Showing posts with label my gross stuff. Show all posts
Showing posts with label my gross stuff. Show all posts

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

wallowing in self pity


lying on the couch feeling sorry for myself wearing millions of layers and hats and blankets and my flatmates patting me on the head lovingly / condescendingly spitting into a cup to avoid the pain of swallowing my own saliva drinking orange juice from a sippy bottle and sucking on spoonsful of manuka honey taking multiple vitamin c capsules despite the warnings of colleagues and blowing my nose into a hankey from my pocket forgetting to take the real drugs even though they are right next to my bed and staying at work until five even though I am allowed and encouraged to go home early there is just to much to do grunting and whining audibly at the wind walking alone in the street and feeling ashamed instantly afterwards but defensive of the need to vocalise my heavy thick full swollen throat and head aching back and heaving lungs turning my whole upper body to look to the side because I am too layered to move my head independently apologising for being so. gross. but needing to be nursed and sympathised with and coddled and told how awful I look because
I never get sick and this shouldn't be happening to me it just isn't fair

Sunday, August 1, 2010

a fowl feast

On Saturday night I ate Turducken. It was grotesque, a bulging avian feast. An alien bird, a fowl set of engorged matroyshka dolls. So fatty, so totally American, the Turducken epitomizes conspicuous consumption. After spending eight hours in the oven, the outer layer of turkey was dyed a shiny vermilion by the rashers of streaky bacon which had hardened on top. The bacon fat moistened the turkey, the turkey flavoured the duck, the duck fat spread through the chicken. The parsons nose crystallised into a hardened knob, a savoury lindt ball that the birds' juices exploded from, gushing into my mouth. We tore at the meat, picked it off the bones and doused it with gravy, then basked in a post-Turducken afterglow. I felt food-high, fat and sleepy. Giggling uncontrollably, we could not stop talking about the Turducken. It was medieval, primal, ridiculous. Can you believe we ate that? A turkey with a duck with a chicken in it? The mind reels.

Photos from the lusty Tom Jones inn scene, starring the adorable Albert Finney.

Sunday, January 17, 2010

self pitying as a Dawson Leary


Tomorrow is my birthday.
Here are my thoughts on the matter:

I don't really want any presents apart from a cookbook, a frame for my print from Henrietta, and a new wallet because mine was a lovely mustard suede but has now turned into a nasty filthy coin depository I do not like to touch or grope for in my bag. But I don't really want anyone to buy me these things. I just want them.


Print by Henrietta Harris

Twenty four seems like a nothing age. Definitely not a landmark.
I'm older than several successful writers, singers and actors.
I think the magic birthdays has finally faded. Am I so jaded? When did this happen? Ach.

The lamp I ordered ages ago arrived, it blew up as soon as I turned it on (H8 LYF?).