But anyway, a year on, and I've finally done what I said I'd do a year ago: I've migrated to Blogger.
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It wasn't my intention to write this blog, it was my intention to give the girl downstairs a box of sweets, for her to invite me in for a chat, and for me to finally start unraveling the mysteries of the girl downstairs. Who is she and what does she do for a living? What on earth was she up to out in Germany and why did she return? What does her flat look like? Why does she live alone? Does she really think I make a noise when I put my shoes on in the morning, or is that just a made-up story?
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As anyone who knows me knows, I don't make a noise when I walk, but I do have a tendency to dance a bit in the morning. When I put on "Let's Go Crazy" by Prince, and he says "Punch through that floor", I really do go crazy.
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Anyway, the girl wasn't there. Oh no. "The girl was never there, it's always the same: running towards nothing, again and again and again and again and again..."
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The bottom line is: I just wanna dance with somebody who loves me. I've spent a considerable amount of time lately thinking about people who don't dance, because they say they can't dance. It upsets me slightly when people tell me that they don't dance. Dancing is natural, dancing is wonderful, dancing is a celebration. Dancing is the only true thing in this world. Dancing with tears in your eyes is as true as it gets.
Of course, I'm in training for the big summer dance at DMZ in Brixton on July 14th. Be there or be a total loser who doesn't know where it's at. I'm training hard: today I managed to out-run the running machine. How on earth did I manage to do a thing like that?
The damn stupid machine decided I'd had enough after 25 minutes. I was nowhere near finished. Well, I was almost five sixths of my way through the run. But the damn machine slowed down, and pissed me off, I sped it up again and then it stopped, and then I started it again and got back into my stride.
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The people who run the pool are fuckers, though. The pool shuts at 8. So at about 7.45 a load of trainee lifeguards come out and start rescuing each other. One of the fully trained lifeguards eventually asks me if I can get out of their way - "they'll only be a few minutes". What a lying fucker - the pool blatantly shuts at 8 for them. So why the fuck should I give them even more time?
I mean, would they accept it if I stayed there past 8 o'clock? "I'll only be a few minutes..."
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The long and the short of it is this: I'm tired of eating salad, and I now only have some lettuce left anyway. I'm just looking forward to a fat pizza at the end of the week. It is for this that I punish myself so much.
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I left my bottle at the gym too. Damn.
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I don't actually know where my goggles are, so I bought some new ones. Now I know where my goggles are. But I still don't know where the other ones are.
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There are no pictures here! I need a pic to brighten the page up. You guys need a pic too, because you love glossy mags.
That's a very unflattering pic of the lovely Tori playing her beloved piano.
The new brain trainer (they've called it "More Brain Training" - I wish they'd called it "Brain Trainer 2: Train Harder", and used Bruce Willis to advertise it instead of Nicole Kidman, but who cares what I think? Right, I've lost you here, haven't I?)...
The new brain trainer - "More Brain Training" - has a piano game on it this time. Play the keys in time with the music. I'm pretty good at it, as it goes: it's the game I'm scoring highest on at the moment. It's only a matter of time and space before I get myself a musical keyboard...
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Nicole Kidman. I haven't seen the adverts, as it goes. What was the deal with Tom and Nicole?
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Where on earth am I going?
There's only one Nicole worth talking about, and that's lovely Nicole Richie.
Don't play.
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