I have a new cellphone. It’s white and red and oh so purdy. It’s my firstest ever walkman phone. I remember my first walkman. It was pink and not a phone at all. I listened to Alice Cooper on it. The other kids liked Bonnie Tyler and A-ha. They thought I was weird, even though I listened to A-ah too. I even had a George Michael poster from his funky-sunglasses-and-leather-jacket period on my wall and every now and then I would give it a little kiss. That was before my gaydar kicked in. Then again, who had proper gaydar in the 80s, anyways?
But I digress.
There is a certain chance that I may have been weird for other reasons, of course. I suppose I might still be slightly tinged with weirdness. But normalcy is so…boring. Who notices normal people, really?
What was I talking about?
Oh, right. My new phone. I had to stuff it full of music right away, of course, and test it. There’s a little, shiny button on the side of it and music starts playing when you push it. Then, if I hold the shiny in and move the phone upwards through the air, the volume gets louder. If I move it downwards, it gets lower. If I move it to the right, it plays the next track and if I move it to the left, it plays the previous track.
How’s that for fancy-pants?
The downside is that it doesn’t really respond well to subtle movements. These days, for instance, I can be seen waiting for the bus while flailing my phone like a madwoman. But like I said: nobody notices normal people.
Have a little something from my pink walkman days:
Those of you who have been paying attention, may have discovered that I recently moved in with my mums (lesbians) since I’m wrapping up the last parts of my thesis (gaaah!) and have yet to find a job (moneymoneymoney).
Tonight I watched “13 going on 30,” which is a rather silly movie about a 13 year old girl who suddenly wakes up one morning to find that she’s been turned into a 30 year old woman. I’m doing that in reverse. One day I’m living the grown-up life in my own place, the next day I wake up here and it’s like I’ve reverted back to my teens. Cause your parents will never, ever stop parenting you, see. It doesn’t matter if you’re 80 and they’re 110, bedridden and can’t speak – they’ll still use handsignals to tell you that you’re not eating enough and that you should put on a jacket if you’re going outside.
One freakish fact of science or physics, or whatever, is that women who live together adopt the same cycle. If you’re sitting there, wondering what I just said, you should have paid more attention in health class, you lazy bum. Anyways, my mum had a hysterectomy ages ago, so she’s out of the running, but my step-mum turned to me the other day and said: “are we having our period soon?”
As I have mentioned countless times, Pooch has a squeaky toy named Pigface and it is the love of her life. That and tinfoil. And me, of course, but Pooch’s feelings towards me go more towards total awe, really. “Oooh, you make food appear out of the kitchen wall! You are a GOD!”
In fact, Pooch’s number one purpose in life is to follow me around in the hope that I’ll make food appear out of something-or-other.
But I digress.
Unfortunately Pigface went into a box somewhere during the moving process and hasn’t been seen since. Fortunately this doesn’t seem to bring Pooch’s mood down as much as I had feared. She now loves Burger.
Actually, its called Urger. I discovered that if I asked her to fetch Burger, all I could get out was “B..” and she’d be off searching for her ball. Pooch is one of those gals who get by on her looks.
Uhm...
I have a confession to make.
I have completely forgotten where I was going with this post. Here, watch this (and notice how the singy dude keeps poking himself in the privates):
