My life is tragic.

I think I’m lactose intolerant. This makes me sad.

Refer list of things I like to eat/drink when I’m not so happy:
-tea with milk
-coffee with milk
-coffee with milk AND cream
-cappuchino with milk AND cream
-toasted cheese sandwiches
-cream cheese on crackers
-chocolate milk
-strawberry pops with milk
-milk tart
-milk chocolate
-ice cream
-ice cream with milk chocolate

Do you see the problem. Without milk I’d be sad and confused with nothing to console me but my cat who’s on the brink of puberty and doesn’t give a shit about me anymore. That’s so depressing.

Once upon a time, my tummy had the temperament along the lines of this:

Ignore the person in the picture. I don't eat people. People taste like pork.

and now its more like this:

…which gives people the impression that I might explode like an angry person if I don’t get any milk, which is not true, I’d probably mope around feeling sorry for myself…

unless I see someone like this:

Haha, very funny. Die bitch.

P.S: I know you’re that Claire-what’s-her-face from Heroes and you can’t die so when I said ‘Die bitch’ I meant that in the nicest way possible.

The theory of the toasted cheese sandwich.

This is a blog about love. I don’t usually write blogs about emotional-touchy-feely things because I don’t like to read these type of ramblings, but I’m not having an eventful day and I figure that maybe I’d take a swing at revolutionising the way we view love.

So here goes:

There’s this guy see, his name is Daryll*. He’s hawt, like seriously hawt, super intelligent, he patiently smiles at you while you try on the 7th pair of shoes,  he cooks, he’s sensitive (but not in the Mommy’s boy way), he’s every girls wet dream, the kind of guy girls want to marry.

Now I want you to visualise this Daryll…

Meet Gary*: He’s a nice guy. He’s not like Daryll*. Fact of the matter is, Daryll* is not what you would call a ‘real’ person. Forget about Daryll*. He’s a figment of your imagination.

So Gary* meets Ali*.  They hate each other. He thinks she’s an elitist. She doesn’t like the way he tears up paper napkins and makes little balls, flinging them in her general direction. Two tequilas later, they’re exchanging numbers.

They go on dates. They watch movies together. They have sex, and its always good. ALWAYS. They call each other 6 times a day. They giggle, together. They make people sick. Their friends all hate them.
They fight. Its terrible. She thinks its over, he does too. They have more sex. Its nice. They fight more.
One day Ali gets sick. She looks terrible. A hot-wet-mucus-covered mess. Gary* takes care of her, its his job as caring boyfriend. They have more sex. Gary* gets sick.

Some time passes, they get more comfortable in each others space. They’re not so sickening anymore. Everyone is happy, their friends decide to let them back into the sanctity of the friendship-hood. Ali shops alone. Ali is fine with it because she finally realises that you don’t HAVE to do absolutely everything together.

Sometimes she thinks about Daryll*

Light bulbs flash. Gary* will never be Daryll*. Everyone is happy.

Gary* comes home from work. Its been a dismal day. All he wants to do is lie on the couch in the fetal position and watch CSI in the dark. No such luck. Ali* is home, the stench of her nail polish hits him like a blow to the head. She enquires about his day, he grunts a response. She smiles…

…and says: ‘Since you’re up… Can I have a toasted cheese sandwich please?’

Gary* removes his tie in a rapid wrist movement akin to that of a seasoned sword fighter…

He turns around…

and makes the toasted sandwich.

 

^ THAT is love.

And they all lived happily ever after. The end.

 

Theory of the toasted cheese sandwich: Love is when someone makes a toasted cheese sandwich for you even though they’ve had a crap day and really don’t want to.