Chinese Horoscopes

The place was hustling with noise and chatter as we sit in the corner, whatever cool-about-town magazine, clutched in our grasp.

“What’s your zodiac?” She asks leaning over.

“Pardon?”

“Your Chinese zodiac.” She says again, showing me the page.

The words, ‘Your Chinese horoscope’ glaring at me under the pseudo pretentious dim lights.

“Chicken” I say, as I shift in my seat.

“Let's see...... Chicken’s should watch out for changes in their employment in 2009…etc” She says as her feminine finger trace the lines.

My fingers take over as I complete the lines.

“…Compatible with : Tiger, Rabbit and Ox.” I finish.

Brief silence ensues.

“What about you?” I query.

“Tiger.” She replies.

I grin.

The night is worth it.

Tis the season

So I guess it's that time of year again.

History dictates that one should learn from his previous mistakes.

Especially when said mistakes relate to matters of the heart.

Over the years, I have learnt the hard way, that you never rush to tell a woman that you are nuts about her.

For no good can come from rushing.

But I now find myself in that oh-to-familiar situation. When oh f'ing when is it the right time to be forth right? to stare down the barrel of a gun? to pee into the wind? to tell you that I am head over heels for you?

As I sit here, palms drenched in sweat, pondering this, something inside tells me that this is the time. But is it?

Fuck.

Pft.

Let's just get with the program. I mean, it's Christmas and if you can't be honest during Christmas when can you right?

The Carpet, It Burns You!!!

All my life, all I've known is burnt carpet. Ouch.

Imagine you're 5, just a kid. When you're 5, the world seems five times as large. Mainly because you are five times smaller than adults. You're full of starshine wonder. Toilet bowls amuse you. Dogshit entertains you. Booger tastes good to you.

You're 5 years old. You have no concept of love, respect, don't care for money, no clue that life is actually just one big humungous dildo waiting to rape that metaphorical butthole that is your soul. You're mom feeds you, and you're happy. Happiness is a warm plate, not a smoking gun. See what 20 extra years on earth can make you feel like.

But you're 5 years old. Now imagine you're in a big room. Talking like blue ocean big. You're 5, remember? Rooms like that are easy to find, aplenty. You're small!! A little tyke! And to keep up with the theme, its fully-carpeted. Sheepy fleece white, just to whet your hungry imagination.

And so you're standing there, minding your own business, in your own happy little 5 year old existence. Now say you have a friend there. She's 5 too! But you don't dig her, naw. Girls are yecky at that age. It's ironic; you want to do everything when you're 5, except the opposite sex. When you're an adult, you don't want to do anything BUT the opposite sex.

But lets not burst the fragile bubble that is this 260 week paradise of lost innocence. Now imagine the girl (lets say she's a skinny little pig-tailed girl with big wide eyes, a full stop for a nose and no front teeth), invites you to race you to the end of the room. And what's worse, the bitch has ran off first! You're doomed to a bad start before you've even taken the first breath, let alone your first step.

But that competitive 5 year old streak of yours won't let go. You can't win; the odds are all stacked against you; you're screwed. But you're 5; what the feckin' hell do you know about winning or losing? Everything's fun... so you chase after her, running the length of the continent of a room.

And while you're running, and as she turns back just so she can flash her lecherous face at you, to rub it in that she's winning (nevermind that she had a 5 second headstart), you pick up the pace, accelerating towards the end of the room, determined to do your damnest to either win or condemn yourself to an eternity in Hell (although what a 5 year old believes hell to be is also anyone's guess, quite possibly a world full of bittergout and broccolli... )

And that's when you slip, and you're running so fast, you don't realise how much momentum you've built, and your little feet give way to the fast approaching carpet, and that's when it happens.

The carpet, it burns you. You've skinned your knees.

And your little 5 year old physique shoots with this searing pain, which of course will pass in due time, but the abrasions are there to remind you of your folly, and should serve you well as a chilling reminder of your life:

While chasing after someone, you had fallen hard for that person, but all you got for falling for them was burnt.

This is the concept of carpet burn. All my life, all I've known is burnt carpet. Ouch.

Numero Uno

So this is how it all begins.

And begin it shall.