February 08, 2005

Monday Night And The Air Is Getting Hot, Pretty Baby

Christian Conferences have been eating my time like the filthy clock monsters that they are. I don't particularly object to this: I learned how to play drums (badly) o'er the course of the weekend (I don't have time to type the letter V anymore I'm that busy) and now my life is one walking rhythm and not of the circadian variety. Although, the sun has been out and nobody can deny that. It is good when the sun shines. All us pasty irish types get a brief dose of vitamin D that helps us to blossom into the kind of plants that we were meant to be. If I were a plant, I'd be a spider plant. This of course being down to the fact that I've got eight legs and a hairy back. My husband is disgusted with me but I came with a dozen fine cows that spurt out the most deliciously creamy milk twice of a day, so he wins too.

I am happily re-reading the masterpiece The Butcher Boy for my contemporary Irish literature course at the moment and I can positively feel my soul darken as I turn each page. Why do I love him so much, the little boy who murders people in pig obsessed frenzies? The voices in my head scream BECAUSE HE IS YOUR SON! But I know that this is not true probably, as I cannot remember ever having given birth. I must ask my mother. She is better at remembering things than I am, but I am better at drumming than she is. My classmates were at it again today, hovering over my desk during the lecture, rubbing my mug in it, if you will. I did not purchase those RyanAir flights, however, as the car broke over the weekend and it has transpired that I do in fact have to sell

1. one arm and
2. one leg

to afford the cost of the repairs. It was and is most disconcerting. I can no longer clap. I wave my remaining arm about repeatedly with vigour but all that I manage is *swoosh* *swoosh*. How can I show my appreciation for the general staff at Tesco's now? Their butcher packs me a little polythene bag full of mince and offers it to me at a delightfully low rate...and as I reach to applaud him, nothing happens. It's so humiliating. Likewise, the cleaning lady makes the floor sparkle, and instead of standing over her clapping as usual, I simply wave like some class of a moron from Ballykissangel.

Speaking of Ballykissangel, I was in Avoca at the weekend. YOU KNOW. THE TOWN OF AVOCA, WHERE POPULAR BRAINDEAD SERIES BALLYKISSANGEL IS SECRETLY FILMED. And I spent twelve euros and seventy cents in their "quaint" little cafe on a couple of Cokes and a rice crispie bun slice. Horrific. I said to the woman, "You have raped me." Turning pink she replied, "Er, what?" I watched her squirm and told her, "My baby will starve. [intense whisper] How do you sleep at night?" Am I lying? Only time will tell. And by time I mean witnesses. Of which there were none.

I took some nice pictures of Avoca. Here are two of them.

!fun fun fun in a stale cream bun!

Ok. So final paragraph. I suppose I owe you bastards a few more lines seeing as I've been away so long. Let's discuss the merits and pitfalls of beekeeping as opposed to the merits and pitfalls of beer. Allow me to make a chart for your perusal.

There is nothing more to be said tonight. Normal something will resume when something something.

neuro-praxis -- Now A Marxist

Posted by neuro-praxis on February 8, 2005 02:11 AM, in the category Teriyaki Steak