*bashes at keyboard*

23 Oct

If there a preponderance of spelling mistakes in this entry it is most likely due to the fact I gained about 10 kilos in the weekend and am now, along with the AI-astro-predicting monkeys, bashing my ham hock hands into the keyboard at a futile attempt at communication.

The amount of food and alcohol consumed stuns me. A group, quite a large one at that, went away for the weekend to hole up in a holiday house and cackle amongst the throb of oestrogen. It was glorious: a gaggle of glamazons and smorgasbord of seafood, sugar, booze and carbs (sweet carbs).

As a notorious introvert, a fact possibly unknown to the glamazons, I must admit that Saturday night had me itching for a little oasis to filter and recharge, just find a spot out of view to slip on my headphones and drift off into a sweet reverie. Such need for privacy and solitude is hard to explain but such a sweet relief when applied.

It should come as no surprise then that I feel completely uninterested in any sort of commitment or relationship.

So, in light of that, let’s take a look at Mr Banks, joint holder of Perfect Man status with Meester Jack. And a sign that some endlessly fascinating men are out there…just roaming.

In a sign the heavens were shining on my uncaffeinated self, all sorts of packages awaited me this morning. A delightful gift from Yabby, which is ostensibly for the Seagull (who currently answers to both SpiderMan and Jolly Roger), but I’m conspiring ways to claim them as my own. Plus some deliciously minxesque art arrived to inflame and soothe and set my wallet aflutter. Damn, life is good.

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