Thursday, March 01, 2007


Sprung is Spring

Isn't March lovely? So much nicer than February. Anyone born in March is probably a sexy genius or a misguided romantic with a steel streak of courage in their guts. Anyway, so far March has been a sunny joy of bubbles, flowers and frolicing ponies.

When will this torment end?

Why must the sun shine? Why must it's gentle rays expose the fissures and cracks on my skin, the liver spots and undereye bags (Ha! Bags would be fine; these sad-sacks would put Donatella Versace's luggage allowance to shame). I have three remaining wirey hairs which are far too brittle to comb-over so now nestle against my enormous ear-lobe. My false teeth are older than most adults I know and I fear that my knees may never bend straight again.

At least I still have music.

The Feeling. The Killers. The View. The Kooks. All of the 'The' bands are doing such innovative and exciting things with sounds that it feels like the sixties all over again... or at least one year of the seventies.

I am so glad I have the means to pay for semenal extraction. I couldn't get laid with Helen Keller.

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