Question The Three Day Cycle (Chapter 14)

"What's with the suit? It’s a joke right?"
She laughs.
When she laughs at me it doesn't hurt that much. In fact I laugh at myself in return.
"No. It’s my new look"
"New look? Are you a show dog?"
"I'm a gentleman now. Didn't you see how I opened the door for you?"
"Yeah don't do that again - its lame. This isn't 1942. I'm allowed to vote and all that. Even though I’m a poor defenceless and dumb woman.”
We laugh in the crowded, well known women’s clothes store. She wanted to meet up and talk again but could only fit me in with some shopping. She "needed" some "retail therapy".
Why?
She never said. As always our conversations were loud and raucous. In this well known pretentious clothes store our noise was out of place. I showed her a pleasant looking red top that she may look good in...
"Are you trying to make me vomit in your face?"
"It’s nice!"
"Nice? Like your suit?"
"Nah my suit is the summit of fashion. It’s the equivalent of a sunny day in a hot country, sipping on water."
"Water? Do people do that? Do they go to hot countries and sip water?"
"Well I do! I don't drink."
"Oh yeah. Cause you had a drinking problem before."
I laugh, "No - I just don't like the taste.
"I love the stuff." she says picking up a white top and showing it to me, "What do you think?"
"Hmmmm so so"
"Definitely getting it then...your fashion taste resulted in you getting that suit"
I brushed down my suit, proudly, with sarcasm.
She then showed me a pair of jeans, dark blue, skinny legs...
"Why don't people sip anymore? People don't sip anymore."
She went into a fit of laughter.
"Is that your most intellectual question?" she asked beyond the laughter.
"It’s a valid question. Why don't people sip anymore? They just drink."
"When did people ever sip?"
"Back in the day..."
"Back in the day when your suit was 'cool'?"
"Hey listen my suit is cool - it’s the rage!"
"The 'rage'?" She laughs, "No one likes your suit."
She showed me some shoes with heels like elevators. Is that a correct comparison? Shoes with big heels, basically.
"Can you even walk in heels that big?"
“Yes, I have legs and a brain."
"You have legs - that's true."
"Ha ha - you're too funny." She walks off slowly, I follow. "Especially with that suit on." She adds.

We wait in the queue for her to make her purchases. 1 pair of shoes, 3 tops, 1 pair of jeans. Skinny. Still talking about my suit.
"No one likes your suit."
"You keep saying that. What do you mean ‘no one’?"
"The clue is in the words - 'no one'."
“Have you done a silent survey?"
"No I am the voice of reason. The voice of the masses."
"You know what, people love my suit...I'll prove it."
I turn to the couple behind us.
"Do you guys like my suit?"
The guy, student looking, hair shaped like a bird’s nest and clothes with holes, speaks first.
"It’s alright actually."
The girl nods "yes".
She interjects.
"Quantify 'alright'"
"Well it’s not what I would wear but it looks okay on the older type of guy." The Student replies.
"Older type..." She laughs.
"Older type? I'm not that much older than you." I retort, "How old are you?"
"How old are YOU?" I ask defensively.
"21 - You?"
"Doesn't matter."
I turn back to her, "See, he likes it."
"He thinks it’s 'alright' and 'okay'. Hardly means he likes it."
"It’s a great suit."
"Alright it’s the best suit ever in the history of suits." She says sarcastically before walking off to the cashier ready to purchase the items with her 'hard earned' cash.

Later, us relaxed in a nice Italian restaurant we talk some more...
"So if I hadn't of contacted you then you wouldn't have contacted me would you?" She asks aggressively.
"Hmmm."
"No."
"I wanted to. But our last conversation wasn't too great."
"So you let the friendship go then?"
"Nah. I just thought you didn't want to talk."
"Nice - how about ask?"
"Okay. Well we're talking now."
"No thanks to you."
"Sorry."
"Sometimes I think you don't care."
"That's not true. I do. It’s just sometimes you're a little stubborn."
"So?"
I smile, "Is that your favourite word? ‘So’?"
"Yes it is. Got a problem?" She says with a wry smile.
"No. Not at all...hate for you to storm off."
She laughs, "That was an awesome exit right?"
"Yeah was just missing some water on my head. Drink in the face and all that. I actually over tipped the waiter with your money just to get you back."
She laughs wildly, I join in.
"Yeah I'm offended by that. Please give my money back you gangster. You're so cool"
I laugh and give her a quick poke.

Day Two

It was the second day of her being back in my life -- for once she allowed me to dictate things.
The time. The place.
I chose a walk on a riverbank with laborious yachts - a bit of culture mixed with a nice blend of modern pop culture.

We walked and talked. Occasionally stopping to let her take a break from her newly brought, excessive high heels. I joked that her heels were like elevators - she giggled - mostly from behind the pain. I walked more - rather sadistically wanting her to feel more pain.
Why?
It gave me a satisfaction that cannot be quantified with just one word. Or a sentence even. It’s just the way I’m wired.

She was different now. More receptive. In less of a rush to leave. More devoted to sharing her time with me. That attitude she previously displayed to me on a whim was now subdued. Still her sarcastic and funny self – but now she was the woman I knew was there. I gave the new her feet a break from walking and we sat on a bench overlooking the river - skies dimming and night about to crawl in. She rested her head and soft hair on my shoulder and we sat in silence looking at the off-crimson skies. THE perfect moment. If the earth swallowed me whole and took away my very last breath I would not complain. For time had conspired and given me this moment that was my most cherished in all my life. THE perfect perfection. Not an inch wrong with the frame. The pinnacle of everything. A love story told backwards always has a happy ending.

Day Three

"I've always been used to getting what I want."
"You're telling me."
"When I was younger if I wanted something then it would be mine. I apparently had this face I'd pull to get what I want."
"Yeah I've seen it a few times. It’s like this." I pull a comical sad face with sad puppy dog eyes.
She smiles and playfully punches me on the shoulder.
"That's a scary face. Don't do it again. My face is more cute. Like a little kitten."
"So you think you can get what you want with your kitten face?"
"Yeah - anything."
"I need a face like that."
Day three of US, as I call it, was her choice. Nice quiet bar in the middle of nowhere.
Swanky but efficient.
Efficient but random.
We sat at the back on the black leather sofa that was big enough for three people. Since we'd been speaking again we'd not stop talking. Constant phone calls - up till 4am every day and now our third meeting. Everything was too perfect.
"I wonder where my path is gonna end?" She asked rather despondently.
"Huh? Why do you mean?"
"Nothing." She replied recoiling.
"No. Go on."
"I just...I really have no idea what I want to do with my life. I studied Maths and got bored and then studied English to become a writer. But since I left university I haven't even written a word. I've travelled but don't feel worldly. I just feel like my life has been rather pointless."
She sits, head down, saddened. I lean over and give her a hug.
A consoling moment.
"You’re not pointless. Your life has not been pointless. You inspire a lot of people."
"Oh yeah? Who?" She asks, teary eyed.
I pause for a full 36 seconds.
"Me." Another pause. "You inspire me. I write because of you. I smile cause of you. I do most things cause of you."
She smiles amongst the tears.
"That suit I brought, the first thing I wondered when I brought it was "will she like it?' - I wake up and I think 'I wonder what she's doing today?' - I sleep thinking of you, I wake thinking of you."
She laughs, wiping away the tears.
"I think I've got stalker-like tendencies..."
"Yeah you do..." She agrees with HER smile.
"I guess I'm obsessed with..."
Before I can finish my statement she places her lips against mine. I kiss her. We share a passionate 40 second kiss. Everything we had FOUGHT about, LAUGHED about, CRIED about became that single 40 second kiss. It felt right.

Then it ended and we shared a smile. But there was something wrong. A brief 5 second silence pause spoke loudly. Something was wrong. Like finding world peace...what's next?

Write The Occasional Poem (Chapter Thirteen)

Memories best told,
Are the ones we treasure as if gold,
When unresolved we treat our past thoughts with a glaze of perfection.

Occasionally I get lost and you give me direction. The hopes of the future I built in my imperfect mind.
A future where we both laugh together every second no conflict or fuss.

Total happiness with us was a must,
In my imperfect mind. A place where my darkest thoughts dwell.
The deep abyss which inks our bad times like a quill.
In retrospect you weren't perfect - just the best thing in my imperfect mind.

Don't Order Lobster (Chapter Twelve)

When a man takes a woman for a ‘dinner date’ on a first date - that's a bad sign. Means he wants her to be a trophy girl. Look good, wear heels and sport that clutch handbag. Potentially it also means it’s a one off - just a bit of time passing. A flurry into self-indulgence.

Taking her to the cinema means she’s boring – he doesn’t want to hear her voice or hear her talk about mundane things; such as the contents of her shoulder bag or, worse still, her wardrobe. After the film has finished you can both talk about how good the film was or alternatively how bad it was. It’s a damn sight more interesting than her.

Finally, a guy can take a lady out for a hot drink, museum or similar. Both are reserved for that woman with deeper thoughts and conversational skills that are worthy of such an esteemed locale. These gals are the ones you place in the ‘potentials’ list!

I took the accountant out for dinner. Breaking the rule of thumb as previously discussed - I saw her as potential....or maybe she was just fun?
Judging by the way she dressed - the clutch bag, dazzling dress, high heels - it was hard to say...

"This place is amazing." She said taking it all in.
It WAS an startling little Thai place with an indoor pond and fake palm trees.
"It sure is. I'm gonna get you to write it up for me as an expenses bill. ‘Entertaining client'."
"Oh yeah that was the real purpose of this encounter."
"Encounter...I was gonna call my book Midnight Encounters."
"Sexy Utopia?"
"That's the one! Well remembered."
"How could I forget? You've mentioned it 100 times."
"Have I? Oops. I'll never do so again."
"Nah - keep doing so. It’s cute."
"Cute? I haven't been called cute in about 23 years!"
"23? How accurate. I've noticed you're always so precise. Do you have OCD?"
"Probably. It’s better than turrets right?"
"Yeah it’s much better I think...SHIT BALLS...sorry that was my turrets."
I laugh nervously, "You're kidding me right?!"
She laughs wildly.
"Calm down - you can't handle my humour can you?"
"I can handle many things. Including accountants with zany personalities - don't you worry your numerical mind about that. What's with the swift jokes anyway? Accountants are meant to be boring."
"Yeah, I don't know, I think I was brought up on a diet of Ritalin."
“I was brought up on a diet of stockpiled food. That's why I'm so neurotic. I have an inherit fear there's gonna be a nuclear war at any minute."
She laughs wildly.
"It’s not funny. My parents used buy food in bulk. Why? I don't know. How? I don't know. My dad worked in a bag factory and my mum as a nurse. Where did they get the money to buy in bulk?"
"Is that question directed at me? I'm an accountant not a psychiatrist. You might want to not reveal so much about yourself on a first meeting...IF you want to make a good impression."
"I don't. I don't care about impressions. That's for the recipient to deal with me. Not me! I'm at an age where making an impression is like audio tape cassette - obsolete."
A small female waiter walks over enquiring if we want to order, we both look at each other with a cheeky glare - we hadn't even picked up the menus yet!
"Can you give us 5 minutes?" She says to the tiny female waiter. As the waiter walks away I watch her - measuring her height with guestimation work...
"How tall do you reckon she is?" I ask.
"What kind of question is that?" She laughs, "As tall as she needs to be."
"She’s abnormally small - like 4ft 10 or something."
"Is that an abnormal height? 4ft 10?"
"Anything beneath 5ft is abnormal. Anything beneath that height and you can start parking in the disabled bays at supermarkets."
"Mr Politically correct aren't you? I happen to think she was cute...Regardless of her height."
"Her height is a contentious issue for you huh?"
She laughs, "It’s not"
"You're very defensive of her. How tall are you?"
"I don't know - 5ft 6 or something."
"With 7 inch heels?"
"I'll put my 7 inch heels in your arse in a minute."
"Really? Foreplay before dinner? Kinky aren't you?"
She laughs wildly - and hides her face in the menu.
"Shall we order...?" The beautiful accountant asks trying to bring some normality to the table.
"When are you inserting the heel? I just wanna assume the position beforehand."
She holds up the menu, "Shall we order maybe?"
We both look at our menus - giggling away.
"3 inch heels by the way." She mumbles to me from beyond the menu.
I retort with a similar mumble, "That'll do the trick. Size isn't everything."
We both laugh - as she cheekily hides her face back in the menu I realise that she could be a keeper. A woman who not only encourages but also compliments my neurotic manners and lack of subtly. Perfect. And just then, as I began visions of her teaching our kids how to use sarcasm as a weapon like their parents, my leg vibrated. More accurately, my pocket. Even more succinctly, my phone - I took a sneak peak at it.

It was HER. My muse.

After 2 weeks of no contact whatsoever - she decides to call me just as I'm getting to know a person infinitely better (for my sanity). Suddenly my dream -like a montage sequence, involving the perfect accountant and me, became my new writers block. It was like your computer when it gets stuck whilst you're watching an illegally downloaded film - it was stuck on the same frame. In my twisted mind, I walked out of the frame and into another film - a film full of more montage shots - this time of me and HER, my muse, and the good times we had previously. No contact in 2 weeks and she contacts me now?

The accountant looks beyond the menu at my face – my face, similar to that of a man who’s seen a ghost, shows no emotion.
“I’ve decided what I’m ordering.”
I answer back – at 25% of the enthusiasm I had all but 3 minutes ago – “oh yeah? What?”
“The lobster and the salad. The salad because I’m a woman. The lobster because I want to see how rich you really are.” She says with THAT smile on her face. Suddenly that smile isn’t as special as it was. Her voice not as soft – it was like within 3 minutes I had sobered up and found out that this beautiful princess was actually just a queen past her sell by date – the queen of England. If you will.
“You okay?”
“Yeah fine.” I reply. Pause. “Just deciding what to order.”
“Okay. Seemed like you were narrating to yourself in your head there for a second.”
“You can hear my narration?” I ask jokingly, trying to act as normal as possible.
“Yeah, I prefer the director’s commentary though. How do I put that on?”
I laugh, but not very genuinely. Suddenly she’s not as funny as well.
“Let’s order.” I say hurriedly. She gives me a look of confusion. She’s realised what’s happened. She realised that this thing we had, although short lived, is over.

I hope she was joking about the lobster - they're expensive.

Prevent People You Know From Wearing The Same Clothes As you (Chapter Eleven)

“What's with the suit?” My agent asks as I walk into his office space – he rises to his feet to take a better look at its magnificence.
“You like it?”
“Yeah it’s a nice suit.”
I give him a catwalk twirl.
“All right calm down -- what's with it? You got a job interview?”
“What? No. I can't wear a suit?”
He chuckles, “Quite frankly, no. You don't wear suits. That's not your style!!”
“My style?”
Interrupting, he changes the subject, “Hey, you done with the book?”
So do I, “Speaking of books...what did you write in my journals I gave you?”
“Nothing. Don't worry. It’s a good book slash journal. We might as well submit this for publishing instead of the poetry thing.” He says, whilst reaching for the journal.
“Ahhh, no. I don't wanna publish it. The book's nearly finished.”
“It is?”
“No.”
“Ahhh for pat's sake! Finish it!” he demands handing me my journal back.
“Why don't the characters have names?
“I don't want them to. I want them to be ambiguous.”
“And do you actually do that shit at dinner parties?” he says laughing and shaking his head. I laugh back nodding yes. While I laugh he takes another brisk view of my suit.
“Wait a minute is this the same suit that the guy was wearing the other day? The one you wrote about in your journal?”
“Yeah.” I say, giving another twirl, “It’s nice right?”
“Yeah. Love it. I might get one.”
I grimace, “You can't get one.”
“Why not?” he asks forcefully.
“Because I got one. We can't both get the same suit?!”
“What are you? A woman???”
“Don't buy the suit. End of story.” I take a seat and put my feet on his desk – as if I had brought the leasehold to his office. I then continue, “Hey, do you know a girl on the 1st floor? An accountant?”
“I know a few accountants - why?” he replies whilst staring at my feet on his desk.
“I'm seeing one from downstairs in a couple of days.”
“Really? That’s great! It’s about time you got some lovin' - nice ass?”
“What does that matter?”
“It matters. So does she?”
“It’s okay.”
“I knew it! A guy’s gotta look right?” I don’t answer.
“How did you meet her?”
“Women’s toilet?”
“What?”
“Long story.”
He looks at me with contempt. I continue, “You ever been in the women’s toilet? They got nice gadgets in there.”
“They do?” He asks with a raised eyebrow.
“Yeah – they got like these sanitary towel bags for getting rid of...”
He interrupts, “You know what I don’t wanna know.”
I continue, “I wish I had a womb then I could make use of such contraptions.”
“You wish you had a womb? What are you on about?” Disgust upon his face carries on talking, “Seriously man some woman action might help this writers block. By the way, whose this girl in your journal you keep writing about? She seems like a problem.”
“She's just a friend.”
“A friend? Then why do you keep talking about her? Over and over? My advice - give her a miss. She's a problem. She'll make you go cuckoo.”
“She's like my muse - she inspires my work.”
“All you do is write about HER. It’s boring. Find a new muse that helps you finish the book. This accountant sounds promising.”
“Sounds promising? I haven't told you anything about her.”
“Finish the book.” He snaps.
“I will.”
“Finish it.” He knocks my feet off his desk, “And don't come round here uninvited. This isn't a social club. We're not frienda. This is a client stroke management scenario.”
“Stroke?” I say laughing, “You keep using the word 'stroke' - You might want to calm down, you’ll have a stroke in a minute.”
“I'm not joking!” He replies chuckling but trying to hide it, “And also the stuff I wrote in the journal you can't use any of it. Its personal stuff. It was like therapy for me.”
I stand up all ready to leave, “Okay.”
“And, seriously, what's with the womb thing?? You’re worrying me!”

Women's Toilets = Paradise (Chapter Ten)

The toilet experience is important to me. It’s an experience to behold. My own personal home toilet has a brilliant feng shui about it - minimalistic and flush white. No pun intended. The rug I rest my feet on when seated on the laboratory is thick in richness, so that my feet are accommodated for whilst the process is taking place. There can be no better experience than releasing after you were dying to for 10-30 minutes. They are quite simply ‘experiences’. Pure and enjoyable.
    On a slightly more emotional note, my public toilet ‘experiences’ counter balances this.
        Public toilets, no matter where, are never ideal. Actually ideal is not the word. The word is hygienic. Firstly, I refuse to use the public urinals or bowls or whatever they are called. These are like an open competition of manhood - a competition I'd probably finish as a ‘competitor’ in, rather on the podium. Most guys chose to stand half a mile from the bowl in order to display their 'asset'. Coupled with seeing how straight they can piss from long distance - it’s like watching the British team Javelin in the Olympic. Hit or miss. Bronze medals all around. No Gold – but well played anyway. No pun intended. This game is not for me. My masculinity is normally set at semi-automatic (in gear 2). My testosterone levels are low. My doctor told me that my mother probably drank too much white wine when I was feasting on her internals. All of this means that I HAVE to use the cubicles. It’s like your own personal toilet space. Minus the comfort and hygiene. When using other people’s home toilets at social gatherings I turn on the tap to drown out the sound of my own waste being dispensed. This again is comfort.

In this instance, on my way to get this journal back from my agent in my new suit – much like the weird gentleman’s from a few days previous – I feel the sudden urge to...release. After much deliberation, I use the public toilet on the ground floor of my agents building. 1pm. Lunch break. Prime time for toilet usage. All cubicles are full. I push each door gently – maybe one is actually free...!?

They’re not.

2 bowls are free. 2 are not. One is occupied by what’s looks like the worlds fittest man...and the other by a dude so cocky his manhood must have been nominated for an Pulitzer prize. I squeeze in between them both desperate to let go off the pent up discharge...surrounded by these two self-appointed Adonis’ I feel pressured to perform – everything seems smaller. The bowl. The room. EVERYTHING. Everything apart from them.

1 minute later – I have still not released.

They don’t seem to move – I’ve been there 3mins. They been there before me and they won’t stop pissing. One guy, the fittest man in the world, is doing loops with his piss. Impressive, I think. I watch for a brief second. He gives me an acknowledging smile...and does more.  This guy is my hero.

I look slowly to the other guy to see what tricks he’s performing...none. But he does, however, take exception at my brief glance. He gives me the look of a man about to damage my outer shell. I zip up and leave in a hurry.

Still desperate for both the release and privacy I enter the women’s toilets....but slowly...looking to see if it’s empty. Which after an intensive inspection, I find it is.

    Women’s toilets are so refreshing. They smell good. Why don’t men get treated to automated air fresheners that dispense a dose of candy scented goodness every 60 seconds?

The sanitary towel bags in the cubicles made me yearn for a womb. I wished I could have periods just so that I could make use of these fancy sanitary towel bags.

Women’s toilets have condom machines. Men’s don’t. Doesn’t that make sense?
    Also the tap water is softer in women’s toilets. It’s like little plush raindrops of joy hitting your hands. I wish I had a womb.

On my way out of the toilet I bump into an attractive lady about to walk in. I think fast to avoid any embarrassment...
“Is this the women’s toilets?” I ask innocently.
“You see that sign on the door...?” She replies with a cheeky smile on her face.
I look up and point at the WC sign with the stick lady placed on it, “That one?”
“Yes, the one with the woman on it...” she replies, still smiling. Her smile gives me Goosebumps. It’s special like turning on the radio and hearing an old Al Green song.
“Is that a woman? I always thought it was a man dressed a woman. It’s hard to tell nowadays. Political correctness has gone crazy.”
She laughs. Seems like I’m charming her without trying.
    Note to self: awkward situations are wonderful for attracting the opposite sex.
“You’re the type of guy who wears frilly pink underwear and pees sitting down right?”
“That’s a scurrilous remark and I take offence.” I reply.
“Ah, the word scurrilous...I don’t hear that word anymore.”
“You don’t hear the word scurrilous anymore? What are you? 150 years old? No one uses that word anymore. I was merely being nostalgic”
She laughs, “Nostalgic?” and continues, “You’re full of divine words aren’t you? Like a walking thesaurus. When you masturbate do you say ‘oh deity, oh deity’ instead of ‘Oh god’?”
“Firstly, who said I masturbate...?” She laughs, I continue, “Secondly, if I was to masturbate I would do it in silence. The sound of my own voice would be a turn-off. I mean it is making love to someone you really love. But that’s taking it too far.”
“Why are we talking about masturbation?” She asks comically.
“You brought it up. You tell me.”
“This is proper ‘LOL’ moment isn’t it?”
“A ‘LOL moment’?” I laugh, “Let me ask you something do you write ‘LOL’ or ‘HA’?”
A cheeky smile hits her face, “I generally don’t take a tally on my wordplay when interacting via computers.”
“You’re very well spoken...you’re very scurrilous.”
“That does even make sense? Let me guess you’re a writer huh?”
“How’d you guess?”
“There’s a literary agency upstairs and you’re full of...”
“Myself?”
“That as well – I was going to say long words.”
“Oh. That’s disappointing.”
We laugh. She continues, “I’ve always wanted to write a book.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m an accountant.”
“Boring old accountant, huh?”
“Boring old accountant.”
“Well ‘boring old accountant’ I happen to need someone to help count the money in my wallet when I buy you a meal – do you think maybe you could help out with that?”
“Original line...” she says whilst shaking her head in amusing disgust, “Not good, but original.” 
“I know I’m a writer – we plagiarise everything. All creative ideas are stolen from someplace. Nothing is original.”
“Did you plagiarise that line from a 14 year old boy?”
I laugh. She’s pretty swift.
She continues, “Listen I gotta go and use the loo before I flood this hallway. However I work in the office down the hall come in and get my number before you leave and I might do some ad-hoc accountancy for you.”
“I wouldn’t mind seeing you flood the hallway actually. I could write about it.”
She playfully pushes her way past me to the women’s toilet. I smile to myself thinking that I must use women’s toilets more often.

And oh yeah, I need a womb.

The Virtue of "Ha" (Chapter Nine)

The way I see it is; the world is split into two conflicting camps...

The LOL camp and the HA camp. I prefer the latter. I like to think of myself as the pioneer of the use of HA. I use this term when I am amused by something in a literary format.

These occurrences normally happen in electronic mail (known to many by email) or during some good old online social networking. One my favourite pastimes.

People of the ‘LOL’ are my enemy. I am incompatible with them.

I awake each day to electronic mail and text messages on my phone littered with LOL’s. This upsets me. Makes me feel suicidal. You might even say rather nihilistic.

I don’t like to be bothered. Well, I do. By people I WANT to bother me. This happens infrequently. I am frequently bothered by people who want to bother me. For various UNACCEPTABLE reasons.
You see this is why I don’t bother people...I get so many people bothering me on a daily basis that I don’t wanna become one of THOSE people that I venomously dislike!

People BOTHER each other so as not to feel lonely. I am comfortable with feeling lonely. I don’t like the feeling of being in a zone where I am creative and not lonely. That makes me feel perfect. I don’t like being perfect...although sometimes I just can’t help it :)  (smiley face followed by LOL)

LOL
LMAO
CUM
WTF
BRB
OMG
TB

The most disheartening one is CUM – this is both confusing and misleading at the same time. Not to mention it’s hardly abbreviating a word if it’s only missing one original letter.

Is it me or is talking with other dysfunctional humanoids a lot easier nowadays?

My nephew, the other day, took a test in social networking abbreviations...he scored 80% is that good? I took the same test and scored 30% but my online IQ test was 128...I am now confused.

Does that mean I’m a pauper or a rich man, mentally speaking?

People who intimate their physical reactions electronically with stars are losers. That’s official.

e.g. *rolls my eyes*
e.g. *faints*
e.g. *laughs*
e.g. *fuck you all for inventing such inept social etiquette. Fuck you for destroying the beautiful language we write. I turn in the graves of Cromwell, Shakespeare and Welles in disgust. Fuck you all.*

(Chapter Eight) As Written By...My Agent

If you’re under the impression that reading this will close the book on some unanswered question, then do yourself a favour – don’t waste your time. After a couple of paragraphs, you won’t want to be here. What follows, reads more like a rant than a conclusive and accurate summary of Happiness.

What you’re getting here is a boring letter of complaint about a boring little man. A boring real life story about someone you’d never want to meet. Picture this annoying git being about six foot tall with a haircut that screams, “I’m a creative sort.” Picture the smarmy shit sat opposite me in my office, smiling at me from across my desk, whilst cradling a couple of supermarket carrier bags. Picture him wearing a tee-shirt that reads: “I’m a lover – not a writer.” Imagine, for a second, that you are an agent and this twerp is your most gifted client. Now, I think, you can begin to fathom where I’m coming from.

It wasn’t always like this. Oh no. I used to command respect in this industry – heck, I was the industry. If anybody wanted a book published, they would come see me. I had a beautiful wife and two perfect children; I ate at the most expensive restaurants in the capital, kept a brand new BMW M5 in my driveway, and every other weekend I would take a trip out of town so I could screw my wife’s 19 year-old yoga instructor. And who could blame me? – she’s got this cute boyish kind of hairdo, and tits like watermelons. It was such a pleasure to wake up in the morning and realise that life had worked out just how I had always planned. I was happy, or so I thought.

Happiness – what is happiness? Well, it took me a long time to work it out, but now I think I know the answer. I found the answer to this question through the process of elimination. I finally figured out that happiness is not the other half and the two spoiled brats; happiness is not eating at a fancy restaurant, happiness is not a brand new Beamer; and happiness is most definitely not shagging your wife’s 19 year-old yoga instructor – no matter how dirty she might be.

And so this brings me back to my current situation – I take a deep breath and try to keep my cool, but this guy is too much.
“Why have you got shopping bags?” I ask.
“I went shopping” he replies.
“I can see that, but I asked you to attend a critical business meeting and you turn up an hour late with milk, bread, cheddar cheese and sanitary towels.”
“Yeah?” he shrugs.
I pull back to look at him and say, “Maybe, instead of shopping, you should concentrate on finishing that book you keep promising me…”
And he says, “What’s that supposed to mean? So I’ve got to starve myself for my art now? Who am I – a hybrid of Gandhi and Andy Warhol?”
I’m pissed off, but I smile. And it’s at that precise moment I realise what happiness must truly be – happiness is, for once on God’s green earth, having a client that does at least one damn thing that I ask of them.



Chapter written by Shaun Davis.