So instead I am doing that stupid ass irritating thing where I tell you what M and I have been talking about. She fucking hates it because then she has nothing new or interesting (yes, shut up) to read, and everyone else probably thinks it is pointless and unfunny and I should fuck off and get a work ethic. But I have only slept THREE hours, even the membranes in my eyes smell like cheap white wine, I have a blogging compulsion disorder, and this is the only thing that made me laugh today. And did I SAY I was your PERFORMING POODLE M? Hmm? No. Now get bloody fattening up, I'm hungry.
M: Read this: http://news.bbc.co.uk/newsbeat/hi/newsbeat/newsid_7961000/7961224.stm it is a cautionary tale IT COULD BE US
E: WHY are you sending me phallus house again?
M: It is funny
E: How could it be a cautionary tale for us? A penis on the roof?
M: The old woman, dead for 5 years, in her house not found by anyone. Whoops I sent you the wrong link http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/scotland/edinburgh_and_east/8132642.stm . WE WILL DIE ALONE like harpies. Heartless harpies.
E: Mouais, I suppose. Whatever. But? We will be DEAD and not care. I will not care about my old bones dessicating in a corner. But anyway, I have an even better idea. We can live in a shared retirement house for elderly harpies. Whoever dies first eats the other No. that's wrong. The other way around.
M: I don't want to eat you you're all bones and gristle and what not.
E: S'ok. I'll be eating you anyway.
M: hell no
E: HELL YES
M: I'm dying after you, dude you are OLDER THAN ME therefore more likely to die first.
E: But I am more bitterly evil and evil is a preservative. Also you like cheese.
M: Oy! I'm not living with you in Harpy House if you're going to dispose of me. That's totally against the house rules.
E: There are house rules? Ok I won't eat you. Much. I'll just nibble your face off like the face transplant lady.
M: Of course there are rules. Rule 1: One pony per room . Rule 2: Cake for every meal. Rule 3: no killing housemates. Simple, effective.
E: Noone admitted without a cashmere goat.
M: Yes. Baby cashmere goats only.
E: Dirty dishes must be thrown out of windows to be licked clean by baby pygmy hippos.
M: Who needs dishes? We will only eat brown food. Crispy brown food that requires no plates.
E: Dishes are a bourgeois construct anyway.
We continued in this happy vein for sometime, and now I think we should open this harpy house up to everyone. Everyone we like, anyway. It's the way ahead, you know, self funded individual retirement communities of like-minded friends. Everyone's doing it, just wait a couple of weeks and it will be in Grazia, I know my stuff I am a trend hound.
Would you like to join the Belgian Waffle Retirement Community? It will of course be based in Belgium, there will be no crockery, every room comes with its own pony and if you die we might just conceivably eat your face off. If you do wish to take up the once in a lifetime offer of a place at this friendly community for your sunset years, just give me an additional suggested house rule in the comments box. MonkAre, if you say "it's nice site keep updating", I will invent a new house rule which will be that the Holy Tortoise will be coming all the way to Bali to penance up your ass.
Ugh. That made no sense, did it? Here, look at a photo of some ugly bread.
It's magic eye bread. If you stare at it for long enough eventually you make out the message - cunningly concealed in the chocolate - that reads GO TO BED EMMA.