6.23.2010

Football Talk

I am heading into the wrong career. I should be a commentator for football. Why? Because I am exceptionally good and funny at it.

It all started late last night, at a sleepover. Best Friend was deprived of tv viewing pleasures at home and badgered us to tell her about Messi's playing and whenever Argentina scores. Hell, we didn't just tell her, we re-defined the world of commentary altogether. Maradonna gave us such happy times, with all his nail biting, armpit hugging and coach straddling. He also kissed and ass patted the players when they came out of the field. Almost God to Kinda Creepy in 5 seconds flat, that. Demichelis, who we believed scored only for the pleasure for us being able to read his name without his hair interfering, was our absolute favourite. 'Argentinian Long Haired Dude', we called him. I am crushing over Tzorvas's Zeus impersonation and telling his teammates where they should be scoring.

We were also exceptionally fond of -
Veron a.k.a Main Bald Dude
Rodriguez a.k.a Argentinian Dude
Maxi Rodriguez a.k.a. The Other Rodriguez
D. Milito a.k.a. Dude Getting Sucker Punched
Otamendi a.k.a. Throws Ball At Veron's Head Dude

We didn't leave out the Greek Squad either. No way, Papastathopoulos we loved you, Greek Dude With Fun Name.
There was also the Greek Long Haired Dude.
The Greek Dude Who Shrugs
The Greek Dude Who Keeps Tripping
The Greek Dude Who Keeps Running For Life

And nothing beats commentary like "Argentina in possession. Dude to Dude. Dude to Veron. Veron to Messi. Messi twirling in circles. Messi prima ballerina. Messi to Dude. Dude to somewhere in the middle of the field."

Also, I'm pretty sure the Argentina squad was under the impression that the Greek squad was transparent. Nothing else can explain the number of times they tried to kick the ball right through their stomachs.

Signing Out,
Super Commentator

6.20.2010

:)

I want to fill up my room with wallpaper of beautiful red poppies. It's not even funny, how obsessed I am with poppies and poppy wallpaper and poppy coloured umbrellas.

Signing Out,
Poppy.

6.14.2010

It is the nature of summer holidays to bore one to the point of becoming a part-time hypochondriac. Really. One spent much of a beautiful Sunday obsessing over the possibility of a broken sternum and rib cage, which is slowly trying to puncture lung and heart instead of doing something constructive. One spent much of last week trying to explain to father that her clavicle was indeed broken and she was incapacitated because of it.

One knows much of the online medical dictionary well enough to look learned in the matters of broken bones and torn ligaments. One is also realizing that she has a terribly low pain threshold, along with a flair for the dramatically exaggerated. This happens to magically transform the slightest twinge into the starting symptoms of paralysis and dying nerves. One has been told that she is probably just lazy and fat. One begs to differ, for her anxiety and stress are exercise enough and the fat is simply an illusion to keep the lechers at bay.

One also tends to digress frequently.

Signing Out,
My Pelvis Is Breaking

6.09.2010

One day, I will become
A painting, preferably a Warhol or a work of graffiti
Hung on a wall with imperfect angles
And brush strokes that no one can fully understand
And all the secrets, all the lies
All the fallacies, all the cries
Shall be mine to witness
Shall be mine to share.

6.01.2010

Chapter 2

“You’ll come back when it’s over,
No need to say goodbye”

Three days had passed since the e-mail incident and she had still not read the whole thing. Whether this was because of the sheer length of the correspondence or the haphazardly written language, I leave to you to discern at will.

She was currently browsing through the pile of flyers and junk mail that had created its own living space on the counter before her. The Captain was reluctant about throwing out pieces of paper and she had long suspected it was because he obviously wanted to save the environment. Seeing him use the papers to wipe his hands after a particularly oily meal had the effect of both disillusioning her in the slightest and stare at him with her eyebrow raised, a talent that the Captain had been trying to learn.

While circling discount deals and bonus offers that were not quite as obvious in their advantage as they could have been, a small beeping fluorescent pink light caught her eye. It was the mater calling. Father never called. He simply sent one word texts that required her to actually pick up the phone and confirm which one of the defined uses of the words he was referring to. Mater had yet to pick up this idea and she was glad of that.

Mother usually wanted to know if she had found a suitable boy to marry by the next auspicious date of the coming month. In spite of the great lengths that she had gone to explain to her kith and mainly her kin that her love interests were mostly fictional or dead, Mother kept her hopes up.

“Because every man in the world does want Lady Obvious for his wife”, she said to the imaginary conversationalist in her mind. For the first time, he had no sarcastic quote to reply back with.

The fact that she was basing all her hopes on a daughter that did not want to reconcile to the well-established homosexuality of Oscar Wilde, said a lot about her enthusiasm and optimism. It said even more about her daughter, which is best left unsaid for now.

Picking up the phone, she replied in her softest tone lest her mother think she would strain her voice. After the conversation ended, she picked up her bag and decided to lock up the office for the day. Captain Obvious was not back yet, but she grown used to him not arriving at the given date because they airport security didn’t look in the obvious places to hide a bomb.

Lady Obvious liked the sound of the lock clicking into place when she turned the key. It made a pseudo-musical sound that Brian Eno would appreciate, she always thought. Turning away toward the hallway, she stopped for a second to check her hair in the mirror. The next thing she knew, her hair was in a tangled mess.

Trapdoors were the last thing she expected to step on in the middle of a busy business complex. Not that she was in one, but it didn’t keep her from setting certain expectations. As she brushed of pieces of lint, spider-web and dust bunnies from her arms, it occurred to her that she might be in some kind of trouble. After all, nobody would ever construct a trapdoor to nowhere for the heck of it.

Signing Out,
To Be Continued