SWEETS FROM HEAVEN!

well here's something you doesn't happen everyday - i was busy eating lunch when these two little specimens dropped out of the sky!

them: "hi..."

me: "hello..."

them: "cool apartment..."

me: "thanx!"

them: "nice speakers, nice table, nice EVERYTHING... he he he..."

me (walking over): "what you guys doing?"

them: "building inspection. you'd better get out while you can! he he he..."

me: "and the quickest way down is obviously..."

them: "ha haaaa! ja..."

me: "want some diet Sprite?"

them: "okaaay..."

(some more of the same kinda conversation...)

a voice from above. they look up.

them: "oops that's our boss! gotta go, nice meeting YOU..."

me: "likewise..."

and up they went.

them: "we know where you staaaay!!!"

me: hm, sweet boys. just what i needed after lunch. i haven't had a dessert quite like that before!

SANDYRULZ 99% OF THE TIME...

the other 1% she does things like this:

we have a friend named Carl. and up until recently we had never known he was colored. we never suspected and he, even around Ivan who is also colored but makes no bones bout it, never owned up.

the only reason he had omitted to volunteer this little nugget of info up for us to include in our character profile of him, we concluded, was that he most likely wasn't cool with it himself. which we thought was rather funny because clearly none of us gave a shit. making colored comments TOGETHER with Ivan all the time. i guess that it must be noted for the record that Ivan is one really good looking, charismatic individual. even the most hardened A.W.B supporter's daughter would find it hard to resist Ivan. Carl has less self confidence. i mean he feels guilty for two-timing his shrinks by seeing both of them at the same time.

anyway, we love Carl and couldn't believe, but understood at the same time, why he hadn't parted with this info, and, in a moment of cheekiness, i saved his name as "Colored Carl" onto my cell phone.

MONTHS past and three of us were gathered at my place for a bit of a Mac tutorial - for me FYI, i'm still in Grade 0 and they're kindly (and extemely patiently) helping me to catch up.

i was concentrating hard as Prabashen was having a 1 + 1 = 2 moment with me when Carl noticed the little toy light bulb i had hanging off my cellphone. curious to see whether it lit up when it rang, he placed his phone about 2cm from mine and called me.

yes, a sharp intake of air required here.

Justin Timberlake's "My Love" blurted out at level 5 volume. the face of my phone lit up like Ellis Park Stadium in a night match. the words on the screen however, did not read "Justin"...

MY CRAZY LIFE!

yes, this is what i did today. "mi Vida" on the left wrist, "Loca" on the right together reads...

LOOKS COUNT!

"you can only perceive real beauty in a person as they get older" - Anouk Aimee

i looked that up on the internet, there were thousands of quotes like that saying the same thing. Anouk and co obviously didn't spend their saturday night at an advertising guru's 50th birthday party themed "DISCO DECADENCE AT THE PLAYBOY MANSION".

i did.

apparently people were going to great lengths to dress up. i dressed down. to my underwear. i stepped into my landslide stilettos taking me all of about 30 seconds. it was cool. there's something about wearing a suite of tattoo covered muscle that never leaves you feeling naked.

i arrived, and there they were. my peers from 20 years in advertising. i felt like John Cusack in GROSS POINT BLANK at his high school reunion where everybody's lives had carried on as normal while he'd become a hired killer.

i had not become a hired killer, but i sure wasn't in advertising anymore. i'd been living la vida loca for the past few years, well, because i could so i was showing none of the wear and tear of everyone who had.

thanx dad.

the party gave me the opportunity to scan the crowd thoroughly. i wanted to see whether i could lick the bottom of the barrel of my inner-self and find a man in my age group attractive. something i have not been able to achieve to date.

i tried. i really really did! but as the night grew older and i watched them wolfing down high calorie finger snacks with their glass of whatever, name dropping and ass licking i called it quits.

the nail in the coffin - or in my case, the stiletto into the eye socket - came when a movie director person with his hammered face sliding off his skull, started hugging me to his greying aging hairy man-boobs and tried to do his version of shiatsu on my back at the same time. up until then i felt perfectly comfortable being the least dressed guest in the room (including the entertainment). but THIS was making me feel every bit of my semi-nakedness and i had to get away before i screamed in panic or stabbed him with my shoe - the latter being the better weapon because no-one would've heard my cries for help over the music.

i sort of slid away under his armpit - gross - and headed for the door.

now it's over, and i'm glad. because i learned my lesson. one i'd known all along anyway: LOOKS COUNT and don't let anybody tell you any different!

so let me end this the same way i started off. with a quote:

"after 50 you get the looks you DESERVE" - Richard Avadon, my favorite fashion photographers of all time.

and let me tell you, he was looking pretty hot at 80.

I'LL HAVE A FLAT WHITE GUATEMALAN LAS NUBIS WITH A ROSETTE PLEASE...

this afternoon i went to Tribe for a flat white Guatemalan Las Nubis with a rosette because i needed one. i placed my order with the guy behind the counter in simple english, no big words, no ambiguity.

me: one flat white Guatemalan Las Nubis with a rosette please.

him: what?

me: i said, i'll have one flat white Guatamalan Las Nubis with a rosette please.

him: excuse me? you want what?

me (beginning to get irritated): a flat white Guatemalan Las Nubis with a rosette. is that too difficult for you to understand?

him: (pause) what are you saying?

me: i said a FLAT. WHITE. GUATE. MALAN. LAS. NUBIS. with a ROSETTE. PULEEEZE. sheesh (under my breath).

him: (pause) what are you saying?

me: (eye roll) a flat white Guatemalan Las Nubis with a rosette.

him: (pause) what are you saying?

me: i said a FLATWHITEGUATEMALANLASNUBISWITHAROSETTE!

him: (pause) what are you saying?

me: ah! never mind, i'll go back to Origin. THEY'LL give me one. tsk, tsk, (shaking my head) pedestrian little coffee shops.

ok this never happened, i just made it up now.

but this did:

last week i was relaying my quest for coffee at TRIBE to one of the trainers at gym while she was waiting for her girlfriend to come and fetch her. she listened to my rantings about how unnecessarily complex the coffee shop experience had become and why did we have to learn a whole new language just to get a hit of caffeine? i told her about how snobbish and pretentious such a simple thing had become and how it always took the bored new-moneyed-up look-at-me types to suck the joy out of everything by claiming mainstream stuff as their own and in-so-doing putting them out of reach for normal people.

while i was still speaking her girlfriend arrived.

"hi", she said with a firm handshake, "my names Lindy, but everybody calls me Beans."

"Beans?" i replied, "yeah you look like you've got a bounce in your step."

"no no, that's not the reason", now put your hands over your eyes and peep through your fingers.
"i'm a master coffee brewer/barister (or something like that, i was too busy trying to gather all the words i'd just spoken and shove them back in my mouth to remember exactle what she called herself)".

to cover my ass i found myself delivering a landslide of coffee related questions at her that would hopefully bury everything i'd said to her girlfriend just before, and then, mistaking me for giving a shit, she invited me on a personalised grand tour around Origin, the coffee shop where she worked at the end of the week.

friday arrived and, feeling like i could do with a little pick-me-up anyway, i went.

ok, don't stress, i'm not going to take you through a literal recount or my tour right now however i do HIGHLY RECOMMEND that you go. but let me just say a few things that impressed me just to give you a feel for what goes on there:

there are more flavours of coffee than there are colours in a prism.

i tasted four and drank one.

an esspresso is a thick syrupy goo until it settles after behaving like a speeded up coffee-coloured lava lamp for a few seconds.

i downed a double followed by a small glass of water.

a cappacino is made with a single shot of esspresso (about 1cm deep in a cup) and steamed milk, which Lindy poured in such a way that she had created coffee art in the foam when she'd finished. she made a heart, a leaf and a rosette in quick succession before my very eyes!

i drank all three.

the tour of the coffee processing plant was very educational. she gathered that i like my coffee sweet (she must've noticed the landfill of candarel wrappers i'd left behind downstairs) and suggested i try the Guatemalan Las Nubis and i taste it at least once neat, on its own, and if i needed to add seetener after that i could. we went back downstairs. she created one from bean to brew right there in front of me. she made a rosette with the milk. she slid it over to me.

i drank it.

this was singly one of the most amazing taste sensations i have ever had (and the closest thing to street drugs i have ever experienced).

"one more one more i MUST HAVE ONE MORE!" i basically ordered her. she shook her head with a smirk on her face and, abracadabra, it appeared!

i practically inhaled it.

i was definitely high. i knew this because i went straight across the road to BBDO to visit my friend who'd just pulled a cocaine fueled all-nighter. he looked like he was standing still in time compared to me!

so this was the paradigm-shift the Universe had created for me. the one that took me above the pedestrian old Americano, the one that has put me above those that ask for a three-quarter flat white and think it makes them sound clever, the paradigm-shift that's taken me even higher than the coke-heads who to me are now an anachronism, a collection of people who've gotten stuck in the past and are still taking last seasons circa 1990's drugs.

i'm not a snob. i'm flying in a league of my own now. i'm not sandy green - art director anymore. nor am i sandy green - gym junkie. i will never again be known as sandy green - designer clothing addict. or (banish the thought) sandy green - inter-galactic substance abusing party queen.

from now on i will be known as sandy green - caffeine connoisseur. oKAY?!

now, wherecanigetaflatwhiteguatamalanlasnubiswitharosetteinitGODDAMMITwheeeere??!!

A NARROW ESCAPE WITH CARPEL TUNNEL SYNDROME!

i would like to publicly thank Wendy Moorcroft and Kyle Cochran who peer pressured me into purchasing this Apple Mac upon which i am now typing (quite quickly i might add). without them i would surely be at the physio or even worse, under the knife for the severest case of carpel tunnel syndrome in the history of human hands brought on by sms'ing.

thanks guys! you can stay.

SHE WAS AN INTERESTING GIRL WHO OVERDID ALMOST EVERYTHING...

i was surprised and confused when i woke up this morning. i groggily but quickly patted my body down like a cop frisking a drug dealer. and with all the stuff i took last night i might as well have been.

last night the wind reached Catrina-proportions. of course we don't mind when the Universe uses such extreme measures to take out the riff-raff. but the Universe must've been partying hard when it decided to raze the CT beachfront to the ground. the Universe is a mean drunk and should'nt be allowed near alcohol.

i decided to give gym a miss when my sister-in-law (who lives 7 stories up from me) told me that it took her like 20 minutes or something just to get to her car across the parking lot because she kept being attacked by the wind every time she took two nervous steps toward it. i pictured her looking like a woman in a movie who lives in the back alleys of the Bronx trying to get home after work. unfortunately the only way was via an alley where a gang of the most notoriously violent crack dealers lived. i pictured her at the entrance to this alley, poking only an eye on its stalk around the corner every few seconds waiting for a moment when they were sufficiantly distracted to either sneak or sprint past, dive into her front door and bolt it shut.

as i paced around my apartment i grew increasingly afraid, what with my windows struggling to stay in their frames and this huge building shuddering like Rocky Balboa in a title fight getting pounded into a bloody, swollen pulp, the viewer feeling every blow, before he drops to his knees - i was hanging onto the fact that he always comes back and wins after that.

"tv! that'll distract me!" i mistakenly thought because the only thing on the WHOLE OF DSTV (after the doccy on tonic immobility i told you about) was Adam Sandler in The Waterboy.

my neck started to spasm, my heart-rate was starting to hit terminal velocity. i'm telling you Tommy Lee would have to practice more to duplicate THAT beat.

so with every stone over turned i hit my drug drawer.

i took: one schedule 5 muscle relaxant.

i went to my computer to relay the shark doccy to you. the wind delivered an Tyson-like punch to the window right in front of me.

i took: another.

i went to my computer and looked for the Bee Gees song 'WE SHOULD BE DANCING' on Limewire. it only allowed me to download the ENTIRE 'Best Of' album (which took 45mins). WE SHOULD BE DANCING was not on there.

i took: two sleeping tablets.

lying on my bed waiting for something to kick in, some of the lyrics of a song i'd been trying to remember for AGES popped into my head! up i got! turned my computer back on and typed the sound-bite i'd recalled into Google and there it was! James Morrison UNDISCOVERED! i immediately went to Limewire and downloaded it. it only gave me half the song. i downloaded another version (which took twice as long) but there it was, I GOT IT!

but now i was too excited to sleep.

i took: a tranquilizer my psychiatrist said i could only use if i was told i was about to die and would rather be calm during the experience.

i don't remember much of what happened after that but i did wake up - albeit with a guilty/relieved feeling in my stomach - but hey, all's well that ends well right?

i took: two fat burners with two cups of coffee.

these have kicked in exactly now.

i feel like the doctors in the ER have just defribulated my heart.

i'd better go to gym.

but before i go, just think what would've happened if i DID'NT wake up this morning. i would've had to have had a funeral. and what would be said about me THERE?!

"Here lies Sandy Green, an interesting girl who lived by the motto: IF ITS WORTH DOING, IT'S WORTH OVERDOING...". tsk, tsk. learn from this example my children...

DEAR GOD, THE WHEEL NEEDS OILING...

today i heard something that i'm going to struggle to put into words. something SO BAD even Jerry Springer would be rendered speechless.

deep breath, here we go.

on saturday night my brother Brad gave Given, the little black kid that he raised as a friend for my nephew Dylan (kudos to him for that), a disco party for his 13th birthday. included on the adult guest list were my brother's girlfriend Tracey and her mother, and Brad's ex-wife Carrie and HER mother.

as the evening drew on and alcohol was consumed, there was a tussle on the dance floor which resulted in Carrie's mom and Tracey's mom getting physical in a old lady cat fight right there in front of God and everybody. tempers flew, both parties relayed the story to Dylan, each with their own accusatory, bitter spin on them, Brad freaked and he left with he kids.

then theatening sms's were exchanged that were all forwarded to me that i found difficult to believe were written by GRANDMOTHERS.

up to here Jerry would "tsk, tsk" but he wouldn't be stranded for words.

today some truths were revealed that i'm glad i heard but at the same time i REALLY wish i hadn't.

apparently Carrie had been slipping Dylan (who FYI is about to turn only 10) Bacardi Breezers all night, and, hold onto your jaw Jerry, was seen rolling on the lawn with him, her own son, screaming "ooo he's flirting with me everybody! look! he's flirting with me!".

a minute of silence would be appropriate right now, not only for the tragedy of the whole event, but also to allow your brain some time to decide how to process such insanely warped behaviour.

ok, you can inhale now.

what kind of a person gets away with so much for so long? destroys so many undeserving people? leaves more collateral damage than the time when the Transformers went to war for control of the Earth? declares herself the Worlds Best Mother and Coolest Person of the Year, and doesn't receive so much as a first written warning from the Universe?

where does the saying 'the wheel turns' generate from anyway? maybe God's forgotten to oil it.

HOPE FOUND IN TONIC IMMOBILITY!

last night i saw the most incredible documentary on Discovery where scientists took enormous, panic-attack inducing sharks and somehow turned them on their backs rendering them absolutely comatose and helpless in a split second. the scientists could then do almost anything to them as they felt no pain whatsoever. something about their seratonin levels was used to explain this euphoric, dream-like trance they went into the moment they were turned over.

but i didn't pay attention to the technical side of it because my mind had started to circle down a whirlpool of possibilities we could use this technique for.

after all it is not a difficult task to get a coon to lie on his back...

MY POOR LIMITED EDITION CAMMO HAVAIANAS...

so yesterday i had my feet tattooed and FYI they look ABSOLUTELY UNBELIEVABLY AMAZINGLY AMAZING!!!! in fact Quentin Tarantino with his foot fetish and all would be compelled to write an entire screenplay around these feet. in parts 1, 2, and 3. they're THAT good.

so, plastic wrapping, patches and bandages still on i went down to the gym to do an hour of cardio. sweating into these wounds heals them up chop chop. at least for me it does.

i convinced the manager to give me special treatment and go against the gyms "NO SHOES NO ENTRY" policy because it IS after all ME we're dealing with here and he said ok and turned a blind eye.

i wish i could've turned a blind eye to the ENORMOUS brownish-red puddle of oozing/slime/blood combination that had collected underneath my bike after 45 mins. it was really quite shocking actually. even to myself.

i did my best to wipe it up with my towel but it very quickly became clear that it was going to take something a helluva lot more powerful than a towel to clean THAT up.

so i quietly skulked off into the changeroom, put on dry clothes and just about leopard crawled outa there, a bit concerned about the size of that puddle on the floor.

but EVEN WORSE what was even MORE ALARMING was i realised that i was slipping and sliding in my LIMITED EDITION CAMMO HAVAIANAS! shit! designer footwear and this kind of thing just arn't meant to be together!

so i hurried home, frantically turned on the shower and started to wash up.

you'll be glad to know that my priorities are still in the right place however: i cleaned my legs before my shoes

BUILDERS WAREHOUSE RULZ OK!!!

i am not in the least tiny bit embarrassed to admit that Builders Warehouse is one of the hottest, coolest, most sexiest places in all of CT! i love it!

in fact Builders Warehouse makes up for almost everything that CT is not: the environment is clean, clearly marked, non-threatening for a reluctant DIYer (in fact i'm sure Builders Warehouse can convert even a kugel jew who's just stepped out of a nail bar to DIY), everything works together in perfect harmony, the staff are friendly, helpful and seriously know their shit. and there's a huge parking lot - good news for all those Ferarri and Lambo owners whom until now had only one place with wide enough parking spaces for their cars and that was at the gym. so now they can pretend they're even REALER men who can fix things as well as train. to show off their cars.

i don't think any of them have discovered this though...

in conclusion, Builders Warehouse is such a oasis-in-the-desert experience it's hard to believe you're in CT. in fact i would consider driving through to Milnerton just to sit in their coffee shop (yes you read right, a coffee shop!) and soak up the energy and realign my chi...

ONLY TWO WAYS TO VIEW IAN SMITH'S DEATH

"good morning this is SKY NEWS breaking stories: the ex prime minister of Rhodesia, Ian Smith, has died followed by mixed reactions across the world. you decide, IAN SMITH, HERO OR RACIST?"

cut to a shot of a weary looking Ian with a microphone thrust in his face speaking with all the conviction of a prophet who tells the people 'verily verily i say unto thee...!' but deep down knows that anything can happen. he said: "there will NEVER be black majority rule in Rhodesia. never. not in a THOUSAND YEARS!"

cut to a shot of Robert Mugabe, microphones thrust in his face as well, but he wasn't saying a word. he was too busy making a spectacle of himself for the cameras of global television networks so that the whole wide world could watch him dancing and singing "F YOU WHITE PEOPLE!" - or something like that - with the masses (and i MEAN MASSES) of the poor starving leftovers of the former Rhodesia. he was saying it best by saying nothing at all.

so back to the true/false test provided by SKY NEWS. ok, i can't speak for other races here, pretty much because i do not EVER want to read their minds. and because i don't really want to get to know any to ask them. BUT, let me tell you THIS: for WHITE Africans, i can say that SKY NEWS provided us with two wrong options. because the only two possible reactions from us when presented with these images are, for the racists (er sorry, White Supremicists): "THANK YOU! THANK YOU! THERE YOU GO, look at THAT all you BLACK-ASS-SUCKING GOODY GOODY'S! WERE WE RIGHT OR WERE WE RIGHT?! now PAY ATTENTION ALL WHITE SOUTH AFRICANS...", and for the liberals: (forefingers positioned over tightly shut eyes, thumbs plugged deeply into ears) "LA LA LA LAAA, WE CAN'T SEE YOU! WE CAN'T HEAR YOU! LA LAA LAAA!".

BITCH-SLAP FROM GOD

haul one of those pictures out of your memory bank of an astronaut in that thing that spins them around and around reaching terminal velocity for training before they launch into outer space, the skin of their face stretched so far back that their wisdom teeth are visible, their eyes padded shut to save their retinas from dislodging. have you got it? well, that is what happened to me this morning when i stuck my head out my window to check if it was raining.

in my life i have never known such a thing! the wind hit me like an invisible tsunami! i was afraid i would be sucked out of my window like a passenger in a plane that had suddenly lost cabin pressure.

why is it in nature, and in all aspects of life really, the higher you go the thinner the tightrope becomes and the more damaging the fall? why does it have to be that way? it almost makes you lose hope and ambition to dream about anything anymore.

yesterday was summer. i was actually contemplating going to the beach on the weekend, i was feeling good and looking forward to the long hot summer that had finally arrived. i was contemplating buying a silver bikini! and i remember making a mental note to ask the caretaker not to forget to call his aircon contact for me.

but then, like a bitch-slap from God, i got the wind knocked out of me, just to remind me that i am NOT in control of the future and that God truely does laugh at our plans.

NO COFFEE IN CAPE TOWN

today i went to buy Derek and i a cuppa REAL coffee because we needed one. so i strolled up to TRIBE on what i'm sure were the last few steps i had left in my legs before they gave way beneath me. i fell inside the shop, dropped to my knees, grabbed the guy by his apron strings and begged the guy behind the counter for two coffees (not really but ALMOST).

me: two filter coffees please.

him: two Americanos?

me: two filter coffees please.

him: you mean two Americanos.

me: no i mean two filter coffees.

him: Americanos.

me (beginning to get irritated): no i mean two filter coffees. TWO. FILTER. COFFEES. PUHLEEEZE! sheesh (under my breathe)...

him: that's two Americanos. TWO AMERICANOS ON THE DOUBLE SHE SHA!!! (screaming to about 12 other guys who then started a performance reminiscent of Tom Cruise juggling bottles in an island bar from the movie Cocktail)

me: (pause) what are you doing?

him: two Americanos for you sista!!!

me: (pause) what are you doing?

him (ignoring me): flat white or black like me?

me: (pause) what are you doing?

him: flat white or black like me?

now FYI i KNEW what 'flat white' meant because Wendy's sister had told me on sunday but i was NOT going to let HIM know that i knew...

me (winding up with a long audible intake of air): look buddy, all i'm asking you for is two filter coffees with skim milk. soon if possible, do you think you can you do that?

him: we serve 2%.

me: 2% what?

him: 2% fat milk.

me (sigh and eye-roll): bring it on maaan just bring it on goddammit, whatever, BRING. IT. ON!!!

more Tom Cruise Cocktail-like action from the other 12 guys this time accompanied with war cries. the All Blacks should open a coffee shop in their off-season.

he finally presented me with my order. they looked like normal coffees to me.

me: what's this now?

him: two flat white Americanos.

me: what's in that?

him: filter coffee and milk.

me: YESSS!!!! I WIN! I MADE YOU SAY COFFEE, MADE YOU SAY IT, MADE YOU SAY IT!!!!! (sadly i was too tired to say this but i wish i HAD.)

as i wandered out with my two cups of COFFEE, i wondered what word they use for candarel or sugar. but i didn't have the endurance to stick around to find out.

SHE HATES ME (but does she really...)

how is it that people can sing the lyrics to a song with heartfelt passion and enthusiasm, like the words so resonate with them they almost could've written it themselves, while not have a clue what they're actually saying?

a prime example of this type of thing is when a group of drunk South Africans in a local bar sing the words to Midnight Oil's BEDS ARE BURNING in unison, like they'd practiced together for weeks waiting for this very moment to let the public hear what they had to say about life in a song, and not having a clue that the songwriter is telling the world, through their mouths, to give the land they're standing on back to the indigenous population. yes, the same one's that are keeping the cold Castles coming while sweeping the empty cans away from underneath their feet.

i hate that song.

i had a similar scenario play out before my eyes this week listening to my brother and sister-in-law's latest from-the-heart, altogether-now-with-feeling life anthem.

they've been following a reality show called ROCKSTAR INXS on GO for the last few weeks where the remaining members of the legendary band INXS challenged young wannabe rockers to compete against each other to replace Michael Hutchens who was found hanging from his hotel suite doorknob by his own belt (not a suicide attempt, you figure it out) a few years ago.

they'd urged me to watch it. however i'd already watched ROCKSTAR SUPERNOVA, a similar thing, but i only really watched because Tommy Lee from Motley Crue and Gilby Clarke from Guns 'n Roses were so hot. the leftovers from INXS were not. the expiry date had rubbed off their packaging years ago. gross.

anyway the winner had been chosen and these two crazed fans came bolting down to my apartment in high spirits asking me to download the new INXS CD off the net for them (this show had obviously run a while ago overseas). their enthusiasm had obviously drowned out the part of their moral code which made them point their fingers in my face and tell me that i was a criminal and a thief and would have to "live with my own conscience" when i'd downloaded songs in the past.

so here they were, holding their breaths and staring anxiously at my screen. the album wasn't on Limewire. they left, shoulders stooped, INXS-less.

they ordered it from Musica.

it arrived.

they burst into my place once more, they sprinted across my floor and basically stuffed the CD into the side of my Mac. and, lo and behold, there it was, PRETTY VEGAS by INXS.

they danced and jumped up and down, shouting out the lyrics syllable for syllable.

i, in an instant, recognised this to be one kick-ass tune.

not allowing me to download it (sharp intake of air!) they ripped out their CD and left. i got it off Limewire.

PRETTY VEGAS goes like this:

it ain't pretty,
after the show,
it ain't pretty when the pretty leaves you
with no place to go...

i winced as pictures fast forwarded through my head of me and Andrew crawling out of ESP after 16 hours into a firewall of retina melting daylight, dirty, jittery shadows of our former selves, dazed and confused and wondering what to do with ourselves next.

i held this image in my head just long enough to copy and paste it next to the identities of my brother an sister-in-law before i closed the file because too much lingering on THAT image might've turned me into a pillar of salt.

there they were these two, their strongest drug experiment having been the time when she was wondering whether Sinutab taken on top of Corenza C might be too much for her kidneys to handle. and a late night meant staying awake to watch the credits roll after the horror movie on M-Net on fridays.

strange that what erupts out of your mouth can actually be the exact opposite of who you are in real life and everything you'd like to think you stand for.

so, with this in mind, i was left wondering: when i'm sceaming the lyrics (like i actually am the heart stomping girl) to Puddle Of Mudd's SHE FUCKING HATES ME!!! from the depths of my core, does this actually mean that i'm really just a big sissy who should toughen up and get onto the list for the first spinal-chord implant...

SANDY BARBIE!

ME, MYSELF AND ME! taken by Me.

testtest

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