bulk :: 13st 10 (eek!)
exercise :: very, very little
sexual congress :: nada
onanism :: fair bit
writing :: lots
cartography :: zilch
floccinaucinihilipilification :: some, but probably mostly useless
optimism (moneywise) :: moderate
optimism (fleshwise) :: moderate
marks out of ten for week :: 7
Right, I’ve got very little time before my internet is switched off for the weekend, and actually very little to say. What the hell is all this one post a week malarkey all about anyway? Well, it’s because I’m trying to write something. A book. Takes bloody ages.
So what can I tell you? Well, Ben and I got substantially lubricated on Wednesday night. Not in a sexual way, you understand. Not with love-lube and man-sweat and dirty great gobs of gay spit. No. But with red wine. Not red wine rubbed into our chest hair and thighs, then licked off of our taut nipples and springy, carrot sticks, you understand. No. Just in our mouths. And swallowed. Like two perfectly non-sexual, house-sharing, red wine-drinking men.
Then we had sex.
No, just kidding.
Ben told me some amusing things about himself though, which I shall share with you in the name of light-hearted betrayal. They go like this:
1) When he was fifteen, he was caught by a friend’s mum in the act of kissing a mannequin. (His friend’s father meanwhile, may or may not have been one of the architects of the modern landmine. Life, eh?)
2) Whenever Ben is in a pub or restaurant eating or drinking with other people, he has this neurotic inability to put anything in his mouth at the same time as anyone else. So, if he notices, for example, that I pick up my glass of red wine at exactly the same time as him, he will hold his for a moment without drinking. Once he’s seen that I have drunk from my glass, he will be able to follow suit, but not until. I asked him, ‘What happens if we drink at the same time?’ He just shook his head gravely and said, ‘It’s not good.’ Bloody weirdo.
3) Furthermore, he is unable to urinate onto another man’s urine. So if, for example, I refuse to flush the chain because it seems unnecessary after an alcohol-weakened half-piss and because I want to save the planet, Ben will always flush before passing his own pee-pee.
These things strike me as very odd. Except for perhaps the mannequin-kissing. I would certainly have done that if there’d been a mannequin knocking about in my youth. Instead I had to practise on the cat.
Do you have any super-strange completely irrational habits which you'd like to share with me? Aw, go on, I promise I won't tell anyone.
Right. I'd best get on.
Oh, and if you've never read James Joyce's saucy letters to his saucy brownarsed fuckbird Nora Barnacle, then you really ought. They're funny.
Have a super weekend.