7/15/2005
 
The trouble with boys

As a kind reader pointed out, I gave no resolution to the Donnie Darko DVD Hostage situation. I can now tell you it is now safely back with me, which is sad in a way, as it will always be the movie Alba and I never got around to watching together because we were too busy making out talking and stuff.

I don’t get that boy. I really don’t. After much debate amongst my nearest and dearest, the conclusion has been reached that he might have suffered from low self esteem hidden by pride and bravado. But then I get another email from him yesterday:
You are like one of those happy faces stamps that teachers put on my hand when I was a kid... I was never sure if I deserved it... and I hated when it started to disappear... Could you please not wash out?
It is very hard to hate him when he says things like that. My reply, curt and cryptic, (just like me):
My ink is permanent. Maybe I didn't stamp it on the right place, or maybe you just rubbed it too hard.
As Christopher pointed out, we are by now talking exclusively in metaphor which is not a healthy way to communicate (especially when one of the persons involved speaks English as a second language). Part of me thinks Alba could dick me around like this for a very long time in a cat and mouse of affections, and part of me still wants to stand outside his bedroom with a banjo and profess my undying love.

Maybe I should ask Belle?

NB: They are showing Donnie Darko at Kensington Gardens in August. I probably would have taken you-know-who *sobs silently*

Batty Boy

Last night I played softball with my work. I sucked. I sucked more than the little Indian guy who got hit by the ball, I sucked more than any of the girls (who were all consistently feisty) - I sucked so bad that I was officially the worst player. I dropped a catch, repeatedly missed passes and, most embarrassingly, I didn’t connect bat with ball once. Even Sanje whacked one out of the park after he’d recovered from his injury.

You’d think with all the tennis and badminton and even bloody cricket in my youth I’d be able to hit it once. I go to the gym! I have a tall and athletic build! I play computer games to work on my eye hand co-ordination! Nothing. Just the sound of the ball whizzing past me as I was struck out yet again.

Dial S for Stalker

The calls haven’t quite stopped yet; even after I reported my assailant to the police on Wednesday, but they are waning. I still received a call at 2am last night, however. All up it has been a horrible experience and I will think long and hard before I give my number out again. Unless I’m drunk, of course. Or the guy is cute. Or I’m drunk and the guy is kinda cute. Or I’m drunk and it’s a guy. Or I’m a guy and he’s drunk. You get the picture.
 

Yeah, yeah, email me

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sites what I write on:
londonist

sites what I wrote on:
über: I haven't been completely honest
somewhat.org: on the up

blogs:

christopher
elizabeth

boys:

tlc
homorobotic
sex, lies & videotape
diamond geezer
vivid blurry
raw youth
secret simon
learn swedish
the rob log
why god why
a beautiful revolution

girls:

dooce
afrochic
belle de jour
pound
jems web
lindsayism

pulse:

timmy ray
link bunnies
link machine go

fantastic blogs:

a light fantastic
a chair fantastic
a rug fantastic
a kitchen fantastic
a bed fantastic
a clock fantastic

tools:

life hacker
i hate work
hi-gloss film production



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