Running lathered

In response: yes I have finally finished the mushrooms, mainly because some of them just became too disgusting to eat and got thrown onto the compost heap. But before that happened, I had kai lan with mushrooms, san choy with mushrooms, beef stew with mushrooms, mushroom omelettes, cream of mushroom soup, stir-fried oyster sauce beef with mushrooms, chicken with mushrooms and asparagus with mushrooms. They were also used in great big handfuls for pasta sauce by PunkSkunkAdonis, my housemate.

I'm beginning to quite adore my housemates. PunkSkunkAdonis is so named because he's got a stripe of platinum blonde running down the centre of his hair, is a cycling fiend and is suspected of having a six-pack, although this has not (and if The Boy is reading this, will not) been/be verified. PunkSkunkAdonis is half Italian and makes pasta sauce from scratch, and has succeeded, without ever saying a word, making LovesHerDog (I need a better name for her) and myself feel deeply guilty for never, ever exercising. So much so that I was forced off the couch and into my running shoes, sliced-open foot be damned, to pant my way around the estate, only to meet LovesHerDog on her way out, also in running shoes. But we forgave him for silently sitting on the couch in front of his Mac and looking all fit and exuding the endorphins produced by his daily 30km cycle and making us feel like sacks of blubber.

Punky also cooked me dinner last night because I was too damned lazy to cook my own dinner but was starving. Go Punky.

Oddly, he seems to be of a dying breed of man that appears to just be a sweet, nice guy with slightly old-fashioned belief and principles, who doesn't appear to have any vices. Save for his unfortunately healthy obsession with cycling, anyway.

LovesHerDog told me today, "I have to keep reminding myself that he's not gay."

I think that, by unspoken agreement, we'll try not to shock him too much. Nice boys are hard to find.
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Making friends, I realize, is a little like dating. You don't know the person very well, you may have only met once, saw a spark and would like to see them again. But this means asking them out, which can be daunting. Sure, there's less chance of rejection and there's less of an ick factor involved (because you don't want to sleep with them) but the principles which apply to the dating game also operate when you're making friends, i.e., the question, "What if he/she doesn't like me?"

It was a thought I had when I decided to call up someone I'd met once for five minutes, and spoken with a mere handful of times on purely practical matters but felt an instant connection with. Sitting there, I found myself thinking "Maybe I should call her to see if she wants to have coffee. No, wait, calling might be too forward. Maybe I should send her an SMS instead," and then felt like such a guy, but messaged her anyway, and then worried about what to wear.
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You know the worst part about leaving your world behind? The celibacy. I'm sure it's bad for your brain. Because lately I've been obsessed with sex, or more accurately, the lack thereof. Listening to Paula Cole's raunchy "Feelin' Love" probably doesn't help. I can't go to the zucchini section of the fresh food markets, and I'm probably going to go running again soon. Really soon.

But in the meantime I feel like if I don't get snogged soon my brain might explode.

Gaaah, the spellcheck just suggested the word 'frontal' for one of my misspelled words. It's a conspiracy, I tell you.

And there's a whole slew of Jonathan Rhys Meyer's pictures which mysteriously appeared in Slinky's browser (okay, I Googled him) and I swear, that man can lick whipped cream off my naked writhing body any day.


Smoking + his lips = match made in heaven


Grungy. Gorgeous.


Hip dips. Yowza.


Slinky likes the hatses


Looks like a poofter. But still knicker-droppingly hot.


Yep, definitely poofter-ish. Still insanely hot.

He's ridiculously pretty, almost too much so for my taste. But those beestung lips are just begging to be slathered in honey and sucked off. I love the sullen, pouting, brooding look. This guy could brood for Ireland.

Dang. I think I need to go running again. Like, maybe to the nezt state. 'Scuse me.