No. I’ve got nothing today. I’m meant to be getting into the discipline of writing something every day, and today, I seriously have nothing. Worthwhile, that is.
I even tried to callously milk my friends dry while we sat around enjoying a sunday sesh at the local pub, to no avail. Although the philosophical discussions were exceptional, as were the discussions on farting. Top notch. Seriously. I’m not being sarcastic! I’m sure there’s a blog in there about the philosophy of doppelgangers, or of farting quietly… it’s just that my brain is full of too much beer to process it right now..
So I can only tell you about my day today. Which involves a man on the plump side, in a full length one-piece grey fluffy jumpsuit. I only wish I got a photo.
I threw myself outside into the world today, after spending all day inside yesterday. It’s not healthy to spend two days in a row cut off from fresh air, vitamin D, and other strange people.
I know, I thought, I’ll head into the city to try and find some clothes for winter, seeing as it’s getting cold and I have nothing to wear. I’ll give myself a mission: a) head into the city; b) find warm clothes. How hard can it be?
I hate clothes shopping with a passion. I’m not very ‘girl’ at all. It’s a chore which I refuse to embrace. It’s hard enough getting dressed once in the morning, let alone going to a public place and standing in a change room and undressing and dressing time and time again. I detest it.
It also doesn’t help that I have no idea what my ‘style’ is anymore. A couple of weeks ago I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror, wearing one of my many black Emily the Strange tees (one with skulls and death on it, but done pretty-like), dark jeans, heavy eyeliner, slicked limp hair, and discovered I was well on my way to emo, at the age of 34. Nay I say!
But, I have no other style. I’m not fluffy, or frilly, or (thank christ) ra-ra skirty, I’m just me a-la casual (with an apparent dash of emo).
So, the mission underway, I’m strolling through the city, connecting in milliseconds with casual glances at the people around me, when a thought pops into my head which I have to write down in my moleskine: ‘Shopping. I’m in the valley of the damned, embracing my disillusionment’.
I stop at a bench to write it down (my writing is atrocious – doubly so if I write when I walk), and I’m joined by a fairly large, possibly out of a mental hospital man, wearing a one piece, full length, grey fluffy jumpsuit slash body blanket slash wtf is it?
He’s dragging heavily on a cigarette and decides, since my head is buried in a notebook and I’m obviously engaged in intense personal thought, to strike up a convo with me. “I see that your writing is very small. You write very small. And you have small lines in the book. I can’t write small” wherein he pulls out his own notebook and displays it proudly, for me to acknowledge.
“I try, but I just can’t write that small, on the lines.” I think he’s going to open up his notebook to provide an example. I write faster, adding ‘sitting next to a guy in a 1-piece jumpsuit – grey, fluffy and he’s talking to me about writing in books. Funny stuff.’ I offer him a verbal critique of my horrendous scrawl, chuckling in that ‘don’t hurt me’ way.
It was truly bizarre. But I’m glad I’m not the only one walking around with a notebook of some description, writing down random thoughts on the fly. I wonder how many of us are out there?
A notebook in the bag is like a Harry Potter Pensieve – a place to pull out the threads of our random thoughts to review in a third-person perspective later down the track. I highly recommend it. Although if you’re wearing a one-piece at the time, and look a little like the crazy guy from The Simpsons who thought he was Michael Jackson, I may not acknowledge you while you do it.
Oh and in case you’re wondering, I failed on the clothing, but managed to find some fairly respectable winter boots. Much better than my last effort when I went looking for clothes, and came home with three new books instead.
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