It’s 1:30 a.m., and I am just getting home, happy and filled with delicious cider beer and red wine. Dear God there is nothing more romantic than a full moon over the beach sitting on a bench sipping wine with a cute blonde boy who might be a little faggy because he is French and loves Avril Lavigne. I convinced him to move to Canada.
But I have yet to kiss him, because my tendency to be a big skank has left me without any normal, sober social skills whatsoever. I mean, his constant, “would you like to walk along the beach?” and “would you like to sit on this bench in this dimly lit corner?” was obviously an invitation for me to stick my tongue down his throat, but instead I just giggled like a moron and made some silly comment about the labrador retriever that kept salivating on my pants.
We went to a pretty sexy restaurant as well. I ate kangaroo with barbecue sauce. Yeah, kangaroo, in France. He had to dictate the menu to me, which went something like this:
Him: “Chicken, beef, kangaroo…”
Him: “Yeah, you know like… hop?”
Me: “Like a fucking Australian KANGAROO?!”
They have kangaroo farms here, where they raise adorable little kangaroos, kill them and mould them into delicious little patties. I LOVED it.
Well, I’m drunk. Details tomorrow, I’ve just been too busy learning about up sounding and down sounding and sonar technology to update, I feel the need to cling desperately to my readers. I’m also trying to link blogs but WordPress is a dirty whore and won’t allow me to do so.