One does not simply befriend Dracula to be sparkly.
Oh divine goddesses, purge all that is evil from me!
Absolve me of the seven deadly sins in my timeline.
Cleanse me of my constant cravings.
Blow PayPal and my two credit cards to atomic smithereens.
For the latter three culprits alone have robbed me of my youth and sanity. They make a very dishonest woman out of me. My friends and cat are neglected as I surf the cyber waves of consumerism. Asos, one of the world’s largest fashion e-tailer, is most definitely back, swinging on the anorexic neck of my bank account. My nails are ground to mini shards of keratin by nervous teeth; to below the tips of my fingers for fear that the watched items will be seized by hands more improvident than mine. Mastication is ultimately preferable to chucking a Cullen fit about my wrists while glittering in the less-than-sunny process.
Damn. I was going to eBay me a sparkly One Ring.
Postman, I look forward to the buzz at my door and to welcoming the new blazer, paisley scarf and two pairs of leggings.
I’ve discovered one of my bestie’s full name today, and am bubbling with envy. Size does matter after all! Not mentioning his polysyllabic first and last names, his middle name is “Alexandre Vladimir César”. I mean, freaking almighty goodness! I take photos with the Count Dracula. Mine pales in comparison. I remember my childhood bestie, born of Malaysian royalty, having a name length that is twice that of Monsieur ___ A. V. C. ____. She is a Miss. R.S.I.B.b.R.I.Dz.
Name length is an indication of wealth and ego, and by god and goddess, my unhatched daughter or son will bear the brunt of my sense of deficiency. I will ram the syllables into their birth certificates and have children with either overly inflated egos or an overly long-list of bullies.
There needs to be a ‘Wolfgang’, ‘Esprit’, or ‘Serge’ somewhere. I see I’m hankering after a baby boy. Don’t let my baby brother see this. He will gloat.
It doesn’t help too that the selfsame French person becomes my guide to my own hometown. Under his chaperonage and a ruthless westerly, I visited Bondi Beach for the first time since I was five, followed by a hair-in-your-face trip to Tamarama Beach and Bronte Beach. Only then could I understand and appreciate Sydney’s charm and its popularity with tourists and locals. I love Sydney. Schools of dolphins skimmed the blue waters to congratulate me on my change of heart.
Bondi Beach, Sydney, 11/1/12
Cue in the soap queen act, in three, two, one…
To me, human (and cat) connection is my most treasured possession. Sorry closet and the piles of luxe silk blazers within, but friends are the only beings in the world who could make me wonder, and who could talk me into a attaining a higher level of insanity than I would if I were to talk to my closet.
Terrible comparison I know, but beyond the odd maverick thread which sticks out, beyond its history and development, beyond its uncanny ability to place, empower or pauperise its wearer, clothing cannot make us better people. It can make us giggle thanks to cuts administered by some tailors, but in most cases, depending on one’s lack of emotional disorders, they cannot make us roar raucously to the point of being blue (and I mean no disrespect to the Na’vi race). Friends could do all that, whilst inflicting serious disrespect to the Na’vi. And they’ll do that over a mug of Tooheys beer or by quoting Uncle Victor from ‘Harold and Maude’.
“Duhduhduhduhduhduhduhduh! Only one thing kept going through my mind!
KILL! KILL! For Joe and Mack and all the rest of the guys!
KILL! And then there was a blinding flash!
…. and I woke up on a stretcher.”
Q.E.D., I would happily go naked for all my lovelies out there. Thank goodness I don’t have too many. My privates might get raw, cooked in the naked limelight.
You should know that I like Haribos gummy bears very much.
Bear with me, mate. You're so yummy.
I have two loves, as you see, and no one says it with more panache than Madeleine Peyroux in ‘J’ai Deux Amours’:
