Creep

Ok enough of the mushiness already.

My chest hairs have started to bristle, my muscles ache to be clenched and I fear that I might have to go camp, kill a wolf, eat it's raw heart just to cleanse myself.

It's a little disturbing I know, but don't blame it on me. It's but genealogy.

(At least I hope that's what it is, else chicken won't be our staple diet anymore).

On similar notes, we've been painting this mean ol town red. It has to be done. And no plans. Nothing. All plans have been thrown to the wind where they flutter lifelessly. Just her, me and a town named boo.

oh and last night, in a karaoke bar, I sang my post marriage rendition of Creep. A girl at the bar yelled "If I had underwear to spare, I'd throw it at you".

Making life difficult for single guys, one bar at a time. Ah bliss.

Strawberry Fields Forever

....
To tell you the truth, the honest god forsaken and all the different kinds it comes in, truth - I don't know that much of the written word to describe how much of a blast it was.

But if you were in front of me and saw my hand gestures, the excited tone in my voice, the eyebrows with a mind of their own, the bulging eyes themselves, you'd see my point. Even if I didn't have to pin you to a wall and scream it out, you'd see it.

I lived those two weeks.

I laughed, I danced, I drank, I sat on a horse, I wore heavier clothes than I've ever worn, some jewelry too yes, I hugged a thousand people, I reflected a million flashes of the camera on my skin, I made my jaws ache by smiling so much, I walked in a daze, I saw family and friends I hadn't seen in ages and I cried for it, and I smiled for it

...and she looked so lovely through it all. And I crossed my fingers every time I managed a secret glance at her.

Now we're busy assembling ikea furniture and the camera's are slung on tourist necks clicking past me at the buildings and the concrete.

Shit I miss the attention.

Dance Me To The End Of Love

And here I'd almost given up on February.

You'd think that once you'd gone ahead and told the months the roles that they'd play, they'd behave. But really all they do is stick their tongues out at you and make a face. Collectively at that too.

In April, I had whispered to May to tell June that I had the ring. May gave me the stressful hibbie jibbies instead. I'm not even sure if he passed my whisper on.

And then June came. I was ready to fall on one knee. But man, June went on some mischievous-binge then. She threw my game around, surprises around every corner, a hiccup here and a hiccup there, but thankfully, it all played out prettier than a masterpiece. I'll always love June for that.

And then I spared the rest.

Except for February. All I had told February was to hurry up with the wedding. And all the bugger really did was play the immaculate tease.

But now, now it's finally here. And I can hear the music. And I can almost touch her now.
It's started it has.

She Loves Everybody

Friend of London boy : "But you hate americans"

London boy : "Everyone hates americans. But she's from New York. They're almost like us."

From a UK drama thingy that I have been watching about this guy in london who’s doing the long distance with this girl in new york.

Despite the cheesy backdrop, I’m loving it for the moment.

Hellhole Ratrace

“You’re very well read.” That’s what she said.

You’re not sure what that means really.

The english language relies heavily on relatives. Perhaps the other languages do as well, but you never bothered to learn them, so commenting on them becomes a technicality.

It’s all relative. “Very well read” relative to the average person. Does that even matter. “Very well read” relative to the people she knows. Should that be a compliment? An insult?

You never bothered to know the people she knows, so technicality claims another victim.

You keep quiet. Nod perhaps.

“You’ve changed.“ That’s also what she said.

Fuck hell you have.
You, you change in the course of a day. There are moments every day you shed an old skin and grow another. Some are subtle, still camouflaged, some so completely new, they revolt with the environment. Given that you are meeting her after a year, that's 365 possible sheddings. You'd wager that the maths suggests they can't all be of the subtle variety.

This time you tell her all that. And for extra measure add, I’m not sure what you mean.

“You know what I mean.”

No I don’t. I’ve changed to something you don’t like. Is that what you’re hinting at?

She keeps quiet. Perhaps nods her head.

Temazcal

Allow me to introduce you to the anti-resolutions.

It's something like French beer. Sure it exists, but do you really want to try it? And then like the wise kid said "there's only one way to find out...".

So why not? Why not a year full of indulgences, excesses and beating the nagging, creeping desire of improvements to a pulp. And then drinking that pulp while eating bacon and sausages. Caviar on the side. After all what's breakfast without tiny fish eggs, eh?

I'm assuming you're going to try and lose some weight...why not, the world and his wife's doing it. And perhaps eat more vegetables, be nicer to people, do something or the other for society.

But that's sooo 2009.

The coming year is all about change. The crazy kind. The wild thing kind. So come join us if you don't want to miss out on the caviar. Ok so caviar tastes horrid and is only a fad. But the bacon. Oh the bacon.

And the baskin icecream, the nirula HCF, the clothes, the splurging on unnecessary but yet essential things, the many different alcohols you haven't tried. We're guessing french beer couldn't be all that bad. Your body is crying out for them. Screaming for them. If only you could hear it.

Don't worry about the beer belly or the cholestrol or the hangovers. We'll get rid of them in 2011 (man, that'll be a boring year).

Oh and Conor Oberst's back. Fuck, things are looking excessive already. I'm soaking it all in. One caviar egg at a time.

Mr. Pitiful

There's a story that the old men of the Sahara tell. But they tell it very rarely. For they believe that repeating the story diminishes the message it carries.

But tell they must. At least once in their lives. That apparently is their burden and that is how it has been for ages past.

They're not sure what the message it carries really means. Most reckon that it's been repeated so many times, it's already diminished in its essence. While some think it's something that man wasn't meant to understand anyway. A few think it's worth starting a religion for (thankfully they've always been a minority).

It's a story nonetheless. An ancient one but a story at the end of it all. And you can only read so much into it. Cause it's a story after all.

But because of the storys' myth or perhaps because of the words it says, the eldest in the tribe is held in the utmost respect. He gets the choicest morsel of food, the first look at the new sun, water whenever he desires and an ear whenever he speaks.

The eldest after all heard the story in it's least diminished form. And he knows more than they ever will.

There's a story that the old men of the Sahara tell...and there are still places where the old don't get shunted to nursing homes.