Glutes glutes glutes glutes...
Did they ever take a beating yesterday.
It coulda been the new rollerblades and the two-euro-coin sized blisters on the nonexistent arches of my terribly flat feet.
It coulda been the monstre's vain attempts at remembering my first year katas, and realizing that a round house kick is a lot harder to do if I'm aiming for someone taller than me. (a shadow on my armoire, to be precise)
(I only found out afterwards that I'm an idiot and a roundhouse is far too slow and unstable to be aiming that high anyway. But it looks sooo pretttyyyyy)
It coulda been the beating that my ego took, first spending Saturday trying on ballroom gowns (a heavily aerobic excercise especially when you're stressed about the whole idea to begin with) when I would have desperately preferred to be spending the time finding some way to AVOID purchasing such a dastardly taffeted thing and wearing corduroys to the company diner de no�l instead.
We're not even going to TALK about the "Gila's going to have to learn to wear shoes that coordinate with outfits" escapade, because there was bloodshed and I hear you can get arrested for that sort of thing here.
Coordinating with outfits. REALLY.
Eventually,I'll figure out just what I meant by that, and whether or not I have the right to rebel against something I haven't fully understood.
I'm just down because I was brainless yesterday, and behaved in a way I thought I had grown out of.
It could have been sitting up discussing the difference in personal philosophies at Anna MAria's, her thirty five years of italian life butting up rather angrily against the decisions I've made in my soon-to-be twenty five, and twenty-five-year-old sheltered Parisian Arn� trying to compensate with things he's learned about the dalai llama from movies.
Pardon the edge to my words, but I don't really mean them. I was thrilled to see the sun rise between two conflicting sentences.
As we decided to put it this weekend, I am still waiting for my soul to enter my body, otherwise known as desperately wishing that coffee gulped down whilst still scalding hot nearly ten hours ago, would have SOME sort of effect.
In the meantime, my ass hurts, my shoulders hurt, my blisters ACHE and my calves are turning whingeing into a rather spectacular newish art form.
And one of the most beautiful women I've ever met (on the insides as well as out) thought I was being clever when I used the term "bloody sausages" because "bloody hell" sounded far too religious for my currently irritated brain.
I am having trouble masturbating again. This love thing is SOOOOO complicated. Why won't my clitoris listen to me?
More random thoughts at eleven.
Just don't ask me which time zone, I've stopped counting.
The most glorious part of my weekend was the glee in his voice at five-thirty this morning when he announced that "all I have to do to get flattered is call Paris!"
Strange the things that stick in your mind in between ultra-condensed three-hour sleep cycles.
I just finished the book "Beggars in Spain" by Nancy Kress if I'm not wrong, and it has me doing all sorts of silly things.
These thoughts will be properly ordered tomorrow.
Probably.
Assuming I susrvive this evening's technical rollerblading tutorial from the gang of psychos who saved us from the other gang of extremely slobbery psychos yesterday.
This would just keep going endlessly if I didn't have a bus to catchhhh...