Faux-fanatic chicks rule! But I rule more.

Messi: It’s a state of mind rather that a state of room.

MUD! Glorious mud! Ew. Get it off me.

Know what I mean boys? *wink

FUCK THAT. I don’t know what I mean. I can recite the names of all the football players in most of the FA leagues (except whatever team my love interest supports cos wow do they suck), but don’t ask me to actually play a minute of football or run around a field because I’m too busy pretending to be way cooler than all the other girls out there.

But sure, I’ll get a beer at the bar with all my guy friends. I’ll even throw in a spot of girlfriend teasing for free. Actually, he may think it’s free, but he doesn’t know the shit-storm he’s headed into. Let me break it down for you:

HOW I AM GOING TO MAKE GIRLFRIENDS HATE GIRLS LIKE ME:

1: I will be nice. Maintaining this sugary sweet demeanour is imperative to my cunning plan.
2: I’ll compliment you on your outfit: “I LOVE these shoes; I can never wear such pretty things due to my man-like clumsiness.”
3: I’ll casually enquire about your boyfriend’s friends: “How long have you known Jack? Oh, me and Jack go WAY back! Hahaha, the rhyming was pure accident! Haha. I kill me”. This will disarm you and your belief that you are the only girl (of importance) amongst the men in the group.
4: I am going to tell a very funny inside joke. All the boys will chuckle. I will roll on the floor with laughter, the more I exaggerate, the better. You will start doubting yourself and your standing. Perfect.
5: I am going to ‘talk shop’ for a while, mostly about this fantasy football league I’ve entered and why I’ve chosen more players from Arsenal than Liverpool. You, meanwhile, will be playing with the water droplets forming on the glass of your Mai-Tai. (Seriously, a Mai-Tai? You make this too easy)
6: Your obvious loss of interest is growing. I will choose this moment to point it out. You’ll say you have no interest in football, F1, rugby, whatever. I’ll say that I couldn’t understand why anyone wouldn’t!
7: I will talk to your boyfriend for the rest of the evening.

The thing is, even though he’s talking to me, he’s leaving with you. I will never understand why he finds you more attractive. I drink like a dude, I eat like a dude, I watch all the right sports, given more time I could be the ULTIMATE dude…

Wait… where’s my lipgloss?

All this pretending is wreaking havoc on my beauty regimen!

I am a snooty shop assistant

Hi! How may I help you?

… Is what I would say if I wasn’t too busy being a bitch to give a damn

Listen lady, I know you think you have a right to walk into my store and peruse my damn merchandise, but you don’t. I spent all of five minutes flat-packing that pile of cashmere tights and you’re just disturbing my hard work with your indecisiveness. Don’t you know how chunky you are? The only way you’d look good in cashmere is if you used the paper bag as a headdress and threw yourself off a cliff.

I do not deem you worthy.

And what makes you think you can afford this stuff anyway? This kind of tailoring combined with this fabric… Oh wait, here’s my manager. Crap… say something helpful… shit shit. YES!

“That dress is STUNNING, why don’t you try it on? Sure, I’ll watch your Mr Price bags, don’t worry!”

Cue fake smile. Hold for 15 seconds. Make sure manager has watched demonstration. De-commencing forced niceties in 5… 4… 3… 2…

I bet that dress would look frumpy on you. I practically made sure of it by sending you to the changing room with the fat-adding mirror. Please, don’t bother asking me how it works, this is very technical stuff.

Can I help you find the right size? Not a fuck! Is it on the rack? Is it on the pile? No? THAT’S BECAUSE IT ISN’T HERE! It’s probably in the back somewhere and I’m too lazy to get it for you. I won’t even bother mentioning that I can order it from another branch because looking at the computer would mean I have to stop looking at you with my bitch-face on.

Oh! Have you chosen something? After 20 minutes in this store I damn well hope so. No, the red sticker does not mean that this item is on sale, I just put it there to mess with you. Haha!

As I fold your purchases, longingly… lovingly. I will say goodbye to the sweet lace dress I imagined would be mine. I’m sorry I have to send you away with this cretin, dress. Just know that I will miss you. *Sniff

So what if you have a real job and this dress is worth more than I will make in a month? I have something you will never have: The secret of the fat-adding mirror and the ability to spot a nada from a Prada!

You have a lovely day now. I’ll enjoy bitching about you when I’m on lunch with my friend that works at the MAC counter.

If this post were any more hip, it would be wearing a skirt.

Hello.

It’s been so long since I’ve last posted, my blog is practically underground. Why, Mainstream (that’s you, by the way), because I’ve been too busy bathing in golden afternoon light, drinking at that coffee shop with a particular air of pretentiousness and filtering my amateur (albeit ridiculously artistic) pictures of arb objects to worry about such carnal frivolities.

Blogging = Self loving = Carnal Frivolity.

In fact, I do not partake in any carnal frivolities. My dress sense does not hint at the slightest bit of sensuality, just try finding my boobs under this vintage waterfall t shirt, I dare you.

Expensive brands? NO WAY HOMIE. I fashion my own wares. I call this one “Whimsical”:

 Notice how I avoid eye contact? I’m portraying “ethereal” which is just a lank fancy term for “too good for you”. Please, don’t ask me why I’m wearing pointless knee pads, if you have to ask, it means that you have no hope of being as awesome as I am.

See this? This is what awesome looks like.

Sometimes I dabble in music. By dabbling, I mean collecting names of pointless bands that sound a lot like another famous band but are too busy rolling in grass and drinking conflict free green tea to bother with pointless things like making money.

Money? Who needs money? Who needs a career? I am an adventurer of life. I write my poetry on coffee stained napkins and throw them to the wind!

I’d recite a poem here but I threw all my napkins away and frankly, I don’t think you’d get it.

Have you lived, Mainstream? I mean, really lived? Have you ever looked at the clouds with the soundtrack of Simon & Garfunkel playing in the background? They made some good shit, those Simon and Garfunkel fellows. So unlike this poppy, flashy trash that you hear on the radio. I don’t even own a radio, I just make mixed tapes. Don’t ask me for a copy, I’ll cut you with the splinters from my wooden iPad case. But listen, cut down on the voilence please, this is not an xBox game. The only game I play is the game of life, and I’m so winning. Not that I care about winning…

Gravity doesn’t even phase me. Just look at this lovely photo. Does it look like I’m concerned about that pendant hitting my face? HELL NO! All I care about is the feel of the wind through my recently washed (organic avocado shampoo only please) hair.

You know who really had it going on? Those people from the 70’s. They’re like, totally my idols, or something… If I allowed myself to have idols.

I don’t even watch that crappy Idols show on MNet, that’s how anti-idol I am. Your life just sickens me, Mainstream. I can’t even stand to blog at you right now.

Hey… your dad is from the 70’s…

Is he single?

How do I write a blog post without sounding like a total bitch?

So I haven’t written on here for a while because I suck. No really, I’m not even going to come up with excuses, I’m not going to tell you that my job is like running up a hill, being chased by Justin Bieber while a subsequent crowd of rabid Bieber fans run after him AND IN THE BACKGROUND, REBECCA BLACK SINGS ABOUT FRIDAY OVER AND OVER UNTIL YOU MEMORISE ALL THE DAYS OF THE WEEK. That’s possibly the worst scenario ever.

Anyway, to the point – Out of nowhere, this happens:

Firstly, Ew.

Secondly, there’s not enough breast-milk to feed this much of douchebag.

I’m sure this happens on a daily basis. At any given time, girls breasts are at risk of being dry-humped by dudes with lactose deficiency. But enough is enough, I’ve had it with these guys, the ones that hoot when I’m walking to the hairdresser, minding my own business. The ones that think that calling me ‘sweetness’ or ‘baby’ or ‘sexy’ is somehow going to get me to do 100 naked push-ups on their livingroom carpet. If you, reader, know of or are one of these guys (or girls, depending), this post is for you.

1: Sexy without subtlety is cheap

I know we women like our guys to be ‘in control’ and ‘affirmative’, but what we don’t say is that you have to beat around the bush for EONS until you get any actual bush (or branches, as is the style these days). The instant strong-armed approach only works 2% of the time, so making your instantaneous boning intentions known is probably going to backfire on you. Flatter, placate, be coy, walk away. Suspense mode: ON

2: Be present for the actual flirtation

Scenario: Attractive female walks along street, oozing Sophia Loren attitude, you see her, and in your mind, you go like this…

So naturally, you do what any guy in your situation would do.. Rev your engine, turn up the music, hoot and proceed to drive away in the most show-offy manner you possibly can. I don’t know how you expect Sophia Loren to be impressed by this if you’re driving off while she’s being enveloped in a cloud of your testosterone-flavoured dust.

Seriously, why do guys do this?

3: We really don’t care about if your card sparkles more than Edward in the sunlight.

Sometimes, you’ll meet a really nice girl who is more interested in you than your bank account. This may not apply to every girl, each to her own and whatnot, but flashing your wealth without being coerced to is a free passport to Tackyville in which you’re the sole applicant for mayorship. Sure, money is important, so is a personality. Close your wallet and grow one.

4: I like that! What? YOU DON’T? Mmm. I don’t think I like it anymore…

Don’t do this. Someone that does not stand by their convictions just to impress or to avoid conflict goes does not a good impression make.

5: Read the situation

Pay attention! Words betray body movements. If she maintains eye contact along with boundless smiles: #winning. If she’s agreeing with one word answers and looking at the shoes on the girl in the dress that totally does not go with said shoes, you lost her. See what I did there? Exactly.

6: The object of your affections is NOT YOUR PREY.

Do not back them into a corner, do not act as if they’re the kill you’ve just dragged from the unhinged-jaws of a zombie (unless you’re the hero in this situation, then by all means). Tease, don’t crowd. This is not an orgy.

7: If you want to talk to me about your gym sessions, expect to be hearing about my pathetic love of cats and shoes.

Flirty conversation should be light and general. If you’re picking me up at a gym or I indicate that it interests me, this would be the sole time that a gym related conversation would be applicable. Similarly, if you strike up a conversation about shoes, we would… wait, then you’re probably gay.

8:Flatter flatter. Lie lie. THIS TIME I’M SERIOUS DAMNIT!

“No” or “I’m not interested” does not mean “try until you make me say yes”.

9: If you want to pick up chicks, do not read The Game

South African woman are born with a bullshit detector, I know this because I’ve seen one of the classic ‘seduction’ moves in action multiple times, failed. If you’re approaching flirtation as science instead of art, you might have to work on your interpersonal skills. Natural charm trumps rehearsed gimmics/tricks every time.

 

So… yeah.

I probably bitch level-upped after this post.

I love call centre agents… *swoon*

A long long time ago, I had the fortunate luck of working in a call centre. Fresh out of  university, this was the only job I could find with my limited work experience, so I was not complaining… Yet.

It was difficult. The hours were long, my conversational armoury was devoid of chit-chat and to top it off, I have the voice of a little girl (I know this for a fact because one of the customers asked me what grade I was in and whether my parents knew I was using the phone). I was very put out afterward, I decided not to speak to anyone for a week, except at work because I got paid to do so. The speaking I did at work outweighed the speaking I did out of work so this was a very moot exercise.

That said, I’m generally empathetic towards Call Centre agents but I loathe receiving calls from them. I feel like I’m on the Call Centre Agents Association most wanted list.

I'm Dustin. I'm here to make a mockery of your existence.

Typical conversation between me and a CCA:
CCA: “Hi, this is X from YZandBullshit Incorporated”
Me: *Shame, a call centre agent. I know how difficult their lives are. I shall be nice to this fine fellow (Because I think in an old British  accent, evidently)*
“Hi, this is ChocMilk from Planet Earth”
CCA: “…”
CCA: “I’ve called to tell you about an amazing opportunity that your friend Bla thought you might be interested in”
Me: *Bla, she’s a really good friend of mine, she wouldn’t give my number out to just ANYONE*
“Go on…”
CCA: “ Great, well, we at YZandBullshit Inc are offering some amazing discount vouchers that you could use when you go out for dinner with, say, your boyfriend”
Me: *It’s very presumptuous to think I even have one, what if I had a girlfriend and interjected to correct him? Wait… I totally should interject! WOOO! CURVEBALL!*
“I don…”
CCA: “Awesome! Now, you may be wondering….”
Me: -zones out-
2 minutes later

CCA: “… and all that for just R95 a month! How does that sound?”
Me: *Shit! I just made him recite that whole speech. I know that doing so takes a great deal of effort and builds a false sense of WIN! I should have cut the call when I had the chance! I SHOULD HAVE TOLD HIM THAT I AM A LESBIAN! Fuck. FUCK!*
“Great but I don’t think I have my banking details on me…”
CCA: “Not a problem, I’ll call you at another time”

And he did – multiply. Even though I avoided calls from private numbers for days afterwards, he managed to break through my barrier and make me feel even more guilty by saying that he realises how very busy I am…
As a result, I have to give him 5 recommendations – of close friends that may be interested too.
Not only do I have to suffer through the pain of speaking to him again, I have to bring my friends down with me and they will hate me for it and I will be alone and I’ll have to get a dozen cats and my house will smell of tuna and the kids in the neighbourhood will refer to me as ‘that crazy cat lady’ and when the kids in the neighbourhood tell tales of my infamous lack of sanity, they will say that I was brought down by a call centre agent.

That’s the very last time I let a call centre agent assume that I am heterosexual.

I don’t love you, dear reader.

I would like to say that I don’t blog because I’m too busy. I could even settle for ‘I have no drama to blog about’, but; with 2 break-up/make-ups, pending parental divorce, the wallowing pit of depression that is unemployment, a quarter life crisis AND absolute elation in finding my way out – my life is anything but drama-less. The fact is, my mind is a plethora of highs and lows just waiting to splatter itself on a screen and wiggle their way into the innocent mind of my reader.

Readers: THAT is the problem. I used to enjoy writing when nobody read my blog, offering sexual favours to my bf if he promised to. Social media erupted and when I decided to leak my blog on twitter, I was taking a leap of faith. A faith that people would see my work for what it was, ramblings from a nonsensical girl on their screen. We shared good times, uplifting ones even. Now that I have regular visitors, I find myself re-thinking the amount of crap I want to share. Unfortunately, this is entirely my fault. I started writing in a clever/sarcastic tone and assumed the reader would pick up on my breadcrumb trail. I have raised the monkey bar for myself and I’m afraid I can’t reach it.

My blog writing process:

I think I have blog writing performance anxiety.

If I was a dude, I’d totally suck at it.

Heh.
Nevermind.

ChocMilk: On being 25.

I have been on this Earth for exactly 25 years, 1 month and 13 days. At this point in my life, I would have made a serious impact on those around me, my career and my  environment, right? Right? Wrong.

Fresh out of high school, with my optimistically pink-hued shades and training bra, the future I had envisioned for myself was like something from a prime time show about a successful 25ish female with spidery eyelashes, high heels and a glamorous air that wreaked of romance and mystery. Truth is, I would have been utterly dismayed with that kind of life, and even though my glamorous airs are purchased and smell like Escada, I’d rather have it this way than another. I may not have a prime-time worthy life right now, but , after careful consideration, I have come to the conclusion that knowing what I know now might have made me considerably more boring.

Things I would have never predicted to happen when I was 17, but did.

I can’t watch porn.
Let me just get this out there, I have never watched porn with company, I can’t even watch a sex scene without feeling the need to disguise the fact that my cheeks are getting flushed with embarrassment. So, on the listless Sunday that Nick suggested we watch some (boys, I don’t get it) I was hyperventilating under my rapidly warming cool exterior.

Me: (thinking) “What do I do in this situation? Look sexy? Do I even know what that looks like? I need a mirror. ZOMG that guy looks douchebaggy. Do I really have to watch him do that? There’s no way those could be real”

Me to Nick:  “There’s no way those could be real”

Nick: “He seems to like them”

That summarises the whole 5 minutes I spent watching porn. As is fashionable, women of my age are supposed to be ‘sexually liberated’ and I thought I had crossed that line the moment I bought condoms from a garage at 2am. NO. They don’t show that part in Sex and the City. I feel inadequate. I should watch some porn.

After 25 years, I still know jack-shit about relationships.
Post hight school, I got into a hot and heavy tête-à-tête with a to-be-accountant. He was the alpha to my beta, the present value that would result in favourable time value of money outputs, regardless of the inflation constant. I was with him for 5 years and barely escaped impending nuptials with my sanity intact. I needed to grow up before I decided to have 2.5 children and a joint bank account. But, even after all this drama, I will never be prepared for new love affairs and I’ve decided that I prefer it that way.

I’m too old for this shit.
Rather, I’m ecstatic that I don’t have to do this, ever again:

• Two minute noodles
• Inflatable mattresses
• Justin Beiber
• Loud ‘woooo’ noises
• Glitter anything
• Scrapbooking

It’s okay to say no.

I am not my degree
When I decided on my career choice, I was 17. I liked the Backstreet Boys and belly tops. What does that girl decide to do with her life? Study finance! Obviously. Oh, my misguided youth… I don’t regret my career choice at all, I just wish I had a bit more exposure to the choices available. I am not my degree any more than blogging makes me a successful writer. It’s never too late to re-invent, it’s the whittling down on choices that’s the mind-bending part.

On winning the lottery
As opposed to several years ago, I won’t spendit all on one massive shopping spree. Also, actually buying a lottery ticket is imperative to winning it.

I don’t want to take over the world anymore
I’d have to wear lycra and come up with a name, an evil laugh and group classifications for my army of minions. Actually, I do have all of the above, except for the lycra.

lastly,

Writing about my personal life isn’t as tacky as I thought.
In fact, I’m finding this rather therapeutic 🙂

I still feel like I’m a few inches too short to get on the rollercoaster ride, but, at least I wear big-girl bras now!

Is there a party in your pants? Because I want in.

Valentines day. It’s like cleavage day only way more expensive. Unless you’re one of those people that are blessed with perfect gravity defying D cups or listen to Bono. I know right, no-one cares about Bono.

The origins of Valentines Day date back to 496 AD, a celebration of love, red roses and things that go ‘bump’ in the night. Or in the day, some people are into that. The commercialisation of this event happened many centuries later (in 1797) and has resulted in a boom of massed produced soppy declarations of love/adoration/hate/I’mjustsendingthistoyouhopingthatitwillhelpmegetlaid.

I know what you’re thinking.

But I hate Valentines Day Virginia! Why should I give a damn about your crappy blog post?

Firstly, my name is not Virginia. Secondly, that is a lie. You love Valentines Day. You want the tasteless candy and the tacky cards. You want someone to tell you that the mere sight of you turns them into little puddles of scmaltz. I know this, and as hard as you press that submit button, seconds away from spewing your distaste about it on twitter, you know it too. I don’t care. I don’t judge. I have no boobs and a pathalogical hate for Bono, you’re safe with me. I’m writing this blog post for you, because I care.

3 Valentines gift ideas that don’t entirely suck.

Something for everyone.

Sometimes feel I like that Leona Lewis song. Only tastier and more anatomically correct. I want to convey my affections in a way that’s both gross and educational at the same time.

This Giant Bleeding Heart Gummy Candy isn’t for the squeamish. We’ve had them custom-made just for you. Each yummy gummy is loaded with special extra goodies inside – squishy candies full of liquid blood candy. That’s right; this heart bleeds when you eat it. And just so you can make sure to make the best impression (and biggest mess) possible, we’ve added an extra little vial of liquid blood candy. Because there’s no better way to say, “I love you,” than with a Giant Bleeding Heart Gummy Candy.

You can get it here – http://www.thinkgeek.com/interests/valentines/d19a

Something for the boys.

Virginia, I’m a cautious soul, how do I make sure my man and his package are safe at all times?

Sadly, there is no fool-proof way for ensuring the well-being of any man, let alone yours. The least you can do is protect him from 3rd degree burns and let him know how much you care at the same time. Forget silky boxers and tighty-whiteys, fire resistant underwear are all the rage these days. Maybe I’m just looking for an excuse to post this picture. This is just an example, there is no limit to your creativity. I, for one, prefer a print similar to that of the Starfleet Command uniforms or something darker like skulls and bones and lolcats. What? Lolcats are evil. Also, this could double as something he could wear to make your toasted cheese sandwiches for breakfast. I know, this picture is awesome. Good luck getting this out of your dreams tonight.

Something for the girls.

Virginia, lingerie is nice, but it does get a bit boring sometimes what with all them ribbons and buttons and things with clasps THAT REALLY DON’T COME APART AS EASILY AS THEY SHOULD. I want to get her something special that both her and I enjoy.

Easy. Vajazzle. No, it’s not a dance MC Hammer does. It is a process in which a lady bedazzles her area, post waxing, with swarovski crystals in a shape of her choice. Recommended by sinful ladies such as Jeniffer Love Hewitt, vajazzling may bring some illumination into your love life, or just shine like a disco ball.

Cindy Barshop of Completely Bare hi-tech spas in NYC has offered this shizzle of a vagazzle since 2000; first an ouchless Brazilian wax (everything removed) followed by a Swarovski crystal tattoo design in a starburst, butterfly, heart, or numerous other shapes. “Hip, trendy and confident women like Jennifer get this done,” says Barshop. “It’s like buying a new pair of lingerie or getting a mani/pedi. It’s a feel-good service…and men LOVE it on women. They love it even more when it’s a surprise.” http://bit.ly/dy3NIz

I’ve tried to google images of this, for the sake of my reader I swear! Alas, such a picture does not exist so I’ve had to meticulously Photoshop a sparkly heart on some porn star’s lady area, such in the level of dedication I have to you and to the integrity of this blog. You are welcome.

Also, please stop calling me Virginia.

Schwoar Harold! That zombie almost looks real!

Date: 31/12/2011

The world celebrates the dawn of a new year. Jocks, hotties and other semi-cool people are celebrating with copious amounts of alcohol, karaoke, dancing and picture taking. Almost everyone is doing it, even that Joey guy from Friends. Whatever happened to him anyway? Oh, no-one cares about Joey, his hair doesn’t glisten half as much as Rachel’s. Damn that Rachel.

Somewhere, in the basements/attics/3rd bedrooms of parent’s houses around the world, sits lonely late-20-somethings,  frenzied with scouring the internet for hentai porn, playing World of Warcraft or homing in on their Guitar Hero skills. These people are the scourge of society, your boss or that guy you’ve been flirting with for over a month – ladykiller765.

In the midst of their revelry, something tragic happens to all the socialites of the world. Dr X, an evil mastermind tripping on peyote, accidentally transmits an ultra high frequency sound-wave that triggers a part of people’s brains that turns them into FLESH EATING ZOMBIES. Unawares to the mayhem occurring around them, the nerds, geeks and miscellaneous misfits remain unaffected, safe within the protective layer of their noise canceling headphones. I know what you’re thinking. What about the deaf people Miss blog writer person? You doubt the genius of Mr X. Don’t get all stroppy with me!

The fate of humanity lies in the hands of ladykiller765 and the like. Who will save our species? Who will boldly go where none have gone before? Who will turn off the LHC? Who will blog about the event?

GEEKS or NERDS? WHO WILL SURVIVE A ZOMBIE ATTACK?

One whose IQ exceeds his weight. Places much value on learning the technicalities on almost every subject without feeling the need to put this knowledge into practice. Ignored by society, the nerd becomes a hermit, sharing his thoughts with a select group of individuals, usually using the internet as a medium of communication. Nerds have little to no social skills, possibly eliminating the likelihood of procreation through ‘traditional’ means. The nerd is ill-equipped to defend himself, though is not a novice in terms of knowing what it’s like to be a victim. This may or may not be considered as an advantage. Easily identifiable by his attire, demeanor and reliance on medical apparatuses which often leads to him being the butt-end of the joke. Unless the zombies have a wicked sense of humour and an acute case of  jock-syndrome, it is unlikely that the nerd will be the victor, though he will be able to explain his demise in clinical detail.

Not necessarily as smart as a nerd. One that puts on the façade of superior intelligence through  fixating on a certain type of genre that does not fall within social norms. Not as inept as his nerdy counterparts, the geek’s social prowess ranges from zero-Pete Cashmore. The geek is able to use his technical skills to his advantage, depending on his chosen genre. Therefore, a fitness geek might be more capable to defend himself than a portable geek, a special-effects geek might get too distracted by the realism of the zombies, missing the opportunity to flee or a die-hard video game geek might know all the tricks of the trade.  Most geeks possess a certain amount of sex appeal. Disguised as ‘the dark silent type’, they are able to find a mate in many social settings and even online, either using their natural talents or through acquired knowledge, example: The Game by Neil Strauss.

I don’t know about you, but my money is definitely on the geek. A geek is most likely to survive, find a mate, procreate and continue the species, one well thought out role playing adventure at a time. Although the future generations might be very elitist, it does look bright enough for us to forgive Dr X’s slip-up with the sparkly cactus. In fact, if such a situation were to occur, the future would most likely be run by an operating system, have a soundtrack featuring at least one synthesizer and we’d be able to hyper-jump through the space-time continuum with one click on our i-Pods attached to our jet packs.

Many thanks to the lovely twitter people for all your help in my, at the time, absolutely pointless research. Especially to @LeeAnneOlfsen and @NickJackson for your meticulous proof-reading 🙂

New Years Resolutions

1: Blog more.

2: Procrastinate less

3: Be fearless 🙂