So I personified Fate today. I sat on the loo and just smiled to myself like a crazy person, a slight laugh, a funny, an appreciation. Fate is the skipping Pipilotti Poker girl, skipping down the street, la la fucking LAAAA, BASH into your CAAAAR. She skips and she teases, circles you, disappears, reaapers over there, a little giggle, Sophia Coppola-style, giggle giggle tease, poke and laugh, BASH. Do you want to skip with me? I'm Fate and I skip and I got rhythm going on here, and, well maybe some can rub off on you, if you skip along, la la LAAAA. BASH! Giggle! Glee!
Anyway, Fate is a woman. Sod is a man. Sod is bad. Fate is good. But she doesn't do the rules, doesn't do the World, she's got her own thing going on, and only when you are of skipping bent can you catch a tail of her firey trail, pass your hand through her entrails of influence, circling ribbons of joy and serendipity and wow. She likes The Hanged Man. She likes the opposite of what you expect leading to the perfect result, and likes that you do not yet know nor have any say in this. It fits! My favourite perfect!
He talked to me for longer than felt necessary. I repeated my question once, noticing this probably means I in fact repeated it twice or more. Rhubarb tart hand brush, yum. Oh, and I've gone to the toilet without even thinking I 'should' hang around for a perturbed laissez-faire thank you goodbye thanks for visiting see you, soon? I sat there and thought of Pippioti, the poker, the slow motion, and just loosening the fuck up a bit. I felt rather pleased with myself.
I thought about real life, and how much more rewarding and instant and, available, it is than the internet. I thought about declaring a crush, but, er, to which one? Table four was a hotbed, three in a row, front right. Really Fate? You'avin' a giggle, because I bloody am. Then what's this, quarter past six, the perfect chat opportunity planted, and then swiped clean at 6.28pm, two minutes before freedom. I mean come on. That is just cruel. I'm sorry I'm in so many italics, it must be a vain attempt at irony.
I really enjoyed my evening at Le Mercury, despite it being the worst dessert I have ever had. A cheesecake that must have been a mere 7% cheese, 93% whipped cream, 100% joke. A creamcake. I didn't discuss it. If pressed I would have torn it apart, I liked how they liked that about me the other night. I felt silly that I had felt too 'unsuccessful' (read as you will) to attend the reunion, it seemed the gloss had slipped slightly, pooling around the projections. I didn't scoff but I did somehow feel wise. And super excited about my writing, my intership, and being good at the job I like. And talking to beautiful people.