2:something in the a.m.

2:26am. i can't sleep, it seems. at 7:15 this evening i took two sleeping pills, which were supposed to send me into deep slumber by 9:00. obviously, as i'm sitting here, they have yet to take effect. i've watched The West Wing. watched the Big Brother eviction. watched Newsnight, then Newsnight Review (reading John Updike's latest novel, apparently, is akin to being "sexually assaulted... then made to drink drain water"). then Boys Don't Cry. then lay in bed and thought about Boys Don't Cry and hate crimes. got out of bed to IMDB Boys Don't Cry. found out that a lot of the movie was factually inaccurate. cared a little bit, but not really. checked my e-mails, message boards, latest headlines. hoping that the glare of the computer screen will make me sleepy.

i have a breakfast meeting in the morning. how much do i want to bet that i'll fall asleep in a plate of mushroom omelette?

so much and nothing to say

the night is breezy but warm at the same time. cool, but slightly humid. reminds me of home, a little. and as much as i look forward to the cooler months ahead, i wish the summer heat would last just a little bit longer. the sun, i've come to grow quite attached to her.

i have been having some odd dreams lately. one in which a coconut tree falls on Melanie. i run off to get help, and when i come back, she's gone. i continue down the dirt path we were walking and eventually come to a spiral staircase. i have to repel up on the outside of the spiral because the stairway is narrow and i'm carrying a large backpack. up the stairs is the office of a Nazi general, who points out the way to the hospital. when i get there she's in a bed, wires and tubes and all, but just a small gash on her forehead. then i bump into Belinda, who's in the opposite bed, with a broken arm. there are women sitting cross-legged on the floor holding their babies in sarong baby carriers. i leave the hospital and make my way back, passing through a row of army barracks and a village full of violent natives who intend to kill and boil me. i play human tic-tac-toe with them and when i win, they allow me to pass through a set of gates. when i get to the other side i turn back and say "this isn't better!" but i can't see why.

when i was younger, before the family home was set up with burglar alarms, i used to sleep with the windows open and the ceiling fan on low. night-time is the best time. it's cool, windy. my bed was next to the window and i used to dangle my feet out as i fell asleep. the air back home smells heavy. thick. tonight, sitting at my desk with the windows open, the air smells heavy. slightly smoky. it's easy to imagine that the hint of smoke in the air is caused by what's left of a fire Gene and i started that evening in the backyard - dried weeds and newspaper. it's easy to picture my bed by the window, feet dangling out.

i'm on to you...

yes, you. the man who watches football because you claim it is a man's sport, and scoffs and smirks and sneers when i gush about Grey's Anatomy or Sex and the City, or Callie Khouri movies... i know what you're really all about. 'cos i've been watching bits and pieces of the World Cup and from what i've seen, all that sweating and running and testosterone-driven spats just cleverly cover the underlying dramatics that go on in and after a match. allow me to present to you, England v Portugal. the match in which Wayne Rooney loses his temper and stomps Carvalho (in the crotch, no less), resulting in a red card and send-off. after the game there was an in-depth "analysis" of the incident (which occured in all of 15 seconds), starting with Rooney's tackle, the stomp, then oh my gosh Christiano Ronaldo comes running up to the referee from the other side of the pitch to complain about what's happened, then after the red card is shown to Rooney, Ronaldo walks away, and is seen to wink!! and oh my gosh what did that wink mean? but that's not it... there's coverage in the papers too... follow-up articles on what next season in Old Trafford is going to be like what with what will surely be upcoming tension between Ronaldo and Rooney in Manchester United, then statements from both players saying no, all is fine, we exchanged texts and everything's okay. not only that, but all the falling and the diving and the clutching-of-the-leg/foot/thigh and the grimaces of pain and the "oh referee i'm injured so bad i can't get up and... oh, you're not looking? okay i'll just try to get up and, oh, look, seems like i can stand up, i'm just going to try to... oh, i'm okay! but hey keep an eye on that guy, he tripped me, could've broken my foot there..." please!! any of these scenarios would fit just fine in a Falcon Crest story arc, so come on you're not fooling anyone. now that's all i have to say on the matter because my current favourite teen lesbian soap is coming on in 2 minutes.

love you (from afar)

a few weeks ago a close friend of mine came over from Nottingham. when i went to pick him up at the bus station on Tuesday he said "i have an open ticket, and i can stay til whenever." and i thought that was great because he is such a doll and i love having him around. so off we went - had dinner in town, when we got home we spent the rest of the night talking, gossipping, bitching about people we know. everything was lah-de-da! but by the evening of day two i was wishing that "til whenever" actually meant "two nights, tops". we'd had an argument, i lost my cool, but thanks to four little pill-sized wonders, all was back to fine and dandy by 10 o'clock that night.

throughout the rest of his stay i found out more about him, and him a little about me, and the lives we want to live, and the people we'd like to meet, and the boys we'd like to do, and among all this i found that we have very contrasting opinions about some things - women, for example. i found myself shocked when he said that he expected all mothers to automatically become full-time home-makers, and although i wanted to keep quiet in order to avoid another argument, i could not shut it for this one. long story short, we agreed to disagree. he ended up staying til Sunday afternoon, and now that he's back where he is and i am where i am, i kinda miss him a little bit. except i think that this is just how i like it... a long-distance friendship, with occasional hour-and-a-half phonecalls, and the rare weekend visits.

it's funny; we both love Will & Grace, and Jules has always fancied himself the Will to my Grace. except, unlike Will, he could never pass for straight and, unlike Will and Grace, we don't live together, and if i have my say, we hopefully never will. anyway, there's a reason why it's a sitcom... Grace can't stand Will's overbearing smothering and his incessant urge to put everything right, and Will can't stand her eating habits and laziness, and sometimes they fight, and lots of times they yell at each other, but by the end of the half-hour everyone's hugging and laughing again, and i am just not convinced that happens in real life, without the help of either very strong pharmaceuticals, or a patience that knows no bounds.

or maybe i've lived alone for too long, and am almost devoid of relationship skills.

this blog has gone to poo

yesterday someone found my page by Googling "chinese poo tea capsules". if that person is still reading this, or has come back for a second look, i suggest you change the structure of your phrase to "Chinese tea poo capsules", because i'm sure you wouldn't want Chinese poo in your tea capsules. why you'd want any kind of poo in your tea i don't know but hey, whatever floats your boat. i don't judge.

the World Cup

Italy vs. SomeTeam
me: that was a great fall! hahahaha
him: oh please. he is so over-reacting. total actor.
me: why is he just lying there? why doesn't he get up?
him: ...
me: maybe, he's waiting for the referee to come check the scene out... so he can decide whether to book that guy or not.
him: oi. this is footballlah. not CSI.
me: new franchise... CSI: World Cup. here comes Grissom with his brushes.

England vs Portugal
me: i love Ashley Cole's spiffy red shoes!
him: eww.
me: mmm those Portugal boys sure fill their shirts up well.
him: i wish i had his butt.
me: eat more. and do your butt-clenches.
him: no. i wish i had his butt... in my hands.

god i love the futbol.