They breed ‘em strong.
<me, whinging>: These cobbles are going to twist my ankle. Will you piggy-back me to the restaurant?
<boyfriend>: Sigh. Ok. Hop on.
<me, jumping on bf’s back and wrapping legs around his middle>: Ok! GO!
<boyfriend>: OMG, you’ve got a vice grip like a Belgian whore!
<me, flattered>: Yeah, I’m pretty much awesome.
What, like, you don’t know that off the top of your head?
2am:
<me, intensely competitively>: TWO THOUSAND AND NINE. In Roman munerals! That’s your challenge, pilgrim!
<boyfriend>: Uh..IX..no wait…MCM….um…GOD YOU’RE SUCH A DUMBASS.
<me>: That is incorrect. I win.
That’s totally what a REAL lolcat would say.
<me, hyper>: Hey!! You wanna act like wired cats for twenty minutes?!
<boyfriend, slowly>: Nah….sounds like too much effort.
It’s not exactly Tolstoy.
<me>: ..but I just don’t get “Terminator” as a premise – like, the machines can’t enslave humanity because they can’t catch one guy? Couldn’t they capture everyone else and just be like, “Hey, whatevs, we’ve got all of ‘em but one.” And then they could do eviiiiiiil deeds and stuff. I mean, who cares about one guy?
<boyfriend, exasperated>: Listen, it’s more complicated than that. I mean, they had to send themselves to the past to try and kill him. And stuff. They need to kill him. It’s like..their mission.
<me>: BUT WHY? Why can’t he just be the lone, uncaptured human? I mean he’d die eventually, right? And then the machines would be like, “Score, he’s gone now, and we’ve already got everyone else under our eviiiiiiil control.”
<boyfriend, dismissively>: GOD. You’re such a dumbass.
That’s how those German cannibals got started.
<boyfriend, aghast>: NO WAY! I’m not smelling my sister’s shoes! That’s….fucked up.
Sorry, what terms?
<me, vaguely>: Dude! Do you wanna know how awesome I am in….terms…of…..awesome?
Break from the usual: Conversation with stylist.
So, none of you knows what I look like. Basic description: stubbornly dark hair, kind of olive skin-tone, brown eyes. You get the picture: not one of the Hitler Jüngen. But, being in love with extreme style changes I went in to Edinburgh yesterday to get my hair done. When I say done I should really say “chemically obliterated”. To wit:
Before:
Natural
And now:
Whoah.
Doing my best Andy Warhol impression.
<me>: Uh, wow, this burns a little bit.
<stylist>: Oh yeah, it’ll do that.
<me>: <clenching fists furiously, face fixed in rictus of grim determination>
<stylist, hesitantly>: Oh, you might find that, uh, over the next week or so some of your hair comes away. Don’t worry, that’ll stop.
<me, alarmed>: Comes away?! Do you mean fall out?
<stylist, cheerily>: Yep!
I MAINTAIN IT IS ALL TOTALLY WORTH IT.
Knowing Latin is important.
<me>: Hey, look. <points to insignia on Marlboro packet> It says “Veni Vidi Vici”.
<boyfriend>: What does that mean?
<me>: It means “I came, I saw, I conquered”. Yeah, you conquered my fucking lungs. THANKS A LOT. Stupid pillaging Romans.
THE END OF DAYS IS UPON US. …right?
<me, alarmed>: Holy crap. There’s blood coming out of my ear.
<boyfriend, concerned>: Uh, that’s not good you know.
<me, agitated>: I KNOW. Has there been a nuclear war or something?
<boyfriend>: What?
..and none of them contains a body!
11pm
<boyfriend, lovingly>: You want your pillow?
<me, adopting grateful tone>: Yeah.
<boyfriend>: Where is it?
<me>: In the trunk of your car. In a big garbage bag.
<boyfriend, slightly irritated>: Well which one? There are like, five of them.
<me>: We have such fancy luggage.
