It has been, so far. I had a dream that I had a pet wolf (I know, right? My dreams rock) and the wolf and I were going on a road trip along with another family and my Dad. (Who I would totally take on a wolf-heavy road trip. He would know which CDs to bring.) The only fly in the ointment was that every so often the wolf would become HUNGRY and the mother of the family would become concerned that the wolf would EAT HER CHILDREN (I know, right? Unfair stereotyping) and I would have to make a quick trip to the supermarket and buy large sticks of salami (which is, everyone knows, what a wolf likes to eat).
I don’t think this dream has any deeper meaning, except that I don’t know much about the eating habits of wolves. Possibly the salami are Freudian.
Exciting news: this morning, in the ultimate modern fuck-you, I unfriended someone on Facebook, which was incredibly satisfying. For anyone who hasn’t experienced the fleeting joy of removing someone from your friend list (fleeting because about two seconds afterwards you have a minor panic that they’re going to realise you’ve removed them and create an awkward scene), I’d recommend it. The person I removed shall, for privacy reasons, be referred to only as Butthead McArseface. (Although Keith really is easier to type.) Goodbye, Butthead! May your pretentious status updates never darken my live feed again!
(Backstory: Butthead McArseface and I had an argument last week which was really sort of my fault (I am not above being something of a butthead myself from time to time), but in which he definitely gave as good as he got, so I ended up annoyed at him and he ended up annoyed at me. This in itself is not a) unusual or b) a reason for de-friending (sounds like something you have to get done at the vet’s). However, it appears that I annoyed Buttface more than I first realised, because he decided to write an email – no, wait, a Facebook private message (unimportant detail) – to my Sister Flatmate, who he has never met, posing as a ‘concerned friend’ and telling her about how I sent him a lot of very concerning txts and he is seriously worried that I’m going to kill myself.
Like I said, this was passed off as the actions of a ‘concerned friend’ and would in fact have been just that and quite excusable, if a little inappropriate, if the entire thing wasn’t entirely a creation of Butthead’s fervent imagination.
No depression! No suicidal txts! Definitely not the decidedly sordid “It’s been fun. Take care. Love you.” (Even if I was going to top myself (an aside: did you hear about the ice-cream man found dead in his truck, covered in sprinkles and chocolate? They say he topped himself, boom boom) there’s no way I would send something so…tacky. Give me a bit of credit here, Butthead.)
Unfortunately when a family member gets an email like that they get all emotional and trust Butthead implicitly and me not at all, and send frantic panicked txts to other family members, the end result of which is that I have spent a considerable amount of time over the last few days rolling up my sleeves and displaying my unslashed wrists to all and sundry as they attempt to make me ‘open up and share what I’m going through.’ Sigh.
My favourite bit about this is that Butthead, ever the master of timing, sent this email on Christmas Day, thus effectively fucking my family’s Christmas. And this is why he has been removed from my list of Facebook friends. Also from the list of People For Whom I Have No Mutual Hatred and Contempt, because it's obviously pretty mutual.)
Sorry that was so angry! Was meant to be short explanation, not long rant. Suggestions for appropriate acts of revenge appreciated – you know where the Comments field is.
In other news, the Balloon Game is awesome. I’m not going to describe it beyond “lining up balloons of the same colour and popping them,” mainly because that sounds lame enough already, but it is incredibly addictive. It is like crack. I am the star! I have not done any work since discovering the Balloon Game. (14 hours and 25 eftpos minutes remaining.)
I am also HUNGRY. Subway is calling me. So is a customer. I am much more tempted to answer the call of Subway.