It has been a significant while since I bloggeled something worthwhile other than some crazy excitement about SNOW. (LOVE THE SNOW!!!!!)
So, here we go…
1. Get crazy bitch on his skanky ass and throw-down like a bunny boiling kugirl and follow my crazy throw-down with a dramatic storming out of the establishment
2. Get my fighting nails on and punch both their skanky lights out
3. Remain dignified, strap on a smile with a twinkle in my eye and pretend like I don’t care
Well, only moments later – in complete irony to the song “Time of my life” blaring over the speakers, he kissed the Australian. There are no words to describe the sinking of my heart, the freeze frame of them snogging away illuminated by the glow of the Christmas tree to a rather fabulous song. Fail. So I continued to opt for choice 3 and only after I received a patronizing pat on the shoulder and a smile from him, did I decide that it was time to leave. After leaving in a dignified exit, I only find the bloody slimebag running after me trying to make plans for the next day and asking if I wanted to go home together… I’m sorry. What part of “you were just kissing OTHER people and thus will NO LONGER be kissing me” do you not get. Dumbass. I got one SMS from him the next day, completely ignoring the situation. That was the last I heard or saw of that fishy. Pity. I had a lot of hope in that one… But London is a big ocean, and i haven't even tapped into my A-game yet... I'm just testing the waters. Wait till i'm staging my own coup d'etat on the throne of the village!!
And, so now, we fast forward through a SANTA CONVENTION! Oh hell yeah. I got dressed up in a santa adult-babygrow and paraded my drunk-ass through London with thousands of other santas. We had everything from Lady Gaga Santa and 80s Madonna Santa through to fat santa, obese reindeer, pirate santas, elves and of course us… Nap-over Santas! Hehe.
London continues to be utterly spectacular and fabulous and I brim with happiness despite it's ups and downs and ego-denting and ego-building!
It is nearing the end of a hectic week. Many ups, a few downs, a few late nights of working. And today, the bloody data entry beat me again. I am incapable of entering data correctly. I cannot get anything to balance because i keep entering a number wrong somehwere... Clearly a 4 year BSc degree that cost exorbitant amounts of money has done me wonders… NOT. As I struggled not to burst into tears on the tube whilst the realization dawned that my entire future in accountancy hangs on being able to correctly enter data, I stepped out of the station to a gentle whirlwind of large snowflakes falling gently down through the golden glow of the street lights. I could not help but crack a smile and ended up beaming from ear-to-ear as I walked through the crisp air, as the snow fell thicker and thicker, beaming like a kid at a cupcake buffet much to the bemusement of the grumbling locals. Snow cures everything. And wine. I had snow. Now I’ve had wine. Double BAM!
It’s almost Christmas. I’m still not sure on my stance about Christmas. I suppose it is rather lovely isn’t it…
Well, I oscillate between two of three of the HJB hunt.
· House – Tick
· Job – Sometimes tick
· Boyfriend – Sometimes tick
BAM!
The day can suck, I may not be employed in a permanent position, but it snowed. It is snowing like Sweden! I am beyond happy. I am on cloud 9 billion.
The first snow I can remember being in! I have photos. Hundreds and hundreds of photos!
I LOVE SNOW!!!!
Now this is BAM!
Figure 1. Lost, but happy...
This popped up on post-secret a few Sundays ago. It seems hauntingly relevant for me… I have never been so lost, and yet, I have never been so happy. I suppose I am not really lost, but I have no clue with what path to take or what direction is right, but regardless, I am at peace and have never been so happy. Thank you London.
So, as I stood over MY small sink in MY teeney cottagey kitchen in MY large and airy house in London – it hit me. I have no fucking idea what I am doing. I am completely lost. But in the same breath, I am light of heart and happy. I have risked it all and am feeling truly the little fishy in the big pond, yet feel like the world is at my fingertips and that I am blessed on a path to success. It is the strangest feeling in the world… To be so scared, so excited, so peaceful, and even a bit sad all in one go. Wow.
I love my house. It is AMAZING! And so homely. Filled with love and awesomeness. After we gave the landlady a good ear-bashing over the state we received it in, the gripes have been repaired and it is starting to fill out into a home. I even sat at the dining room table and looked out onto the street below as the cold rain pattered onto the window pane as the graying light of 4pm set in and it felt real. I am really here. I am in London.
Figure 3. Lie back and think of England!
I don’t have the BAM in me right now… But it hasn’t died out yet. I’m fighting the London battle, and I’m fighting hard.
Two things I always must remember:
1. 11. Nobody said it’d be easy; they just promised it’d be worth it.
2. 22. Whatever you do; do it as if the entire world was watching!
Feel it. It is here!
NO.MORE.SOFA-SURFING! I am done. Caput. Finito. Le Fin. Woop woop!
Thank you most graciously to all the friends who put me up for “just one week”… We all know that “just one week” to an African in London constitutes at least one month.
But my time has come. I am off and finally moving into Tooting Manor with my gingah surgeon loving best friend. I will have a bed! OMG!!!!! I’m so excited I may have pee-d myself a little. So far I have managed to convince her we need a Union Jack themed lounge. Long live the Queen. Rah-Rah. I am working on getting a burnt-orange coloured front door, but this is proving rather tricky. The issue with moving house in London is that there is no-one to do it for you. Unlike in Africa where you pay said removal and packing firm and go out for a boozey lunch in Sandton only to return to your new abode unpacked and shimmering. I am going to be lugging my wheelie-bags (and oh how full they are!) across London by bus, tube, boat (I may get lost…) and eventually into my Manor. Despite this. I cannot wait! It is time to take to the throne. And oh how well I shall alight to my position of monarchy as the “other” Lady of the Manor – Lady Tooter II. Also, it provides and ample double bed that needs christening. Dust of your heels ladies. Daddy’s got a brand new photographic jumpsuit and it’s hunting season! BAM!
On the goldfish front. Well, blind date went pear. Horribly horribly pear… for him! He was more queen than a tranny at a Britney tribute concert. Unfortunately, as mentioned before, there is only room for one queen in the little goldfish kingdom, and that is me! He irritated me, and then pretended I was his toy whilst he flattered me with attention and took it away at his mere whim. Unfortunately for him, I had my BAM on and proceeded to procure me two tall and strapping gents whilst out at the club – in front of him. And that put him firmly in his place. Don’t piss like a puppy if you are playing with the big dogs boys…
BAM!
Figure 1. Screw Time. We're Britain. We make time our bitch.
The clocks have changed.
There are no words.
There are no words to express my confusion and trauma at such an event. Time is now lying to me. This is the most stoopid thing the Brits could have come up with. I mean really! This place doesn’t do much (Susan Boyle and Wagner off the X-factor are exceptions to this) wrong, but damn, they got it so so wrong this time. They can colonise the entire globe, but that gives them no right to screw up the concept of time. So time has moved back an hour… I dreamt I missed everything and was subsequently fired from my postal duties at my awesome company. My electrical equipment all self-adjusted [creepy. I know.] so I awoke at the CORRECT version of 9am and all my electrics said 8am. BUT, the clock said 9am. One word: mindfuck. Then it got dark at 16h30. But this would be normal time – 17h30, instead, we changed the bloody clocks so it actually is getting dark earlier. I just can’t get it. I’m gonna need counseling for trauma as a result of this!
Figure 2. Juanita the lesbian-stripper-chilean-miner costume didn't come out this year, but Captain Awesome did!
This weekend was Halloween. And boy-oh-girl, did the devil come out to play. And by out, I didn’t just step out of the closet in the most fabulous attire I could find, no, I broke down the doors and flamed my way all over London. I shook my lettuce, threw myself on questionably straight landed gentry, stole road-construction equipment and had unplanned walking tours of London city.
To start with, we hit up Goldfish at a concert on Friday night. I have watched them rock out SA on an almost weekly basis. But this concert was mind-blowing. We were in a concrete cavern. Thick, freshly painted concrete walls filled to well-over the legal persons capacity. A light show that had us tripping like hippies at a trance party without the drugs! Not to mention the music which can only be described as Berlin-Rave and was topped of with eastern-European bouncers who spoke minimal English... It.was.AWESOME! And half the concert audience was Saffa. So not only were the well-built jocks and boets from SA throwing their testosterone all over the club, but the waspish, tall, rosey cheeked, wavy haired british gents were there too. The bar was 5 people deep, and being the slimey little fishy I am, I weaseled my way into a uncomfortably tight spot in amongst a group of jocks whilst I waited for my two “Double vodka and cranberries, but spare the cranberry dahling!”. I didn’t need to pay for any form of inappropriate groin thrusting as I was getting my full dose as the mentally-not-so-clever jocks kept pushing up against me. So I just happily smiled and thought: “shame, steroids really do shrink your penis…”. As the vodkas flowed like water, my inner-klepto raged. Having been caged for so long, my itchy little fingers began to wander… I managed to table-bar 2 half-full brandy and cokes off a table near-by and the stage list and the red bull off the light technician when he turned around. As always, I looked innocent and wide-eyed when accused and stuck to my rule: Deny, falsify and re-accuse. It worked. I escaped! BAM. My partner in crime stole suckers from the bathroom, so it wasn’t just me…. Haha. Oh, and to start, they full body search you at the door (I know, free groping at the door – it was like being at a strip club!), not for cocaine, heroin, alchohol, crystal meth, your fully loaded glock… no, they strip-searched you for – wait for it – chewing gum! Luckily, we smuggled ours into the venue in my partner in crime’s bra. One always needs chewing gum. You never know when you will have to SURPRISE a spamoni!
Following our debaucherous concert, we stumbled our way up to Shoreditch where we slid left, right and centre with all the “Rah-Rah, my daddy gave me a range rover in white for my birthday, but I wanted a black one, so he gave me a pony to apologise” types. We ended up having a mass schmodel photo shoot which, use this a fore-warning for your own lives, is never a good idea whilst hammered. I look like a wasted chipmunk in most of the photos. Haha.
Figure 3. You heard him. This guy looks legit.
I’ve got my BAM back. So I have a blind-date on Tuesday night. I’m wingmanning for a friend who like his BF who is a girl. So, I’m amped. The guy is uber hott. Do I know what to wear. NO! Is this stressing me out…? YES! I have to go straight from work, so I can’t even rock the uber trendy clothing from home. I’m gonna have to pull something miraculous. And, I’ll have to put my face on in the work bathrooms, heaven forbid some director walks in while I am applying my face in the mirror… Will this be sucsexful? I sure do hope so! I am DTF. ß Google it. I’m not worried he will like me because I’ve got my BAM on! Plus, he’s uber hott and has such a hott name. Yeah, I have facecreeped him already. And I’m a totally trophy-wife. Oooo, and in other news, I signed up for this dating webiste thing and put all my zexy pictures up. But, as with the one I did for jest at varsity, it does worry me about the older man-boy love going on. Already, I have had dating/sex requests from 63 yr old men. Shame on you! Don’t you have grandchildren to bake cupcakes for?? Disgusting. But some hott 32 yr old management consultant [KA-CHING!] who is tall, dark and (vaguely) respectable wants to go on a date. As long as there is free drugs alcohol candy I’m in. As they say, you gotta risk it for a chocolate biscuit. Well, if I wanna get to husBANK number 3 by 30, I better start risking it for the whole fucking chocolate factory! Besides, we all know I’m easier than a tranny at a pride parade… so, he had me at hello! Dating 2 people in one week, yup, this little goldfish is starting to swim in the big bad London ocean. And once I start playing the game, all rules are out the window – I’m a Killer Queen!
Figure 4. When in doubt/the weather is bad/the gingers attempt world domination – then do as it says
Now, for the only complaint I have at this point: If another Brit bitches about the weather, I will stab them in the face with my pen. I have never met such a bunch of pansies. It is barely cold, in fact, for me, I adore this weather! Yet everyday, they complain about it… shuuuuutuuuuuup about the weather and turn the heaters off for the love of all things holy!
BAM! It’s about to get hott in here!
PS: I LOVE THIS PLACE! I constantly feel alive and electric. It is like there is a current of awesome energy that I am plugged into everyday. I am happy and peaceful. And the people here are fun!
Figure 1. Bathroom Relief… Something one is unable to experience in bathroomless London
TBS = Tiny. Bladder. Syndrome.
Yes, I suffer from TBS. I neeeeeeeeeeeeeed to peeeeeeeeeeeeeee like ALL the time! When I leave the house. When I reach the bus stop. When I reach the tube. Halfway to my destination. When I reach my destination. In the restaurant. After the meal. Before I journey home. When I get home. Five minutes after getting home. (You get the idea!)
But, in London, there are NO toilets. Anywhere. None in the tube stations, unless you strike lucky and get one of the 3 of 250 stations that have a bathroom. And, one must scrounge for a petty 30 pence – of course which you do not have. And furthermore, there is NO way to acquire the said exact amount of 30 friggin pence.
I am constantly in a desperate state of needing to pee in this place.
Figure 1. Eight Points on the dismount London Lemmings!
1. 1. The hula-hoop
Take all notions of the personal-space-box “hula-hoop” and discard them as this is not the country to have these issues. Personal space is merely a figment of your imagination and is frowned upon in London land. Upon climbing onto the tube (or in fact entering into any London airspace) you are too discard your personal space hula-hoop as throngs of London Lemmings pile into your space and not only breathe every imaginable, highly contagious germ onto you but spread their sweaty, panicked aroma through your peaceful and fuity-scented aura. Thankfully I don’t have space issues… Oh. Wait. I DO!!!!!!!!
In order to combat said space invaders, I have debated carrying an extendable baton with a voltage charge on the end to extend and zap the little buggers! Either that or walking around with a huge sign that says: “I am a carrier of the Ebola Virus. Please keep your distance.”
2. 2. Public transport
Germ phobias… What germ phobias? Again this is a concept to be discarded at Heathrow airport upon your arrival. Piling onto an overcrowded public transport mode is par for the course. As the desire of the bloody British to insist on having the heater on and the windows closed at all times! As one grasps onto a grimey, filthy pole, seat or handle I can just feel the germs diffusing into my body. Particularly in rush hour when the said grasping apparatus are warm and gooey with the sweat and god-knows-what of the crowds of London Lemmings.
I have given in to the eventual acknowledgement that my chances of catching the SARS virus, Bird Flu, Swine Flu, Flu, TB, Ebola, Flesh eating bacteria, Septicemia and one of the innumerable highly contagious diseases are very high and I must now stop trying to prevent by emptying tins of wet wipes and bottles of hand sanitizer onto me daily and stock up on medications and health care scheme to deal with the treatment once the inevitable happens.
To further add to this germtastrophe that is London public transport is the lack of open windows. Stuck in a (heated) tube in a tunnel – air is bloody scarce to start with for crying in a bucket – we all must sit with no windows open. The same goes for buses, trains and taxis. And don’t get me started on the shops where it is like shopping in a sauna… A strategic move really. As one gets more and more uncomfortable and loses dangerous amounts of bodily fluid through sweating, ones shopping decisions become more and more rash and impulsive. In fact, one even resorts to merely buying the first item on the rack without even trying it on! Leads to much buyer’s remorse. None that I have experienced just yet as I look fabulous in everything!
3. 3. Claustrophobia
Refer to the above points and PANIC!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
And now, for the crux of London Life – being a London Lemming!
London lemmings
In order to survive in this super fast paced lifestyle, one must become a London Lemming. This entails losing all ability to direct oneself or make independent decisions whilst in a crowd or travel situation. I in fact have fallen prey to this situation a number of times whilst offloading out of a tube germ capsule and been swept up in the crowds of London Lemmings throbbing their way through the underground caverns and ended up on the wrong platform which only resulted in me taking a full 10 minute hike back down to the correct tube platform! But the funniest activity I have come across is to watch these fascinating creatures as they herd themselves around the public transport maze that is London. Often times they have no idea what they are doing and just follow each other. I have no doubt that more often than they’d like to admit they end up in east Scotland or (heaven forbid) Wales just by mindlessly droning on to the wrong tube and ending up where they had no intention of ever being.
Apart from lemming-looking, a significantly fun thing to do that makes me giggle and snort hysterically is when one descends the steps of a station in desire to board a tube. As one lowers themselves into the caverns of the underground, there is generally a notice board with times till the next tube leaves placed in a far corner of the station. It is oodles of fun to take note that the tube only leaves in 5 minutes time and, from the back of a substantial group of London Lemmings, sprint myself through the middle of them, bag and ipod flailing behind me and launch myself down the stairs in an overtly desperate effort to make the tube on time. Once settled, I watch the ensuing pandemonium that erupts amongst the gaggle of London Lemmings. Usain Bolt and Caster Semenya have nothing on how rapidly these lemmings can cover ground. As the misguided panic sets in that the tube is leaving immediately, hilarious panic ensues. Grannies hoist up their Zimmer frames and use them to plough callously through the crowd. Every pensioner for themselves! Women in their designer heels (that launch them into the stratosphere they are so high) leap flights of stairs in a single Jimmy Choo-ed bound and stride across platforms, hurdling the hustling grannies and legging themselves into the nearest carriage with speed that would leave Caster and Usain gagging for it. Men have been seen to extend themselves, tie swishing behind and coat tails flapping like a loose lettuce, using their briefcases to bash small children to the floor in their desperate attempt to hurl themselves into the apparently imminently departing tube capsule of claustrophobia. As these London Lemmings, once settled in the tube, gasp for air after their extremely panicked scramble with sweat slowly dripping of their immaculately styled bodies, the guilt begins to set in as they recall the small children and pensioners they left for dead behind and the looks of embarrassment begin to show as the tube remains stationary for at least another 4 minutes! All this whilst I giggle into my ipod at the results of mass hysteria.
Figure 2. Seat of the Queen
For now though, I am in love with London Life! It is thoroughly enthralling and makes me feel alive!
On the goldfish front, I have been keeping my lettuce chaste and pure. There was the one French-English lad from Brixton who I was cheekily snogging on Ios during my Greek Island adventure. But, despite him asking me to call him and saying he was excited to meet up in London, he never responded to my voicemail or SMS (I make it sound like I only left one of each… I didn’t…) and thus, is an asshole! But it is ok, I am in no way phased. Britain is an untainted village just ripe to be pillaged!
BAM!
I returned to the homeland to heal my soul. I dunno how much of my soul healed with such hedonistic behaviour... But one thing is for sure – I killed off my liver and my name in
I arrived bright as a button on Friday morning and after a wonderful afternoon at home, got my ga(y)me face on for some pAArty-karAAte! The new club has opened. And it is rather fab if I do say so my joburg snobby self! Haha. Strict age control and dress code so I don’t have to party my Pradas with some flip-flop wearing, board-shorts sporting 12 year old. In fact, the dress code even made some of those Zim men look pretty… (either that or the bottle of vodka, shooters, tequila, jager and red bull had an effect on my eye sight!). So as you can note, the night got well out of hand! I had my favourite Zim and a few
In amongst it all, I met a new goldfish. And a cute one at that! Now, to start with, he ignored me. (How very dare he!) Fail. Then, he proceeded to behave like he owned H-town. I’m sorry biatch, but this is MY queendom. I am the only ruler of this village. You merely inhabit it as a squishy little toy for me to play with when I return to the colony! After much flirting and many more tequilas, I was brave and loose enough to have fully grappled his attention and even pecked him on the lips on the dancefloor. Much to his dismay as he only has a few toes out of Narnia (and the fact that it is both illegal and frowned upon in that hovel of a country!)…
After a bit of cheeky snogging in a dark alley in the shopping centre, we went back for more shooters. The result being that myself and my 2 hott zim ladies stumbled into the car park and found a random gangstah in a hummer pumping the tune I’m in Miami Bitch. Looking at said Hummer, I said how I’d never been in a one and moments later was yanked onto the back seat by my ladies as we all sat down and instructed the gangstah (without asking permission) to drive up and down the car park while we leaned out the window drunkenly slearring (slurring + screaming) “We’re in a Hummer Bitch!” to everyone we drove past!
Following this, my new goldfish and I retreated to a darkened road and… well…
Saturday and Sunday I spent with goldfish. He is too cuteness. 20 (and three-quarters)! And he gives as much shit back as I hand out to him. Bless. I’m actually quite smitten! Anyways, Saturday was spent at some super dodge club with a thatched roof and a copious supply of lesbians and drug dealers. In fact, at one point, the drug dealer was having a delightful chat with us… I was speechless. I didn’t even pee I was too afraid to be alone! On Sunday I saw my goldfish for sundowners at the water towers. Unfortunately, as with everything in my life, it was drama-full! We ended up being almost-arrested for *gasp* homosexuality! The horror! Some undercover policeman caught us kissing as we leaned against the car. Very tame compared to the previous nights’ antics I must say! It was rather frightening as homosexuality is illegal – in the constitution – and requires immediate arrest and presentation before a magistrate. The police officer further informed us that we would be “re-educated” at the police station. Uh. Not cool Mister Popo!!!!! Thankfully, we managed to solve the problem in the Zimbabwean way… and I’ll never be caught again for sure!!!!! I mean how backward can a country still be?! Bring on the first world baby!
I’m off to the mountains again this week. Fail. But the Khaki brigade bought a shiny new 4x4 for me to use! Excitement! I’ll drive it uber carefully though.
PS: My goldfish KILF and I are an unofficially-officially an item and I can’t wait to see him when I get back to Zim! Whipped. I think so. He is too though…
Despite my attempts to avoid all things sport I have succumbed to World Cup Fevahhhh!!! I gave all my support to Bafana Bafana who sadly didn’t make it past round 1 but put up some sterling good plays and left with dignity. Following this, I adopted bloodline-through-marriage loyalty and was behind
But, MY TEAM, the ones where it actually mattered what happened are were
In my impartial indulgence in sport, apart from horse riding, since the age of 1 and a half, I have been the civilized one. The one more than happy to watch the style network whilst SA were playing rugby against
As the referee clown from
Following shocking referee decisions, apathetic play by the English side and a very strong, precise game by ze Yermans, I was in a foul mood over our loss. Yes, I use the possessive because WE lost. My team. My boys. The Queen. The Empire. Defeated. Retreat back to the homeland. Dejected. Defiled. The shame. The sadness. I almost cried… Instead, I just poured more Rose wine and got drunk – clevah!
But now I’m over it and can re-evolve back to a state of class and reserve. The soccer shall now have limited impact on my life. Although I will support all teams against ze dirty Yermans as if they were my own!
In more important news, blind-date facebook man contacted me. Told me that my message to him was hilarious and he laughed so much and complimented me on my creativity. J But he seems to be unable to meet up before he leaves. Oh well, next! Not to worry, I still managed to slore myself across risqy on Friday… although this one was a super Queen. But then again, a Queen is just a pawn with a bunch of fancy moves… Luckily I escaped without exchanging numbers!
Oooo, and at my FAVOURITE establishment (Billys) on Saturday, I met some super hott BrAsilians. Why are ALL Brathilianth tho thort and have a liiiithp? Upon seeing my gingah-loving housemate, they said:
“Eeef I had a thitah like chours, then I would never leave the hooouuuth!” (Translates to: “If I had a sister like yours, then I would never leave the house!”).
I’m sure that’s even illegal in Brathiiil! Just saying.
But hey, they were so dashingly hott they could have had their way with whoever they wanted in that establishment. Especially as the place was filled with everything from KILFs, through real Neanderthals to midgets… not forgetting drunken heffalumps on the bar. One would think I’d never go back, but that place has a spethial hold on my heart!! Oh Billys!
And now… the final few days of work begin! BUT they want me to fill in for 2 weeks in July… I will, if it is worth my while money wise $$$$$$$
Plans to leave are beginning to take form.
BAM!
Figure 1. Stranger = Danger (Unless of course he has candy or alcohol...)
The inevitable “OMG, I know someone who is perfect for you! I’ll get him to add you on FB and then you two can hook up!” conversation is always followed by the exceptionally difficult choice of how to respond/start contact with your new prospect… knowing full well that neither of you are familiar with one another and have been told to hook up by a fag-hag of choice. Thus, intentions are only to come right… I guess it’s not awkward till you make it awkward! Haha!
With FB’s multi-impersonal networking capabilities, this is not an easy choice!
Option number 1: The Poke
Impersonal.
Quick.
No real meaning other than annoying the heck out of the receiver and eventually cascading into a poke war...
Option 2: The Wall Post
Public.
Direct.
Unashamedly avant garde.
Open to direct scrutinisation by fellow FBers... (thus, open to judgement and public failure/humiliation upon rejection)
*It is advised that this option is avoided at all costs; in the same way that one avoids chess club or choir at school. Social suicide never was so easy as a rejected wall post on a potential strangers wall…*
Option 3: Personal Message
Surprise (enough said).
Private. No chance of public humiliation or social suicide unless the prospect is to post to his notes and tag u and his other 824 friends (including his granny) in said note.
Allows for dignified retreat upon rejection.
Thus, this is the recommended option. And as an experienced goldfish hunter (being well-versed in the art of being hooked-up by many friends) I thoroughly advise this option.
Now, I’m sure you wonder why this debate has come about. Well, I got drunk (surprise) and then slept through my haircut, so had to arrange an emergency one at a new salon. The result, well, it is so hott rite now – Justin better watch out because sexy never left! Apart from that, I met some fabulous people who took utter delight in meeting me and decided I “just have(had) to meet their friend. He’s just as fabulous!” and thus, being as charitable and accepting as I am, I of course said yes! This has nothing to do with the fact than I’m easier than a KILF in a candy store…
Anyways, after much facecreeping through a vast quantity of his photos during work hours I am not upset about missing out on meeting this goldfish. He can swim free for now... I've got hotter fishies to fry!
Well, I did Option 3 and unfortunately to no result. His loss! Because Little Goldfish has got his BAM back!! Thus, Ladies (trannies and homosexuals included) gird your loins because DADDY’S got a brand new BAG!!
This weekends schedule:
Friday – Gay Fabulosity Party. Don’t ask, I don’t name these things…
Saturday – 3D party in Sandton followed by debauchery out and about on the town.
Sunday – SS!! And this promises to be one of the most debaucherous, morally reprehensible and socially unacceptable parties of the year/my life. It is my unofficial Johannesburg Farewell!! The start of many farewells to come within the next month and a half.
BAM! I’m back!
