Cole's Notes
Aiight, so last week I traveled to the UK to visit my dearest friend, Nina; her husband, George and her ridiculously charming four-year-old son, Gus. Nina and I tromped around London. We were kicked out of a Top Shop by a wall-eyed Russian security guard. We (I) bored a communal table at a fancy dim sum joint with too-loud, Sex-in-the-City-esque tales of woe. We took in the Vanity Fair exhibit at the National Portrait Gallery and dined at the Tate Modern. We ate fish and chips and drank wine (Nina had only a little as she is in the process of gestating a gargantuan fetus).
George and I drank silly cocktails at a Cuban bar, scarfed back kebabs at a Turkish joint (duh) and took in an Arsenal game. George taught me the offsides rules and how to take back my life with Outlook. Plus, he hooked me up with a kick-ass phone. Sadly, he was also abused by the owner of the best Thai restaurant in Kingston and took it Korean style just to get his hands on probably the most delicious green curry I've ever tasted.
Gus and I baked cookies, played weird games and split bunk beds. He also reminded me that no matter how heartbroken I was feeling, all I really needed to do is learn my shapes and all will be well. And finally -- Nina, Crabdab (the fetus), Gus and I walked the 10 minutes from their flat to Hampton Court Palace to take a boo at King Henry VIII's crib and poor Gus got a miserable sliver.
I briefly considered getting a new tattoo in Jolly Old, but then I remembered that I hate paying for tattoos as much guys hate paying for head. I know, I know - I'm a cheap asshole who doesn't support the arts. But you just ask yourself how much you're paying to read this drivel. Darlings, this is my art. So, perhaps you can see where I'm coming from.
I realize this is a glancing retelling, but count your blessings it wasn't retold in one run-on sentence. There's a story to every thing we did, but I'm just not in the mood for yarn spinning. But I feel guilty if I don't commit shit to 'paper'.
Oh, Christ! I forgot to tell you all about the brutal asthma attack I suffered on the flight down! Man, I REALLY don't feel like storytelling tonight. Let's just say that there was an oxygen tank and sedatives involved. I will tell you that the British Airways crew who were working that flight are truly fan-fucking-tastic people. In fact, I would like to marry or at least have back-archingly good sex with every single one of them. Truly. They were so compassionate at a time that I needed it most. I couldn't breathe, I was an emotional wreck and I was more than half hoping the plane would crash. They provided salvation in the form of hot tea, a powerful sedative and a cozy spot where the crew slept. God bless you, BA. God bless.
It's laundry night and I'm wearing my traditional laundry uniform of a pink gingham skirt and black tank top. Don't ask me why. This just happens to be the outfit I put on for warshing clothes. I've got to put in a couple more loads. Perverts.
Forgive grammatical errors, typos, etc. Or don't. That's just how I roll.
George and I drank silly cocktails at a Cuban bar, scarfed back kebabs at a Turkish joint (duh) and took in an Arsenal game. George taught me the offsides rules and how to take back my life with Outlook. Plus, he hooked me up with a kick-ass phone. Sadly, he was also abused by the owner of the best Thai restaurant in Kingston and took it Korean style just to get his hands on probably the most delicious green curry I've ever tasted.
Gus and I baked cookies, played weird games and split bunk beds. He also reminded me that no matter how heartbroken I was feeling, all I really needed to do is learn my shapes and all will be well. And finally -- Nina, Crabdab (the fetus), Gus and I walked the 10 minutes from their flat to Hampton Court Palace to take a boo at King Henry VIII's crib and poor Gus got a miserable sliver.
I briefly considered getting a new tattoo in Jolly Old, but then I remembered that I hate paying for tattoos as much guys hate paying for head. I know, I know - I'm a cheap asshole who doesn't support the arts. But you just ask yourself how much you're paying to read this drivel. Darlings, this is my art. So, perhaps you can see where I'm coming from.
I realize this is a glancing retelling, but count your blessings it wasn't retold in one run-on sentence. There's a story to every thing we did, but I'm just not in the mood for yarn spinning. But I feel guilty if I don't commit shit to 'paper'.
Oh, Christ! I forgot to tell you all about the brutal asthma attack I suffered on the flight down! Man, I REALLY don't feel like storytelling tonight. Let's just say that there was an oxygen tank and sedatives involved. I will tell you that the British Airways crew who were working that flight are truly fan-fucking-tastic people. In fact, I would like to marry or at least have back-archingly good sex with every single one of them. Truly. They were so compassionate at a time that I needed it most. I couldn't breathe, I was an emotional wreck and I was more than half hoping the plane would crash. They provided salvation in the form of hot tea, a powerful sedative and a cozy spot where the crew slept. God bless you, BA. God bless.
It's laundry night and I'm wearing my traditional laundry uniform of a pink gingham skirt and black tank top. Don't ask me why. This just happens to be the outfit I put on for warshing clothes. I've got to put in a couple more loads. Perverts.
Forgive grammatical errors, typos, etc. Or don't. That's just how I roll.
posted by ... at 9:14 PM
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