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9 August, 2009

i’ve always had this thing that whatever my expectations of something are, they turn out to be the opposite. so much so that if i start imagining something will be really good, i usually stop myself so that i don’t jinx it into being bad.

case in point: saturday night i envisaged a lively 21st followed by a night out in the city. but what i got was
a short visit to a 21st (missed the speeches and everything but the company and the decor were lovely)
a car trip to the station during which i spilled cider all over my crotch. “why does the seat feel cold? oh out..”
followed by a night spent on various modes of public transport calling various people to figure out where the hell i was meant to be going
checking out real estate ads in the arms of my team leader
an awkward bus ride with said coworker and another, both of whom were holding their crotches and repeatedly yelling “i kill you!” in scary spanish accents
and then crashing at english boy’s place again because i had nowhere else to go and felt like a street urchin by the early hours of the morning
not to mention the walk of shame this morning through a park full of happy families and dogs, riding bicycles and looking up to see where the clip clop of heels was coming from at 11am on a sunday (the families, not the dogs)

Dali sketch from Alfred Hitchcock's Spellbound dream sequence

Dali sketch from Alfred Hitchcock's Spellbound dream sequence

needless to say, from now on i vow to have no expectations of anything and will trust my intuition as to what prospects are best for the night.
and i just used the word ‘crotch’ twice in a small passage of writing. disturbing

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