(no subject)
My schedule's been like gay porn this last week: all these balls at my face (not yours, Shaman), messes to clean up, getting the shaft. Not to mention I don't know what direction I'm facing or who's on top of me or beneath me. I missed an interview with Cold Bread, the Icelandic duo who sing about carbohydrates? Doesn't matter - saves me from telling them they're shit to their dough-eyed faces. Sent one of the producers into a Moses-like fury, so I'll be setting him up at the Hangman's, where there's always red seas to part.
It wasn't until this morning, when I was in line at Costa for my Americano, that I realized I've been getting my own coffee all week rather than having one magically appear in my hand just when the eye-bags drop in. I didn't notice because I like standing in lines: all that anticipation, the build-up, the eruption of foam. I've missed lines so much, I just didn't know it until now.
This can only mean one thing, though: Inga's missing. Inga, my impersonal assistant? She gets my coffee, winds me up in the right direction, and excels so at being impersonal that I didn't even notice she was missing until now. I'm fairly certain my orbs haven't glimpsed her wallflower self since...since Bikinus Festivus. No wonder there was time for pachinko.
Naboo et al: is my impersonal assistant somewhere in your flat? You may want to check the roof.
It wasn't until this morning, when I was in line at Costa for my Americano, that I realized I've been getting my own coffee all week rather than having one magically appear in my hand just when the eye-bags drop in. I didn't notice because I like standing in lines: all that anticipation, the build-up, the eruption of foam. I've missed lines so much, I just didn't know it until now.
This can only mean one thing, though: Inga's missing. Inga, my impersonal assistant? She gets my coffee, winds me up in the right direction, and excels so at being impersonal that I didn't even notice she was missing until now. I'm fairly certain my orbs haven't glimpsed her wallflower self since...since Bikinus Festivus. No wonder there was time for pachinko.
Naboo et al: is my impersonal assistant somewhere in your flat? You may want to check the roof.