Oh it was an EARRRRRLY start this morning...I gotta say as much as I love staying up... I do love a good sleep... and as much as I love getting going... getting up is totally overated.
I'm freakin excited. Another loan ranger road trip is looming and even though I know I'm going to be RATSHIT on Monday... I am looking forward to it. Seems these last two weeks have flown by but have been boring as arse. I'm knackered at night but I'm back into my seriously weird dreaming patterns - I wake myself up... take a good swigg of water, shake it off and mutter... "Yeah, yeh-yeah-yeah, I gotta cut down on the Cody's...foooeee...bi-i-zzarrrrrre". Yawn. Fart. Snore.
What totally blows my mind when I dream is my sensory detail - I can feel, taste, touch, smell... its trippy. What I can never do is run, cry, scream, die. Which I guess is a pretty good bonus with the exception of when I'm trying to get the hell away from something.
Last night I distinctly remember cupping a MOOB. Yes I was copping a feel of a man breast. Whose I cannot divulge for fear of humiliation... plus I doubt George Clooney would ever read my blog... uh-oh... DAMMIT!
Anyhoo... we all know that GC is pretty tidy for a celebrity hobbit... however, in my state of alpha fondle I have to admit I wasn't impressed. Thus the Georgie crush dwindled by the grey of the morning mist... Until about 2 hours ago...
No I wasn't having a day-dream-moob-feel-flashback but I did have one of those special moments that you read about and fantasize about but never really take seriously coz people will just think you are full of shit. And I am, most of the time... in a nice non-offensive way. Freakishly eccentric, gregariously delightful.
I was in Ponsonby. (Yeah you heard right. Early morning, needed coffee, closest place, end of story). So a colleague and I rocked into this cafe and I'm yabbering like Jajabinks on crack about some mundane crap and all of a sudden my chest prickles and my head is possessed by a mysterious force that mechanically (and slightly 'Exorcist-ish-ly' if that's a word) turns my head and eyeballs' attention to the back end of the cafe.
(insert heavenly halo shining angel wings flapping glitter bomb dropping cloud hopping pan-flutey harp playing god-ghetto-box sounding, chimes... here)
Hell-oo honey I am H. O. M. E. and VERY happy to see you...fwoar.
Here's George Clooney's younger more attractive clone with the trendy unshaven good looks of poor dead Denny of Grey's Anatomy (whom of which was on my A-list of male actors starring in my various dream states for quite some time). Smiling, grinning in fact and locked in eye contact... with me. Yes my eyeballs... mine, not my blonde colleagues, not the stumbling drunk outside or the teenage waitress with the low-slung jeans and chuckies... MINE. Oooh my lil heart skipped a beat... and I caught my breath a little... I think...
I know how tin-arse does that sound!!?? I can hear your dry-wretching from here okay and yeah I'm slightly nauseous too but I swear to god... A MOMENT. Of course being well-practised in the art of 'crowded room moment-flirting' from my earlier years as a full-time hottie, automatic hormone pilot kicked in and I twinkled my eyes, smiled back and continued with my Java-deprived Jajabinks jabber.
Now he's psychologically stalking me and I'm sliding down the slippery slopes of an obsession over someone who was probably... (and let's be honest here it was PONSONBY for farks sake)... LAUGHING at me, not sharing a movie-moment. I probably had marmite on my face or a booger hanging out my nose or something - or my blouse button was undone and my mono-ab was poking out desperately trying to make its escape as it does several dozen times a day... but then... when doubt and commonsense are prevailing....
(insert heavenly halo shining angel wings flapping glitter bomb dropping cloud hopping pan-flutey harp playing god-ghetto-box sounding, chimes... here)
I took another look and it happened again.
And again.
I don't think I actually exhaled until he walked out of the cafe. Probably what he was smiling at - my face bright red and shiny like I was holding in a fart or something. Or that he just thought I was retarded. Or paranoid. Or on crack. Yes. Yes that's probably definitely what it was because I was in PONSONBY guys like that don't REALLY mean magic-movie-moments in PONSONBY. He had probably just dribbled out of the Whiskey bar. Or rolled down the hill from some dodgy all night booze binge in the CBD and can only stand in one spot grinning stoopidly because if he so much as twitches he'll puke jager-bombs all over the pumpkin and feta muffins - OR... hes on crack. And his face looks like that because he's frickin fried.
Yeah. Yeah that's most likely it. For sure. Because it's freakin PONSONBY. You're not in Horrenderson now Doctor Ropata. You're drowning in trim soy double shot caffeine free chai mocha-latte hell dressed in Calvin Klein and no matter how good he looks walking away with his apple-butt and friendly face he's probably off to wank around an oversized boardroom table about inflated advertising campaigns with derogatory remarks about female anatomy and cruetly to animals (Yes, we only have one and we must look after it) and which office conquest with botox and fake boobs is on the agenda for Friday night drinks.
Yeah. Definitely. That's totally him. Whew. Psychological stalking successfully dissolved. Ahh I feel so much better... lighter... stronger... in charge.
Oh who am I kidding?? We all know I really mean horny. And IT WAS A MOMENT. SEVERAL IN FACT... A PONSONBY moment... like a New York minute... but without bagels and cream cheese.
See you after the weekend... maybe by some miraculous force of nature and fate combined he will have some paranormal force guide him to Cambridge... yeah right!
Lots of love,
See you on the flipside
Peace out
Styles
xxx
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