Don't Call It A Comeback

My people, my people. What the fuck is up? I've been on a journey the last week, trying to gather up the strength to fight the internal forces of darkness that sometimes threaten to consume us creative types. In other words, I've been depressed. I know I'm not clinically depressed, but rather just clinically feeling crap because this finding a job ting is long. Anyway, as therapy, I decided to work out daily, eat healthy, and avoid additional stress.

The last part was more difficult. Child, thy middle name is 'additional stress'. So on Thursday afternoon my neighbours could hear me scream as I exploded at my homework slacking child and smashed a few plates to accompany the symphony of rage I was conducting within my little cottage. Funny, I started to feel a lot better after that.

I did a few long runs, and on Saturday, after packing The Child off with Dad, I tried a kickboxing class at the gym. My trip to Malaga is in September, and the bikini boot camp starts here. On Sunday I tried yoga again. In the past I just found it too difficult to chill and do the slow ting in yoga, but right now I know its what my body needs. Although I wasn't impressed by the yoga instructor's figure, very slim legs and then a massive tyre in the mid-section, I soon forgot that when she had her legs over head, and knees by her ears. All the more impressive as she was definitely aged over 50 without the resources of muscleman Madonna. I don't know if it's because I'm not getting 'wuk' regular (see-not at all) but I've noticed a considerable lack of flexibility, and tightness...of all my muscles! Hence I decided to get with the yo-gram (groan). I mean, imagine how much I can impress my man when he finds out I can also put my leg behind my head....1,2,3,*penny drops*.

One of our DJ friends was having a birthday rave at D-Ilusions, and me and Wong had to represent. The DJs played wack, not ah one new tune did they buss, and the tunes they did play you could predict what was coming next with stunning accuracy. That fucking 'You Are My Starship' tune (not the original Charlie) which drives me absolutely mad, followed by R.'Pee' Kelly's 'Step In The Name of Love'. But I should've known the rave wasn't gonna be all that because I didn't follow my 'raving grooming routine'.

Usually I wash and braid my dreads, which I undo on the day and they flow all Rasta-punzel like over my cocoa buttered shoulders. It usually comes out best if I do it two days before I go out, because my hair takes a while to dry when braided. And rasta noh use hairdryer. Then I make sure my eyebrows are tidy, I don't shape cos I like them bushy, just pluck out the Liam Gallagher uni-brow hairs. Lastly, I've got to shave. My legs fools. And girls, you know in winter, we have a tendency to let the shit grow like weeds (don't leave me hanging). So, by Saturday, I hadn't washed my hair, and my legs were proper furry. Not just my legs, but hey we won't go there. Well actually we will. No point in shaving there, no one's seeing that right now! Well except the women in my gym. Am I bovvered? The problem isn't helped by the fact that I managed to lose the charger for my bikini line trimmer. You heard me. A Remington bikini trimmer. Its like a shaver for your 'fanny' (the British meaning. LOL! I can't believe I said fanny. Crass. I don't do waxing (anymore), or hair removing cream, as I'm not too sure about the safety aspects of using pubic hair melting cream near your pum-pum.

My outfit was all wrong. I was gassing on the phone, so time ran away with me, and I only had time to fling on a white strapless polka dot prom dress (bought last year), with sacre bleu, CHEAP SHOES. Some green M&S peeptoe sandals. When I walked in D-Illusions, TA-DAAAA, I lit up the place like a Christmas tree as everyone was wearing black. Wong, was looking fabulous in a black strapless cropped jumpsuit with a green and yellow trim, and a new £10 weave which looked like a million bucks. She does it herself, and trust me, this weave looked amazing. June Sarpong, sit down. I keep threatening to make her my art project. Wong changes hairstyle every two weeks on a Friday without fail, so she has a minimum of 21 hairstyles a year. Not including changes of colour. I'm going to take polaroids of them, and mount them in a frame. A Year in the Life of Wong The Chameleon: The Hair Comes and Goes.

We left D-Illusions around 4am, after a decent amount of time had passed (we didn't get there until 1.45am), not long after a sexagenerian who had been staring at me for about five minutes asked me for a dance. As if. Fuck off Grandad.

She's Baack.