There are some things we need to talk about, you and I.
For starters, my singing. My out-of-tune singing along to bad top 40 pop. In the car. I can’t stop myself. Worse, I don’t want to.
The laughing for no reason. There is a reason, but it’s usually something obscure involving William Shatner, parrotfish and yacht zombies. Really, you probably wouldn’t find it funny even if I could stop chuckling long enough to explain.
Also - forgive me - the lustful thoughts about Fresh Pepper and Eddie Perfect (Amateur pastry chefs and professional cynics do it for me. Sue me. )
I know that in admitting these brazen truths to the internet, I've showed all the decorum of an underage hussy at Schoolies after four Bacardi breezers. And there's no excuse - I should know better. I used to post daily snippets to a blogspot site. Then my old workmates found out. That they never actually found the site didn't stop them taunting me. "Who would want to read about someones boring life?" And they're right. Why would anyone share their personal thoughts with a bunch of random strangers on the net - or worse, people they know?
It could be a sick compulsion. But it just might be that hearing other people's stories and sharing your own makes you feel just a little less alone and a little more understood. Because they get it - whether it is a deep appreciation of James Spader, or deep-seated insecurities.
I find these people more interesting than my former colleagues: The girls who'd giggle naughtily as they discussed their Brazilian bikini waxes, but wouldn't change in front of everyone at the gym because they're afraid they weren't normal. The boys who talked up how much skirt they were gettin' when what they really meant was, "I can't believe she got engaged to someone else." And of course, the collective denial that anything was actually going on under the carefully polished surface. It would be so easy to follow suit. In the interests of not being that girl, I confess to the following:
- I have an entire genre on my iTunes devoted to Eurovision songs. This does not include a separate category for other random and amusing Europop like “The Numa Numa song."
- I hate my job. Hate it. I stay because of the harbour view and the salary that covers exorbitant Sydney rent plus the shoes and drinks it takes to distract me from the daily drama of work.
- I've made my mother cry. More than once.
- There's been idle talk about moving in together. I'm not sure how I feel about this development. Inner Martha is hovering above my right shoulder, whispering sweet nothings into my ear about matching, monogrammed towel sets. Inner Joan Jett is bitchslapping me from the left.
- Some days, I still feel like the gawky, argumentative debating geek I was in high school.
So now you know. Hit me with your best shot.
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