I feel very cagey right now. This restricted internet thing has me on edge. I’ve become so paranoid that I was even hesitant to come and update until after I’d seen the Mad Men finale. Still haven’t and I’m obsessing over the remote possibility that someone’s gonna chime in and be all oh man, wasn’t it crazy when Don transformed into a giant cockroach and bifurcated, obliterating New York in a twin roach tribute to King Kong, then shat out the iconic Macintosh commercial? I mean, I think I’d be ok with that transpiring and if anyone could make it work it’d be old Matty Weiner. But nobody has spoiled it thus far.
Frankly the thought that people may comment on this site is ludicrous. My audience is composed of algorithms and bots, plus (if site traffic and Google scrapes are to be believed) a concerning number of people who are into marshmallow porn. I don’t know how to work that, what’s the appeal? Pillowy sweetness with a dusting of powder? Are there people who cruise the supermarket aisles looking for jumbo marshmallows to use as proxy cock-sleeves? Is this the part when I find out that my girlfriend has actually been a marshmallow alien from the Staypuft Nebula this whole time? Honey, I love you, but if you’re a sentient, sugary, vaguely gelatinous and springy compound moulded to human form, we might need to have words.
My girlfriend finally met the family, a process that’s been in the works for some time. I mean, I hadn’t seen them in around 6 months, so it’s unsurprising that she hadn’t seen them during this time either. Unless they’ve been scheduling clandestine meetings under the moonlight or something. If so, they were very convincing in their unfamiliarity last night. Though I may have heard a whispered “heil Hydra” as they embraced. I have my suspicions. I mean, she’s “met” my immediate family, in so far as chatting over Skype counts as meeting these days. It’s a very different beast, given that physical proximity enables undeniably greater personal connectivity. Seeing as my parents, brothers, big sis in law and niece are back in New Zealand, meeting my wider family who are at least capable of a hug or high five wasn’t without significance.
There were nerves on her side, which I assured her were unnecessary, as my family here are unflinchingly lovely. We did the customary 3 courses and they were all able to place faces and personality to my countless stories of each other. Unfortunately we didn’t find time for Boggle, but given the absurd amount of time that’d passed since our last (confession?) hang out, there were ample things to talk about. It was nice. Much as I’m able to be a callous, cynical bastard when the situation calls for it (and doubly when it doesn’t), forming bonds between a romantic relationship and familial connection carries a certain gravity. If a girlfriend didn’t mean something to me, she sure as hell wouldn’t be meeting my relatives without a good reason. Obviously she does, hence the above two paragraphs. Geez, could I get any more stony? My rugged masculinity knows no bounds. What’s next, a gravelly attempt at romantic poetry?
Roses are red.
Violets are blue.
Congrats, things *are* coloured differently.
What do you want, a medal?