Friday, 3 May 2013

really, really dumb. for real.

You know when you leave the house, congratulating yourself on how ragingly hot you’re looking today, then at lunchtime you catch your reflection in a shop window and want to shrivel with shame?
That has to be about the dumbest feeling in the world.  Fucking girls, we can be so DUMB to ourselves, to others. 
I wish I looked more like Christopher Plummer.  Then I would always look excellent (dapper, suave, devil-may-care-ish) and would only have to worry about whether my pocket square was straight. 
I still don’t know whether I have to move this weekend or Monday or Tuesday.  And, if so, where to.  I hope that if we have to go, it’s just to another apartment in the complex.  I’m holding on to hope.
After losing another auction last night and being stood up by a Wellingtonian in town for some kind of work thing, P and I got quietly plastered.  We downed a bottle of chianti mostly before being seated for a delicious dinner we really shouldn’t have ordered and the man made me laugh.  And laugh.  Our knees touched, tangled, as we first faced each other on bar stools then later fell face first into a pannacotta so creamy it should be illegal (dairy intolerant? You shouldn’t even LOOK at it).  The most fun we’ve had in ages, as we discussed our hopes, dreams and budgetary requirements.  Teased one another about fugly couches.  Dissected the state of our union.  No one I'd rather lose with than that man.

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