iTunes’ party shuffle
is playing a copy of: Almost Like Being in Love – Natalie Cole
– Unforgettable: With Love, of which I have the original CD and therefore didn’t steal music.
Been so busy I’ve only just realised that my friend Steve hadn’t called and whined about his miserable existence this past week. He just called earlier. Something about being somewhere in Thailand, trying to get away from it all. Wish I could be there too, at this point.
I suppose Steve’s got better reason to want to get away than I do. But if I know Steve well enough, he’ll be back in a week, complaining that his Singtel bill is five pages long with charges for 1,000 international SMSs to the idiot girl he’s not quite seeing and from whom he’s trying hard to get away.
I’m not too sure why Steve’s the way he is, and I don’t really wish to know. But he should know damned well the girl he’s not quite seeing is just playing the field, stealing kisses when she can from as many Steves as she can find. The slut.
Steve? He just makes a dive for the pain that’s calling, and this girl he’s not quite seeing knows damned well every time she makes noises like an injured animal, he’ll be there. The fool.
He probably dances a little jig of joy every time she calls, no matter what time of day or what state of mind she appears to be in (although most times, she sounds in deep emotional distress, even when there’s club music in the background).
I don’t think I know anyone else who’s got such immense propensity towards self-inflicted troubles as Steve. Except mebbe myself, say, a year ago?
But you know what? I’m tired of airing Steve’s woes. The bugger should go start his own blog. You hear that, ya sad fuck? (That goes for you too, slut. Leave my friend Steve alone!)
The queues outside Denki Sushi were never as long again after Jimmy’s index finger and thumb were severed by the conveyor belt and eaten by diners on the other side of the restaurant ($3.75, red plate).