People, start washing your hands, when you’re done with your toilet business. Man, you’re gross. Modern apes! Thinking your dick is the cleanest, the best thing… is the epitome of self-centered consumer culture that will lead to human destruction. Flash news, I don’t want anything to do with your dick.
Why do I get to see so clearly the power plug and carpet pattern down on the floor in your dick shot? Oh, wait! Why do I get to see your dick shot?
So there I was, left with the laundry I had not … initiated. If it were by me, the dirty laundry business would have not been started at all that day. But I digress. So there I was, ranting about all these t-shirts one should wash inside out and about all these socks some men just place in the washing machine like an all together unwashable bud. Everybody knows these are the basic rules of washing. And everybody who knows them respects them. So how come some boyfriends chose to ignore them? Again? But I digress. Remember these gay designer briefs with white round dots increasing in size from the waste as they descend to, well, down there? And remember my point about how these briefs are designed to make your dick look bigger? And remember how you said “Really? I doesn’t look any bigger to me”? “I was totally unaware”, you said.
There I was, laughing. At a closer look not only these briefs had small plastic fake black diamonds on them! they also had a cup, a pouch, very much like a push up bra. Why? Oh, why? trust me, your dick is large enough.
Where Russian is generic for all those celebrating their birth of Jesus by the old Julian calendar, on January the 7th. The picture shows Santa’s definitely got wood.
When a golden kitten plays with falling golden leaves, it’s amusing. When your morning glory gives your (old! worn out) pajamas a glory whole, it’s an amusing amazement. Plus I cannot keep the cat, but can always keep the rag.
Wake up, drink coffee, go back to sleep. That’s one f*ck3d cycle! I am past the first two stages.
“I’m sorry, I have just had a sh!t-attack”, she casually said and that made me laugh.
When I did what I did I had feared the process and ignored the consequences I am now reminded are without fail more ferocius. When one is already way in one’s thirties, one should trust common sense more and vanity less.
You are probably wondering what the heck is he talking again. Oh, well, I had my back waxed. Before too soon I was happy on my way, I had not reached my pain threshold and had my back as smooth as linoleum, ready for the cuddling weekend with my baby. But, damn those buttbabies making, since I am not living in a nudist colony I had to wear clothes. Despite calming balm and cotton t-shirts without inside labels… remember that Sex and City episode? it’s me! My back looks like a stellar map, only red. I have until Friday to make it go away. Oh, where is the Fairy Godmother when you need her him?
As for you kids, there is a life lesson in every waxing you take. You don’t believe me? then go read paragraph one again. Now, go play and be merry.
Inspired by my neighbor’s piano practice, beginner level, roll eyes here, and my other neighbor’s loud party, I was tempted to pass altogether Stingo’s request. But here I am, ten years after. Can I say I know who I am? What I want? Where I am going? Cause sure as hell I had no clue ten years ago.
I am more carefree than ten years ago, but not much more mature. I am one of those people whose exterior change goes unnoticed. My baby fat is burned, my long hair gone. My black leather motorcycle jacket is long gone to shreds saving the life and skin of a friend. Not me, the jacket! there is little I could have done. After all, he was riding his bike approximately one thousand miles an hour, do you wonder he’s skidded?
So, yeah! lets take this imaginary train to back in time, to ten years ago!
1997 is the year of my graduation. When I said “I am graduating a ballerina school, only without the pirouettes” much to my teacher’s distress at these words. He was angry with me, but I had been angry with him before that. He had recommended my diploma paper for a nine, and later made the mistake of coming to me in these terms: “Reading the other papers… now I regret I have not recommended you for a ten”. Of course I wanted to bite back.
Ten years ago I applied for a leader’s position. With the Soros foundation. My first application, my first interview, my first job. I had the nerve to tell the commission, which consisted of an executive manager, three branch managers and a psychologist slash HR specialist: “You called me to interview for the wrong position, I have applied for the Chief of department. I decided to come to let you know”. After a months trial I was Chief of department.
In 1997 I was dealing with my first real life invoice, dully noting at the time that all the schools I have been attending to that point had served me shit. Ten years ago I was a freshly graduated student who had no clue about basic financial procedures. It was on the occasion of supervising my first international conference. I was becoming an event organizer.
Towards the end of the same year, the Foundation was rendering obsolete part of their machinery. I have thus bought my first ever PC, a famous 486, which I was mostly using as a typewriter with a screen. I also remember a recurrent dream I used to have. The dream went like this: I see an excel file in front of me, I am filling in the numbers, I am checking them one by one, then I apply the sum formula and add them up. Then I sellect all, erase and start all over. Such a dream used to last an entire night, while I was preparing the Foundation’s Annual report. 400 A4 pages of names, figures and unintelligible text.
That year I don’t remember if I was seeing a girlfriend or not. But I remember seducing, in my small but no so small hometown, Timisoara, a gay British professor by the name of… Parrot. He kissed me on a bench next to the rugby field, hold my hand in the taxi, took me to his hotel room, where he came on me telling me “It’s good clean sperm, don’t you worry”. That night I made my first and last shameful exit from a hotel, at two o’clock in the night. I continued to send him poetic email, until he cut me loose. Very direct, almost made me bleed. I was not under the impression I could ever have a relation with him at any time, I just nedeed a vessel for my literary creations. I don’t know what came of these. They are still stuck on little floppy disks, in Timisoara.
Finally, ten years ago I had a passport featuring me with long hair. And I had no driving license.
In brief, I had no idea of where to go, but I was determined to get there fast.
Children, let’s share this weekend’s learnt lessons.
When he asks for the bill without asking you if you want anything more, the meeting is over. You have been dismissed. When you have done that several times already yourself, it’s about time it should happen to you too. So be nice, life has a way of slapping you in the face when you least expect it.
Never change reservations because someone asks you to. Or whatever your plans for that matter. Do everything by your own measure. Trust your intuition, even if, like me, you are convinced you don’t have one. When you are later complaining about the above, you will have to admit to your secret wishful thinking. Wishful thinking is bad.
There are several Belgian beers over 8.5. Every time I had beer it was my goal to try a new kind. I was in Belgium, it was totally possible. After one day and night of almost continuous drinking, yeap, my friends were amazed with my drinking skills! the hangover was fierce.
I can hardly conceive a most dreadful situation than hangover on a plane. Oh, there was the waking up at seven after a one hour sleep, and seeing one’s ex boyfriend while not emotionally ready for it. But it was still me in all those situations, too. So let’s stick with the hangover situation, at least I knew my way out of this one. And that would be: Ursus especially bottled for Tarom. Tasted like orange fresh juice, following as I said the Belgium varieties, but it did the trick. The current update is: after a fourteen hour sleep I look almost human.
WARNING, sex life confessions ahead. As it turns out, no matter how vengeful, hot, horny, or all of the above, I am not the darkroom type. Yves is one of Brussels’ handsome hungs partying in Antwerp. Not the only one with a crush on me, yeap I am still valid on the market, but the only cause for my lips still hurting. In that pleasant reassuring way. We didn’t use a condom, but that is also OK because we have not screwed either. Although we both wanted. Reminds me of that student joke.
And now back to life. There is snow in Bucharest.
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