Mysterious Skin

I have precious little else to do on a Saturday night apart from finish this delicious bottle of Australian wine (£2.99) and hammer my laptop keys. One of my housemates has done that thing where my washing has finished drying in the dryer and has put all my clothes on my bed, which I'm enormously grateful for because it saves me the bother of moving it there myself, however now I'm so enormously lazy that I've sat down on the bed next to them but I really just cannot bring myself to stand up next to the bed and perform the 5 minute task of putting them in my wardrobe. There are so many other menial things like that I could, and probably should do right now, like moving the copy of The Stuff of Thought off my window sill because you can see it from the street outside, and it probably looks like I've deliberately left it there to impress people who walk past. "Wow, clearly that person is an amazing guy because he reads books about linguistics, and he bought it from Borders too because he hasn't taken the 'half price' sticker off". I'm not sure if advertising Borders through your bedroom window is a cool thing to do or not, but I've noticed someone across the street from me has dumped one of our carrier bags in their window, so maybe it is. I'm not going to pull a James Stewart and stare out of my window through a crack in the curtains to see who they are. They might be the weirdo who buys hi fi magazines on a Saturday. There are so many other things to do; here's to anyone who can come up with an idea of what to do with the Mark Kozelek and Red House Painters Cds I amassed during the first three months of this year, which I've dedicated a special 'pile' but not found a solution as to where to store them separately, since I'm out of CD rack space, and out of space to put in another CD rack.
I also need to buy a new mobile phone and/or a sim card, as I lost my mobile phone about three weeks ago, but I'm tempted to resist doing this until I actually need to, although I'm quite contented knowing that I don't have one and don't need to use one. I can probably count the number of people I've spoken to on my phone to people other than my parents in the last six months on one hand. The only time I bought phone credit between February and June, I spent £8.60 on calling the Virgin Media crisis line to moan that they still hadn't reconnected our broadband. The other £1.40 I'm presuming I pissed away when drunk because I don't remember. I think the days of laying in bed having lengthy conversations at 12p a statement, with or without x's are a thing of the past now. I hope nobody important, like The Queen or the producers of Big Brother, or that Welsh poetry competition have tried to phone me. Still, for the time being I can put away the disappointment of hearing the double-bleep and rushing to my phone to find out who's been thinking of me, only to find it's a typographical nudge from Vodafone to hoik me up another rung on the pay package ladder. There is a simplistic warming of the heart knowing that hearing two beeps from a phone proves that someone, somewhere who knows your phone number has at least thought about you for a minute or so, sometimes longer if they've spelt the words correctly, but as time has lagged and the oceans of time between contact has waned to the point of irrelevance, it's not something I'm missing all that much. But tonight, I'm not really in the mood for sitting and staring, but if I had my phone, I guess all I would have done is sat and stared at that instead, waiting to be invited to change my life somewhere.
Births, Marriages and Deaths. In the last year, I've met people that I've seen and talked to on a regular basis who are getting married, or having a baby. This isn't interesting for anyone who doesn't really know the people involved so I'll spare the details, but in a way I've enjoyed in a small way the knowledge that these events are happening. I've been to about four or five funerals in the past few years, and absolutely zero weddings; I don't really know of anyone who's even got married, apart from the one last year Mark was best man at, but that was someone I didn't know. I'm aware of long-forgotten fairytale people who have had children but they're so far off the contact radar I don't even know what country they live in, but this is my first baby. Still not outnumbering the funerals, so here's hoping everyone else I know gets pregnant and indulges shotgun weddings. Providing none of them happen to me any time fast. I don't particularly want to snuff it knowing Marcus was the last person I shared intimacy with, in the car park of TGI Fridays. I don't really plan on getting married any time soon obviously, and I need to bring new life into the world about as much as I need to bring my socks into another person's isolation chamber.

This is picture of me:

What does a bunny rabbit do? Hop. What does an axe do? Chop. What do you do when you see a green light?