Claire and I go mad
- Claire: Coming to mine about eight?
- Me: No. You smell. Also, yes I am.
- Claire: I hope a bird poos on your head.
- Me: Hey, I already touch feet all day. Isn't that punishment enough?
- Claire: You love it! And bring wine or I'll punch you in the boob.
- Me: Ouch. My boob hurts just thinking about that. Then again, it might be the pregnancy.
- Claire: Congratulations and all that.
- Me: You're the father.
- Claire: Damn it! I warned you about us using the same toilet seat!
- Me: I'm keeping it! I'm calling her Shanikqua.
- Claire: Aaahh, after my grandma!
“When you are five, you know your age down to the month. Even in your twenties, you know how old you are. I’m twenty-three you say, or maybe twenty-seven. But then in your thirties, something strange starts to happen. It is a mere hiccup at first, an instant of hesitation. How old are you? Oh, I’m—you start confidently, but then you stop. You were going to say thirty-three, but you are not. You’re thirty-five. And then you’re bothered, because you wonder if this is the beginning of the end. It is, of course, but it’s decades before you admit it.” —Sarah Gruen (via meetmeattheairport)
That episode of Doctor Who finished and the entire Internet just went, "WTF?"
“But above all let there be pleasure. Let there be textural delight, let there be silken words and flinty words and sodden speeches and soaking speeches and crackling utterance and utterance that quivers and wobbles like rennet. Let there be rapid firecracker phrases and language that oozes like a lake of lava. Words are your birthright. Unlike music, painting, dance and raffia work, you don’t have to be taught any part of language or buy any equipment to use it, all the power of it was in you from the moment the head of daddy’s little wiggler fused with the wall of mummy’s little bubble. So if you’ve got it, use it. Don’t be afraid of it, don’t believe it belongs to anyone else, don’t let anyone bully you into believing that there are rules and secrets of grammar and verbal deployment that you are not privy to. Don’t be humiliated by dinosaurs into thinking yourself inferior because you can’t spell broccoli or moccasins. Just let the words fly from your lips and your pen. Give them rhythm and depth and height and silliness. Give them filth and form and noble stupidity. Words are free and all words, light and frothy, firm and sculpted as they may be, bear the history of their passage from lip to lip over thousands of years. How they feel to us now tells us whole stories of our ancestors.” —Stephen Fry (via thoughtfulwishing)
M' laptop might be about to give up the ghost. Hold on Trixie, don't die on me yet!