We eat kryptonite for brekkie.
It's hard to have a gaytime on your own.
I have self-destructive attachment issues. If I had a penis, I could attribute it to the Oedipal complex, but since I started this sentence with the conditional clause ‘if’, one could assume that I possess the complete female works and so I cannot link my emotional shortfall to that of an ancient Theban king.
My favourite friend is about to leave for Fiji tomorrow, and I haven’t the heart (or geographic comprehension) to check out where on earth Fiji is. Before he announced his sudden desire to intern there for over a month as an engineer, I’ve never given a second’s thought about Fiji. A country whose name has two i’s out of four characters seemed to me, as highly insulated, even self-centred. At any rate, he’s getting that tan he so desired all right. Fiji, pfft. Why not Cuba? There are hot dancers there to wean him off his insatiable need to showcase his perilous salsa moves, at least.
Why not Sydney, until I could find another similar agent of corruption? FYI, it took me two dozen university societies, double that amount of parties and gatherings, and three further chance encounters to find a friend in him, to entrust him with all that I am. He’s my zip-lock bag of me and my shame, as I am his.
I’m surprised that during our many slapdash, slipshod, slam-bang dances, we’ve never danced to the point where you’d see me rattle about in golden crutches with a garden of blisters in full bloom on the soles of my two left feet. No, we get only bashful glances (including glares from me directed at him), or offers of the choicest crack from touchy-feely pedlars. To our credit, we never smoked any. He despised junkies, whilst I hold them in a sort of distanced admiration. I’m something of an outcast, but I’m no William Burroughs. I am an obsessive person myself, one who is prone to addiction, even with seemingly the most innocuous of things. To compound my already pathetic personality with drug use would be calamitous, catastrophic, cataclysmic! I wouldn’t be that pathetic parsnipfeet blogger who pines after her friends even before they are due to go away for two months. No, I think I’d lose them for months eternal.
I’m not friendless quite yet, for there are three more to knock down, and until then, Herr Pedlar, we won’t haggle.
But what of the 350 odd friends you have on Facebook and the lonesome two on Google+, you ask? Let me clarify that for you. When I use the term ‘friend’ on secret soppy blogs such as this, I couldn’t give two flying fucks about my Facebook or Google+ ‘friends’, except for the two within who are fuckin’ fly in my tatty books. Seriously, who uses Google+? What I mean to say is, my friends are the physical embodiments of mind-bogglingly powerful relationships which I’d sever only after the Fates have done so with mine. I.e., only after my death, for those of you who are not well versed with the Grecian fables and were scratching your heads.
Don’t be too alarmed, though. I am a very happy person and am always on the watch for catching fuckin’ fly homeboys.
Bon voyage, bowlful of red grapes that is making its way down my alimentary canal, dying it crimson.
Bon voyage, mon ami. Tu me manqueras.
This marks the end of Sulk Week. Tomorrow, my close university pal returns. Roll in Tarantino and hide David Lynch! Mazel tov.
In honour of those who have recently fed me kryptonite while making sure I still feel like Wonder Fuckin’ Woman through it all:
The English version:
