Fizzz! Bang! Ka-pow! Crackle! Whizzzzzz! Wheee!
No time to blog!
I'm off out to a Mexican firework display.
Then a Hallowe'en party.
Of course, there are the obligatory lesbian baby-dyke crushes, like Nicola Cowper, Kate Hardie or Charlotte Gainsbourg. But dykes always end up blogging endlessly about women of dubious sexuality on childrens' teev, and frankly, it becomes tedious.
(At this stage, I'm not willing to enter revelatory mode regarding sexual fantasies about trees and rubber tires.)
No, I'm more fascinated by the male crushes -- and my other crushes are all seriously ancient ugly old men. Top of the list - Donald Sutherland. Close second at fifteen years crush status - Christopher Walken. Bringing up the rear (ooer, missus), Arnold Schwarzenegger, oooh how embarrassing, a relative newcomer at just five years of crush.
How come no-one fantasises about old women like they do old men? I mean, you wouldn't kick Helen Mirren out, but by and large, male mingers gain much greater sexual status as they get older. I've seen blokes who would definitely rate a three out of ten in their teens and twenties attract the attention more merited by a nine in their late thirties, purely by virtue of being either single or up for it. How come someone like "Steve" Norris can even beg a shag?
et cetera. Short, terrible warning: If you have recently split up with someone, DO NOT, repeat,
And if you do, DO NOT, repeat,
translated from Sonnet 134:Ack! Shoot me now.
Peace I do not find, and I have no wish to make war; and I fear and hope, and burn and am of ice; and I fly above the heavens and lie on the ground; and I grasp nothing and embrace all the world.
One holds me in a prison which neither opens nor locks, neither keeps me for his own nor unties the bonds; and Love does not kill and does not unchain me, he neither wishes me alive nor frees me from the tangle.
I see without eyes and I have no tongue, and yet I cry out; and I wish to perish and I ask for help; and I hate myself and love another.
I feed on pain, weeping I laugh; equally displeasing to me are death and life. In this state am I, Lady, on account of you.
This one is amazingly well written. Too well. I suspect a hoax, almost.
And I got into an argument with the owner of this site, who is pompous and pretentious in a heated email exchange, but can actually spell, which it turns out I can't. I promised him public obeisance (which he confused with pubic obeisance), so here it is, Sean: sorry. My weblog is spelt wrong. Unless you're a Northerner.
Plus, please read this post by yidaho. It's in the Truth Laid Bear newblog showcase, and if you join up to their ecosystem (which ranks blogs by connectivity and sitemeter traffic, yadda yadda) (I love them, because today they promoted me from Crunchy Crustacean to Slimy Mollusc, just when I feared becoming a Lowly Insect) (it's the Night Nurse, I tells ya, it does things to my brain...), and link to her on your front page, then she wins...erm... I dunno what. Some slippers?
I told you today's post would be fanwanky.
In fact, after my coffee, wanking may be the next topic, to match yesterday's effluvia. Quake, ye mortals!
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It got me to thinking about effluvia (doesn't take much, admittedly), particularly after last night when the gorgeous Tess messaged me from Belfast to say that all the English are obsessed with shit.
And why not?
I'd have to go a long way to beat the glorious Niki's poo-obsessed posts of late, and she's from Chicago, not ye Olde Browne Country. Mind you, she's not yet gone this far. That curry does look a little fecal, does it not?
Anyway, effluvia. I have weird veins -- they pop sometimes. If you pressed my arm too hard, it would become a hand shaped bruise. (At 16, I had a fight with a boyfriend. Not a serious proper fight, we were bored and seeing how much more power you could put in a punch if you pulled back your fist into a 'claw' shape, before throwing from the shoulder. The answer was: gains considerable impact. I knocked out one of his teeth, and had to wear long sleeve sweaters / lie that I'd been in a car accident for a month.)
I blame the pasty-skin Celtic heritage (take that, Belfast!), but I bruise so easy that I sometimes don't need the original impact at all. I just feel a weird ache in a wrist or a finger for an hour or so, then ... pop ... large swollen black digits. The first time it happened, I rushed to an A & E.
Exhaustedhousedoctor: "You have a bruise, madam."
Me: [shrieking] "But it's filled with black blood and swollen to eight times the size! My artery just exploded!"
Exhaustedhousedoctor: [sighs] "That's what a bruise is."
Anyway, while working through uni in a |malecentredindustry| McJob, near Arsenal (lasting effects: a fondness for shouting "Up the Arse" at your father), I used to exploit the exploding vein syndrome in order to alleviate the boredom of dealing with tipsy bloke customers who permanently addressed my knockers, and used to while away their own boredom by seeing how red a single comment could make my cheeks go.
Only, because I worked Saturdays, and because I was twenty-one, and trying to be 'wild', I used to generally turn up for work in the most awful |morningafterthenightbefore| sort of state. One time I wandered in to McJob twelve hours after taking my second ever tab of E (ee, those were the days), gave away #120 to strangers from Perth, and had to wear a miniskirt for the next three weeks to save myself from unemployment.
The week of the exploding arse was the worst, though.
I was fortunate, I knew, to be working one of the joints with a bog, or the whole sorry tale could have rendered this blog the victim of a million scat searches.
Slow morning, only one near dead pensioner overcome with the jitters, usual regs still all in the pub next door, working themselves up to their weekly *makevanessablush* challenge.
Stomach rumblings. Nice quiet moment to excuse myself to the loo by the manager's desk. Once inside, it's a windowless fan-assisted closet. One of those situations where it's you, the Sixties spit-flush slimline bog, a ten year old crusty loo brush and the fag end of an Asda bogroll. Okay, I could tell that I was packing solids, so perhaps if I folded the eight squares then separated them carefully into tiny, pleated squares, I could make it.
I don't know what I'd taken the night before, but it was not going to agree with the tiny pleated squares theory.
Cue anal explosion. Didn't even make it to the bowl in time -- it all happened while hovering. Chris Ofili would have been proud of what I plastered on those walls.
I won't go into too much detail about the clean-up, except to say that all eight squares were prioritised for my arse, thankyou, sod the walls.
I was in that stinky airless room for ninety minutes, co-workers hammering on the door. It took many many flushes, and it was me, my bundled up knickers (the only disposible item of clothing I could bear to use as a washcloth) and the bog brush scrubbing the walls in horror for almost every one of those minutes.
Finally, I flushed the knickers, adjusted my clothing and tried to calm the raging beleisha beacon that was my face. I opened the door to face the horrified boss sat at his desk, 30 centimetres away. Behind me, the walls of the lav were clearly soaking wet.
"What? I'm fine. But do you mind if I go home now?"
A week later, I turned up after an entire week on amphetamines, speeding my tits off, latest shag in tow, to resign.
Horrifiedboss: "You're not normal. It's not normal to wear see-through tops to work, go bright red all the time and have exploding veins. You wanna see a doctor."
I've always had half a crush on him for not including in that exit line any reference to anal explosions.
1. He still invited me to his wedding.
2. I poo quite regularly and normally now.
3. And I never take drugs.
4. Vic dared me to blog a virtually unbloggable reminiscence involving old men, park toilets and a used condom, but my family read this blog, so I won't. I don't think my mum is the type to be upset by drugs or poo.
5. I half hope the longtime ex who goes weirdqueasy about shit reads this post. And recalls the other two anecdotes I didn't blog. Hah!
6. I ate all those scones.
7. Normal service will be resumed when I'm not ill any more.
So it goes.
"Just been dumped? Why not lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling, and think about everything that's wrong with your life. Ah, bliss.I don't know what happened to my side bar on the left. I'm pretty sure that a link spontaneously self-translated itself to Japanese, and broke angelfire. Of course, it doesn't sound so convincing when I email them this story, and beg them to delete it for me. Given the abuse I've piled on the helpdesk of late, I'm unsurprised. However, that strip of brown poo along the left hand side functioned pretty much like a blog version of your mobile; it means I've lost the addresses of all the good blogs in the ether. Bah. I shall have to go out, make contact with the world, instead.
Don't worry about being single. Remember, swans mate for life, and look how bad-tempered they are."
Duch came over and tried to persuade me to sell the flat last night. I managed to get a mortgage five times my salary, but have two weeks to decide if I want to take it,or to sell up. I was surprised to see that my poxy flat in 1.61 Kilometre End is roughly akin to somewhere in Kensington in price. This means as long as I live somewhere either pikey or inaccessible, I can buy something pretty. Look here, at the flat listed in SE9, which is next door to the gorgeous Eltham Palace, and take the virtual tour. It's halfway to Brighton, and officially no-one would ever visit me again. I love modern buildings (god rot Victorian terraces with iron fireplaces, gimme a purpose built 1960's brutalist monstrosity anyday). I don't think I'd have the money to furnish it with pianos, though.
Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
Finally finished reading 'The Fourth Hand' today. I used to have to admit that while I loathed books by John Irving, I'd never actually finished one. No longer.
?I hate the opinion of the population. It has been wrong about every single thing that has mattered to me in my life. Their choice in books is bound to be emetic, and so it has proved to be.?
Andrew O'Hagan commented on The Big Read.
Ignoring the two feet of unread new books at the edge of the sofa, I logged on to amazon to see what the running total of Things They Have Fleeced Me For now stands at.
The personalised frontpage adverts were thus:
Volume 2 of Billy Connolly's biography.Bloody sodding sucky marketing-whore amazon. I hate how it never fails to hide the books I want. I hate that if I need a copy of The Faerie Queene, it offers me the DVD, or the PS2 game.
If there's any hesitation at all in lurching for the remote whenever I see this ugly bugger's face leering from a cathode tube, it's to wonder what the hell is funny about the guy.
Over 100 Irresistable French Recipes.
I hate France. (sorry, Toulouse)
I dislike the way grown men aren't ashamed of a hideously predictable Freudian attachment to their horrifically bourgeois mothers. I dislike the utter lack of individualism in French street fashion (jesus, if you wear a colour, you stand out there. I once went to France with hair half shaved and half braided, dyed snowy white. I got free drinks in every bar as long as I put up with thirty minutes of Frenchmen laughing at my gall/gaulle. No wonder I looked grumpy.)
By no means the least is the distaste I hold for their undercooked, oversauced food. The only French food worth stomaching is North African. Irresistable recipes, my arse.
'Monstrous Regiment' by Terry Pratchett.
While I don't loathe Terry Pratchett's books - hey I've read a whole pair of 'em! - I don't actually want to read more. Morevoer, I certainly don't want to be thought of as the sort of person who might read (or --- !horrors! --- role play) Terry Pratchett books. Save them for the day I'm partially paralysed, move to the country, ingest way too many country-boy-drugs and grow a beard like Bill Bailey, thank you.
'Dude, Where's My Country' by Michael Moore.
Amazon, you dim fuckers, I bought 'Stupid White Men' as a Christmas present for somebody else. As did everybody. It's the only reason Michael Moore books ever get onto bestseller lists - people buy his unreadable wanky toss as Crimble gifts for that hard-to-gift cranky leftwing-poseur uncle who won't stop whingeing about the state of the world, insists on a Christmas nutloaf, and actually watches the Channel 4 news to the end. You only need read four pages to realise it's entertainment for the modern, socialist-leaning Victor Meldrew.
And then .... at the foot of the page, I spy a cut-price edition of 'The Marriage of Heaven and Hell'. I have four copies already, but -- oooooh, there's just one copy left in stock, and look, you save even more if you buy it with Smollett's 'The Expedition of Humphrey Clinker' .....
Note: all links included in this post are negative, grumpy and sarcastic.
Unfortunately, my neck is the size of an elephant'z knuckle, and navigating two cats iz as dangerous an excursion az I can manage. Conkers are off the agenda.
Following only the first flu cure suggezted in yesterday's blog comments, the first of many not only ridiculous but often quite dangerouz elixirs (microwaved lemonade, two pints of whiskey with a cherry in, and onion slime spring to mind), I find, as uzzual, that I'm overdoing it like an anxious child dezperate to zubmit the best homework.
I feel like Timothy Wezt in Royal Jelly. Thiz morning I conzzoled myzelf for my lack of forezt leaf-kicking with a cup of tea (two teazpoons of honey) and two crumpetz (firzzt crumpet zzpread with Tazzmanian leatherwood honey, zzzecond with Duchy of Cornwall acazzzia heather honey - tazzzte tezzzzt: no differenzzzze at all).
My pubezz have already turned yellow-brown, I'm growing a zzzpiky beard and I find myzzzzelf horribly drawn towardzzzz the rotting flowerzzzzzz in the corner.
Back to bed!
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Okay, so maybe "I am inclement" doesn't work.
(Actually, that line might be truer than the rest....)
I've been sleeping under two duvets, in woolly socks, PJ's, a hoodie, and two hot cats.
I blame the water system - two mornings in a row there's been no hot water. I only found this out by running the showera while then sticking limbs under the raw biting jet ... agony. I've been cold, smelly and greasy for days.
It's working now, though; I tried to heat myself up by whacking the temperature up to a climax, running it for ages then jumping straight in (believe me, the mornings have taught me what a risk this is). It was squealing level hot. I sat on the shower floor in the heat, trying to accord every different bit of my body it's proportionate time under the best bits, and counting bars in the mist of how many people I'd ever been really in love with. Yeah, it was *that* good.
After, I was too happy and chilled out to dry my hair, which eventually froze into tiny ice crystals of pain, rendering me cold and grumpy and stiff all over again.
Jatb sent me some gut-rotting firewater from Iceland. (brennivin?) So if this post rambles insanely, you can blame her, cos I drank the lot. [Thank you, jatb, it's disgusting, but it makes your insides burn. When they sack me for smelling like a roasted tramp tomorrow, I'll be blaming you...]
Anyway, I tried cooking three different meals, in the grill and the oven, to maximise the heat sources. I actually hovered my cold bum over the grill. Twice.
This must be what it feels like to be really really old. I'm sure the Werthers grandad warms his bum over the grill, too. Probably in mixed company, looking at his creepily beatific smile. Nobody could get *that* much pleasure from a toffee?
The oven didn't warm the room up much, but eating three times the amount of normal food helped a bit. I've been getting too underweight, through the time honoured method of not really eating, so it's cool to stuff myself silly. Petite is buying me a slap-up lunch tomorrow, that might be warming. I gave her #2 towards it. Heh.
I also climbed over ten feet of old crap in the hallway, to totter precariously onto half-rotted old unfixed shelves and pull the attic hatch shut. Given how scary attics are in the movies, plus the perilous twenty foot drop below, this is a miracle. It was really heavy and dirty, too. Feeling proud of myself for that gave me two minutes more warmth. Enough warmth to foolishly relinquish the BPNSEA sweater, and feel only minorly frosted over in the hoodie and PJ's.
The heating is turned up to maximum, and I'm crouching to blog by the radiator. I think I might be crouched in this position for life, now. It's blistering hot (well, at the bottom of the radiator it is), and if I move even a foot away, the contrast makes it feel as if I'm trapped deep in the glacier, two feet from a mammoth.
Worlds away from this summer's heatwave.
Sixty things that are simply unpleasant: cheese; peanut butter; buses; people who smell of cigarettes and rain at the same time; liars and the bad mannered; rejection - or rather, the feeling in your stomach like something in there is crawling; being too scared to watch a horror film alone; throwing up; a tissue in the washing machine; waking in the middle of the night and not knowing why; when friends live too far away; toast that keeps burning; fast food outlets' pathetic french fries - undeserving of the glorious word 'chip'; waking up to the close-up technicolour starfish of a cat's arsehole; being unable to say no; realising unsavoury things about yourself; candles - where does the wax go? feeling jealous; overstewed tea or instant cappucino; crying in shop changing rooms (back when I was once very fat, it took me weeks to buy a swimming costume. I had to try on one per day, with an 8 second mirror flash, followed by slumping on the floor, crying, and drawing the costume. Awful, to come out of changing rooms with red eyes); queueing for nightclubs or a taxi; long hairs in the bath; melitzanasalata (cos when I was living in a Greek nudist colony, rats in the melitzanasalata made me puke everywhere on the beach. What could I do? I covered it up with sand. Years of guilt); pretending not to notice that your friends in a couple are arguing; used matches; sports/leisure wear; playing draughts; wishing I really really hadn't slept with someone; limescale in the kettle; the cold! feeling tired or paranoid in public; fire alarms, car alarms, shop alarms, alarm clocks; administrative tasks and bureacracy; forgetting your keys; if people are too nervous to speak to you; crisps; boring bad sex that lasts way too long; being asked to be critical when you don't want to be; nightmares; your tea goes cold; stubbing your toe or hitting your funny bone; Marmite; lumpy hard painful poohs; racism; dentist's injections; aniseed; getting groped in public in every predominantly muslim country I've ever been to; when hayfever makes your eyes water; swimming in deep water when you can't see the bottom; drizzle; feeling impotent or powerless to change things; bad handwriting; the smell of bins with old meat in them; having no money; seeing little girls who've been over-sexualised - in make-up, thongs, and thigh-split skirts; confusing instructions; politicians; when someone I trust invites confidence, but I'm just too weary to take them up on it; war-mongering, hypocritical, smug politicians; trying to sleep when your feet are cold.
Sixty simple pleasures (read this one first): fried eggs; the sudden zip of energy inside when you eat an orange while feeling run down; torrid cloudscapes, whether it's raining or not; kittens and cuddlicious lap-cats; railway stations; travelling a long way home and finding a big hearty stew ready for you; the sound and impact when you dive from a height into cool water; sleeping on a fluffy rug on the floor; fresh coffee; driving; watching little kids drawing when they're too young to worry if they're any good at it yet; my |genericjob| on a good day; chatting to friends over food; variety; St Paul's cathedral - the single best building in London, bar none (despite it's terrible cafe); taking a few hours to draw someone from life, particularly if they get their kit off ... cough ... splutter ... I mean, if they don't initially seem attractive - spend a few hours drawing a face and it always begins to look beautiful; writing with a pencil or a fountain pen; farting in a bookshop; the buzzy loud atmosphere of fairgrounds - even if you don't go on a ride; finding where the Elephant House is at the zoo; the National Portrait Gallery basement; sharing an umbrella with someone you rather fancy; Bonfire Night, with Guy Fawkes, treacle toffee, baked potatoes in foil and fireworks;
when you smile at people in the mornings, and despite yourself, their smile infects you with cheeriness; the smell of brand new books; going downhill on a bike (with the brakes half on! I'm a chicken!); leaving it as late into October as you possibly can before you start wearing winter woolly gear; finding it in yourself to accept a compliment graciously; The Embankment at half past ten in the evening; Autumn; skimming a great flat pebble in front of your dad; sitting watching the action on the golf course from the quiet inactivity of the club house; doing someone a simple favour; pulling the car over into the Lane of Death - even temporarily - on a motorway; walking for hours around central London on Christmas day (it's always like a scene from Day of the Triffids - you'll see only yourself and three other poofs, all day); gorgeous European countries - Copenhagen, Cologne, Prague, Hungarian fishing villages, the contrast between Swiss lakes, green Swiss valleys, Swiss glaciers and Swiss vineyards, the Portuguese coastline, Edinburgh winters; spotting Orion's Belt or Venus, even through a smog ceiling; jatb's extraordinary/traditional Christmas lunch (beans on toast! rah!); Turkish food - the finest on earth; writing a blog; cups of tea (I seriously have a tea-drinking song); live gigs - what a rush; the mild temperatures in central London, even in winter (childhood winters in Lancashire make you really value the warmth); old forts, ruined castles, and ancient burial grounds (particularly if al fresco bonking is involved); lying upside down on the sofa to answer the phone; the feeling in your neck and hands just before take-off or landing; a morning lie-in, in a peaceful room with a fresh duvet; getting off the train after a really long journey; snow; modern classical music; watching a movie so good that you instantly want to watch it all again; going out to a heath or a forest or a reservoir to look at the moon; enthusiasm; finding a novelist who's so talented that you can only read a bit at a time, for fear you'll run through all their works too early before you die (Orwell, Coetzee, Amis, Schlink, Nabokov, Highsmith for me); dressing up; dressing down; icy cold water; no noise in your house in the evening; reading an Alan Moore or Jaime Hernandez comic for the first time; a hug.
On Friday, Jatb and I were talking about when people quote their old diaries in their blogs. I s'pose people diarise things more at times of stress or strong emotion.
Certainly when you're single you journal it a lot more. What's the point of writing a diary about being in a couple?
"Dear Diary, today she left hairs in the bath AGAIN. I swear I will strangle her in her sleep. Ate cottage pie for tea. Watched teev."
I didn't think blogging old diaries would really work for me, as although I kept diaries for about five years, they're all in code, and most of the codewords are for sex.
I did sometimes diarise in prose, but after the sick situation when I read my onetime flatmate, Gremlin's diary, I stopped that.
I'd snuck into Gremlin's room and read her diary, in which I found a detailed critique, lasting around a thousand words or so, of entries in my diary. It was relatively eloquent - I was characterised as the planet Pluto, I remember, because if you weren't cool enough, I'd expel you from my orbit or something. (No, I have no idea if that ties in with any astronomy.) It was all probably more to do with the fact I used to use Gremlin's special chopping board to cut up onions, so she ended up having to wake up every morning and sniff all her kitchen chopping boards to check. Nutter.
Boy, was it hard to work out that aggression, though. I couldn't admit to reading her diary, so I couldn't confront her about it. I had to work every conversation around to it indirectly. "Have you read any Atwood? Well you know the second female character in that one - would you characterise her as cold, controlling and self-obsessed? No? Because I think she's rather more innocent than you realise. No, listen, this is really important. I really want to know what you think of these characters ..." etc....
I just had a quick look at my diary for 1993, which was the year I graduated from university, and the year I came out of the closet. I had huge torrid affairs with three or four different people that year. Two of whom I fell in love with. One of whom I was using to get the attention of the other two.
Being unemployed I also got as close to prostitution as I ever managed - I taught English grammar to a married Korean friend who regarded this as a brilliant excuse to feel me up during the more difficult grammar questions. I needed the money (my diary lists my state benefits as #40 a fortnight at the time), so I had to keep going back. Therefore, I reasoned with myself, if I was going to keep doing the job even with the harrassment, I may as well get a ritzy dinner out of it every night, on top of the feel. See what I mean?
Most of the entries, however, are about racing around the country getting pissed. (No change there then.)
No detail or even any full sentences. So, I can tell you that October 16th 1993 was the night I fell in love with Cheesy, my first proper girlfriend (as opposed to proper shag - you see how the need for categories comes about...). And that I stayed over at her flat, unbeknownst to my boyf of the time, and we did C7.
Told you it was a bad idea to raid old diaries.
It's all about numbers today.
4 hours sleep, sleeping off 4 glasses of wine yesterday.
2 chequebooks went with me into work, hoping to find 5 minutes to pay off the #500 I owe the courts after last week's CCJ, but didn't take the book for the account that had money in.
I meant to ring the solicitor, but forgot the number. 1.30 is the time for my appointment with the mortgage advisor. I need 3 wage slips and a passport, even though I already have 2 mortgages with them. I'm sure I can probably find some wage slips in amongst the pile of post and letters that I haven't opened for 2 years. (hence the CCJ (court judgement) last week.)
I didn't mention the CCJ, despite the letters I'm now getting from loan shark firms offering 'cheap rate' mortgages to untrustworthy people like me, whom nobody would apparently lend money to. I'll have to trust that the huge equity in the flat sways them.
Funny how I was careful to correct the personal pronouns at the bank. "Her. Not him. I have split up with Her." They thought I'd just transfer the mortgage into 1 name. Pshaw. If only.
I consoled myself with lunch in the mall by the bank - #8. Bleedin rip-off, I thought. This was before they refused all 4 credit cards at the supermarket, and I was left scrabbling around for spare change to pay the #5 parking fee. I won't be able to afford a new watch. I realised I can't afford to drive to that bank any more.
I hate numbers.
At home, I changed out of the #160 suit that obviously now belongs to another age, and put the BPNSEA (Big Pink No Sex Ever Again) sweater on to lie on the floor in the dark, watching the patterns on the ceiling.
Most of the windows of my flat are screened by large trees. These are lit up by old fashioned carriage-lamps, in a very old-fashioned Edwardian terrace.
When I moved into this place, 4 years ago, the ex-DH was working in Brazil, and I bought my 1st piece of furniture - a blue rug to sit, eat, sleep and play on. The rest of the place was empty, and I used to watch the shadows of the tree branches moving outside as I dozed off on the empty living room floor.
In the dark, the #15000 we spent renovating the flat becomes indistinct, the fancy new furniture gets blurred. And in a small, cringey fashion, it's like going back to where I started, back in 1999.
A music box, a rug, and a tree.
I can do this. They're only numbers.
Today I grabbed the Latest Psychotic Idiosyncracy by the horns, and used a third of a pint of bleach to boil-wash the sheets from the double bed*.
I can't fit myself, two cats and twisty schizo nightmares onto a box-room single guest bed any longer, so I have to get over my fear of the big bedroom smells. Not that it smells (the cat puke got cleaned up a month ago, I pretended it remained there for comedic effect), more that I don't want to lie on pillows that have even a trace scent of being together, when we're not.
For your edification, the following list warns of what you should never ever attempt to do after a huge drunken sushi binge:
1. Mix your drinks horribly.
2. Dance like a loon. Imagine the sushi. Imagine the drinks. Now put them in an imaginary washing machine. You see?
3. Breakfast on bacon products. All of them.
4. Overindulge by snarfing an entire mountain of raw fish the next day.
The list does continue, but its quease-factor means I shan't.