So...yes! -in British accent and particularly wickedly funny because Eddie Izzard is saying it-
I'd meant to try and put non-Milo type things up not more between than 2 days apiece, but, well. The girlfriend, with whom I have had no prior plans before, jio-s me swimming in the noon, which I do.
Then, I cut my hair, seeing as I've been whining about it to no one in particular for quite a bit .
Thereafter, we wind up in town, where I sit and read while girlfriend does the whole -Omg did I tell you about the time when...-, with two other people, both known; one much less than the other.
We proceed from there, having dropped the two lovely chaps and taken up with another, to have dinner.
Dinner is unremarkable, except when the in-house singer makes his rounds singing "My Way", and suddenly thrusts mike at me at the chorus. I yodel, they collapse laughing, and obligatory Singapore Idol comments were passed.
Subsequently, we adjourn to her, uh, other place, where third chap is supposed to study. Sleepy from dinner and 5 minutes of fame, I wanted quite a bit to be back home basking in the radioactive glow of the monitor, but nooo.
At roughly ten pm, girlfriend and studying-friend both fall asleep, dead tired. I shake my head, continue reading, and at 11.30pm, wake them. We head home.
Indeed, I've forsworn writing about the itty-gritty bits of life, but bear with me, because the content and structure of the above are meant to illustrate a couple of things:
1. Don't be a shitbrick and procrastinate, like me. Leave it till the last bit possible, and suddenly you're in demand, suddenly you're going places. It starts off as one little thing, turns into a string of the shit, and whoa, you're home past midnight, drop dead beat and surprised at how much bull you can actually still churn out.
2. Study at home. This isn't a gripe I have to deal with often, but it's been a painful one as of recent times. The missus claims she can NOT study at home due to noise, distractions, blah. Hence, she has to go to remote locations, and study till hours deemed blasphemous and unholy even by me. Of course, she starts off claiming she can do well enough by herself, or with a friend who can stay for a bit with her. Sia la, Bangla see she sexy-sexy then drag her to rubbish dump rape how? I haven't nubbed her yet, and I'll be fucked if a Bangla does it before I do (interesting verbal dichotomy there). So I'm there every time hence, smiling and doing my uneducated things while she crams for her examinations. Way to go, ego. And of course, she's so tired most of the time she falls asleep, and I smile and do my uneducated things, now sans girlfriend, in said remote location. Finally unable to take it, I wake her, and we go home.
I realize that yes, the poor girl often does nothing but study from noon till said downright obscene hour. Uneducated as I am, I am unable to comprehend the notion of effectively digesting and retaining things when one is nodding off.
3. My life is a string of ceaseless mundane events. Abduct me, you aliens.
And, uh, save the snails!
Yes, no relation. I'm tired, deal with it. So you see, I've got this habit of keeping my eyes alternatingly on the ground and above it, and sometimes during periods of extended rain like now, snails are smack all over the pavement.
I appeal to you, oh, discerning, compassionate reader currently going WTF? , to save them.
Think about it. Say you're out taking a gander, and the sky darkens. It's this really, and I mean really, fuck-off big shoe. You scream and start to run as the shoe descends, but it's an exercise in futility. The last sensory experience you have is the sight of an overwhelmingly, similarly fuck-off big swoosh symbol, and in your final moments of consciousness, a booming voice in the distance saying, "Ewww, grossss." .
We've all seen them, the poor unfortunate victims who couldn't run fast enough (no shit, they're fucking snails) and end up sick pancakes of antfood. What one should do upon sight of the poor misguided, and above all, slow mothas that are snails sliming their way along the pavement, is pick them up and toss them into the bush they came from. It's not too bad, really; there's no slime on the shell and you can do it quickly. You don't even have to give them a little pet and kiss like I do. This will save 01 x Snail Life, and will make you feel like a Better Person for the next 10 minutes, or until a respectable pair of breasts walks past. To that end, I've come up with one of those witty slogans we all know work absolute wonders:
Don't End Their Trail! Save the Snails!
With "trail" being the slime they ooze as they move...no, crawl...no, inch...no, centimeter, no...OK, -millimeter- their way along. Slime-trail, geddit, geddit? Hyuk.
Right, then. With peace of mind duely re-established, I'm off to play a spot of Fallout (oh, which is featuring in originally intended piece, I think) before bed.
Remember! Don't End Their Trail!
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