I make a list for everything.
I write my shopping in a list - not just my grocery shopping, my future shopping too.
I write birthdays in a list.
I write, on average, two to three to-do lists a day: a work to-do list, a home to-do list, and a to-do list I call the "life" to-do list.
I feel like it makes me organised. I feel so powerful and successful and confident whenever I can cross something off the list. Striking out something you have achieved is a unique kind of uplifting bliss only the truly obsessive compulsive could ever truly understand.
But the shame - the horror - the failure and the defeat to close a day with a to-do list glaring at you with outstanding entries.
The paranoia - the defeat, the descent into hollowness and antipathy.
The spiralling out of control as the list grows then again the next day - more to do - more still un-done - hovering, waiting, scorning.
The list giveth and the list taketh away, at the start and close of each and every day.
Life is a party, here are my adventures..
Bitchin' Central
All the earth and all the love
All the stars and all the skies
Oh why does it take all my life and all my heart
It's never yes and never no
All it is, is to and fro
And I'm never knowing which way to go
All the money and all the time
All the oceans and all of the roads
All of the mountains and all of the hills
All of the fish
In all of the sea
All of the air
Terminal and velocity
Oh it's never yes and never no
Always just looking through, standing apart
But I've said take all of my life and all of my heart
I've give you all of my mind
just to find a way there
Chasing understanding
Never landing
Never knowing
Just to-ing and fro-ing
And hit and miss
Can this be fixed
And my my my I hope so.
All the stars and all the skies
Oh why does it take all my life and all my heart
It's never yes and never no
All it is, is to and fro
And I'm never knowing which way to go
All the money and all the time
All the oceans and all of the roads
All of the mountains and all of the hills
All of the fish
In all of the sea
All of the air
Terminal and velocity
Oh it's never yes and never no
Always just looking through, standing apart
But I've said take all of my life and all of my heart
I've give you all of my mind
just to find a way there
Chasing understanding
Never landing
Never knowing
Just to-ing and fro-ing
And hit and miss
Can this be fixed
And my my my I hope so.
Expensive chicks for cheap kicks
I was arriving at The Party and saw there was a queue to get in. Never a big believer in waiting and more a believer in the now, I sauntered to the front, flashed a smile at the bouncer, Jack, whom I know from way back and he waved me in.
Then the male spoke up.
“How come girls always get to skip queues and never have to pay cover charge? It’s not fair. And then they get inside and we have to buy them all their drinks or their drinks are free off the bartenders. This is a total joke.”
Silly, silly, silly little male.
You want to know why girls don’t have to queue? You are standing there in your “going out jeans”, sneakers and a t-shirt. We are standing here in sky-high strappy stilettos and a sequined mini dress–freezing our asses off.
You want to know why girls don’t pay cover charge? Shall I work my way from the top down?
Hair: how many ten dollar barbers do you see around? Hundreds! - because most guys get pretty simple haircuts, there isn’t always that much hair to work with. Girls? We have to have involved architecturally sound works of art with shimmering colour tones, products, products and more rare diamond dust, pearl essence, moon oil products. And straightners? The only straightner a girl can use is $300. Haircut? $100-$150. Colour? $200-$250. Let’s face it, our hair probably cost more than your entire outfit.
Then the face? Makeup and mascara and lipgloss and perfume and facials and creams and lotions and potions and eternal youth stupefying mist because if we don’t look like the photo-shopped to oblivion whores in your dirrty girrly mags, we don’t qualify as the version of “hot” with which you are brain-washed into expecting by the conglomerates that control you.
The outfit? While it is completely socially acceptable for you to wear the same jeans out all the time, or the same sneakers and maybe rotate through a few shirts – However,we have to present an entirely new look with each outing. New earrings, new accessories, new clutch, new attire, new shoes.
So by the time a girl is ready to be social accepted out at The Party we are taking in excess of $800 to get there.
And you want to know why we don’t line up and don’t pay to be there?
You are paying to see us gentleman.
You, and your “going out jeans” from the last three weekends are paying for that pleasure.
Then the male spoke up.
“How come girls always get to skip queues and never have to pay cover charge? It’s not fair. And then they get inside and we have to buy them all their drinks or their drinks are free off the bartenders. This is a total joke.”
Silly, silly, silly little male.
You want to know why girls don’t have to queue? You are standing there in your “going out jeans”, sneakers and a t-shirt. We are standing here in sky-high strappy stilettos and a sequined mini dress–freezing our asses off.
You want to know why girls don’t pay cover charge? Shall I work my way from the top down?
Hair: how many ten dollar barbers do you see around? Hundreds! - because most guys get pretty simple haircuts, there isn’t always that much hair to work with. Girls? We have to have involved architecturally sound works of art with shimmering colour tones, products, products and more rare diamond dust, pearl essence, moon oil products. And straightners? The only straightner a girl can use is $300. Haircut? $100-$150. Colour? $200-$250. Let’s face it, our hair probably cost more than your entire outfit.
Then the face? Makeup and mascara and lipgloss and perfume and facials and creams and lotions and potions and eternal youth stupefying mist because if we don’t look like the photo-shopped to oblivion whores in your dirrty girrly mags, we don’t qualify as the version of “hot” with which you are brain-washed into expecting by the conglomerates that control you.
The outfit? While it is completely socially acceptable for you to wear the same jeans out all the time, or the same sneakers and maybe rotate through a few shirts – However,we have to present an entirely new look with each outing. New earrings, new accessories, new clutch, new attire, new shoes.
So by the time a girl is ready to be social accepted out at The Party we are taking in excess of $800 to get there.
And you want to know why we don’t line up and don’t pay to be there?
You are paying to see us gentleman.
You, and your “going out jeans” from the last three weekends are paying for that pleasure.
Breasts, breasts, and the beast.
I was at The Party – a gala awards night for outstanding professional women. And boy, did I see a lot of breasts. There were those down-to-the-navel cowl neck numbers. There were side boobs, under the chin boobs, double boobs, severely separated boobs, severely squashed together boobs. One unfortunate choice of gown even gave one woman I saw back boobs.
There weren't many legs, just breasts. I wondered what it is that drives woman to send their juggernauts out into space like that. Is it the point of difference? Men have legs, but they sure as heck can't make it look like their head is bouncing on a bounty of bosom.
And while breasts truly are a wonderful female feature, they seem to somewhat lose their exclusivity when you realise that, with the right bra, they are also being doubled as a pouch for mobile phone and money.There is something ultimately more feminine about only softly educating our fans about our lady lumps through sheer fabric, or figure hugging ensembles, as opposed to introducing anyone and everyone face first to the girls. We are precious, valuable treasures ladies. No-one likes a present that is already unwrapped.
There weren't many legs, just breasts. I wondered what it is that drives woman to send their juggernauts out into space like that. Is it the point of difference? Men have legs, but they sure as heck can't make it look like their head is bouncing on a bounty of bosom.
And while breasts truly are a wonderful female feature, they seem to somewhat lose their exclusivity when you realise that, with the right bra, they are also being doubled as a pouch for mobile phone and money.There is something ultimately more feminine about only softly educating our fans about our lady lumps through sheer fabric, or figure hugging ensembles, as opposed to introducing anyone and everyone face first to the girls. We are precious, valuable treasures ladies. No-one likes a present that is already unwrapped.
mouldy rye inside
It was birthday cake time at The Party.
A beautiful, tiered masterpiece created by his Wife. When I say 'created' I mean it in the sense that Caesar 'created' the Roman Empire - it is more an infliction of terror on surrounding subordinates to make things happen as the Emperor(ess) wishes. Regardless, her minions had done her proud.
His Wife wasn’t a silly Empress either. She knew why the Secretary was there.
“You know, I thought about it,” his Wife told me as she watched the monkey dance across the room. “I thought about getting my tits lifted up to my chin and my scalp all kind of tucked back underneath, look a bit more like her. But when it came down to it, it’s all really like cake.
“You can have the most divine cake – amazing texture, succulent taste, perfect and pleasing in every way. But once you ice it – that wonderful-on-the-inside cake becomes a heavenly treat to behold.
“So when I thought about it, the tit and scalp thing, I had to figure out whether it was maybe just the frosting I need to ice my cake and be delectable again.”
Her gaze drifted back to the monkey dance. Cloudiness over her brown eyes. A heavy swallow and a forced smile.
“These girls, with their tans and their bleached hair – they are already mighty fine cake and that icing is perfection. But would you bother icing old, stale, mouldy rye bread? It just seems like such a waste of icing. Iced or not iced. You aren’t going to turn mouldy rye into cake.
“I used to be cake. I used to be the creamiest, richest, most desirable chocolate mud cake. I didn’t even need icing. But now I know it’s going to take more than just icing to disguise the fact that I have become rye.”
It seemed awful. Do we all become rye? And would we always be second best to cake? And the what about the worth of icing? The worth of the illusion?
“Of course this is all hypothetical.” Strength returned to his Wife’s voice. The Empress was back from her reverie. “We have too many shared assets to worry about silly sweets.” She winked and went back to entertaining his guests.
A beautiful, tiered masterpiece created by his Wife. When I say 'created' I mean it in the sense that Caesar 'created' the Roman Empire - it is more an infliction of terror on surrounding subordinates to make things happen as the Emperor(ess) wishes. Regardless, her minions had done her proud.
His Wife wasn’t a silly Empress either. She knew why the Secretary was there.
“You know, I thought about it,” his Wife told me as she watched the monkey dance across the room. “I thought about getting my tits lifted up to my chin and my scalp all kind of tucked back underneath, look a bit more like her. But when it came down to it, it’s all really like cake.
“You can have the most divine cake – amazing texture, succulent taste, perfect and pleasing in every way. But once you ice it – that wonderful-on-the-inside cake becomes a heavenly treat to behold.
“So when I thought about it, the tit and scalp thing, I had to figure out whether it was maybe just the frosting I need to ice my cake and be delectable again.”
Her gaze drifted back to the monkey dance. Cloudiness over her brown eyes. A heavy swallow and a forced smile.
“These girls, with their tans and their bleached hair – they are already mighty fine cake and that icing is perfection. But would you bother icing old, stale, mouldy rye bread? It just seems like such a waste of icing. Iced or not iced. You aren’t going to turn mouldy rye into cake.
“I used to be cake. I used to be the creamiest, richest, most desirable chocolate mud cake. I didn’t even need icing. But now I know it’s going to take more than just icing to disguise the fact that I have become rye.”
It seemed awful. Do we all become rye? And would we always be second best to cake? And the what about the worth of icing? The worth of the illusion?
“Of course this is all hypothetical.” Strength returned to his Wife’s voice. The Empress was back from her reverie. “We have too many shared assets to worry about silly sweets.” She winked and went back to entertaining his guests.
A Tragedy
The tone had mellowed at The Party. The string quartet was still playing under the marquis, but the mellowing was something else. The Professor was rolling pipe smoke around his mouth. He breathed out through nostrils that flared. The combination of the plumes of smoke rushing from his nose as he exhaled and the deeply crinkled, leathery skin that folded around his eyes and jowls led to the obvious connotation of a wise old dragon.
The little ones were asking him questions in awe. "What is another word for laughing?" their words would tumble out across each other.
"Chuckling." More dragon plumes.
The older ones stepped in - trying to test the Professor to see if they could catch him out.
"What is another word for genius?"
"Prodigy."
"What is another word for tragedy?"
Alas! A pause...
The little ones were asking him questions in awe. "What is another word for laughing?" their words would tumble out across each other.
"Chuckling." More dragon plumes.
The older ones stepped in - trying to test the Professor to see if they could catch him out.
"What is another word for genius?"
"Prodigy."
"What is another word for tragedy?"
Alas! A pause...
The Professor leaned forward. The string quartet were in between songs. Silence thicker than the pipe's purple smoke descended. The folded leathery skin suddenly seemed less papery and more frightening.
"The truth is, no words for 'tragedy' more elaborate than "very sad" have ever worked."
The baldest of the older ones: "That is because no tragedy is the same."
"Aha! This is a false assumption. It is too erroneous to conclude from this that anything we call tragedy have nothing significant in common."
"And what on earth would they have in common?" the baldest continues, though not so baldly.
The Professor sunk back in his chair. "On earth..." The purple plumes rose into the afternoon sky as the string quartet started up again.
The baldest one shrugged his shoulders and turned back to his canapes - but we didn't miss what he had - did we?
"The truth is, no words for 'tragedy' more elaborate than "very sad" have ever worked."
The baldest of the older ones: "That is because no tragedy is the same."
"Aha! This is a false assumption. It is too erroneous to conclude from this that anything we call tragedy have nothing significant in common."
"And what on earth would they have in common?" the baldest continues, though not so baldly.
The Professor sunk back in his chair. "On earth..." The purple plumes rose into the afternoon sky as the string quartet started up again.
The baldest one shrugged his shoulders and turned back to his canapes - but we didn't miss what he had - did we?
A Pair of Red Shoes
I was walking to The Party when a homeless man called out to me.
"Nice shoes," he said.
It was startling.
And genuine.
His sandy blonde beard was nearly down to his shoulders.
"Nice shoes," he said.
It was startling.
And genuine.
His sandy blonde beard was nearly down to his shoulders.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)