‘For Halloween?’ you ask. Nope, just because I got bored of having boring brown eyes and decided to get me some weird blue contacts. I was hoping they would look natural, and not ‘I’m either a vampire or a guy with stupid contact lenses in’, but oh well. It’s creepy as shit putting stuff in your eye though, right? I’ve never had contact lenses. Took me about ten tries per eye to get them in, and about it-doesn’t-matter-how-many-tries-because-I-gave-up-and-got-my-girlfriend-to-do-it-for-me tries to get them back out.
Oh, and for the record: these contacts are the one (two, technically) and only component to my ‘Halloween costume’, because I’ll be staying home anyway, stubbornly refusing, as always, to take part in any of society’s tedious tranditions.
We did some photo-shoots recently as a favour to a friend who runs a photography studio and needed someone for a class to take pictures of. We begged for it not to be too lame and ‘Now stare into each others eyes…‘-ish, but luckily it wasn’t too bad. So, without much further delay (notice that I’m stalling because I feel stupid), I present some not-at-all embarrassing pictures of Becky and I looking serious.
That’s right. I’ve been asked to do some posting for a Facebook Page for the store in which I work; and if these are the kind of tag lines I’m going to come up with to sell our products, I’m going to make them a fortune. Right? Right, guys?
Well, there you go. Times are officially tough. These are the only trousers I have that fit me, other than my black work trousers, and they now have a big rip in the knee. Not a ‘I bought it that way because I’m all anti-establishment and “who says jeans should be in-tact anyway” and stuff’ rip, nor even because of a singular event of cutting them on something, but simply due to old age. These have been my trusty jeans for about four years; during which time, they’ve basically been the only trousers I’ve worn.
And now they’re gone, and I haven’t a fuck’s chance of affording new ones. Fuck. Requiescat in pace, jeans… you weak-fibered betrayer; or possibly ‘betrayers’. I can’t figure out whether I need to continue using plurals to describe something that is singular, but is referred to as ‘a pair of’. Interesting. Note to self: think about this all night long and be sure to not get any sleep.
Well, my brother Daniel is visiting the day after tomorrow (the one who apparently looks like Brad Pitt, not the one who looks like… I don’t know who Marcus looks like actually, but never mind) with his lady-friend Molly, so that’ll be cool. I was hoping to have at least a single monetary note with which to take him/them/everyone in our assorted group out for a drink, but alas, that isn’t the case. I hope they like eggs, because that’s basically the only food we have. Lots of them. Becky’s mum has chickens. Yes, it’s weird.
Anyway… visitors. That’s cool. An island of cool in the tedious ocean that is my life at the moment. A small peppering of cool, sprinkled atop lashings of fuck everything. That’s the forecast for my immediate future. Forecast, or recipe? ‘Lashings’ and ‘sprinkles’ makes it sound like I was doing a cookery analogy. I guess the island/ocean analogy was perfectly apt as well, but whatever. We’ll go with the weather one. Some dry spells of warm coolness (oxymoron?), to break up the long winter of cloudy discontent. That’s the forecast for my immediate future.