I got a taxi this week. Now, I’m fully aware of quite a few things about that opening line: one, it’s a terrible line to start a blog post with, and two, getting a taxi seems rather unremarkable. Unless it’s one of those disco taxis, where a mirror ball comes down and a terrible reminder of the ‘70s comes flaring out of the funk-amps. That was a dream I had, by the way. Some people dream about being firemen rescuing people from burning buildings or walking on other worlds and becoming a hero. Not me. I dream of disco taxis. Which would be rather remarkable. Sadly, it was just a dream. Channel 5 have failed to pick up that crap idea and smear it on our screens, which makes it one of the few pieces of crap they’ve yet to do that with.
No, my taxi was an ordinary one. But it was the first taxi I’ve ever ridden in, by myself. I know. I don’t know if that’s tragic or hilarious. Or a mesmerizing mixture of the two. Trarious. Good word. 22 years and seven weeks old. Not once by myself. That was fun. Irrelevant information, but I thought you ought to know. No idea why I thought that.
I was heading home from a party. I know exactly what you’re thinking. I’d like to stress at this point, ‘I know exactly what you’re thinking’ isn’t a threat. It’s a threatening figure of speech, I whole-heartedly agree, but I was intending it as metaphorical. Which I’m sure you’re aware of. But in case you weren’t, don’t be worried. But yes, a party. One I played a part in organizing. Now that’s remarkable.
I spent much of the afternoon helping to set up. I was tasked with inflating the helium balloons using some tiny canister. And in case you’re wondering, no, I’m not an idiot. I didn’t try to do the squeaky voice thingamajig. Not at all. I let my brother do it. Trust me on this: it’s a complete lie that helium makes your voice squeaky. Does not work. At all. Seriously. Try it. No, don’t. Helium will kill you if you inhale too much, but I’m not sure how much ‘too much’ is, so, don’t try it. Although you can if you want. Think about it. You’d have ‘died from helium inhalation’ on your gravestone. Sweet.
I wasn’t overly happy about attending a party, I must say. Parties aren’t me. They’re embarrassing more than anything. I had people asking me if the reason I was so quiet was that I was shy. To my very face. So humiliating. I didn’t know how to react. I went all sheepish and red, gave a shrug of the shoulders and stared at the wooden floor. A metaphorical reflection. And the first girl to ask if I was shy was so pretty. Oh well. That’s life. First sung by Marion Montgomery 48 years ago. Rest in peace, sweetheart. Your words will always live on.
It was a strange week of firsts. I bought my first razor. That was a challenge, primarily because I was feeling so deflated after the humiliation of the party. Going to the shops was terrifying. It seemed to me like a big, black vortex with a horde of growling monsters from a ghostly lagoon guarding it. The fact that I was soaking wet because of a thunderstorm raging in the skies above seemed apt. Shyness is a cruel mistress.
I’ve been by myself this week. Parent’s away jet setting. I’m surprised that nothing has gone wrong yet. I’ve normally set the kitchen on fire by now. Or myself. Or fallen down the stairs. Or cut my thumb. Or fell over a Christmas Tree and sprained my wrist. Or caught the lurgy. By the way, just in case you’re new here, all of those things have actually happened to me when my folks have been away in the past. God only knows what’ll happen when I eventually move out. I’ll probably be mauled by a radioactive chimp.
I’ve kept myself amused this week. Carried on the endless search for work. Carried on my hours inside my room, staring at the big wide world from behind the glass of the window like some deranged auld lady. Rearranging my room. My parents are always pissed off when I do that, so I always do it when they’re not here. Such fun. I’ve been sleeping a lot, too. And then there was the other reason for my visit to the shops: to get my new glasses. I’d like now to pay tribute to my old, now defunct pair of glasses:
If one can imagine a diseased, incontinent, sore ridden, nearly dead, blind, angry, bitey, annoyed, horny, pathetic, elderly yak, right there, in whatever room you find yourself in, 24/7, every single day, for two whole years, then one can begin to conjure the sheer misery I’ve had to endure. Those glasses have even failed in their core purpose to enable me to see. They’re covered in more scratches than a vinyl of that abject misery dance remix of Adagio for Strings that, for me, redefined the words butchered, saudade and hatred. That vinyl, beleaguered with those myriad of scratches because it was played more times in 2000 than a nun in a coffee shop. Those glasses will rot in the darkest recesses of hell where they will be forced to spend an eternity listening to John Wayne moan.
All in all, it’s been a rather eventful week, I must say. Now to wait and see if anything goes wrong next week. Fingers crossed, I won’t be seriously injured in a comical accident. Oh, I’m going to regret saying that, aren’t I?
“Mystery creates wonder and wonder is the basis of man’s desire to understand”, said the great American astronaut, test pilot, aerospace engineer, university professor and United States Naval Aviator, Neil Armstrong (1930-2012).
Peace Out :|:
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