Falling into that beautiful thing called Love
(Ridiculous, inconvenient, consuming, can't-live-without-each-other love.)
ATTRACTION, FLIRTATION, EUPHORIA, DOUBT, THE TRUTH
(Also known as the big whooperdoodle, or, the most important part of this whole sloppy, thrilling, infuriating, marvellous experience.)
... So this is love. As wondrous and scary and fabulous as it can be. It may have started with mere attraction, but where it's ended up is somewhere deeper and truer and endlessly more fulfilling.
And despite yourself, you will have learned a little something along the way. The euphoria doesn't have to be fleeting. That love can survive doubt. That a joyful instinct should never be repressed.
And so you throw yourself into love. Heartfirst.
Galaxy. Never stop falling in love.
So. I've had a long day, with two enthusiastic children with multiple dull interests, in that sleazy moneypit, Funtasia. Embracing our cultural stereotypes, Zoomspouse is in need of a few beers and I am in need of some chocolate. In my feminine cocoa need-frenzy I rip open the wrapping with my teeth, only to find VERBATIM (I was even true to the stilted punctuation apparently put together by their lust-struck tea-lady) the pile of sun-dried turds you see before you above.
I probably should apologise for making you read it. I almost wanted to write this bit first, for fear you might think it was me who had spent time composing it. That would be further damage, added to a reputation already perilously fragile, I could ill afford.
At the risk of repeating myself, the big whooperdoodle?! Just when you think that civilisation cannot sink any lower, a CHOCOLATE company goes on to ruin my day by putting itself in the category of:
* Tabloid newspapers
* Reality tv themed around DANCING
* Jewellery designed by Jordan
* First holy communicants lashed in fake tan
I'm done with that company. Galaxy Chocolate, if you are reading, I hate you, and I hope you die.
In other news, while waiting in our "restaurant" for our food to arrive this afternoon, I decided to slip out for five minutes and buy a bra. Pick my size off the shelf, pay the kind lady, bing bang boom I'm back at the table. Inquisitive child number one asked what I had left to purchase. I replied, "underwear" to which he giggled like a schoolboy. Oh wait.
P.S. Heartfirst? Puke.
neuro-praxis -- she broke your throne and she cut your hair
It wasn't so much Black Tuesday, as Brown.
neuro-praxis -- they came; they saw; they conquered
Tomorrow, due to tremendous privilege, I will attend a hospital for an endoscopy and a colonoscopy. Hopefully these pleasant, brief and non-invasive procedures will shed some light on my lifetime of tummy problems.
To prepare, I must drink four litres of Klean-PrepTM. NO PROBLEM, I think to myself, WHY, I AM QUITE THIRSTY. I follow all of the fasting and dietary instructions and prepare the first litre, and refrigerate it, which allegedly "improves the taste".
After an hour of refrigeration I indulge in a tipple, resulting in a spray of vomit in the kitchen sink. NOW CLAIRE I say to the air, GET A HOLD OF YOURSELF; YOU'VE GOT 3.95 LITRES LEFT. I hold my nose and gulp down a half a glass, promptly spraying it back up again into the sink, along with my "light lunch".
I tearfully ring the hospital, explaining that my body is too wise to endorse tomorrow's procedures. The kindly gastro man tells me that if I cannot succeed in downing the muck, then I must also endure an enema.
Tomorrow is being renamed Black Tuesday.
neuro-praxis -- she'll post you the photographs