At the very least, I deserve some kind of a loyalty-point cash in with the good folks over at Murphy's Law. Or perhaps some half-off coupons over at Metaphorical Bird Shit All Over You Inc. Maybe my karma needs an oil-change; fuck knows. But either way, I'm seven different shades of feeling sorry my own arse and about nine other hues of a few choice swearwords. Lemme 'splain- no, ees too much, lemme sum up:
So had a little three month dalliance with dating outside of the relationship I'm carrying on with Benedict Cumberbatch in my head. It started out like every excellent and slightly indie rom-com you've seen, and now it is kaput. Kind of first three quarters Garden State, last five minutes 500 Days Of Summer. I don't mind telling you I'm more bummed than three months really ought to merit, but there it is. Not angry, mind you; this is not a Baartin Botze sort of a breakup. Collectively, we who identify as pie-people still like his personage very much, and in fact are seriously considering having to kidnap some of his friends because they are all awesome. We do however want to eat about 5 litres of ice-cream and play Adele songs really loudly until 4 AM also, which I can live with.
Mostly my weekends have been spent commuting in and out of Joburg from Centurion on the Gautrain to sleep over at his place, which is one of the reasons this blog might have appeared to be napping for the last while. We went to Roller Derby and had some other hoots, but not a lot of bloggable material unless you count chronicling the words and phrases we made up on a weekly basis. (You might well count that, we were on some kind of roll, let me tell you.) Mostly we hung out and laughed ourselves sore at inside jokes and I kept him company while he worked overtime from home. Allow me to assure you they have been my favourite three months out of the past 22 years bar none, and no amount of Setting Fire To The Rain or rainbow sprinkles over toffee sauce is going to mitigate that.
Now I need to get my arse up and out of PJs, and do stuff so you good people can have the chuckles I so badly want to give you. This starts with me applying and auditioning for absolutely any band looking for a female vocalist who is so rad that she could probably build you a papier-mache pirate hat on command, and includes in the initiation phases me corralling up every one and sunder who has legs and is available to be dragged along to Wolves this Thursday for their weekly gig night. I am cashing in every friend card I have, because damn it people I cannye spend no more on cheering-up shopping sprees and I certainly shan't be able to continue consuming the amounts of flour-based foodstuffs that I have in the last few days. This is Operation Get Loraine Back to Equilibrium (catchy, no? OGLBE. Probably pronounced "ogglebee"- we'll get some T-shirts and buttons made up, it'll be a whole thing.) and it needs YOU.
It most especially needs you because if I stew for too long here it's going to be impossible to keep my mind from going to angry places, and I'd prefer to keep this person as a friend if at all doable. So I need distracting and/or Benedict for at least a month- get out the tinfoil and glitter, because we're going to run out of legitimate distractions quickly and everyone knows I'm like a crow with anything remotely shiny.
I have a couple of bigger projects I'd like to get going that have been sitting on my shelf forever, I will keep you updated. One includes a booth, which will be a Pie Project through and through. There will be banners printed up and publicity drummed up, and hopefully it will result in candy-coloured chaos.
So, Thursday- who's in for Wolves?