Columns

Boy and Girl: signed, sealed, delivered.

Girl:
Well, this column started out as a dumb excuse to do lame stuff I wouldn’t usually do, like go on a blind date. It seemed like a frivolous, harmless thing. To you, maybe. As for me, I was talking with a good friend of mine, who outlined the unexpected ramifications of the blind dates. 
This is a difficult column to write, as I’m afraid the people concerned might read it, but here goes: things with Bachelor #1 got much more complicated (in my head anyway) than we could have anticipated from dancing carelessly to ‘50s rock on my roof. He ditched me, my pride was hurt, and then he ‘changed his mind’ and asked for round two. I, of course, said no, while being exceptionally tempted to say yes. But I’ll tell you this, ladies: no sex feels better than self-respect, just as “nothing tastes as good as being thin feels” (Kate Moss). So, Bachelor # lived under the impression that I “hate” him (his words) and caused scenes in pubs. The situation in the Boy camp wasn’t any tidier. 
Basically, what began as a stupid weekend joke ended up playing a disproportionately large role in our (albeit fairly empty) lives. The only ‘success’ story to come out of this whole thing was that my good friend, who came to the 3D’s (date night) all that time ago, met a young man and, in someone else’s karaoke room, a connection was sparked which has lasted ‘til now. I don’t know what this means, if anything. Signing off. 
 
Boy:
So maybe it got too intense for a minute. We ran out of things to do. You probably got bored reading. I had a dream that sums up the situation nicely: It is late spring/early summer. A group of my friends and I are floating knee-deep in the ocean and wading knee-deep amongst pancake rocks – I am in stripes. A flock of extinct Dodo settle on the water. They’re kind of ugly animals, and we are hungry. 
With that, my friend Andy and I grab a docile bird and force it underwater, drowning it. I’m sure the Tegel chicken factory would claim this is ‘added value’ – wouldn’t the seawater make the flesh more succulent? Anyway, the bird hardly puts up a fight.
As it floats lifeless on the ocean we open up the bird like a lunch-box and pull out the high-fat flesh. We don’t even eat it because, quite frankly, the flesh is far ranker than our actions.
Anyway, I woke feeling nauseous and disgusted. It was a pretty gross dream.