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You are going to hate me, but I have summed up two things about the Bentley Continental GT after being chauffeured around in it for a whole day:
1) It gives you nausea (this could also be due to Zul's driving, but we think it's the strong chemical-ish stench of the leather seats. It strangely makes you want to jump out the window).
2) It is really uncomfortable to sleep in. Especially if you didn't get enough sleep the night before and would KILL to get some shut eye, instead are off to do some car photoshoot when you'd rather be making love to your bed.
Other than that, here are two pics of me acting twat-ish with the Bentley:
I did NOT colour coordinate my outfit to match the car, thus I am rather pleased with myself for choosing this extremely-last-minute outfit. And yes my pose is awkward, who gives a toot.
The only time I didn't mind pumping gas.
Pick up GET@CAR's July issue for more untwat-ish pics! Hooray!
I'm feeling a bit Thundercat-sick today.
I can't explain it, but this cat saves me from myself. There's something about the unconditional love from a pet which you will never find anywhere else. I loved the way he would sit on my lap when he knew I was upset, or the way he kissed my nose. When everything became too chaotic and I felt a tad bit overwhelmed, he was the only thing that kept me sane.
God, I miss him. I miss how he followed me everywhere I went in the house. I miss watching birds with him from our window. I miss rushing home, opening the door and seeing him running down the stairs. I miss seeing him curled on the couch in the living room. I miss the way he looked at me, all squinty eyed.
He didn't have to say anything and I knew he thought the world of me.
And so did I.
1) You spontaneously decide to do something crazy, like withdrawing 1,000 bucks out of your account and buying everything from the first shop you see. F*ck savings, you're going to blow it on clothes and shoes.
2) You scribble down everything you NEED (aka loose v-neck white tee, foho smock, ALDO heels, denim jumpsuit etc) furiously on a piece of notepad and stare at it for hours as if it will all materialise from thin air if you stare at it long enough. With crazy eyes, of course.
3) You feel like life has no meaning. At all.
4) You go through your wardrobe and feel like burning everything in a big bonfire while dancing around naked. Because at this point you feel like you'd rather go naked than wear your purple top again. For the 100th time.
5) You stare at other people's fashion blogs and feel like crying hysterically, while pulling your hair out and letting your eyeliner run down your cheeks, looking very Carrie (not Bradshaw, but the creepy Stephen King Carrie). And you do.
6) You feel like selling your sister just so you can afford a whole new wardrobe from Topshop.
7) You write blogs titled 'Shopping withdrawal symptoms' because that's the only f*&^ing thing you can do at the moment because you're so f&*#ing frustrated that you can't go shopping because you're f&^$ing BROKE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
GAH!!!!
I've always wanted to be like my mom. Maybe it's because by the time she was my age, she managed to snag herself a husband and pop out two kids. And so growing up I've always thought I'd be the young blushing bride, to be wed by the time she was 24 and have three kids before any sign of crow's feet or any other godforsaken wrinkle started rearing its ugly head. I mean it was my goal in life to be a MILF. I saw myself slim, in a hot MILF-inspired outfit, with little kids running around me. All immaculately dressed. People around me would go "How does she have three kids and still manage to keep slim?" This would be my cue to look at them, shrug, give a coy smile and say demurely, "I suppose it's the beauty of marrying young," pause a second just for good measure... and then wink.
So I was 24 last year. There was no (garden) wedding and no sign of a (Tiffany & Co princess cut diamond) wedding ring on my finger. And I know I won't be married when 26 rolls around either. Yes that dream of becoming a MILF is still there. It's dusty, filled with cobwebs, sure, but it's never too late. You can still be a MILF at 35. Just use a very good anti-ageing cream, no problem. But what I do mind, is my family acting as if I'm 40 and still unmarried. I specifically remember my mom crying, dusting her mirror table, saying something about how she would like to see her daughters settling down, in between sniffles. Or when she tells me her friend's son's wife just gave birth and how another friend's daughter is getting married while giving me "that look". Do you know the MSN emoticon of the smiley rolling its eyes? That's the look.
If I could go back in time, I would tell my younger self to let go of that 'young bride' dream and not feel pressured to tie the knot young just because my mother did. And then maybe I wouldn't feel a tad bit disappointed that I'm 25 and nowhere near married. There's no such thing as a perfect 'marrying' age - you could be 40 and still not feel ready to get married. And you shouldn't. You might as well stay a bachelorette at 45 and be happy, rather than go to bed at night beside your husband feeling empty inside - something I am absolutely terrified of.
To my future daughter(s)/son(s), marry only when you've found The One you're 110 percent sure will treat you right, adore you wholeheartedly, respect you and love you with all your flaws. Marry someone you WANT to spend the rest of your life with, to start a family with. Someone you love with your whole heart.
Whether at 24 or 44.
So Ned (my editor) tells me I get to make like a p.i.m.p and drive around a Bentley Continental GT for the whole day this Tursday. Bring out the hoes and champagne!
I lied. I'm bored. So this is not going to be an interesting post. But if you think about it, it might be interesting if you're bored too and you know where I'm coming from. It's hilarious how I now have a blog but when I try writing something everything just turns out SHIT. I want to write about politics, worldly affairs, the war in IRAQ, curing AIDS, E=MC(can't find the 'squared' button and crap, now Einstein's formula reminds me of Mariah's cleavage) or whatever other people with abnormal intelligence write about but who am I kidding? Posts like these will crop up every now and then, to remind me of how random I am.
So i'm alone in my office room on a Wednesday evening (colleagues recovering from pulling an all-nighter). Listening to dated music on my even dated Ipod shuffle - at the moment it's Salt n Peppa's "Body beautiful", that's how trendy my playlist is. Mmmm cropped tops, belly button rings and pvc hotpants. Those were the days. I want to start reading 'a long way gone' by Ishmael Beah. It's staring at me from where I'm sitting, taunting me to pick it up but I can't muster enough energy to flip through the pages. Maybe tomorrow.
Lucky for you I've decided to stop writing. I'm getting some shut eye in the games room and will hopefully dream of Hayden Christensen.
I'm no longer a blog virgin. It's a little strange that it took me this long, because I've scribbled away in diaries for as long as I was able to put words together (this dates back to the days when I used to cut off my Barbie dolls' hair and wore a lot of pink). I tend to get bored easily though, so we'll see where this goes. At least I have a place to post my 'Chicks with Sticks' articles (for those of you who are going "heh?", isn't it about time you flip through the pages of Get@car magazine?) :)
till later, my luverrlies.
