at first sight. And you still rock my world.
Also it’s the birthday of a friend and reader. Happy birthday, you know who you are.
And on top of that last night I had a little bit too much to drink, which lead to being a bad guest and to insomnia again. Let me tell you , Bucharest streets at six on a Friday the morning are pretty lively as I was hovering towards my own bed ridden with hangover.
You not answering to my email fails to communicate how busy you are. But instead it gives me the full measure of the importance you attach to me.
(Today I have said “I love you, I miss you, get better”, and cried, because I don’t think it’s gonna happen, slept an irregular pattern, dreamed of the Cabinet, been in a meeting and feeling good, might’ve caught a cold, and did a myriad of other less significant things.)
I remember watching one interview with Kylie some time ago. She was in a hotel room, on the bed, happy, and I remember thinking why does her face look like a plastered wall. But, to this very day, it’s another things that’s stuck with me from that interview. The knickers. She said, I quote approximately, “it’s like those knickers ran away and got a life of their own”, referring to the fact that everybody made such a big deal of her sexy knickers featured in one of her videos.
Now, I am experiencing something similar. I give you my own knickers, via http://images.google.com/:
and I ask, from all the beautiful pictures I ever posted here, why this? Why is this still refering people to my site? Why?
So I have complained sort of and my mum has replied in, what I call, cabbage style. For an exact picture go to a second hand fair. Yeap, that it. The apotheosis like conclusion was the joke below.
Now they’re changin the name of the White House. Into Black Barracks.
Anything to make me smile goes. Thanks, mum.
Few people get it. And even fewer care about it.
Instead of doing just that or going for somebody’s nuts, I have used my Ikea hammer and I had a do it yourself snack.
The nuts have their own story told by Ion. Ion is eighty something, has an old lady back home and keeps the keys to the fortress on the top of the mountain. I assume he doesn’t get paid for letting the people in, since the mayor’s office lets him use the orchard around the fortress. When we saw him he was just so happy to talk to someone. Like that I have learnt he lost his finger at the lumber factory, and some more, later on, at home. Even more happy he was for the six lei he got. That’ll transform into fangs and submarines.
This all too familiar truths are well told by Amy. Amy, only one suggestion. This is what I thought I heard the first time, and it made me laugh hysterically:
“You can’t SEE down right,
Cuz you jeans are too tight”
Anyways, here goes, pure genius on repeat:
Lyrics to Fuck Me Pumps:
When you walk in the bar,
And you dressed like a star,
Rockin’ your F me pumps.
And the men notice you,
With your Gucci bag crew,
Can’t tell who he’s lookin’ to.
Cuz you all look the same,
Everyone knows your name,
And that’s you whole claim to fame.
Never miss a night,
Cuz your dream in life,
Is to be a footballers wife
You don’t like players,
That’s what you say-a,
But you really wouldn’t mind a millionaire.
You don’t like ballers,
They don’t do nothing for ya,
But you’d love a rich man six foot two or taller.
You’re more than a fan,
Lookin’ for a man,
But you end up with one-nights-stands.
He could be your whole life,
If you got past one night,
But that part never goes right.
In the morning you’re vexed,
He’s onto the next,
And you didn’t even get no taste.
Don’t be too upset,
If they call you a skank,
Cuz like the news everyday you get pressed.
You don’t like players,
That’s what you say-a,
But you really wouldn’t mind a millionaire.
Or them big ballers,
Don’t do nothing for ya.
But you’d love a rich man six foot two or taller,
You can’t sit down right,
Cuz you jeans are too tight,
And your lucky its ladies night.
With your big empty purse,
Every week it gets worse,
At least your breasts cost more than hers.
So you did Miami,
Cuz you got there for free,
But somehow you missed the plane.
You did too much E,
Met somebody,
And spent the night getting caned.
Without girls like you,
There’d be no fun,
We’d go to the club and not see anyone.
Without girls like you,
There’s no nightlife,
All those men just go home to their wives.
Don’t be mad at me,
Cuz you’re pushing thirty,
And your old tricks no longer work.
You should have known from the jump,
That you always get dumped,
So dust off your fuck me pumps
[ Fuck Me Pumps Lyrics on http://www.lyricsmania.com/ ]
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