Sex And Lucia

Sex And Lucia involved more fucking with my mind than with Lucia, which is saying a lot considering the amount of action she gets in the film. Given that films at the Bloomsbury Theatre only cost £2.50, I can certainly say I got a lot of bang for my buck.

But let me not be overly narrow in describing the artistic vision of this movie. It is definitely about more than Lucia fucking Lorenzo, Lorenzo fucking Lucia, Carlos fucking Elena occasionally, Carlos’s enormous penis, Antonio fucking Belen’s mum the porn star, Belen fucking herself with her mum’s dildo while watching her mum’s porn films…

There really is more to it than that, it’s just that after today’s mind-numbing hours of IT copyright law and comparative discrimination law, lecturer voices straining over deadened air in lethargic lecture theatres, page after page of paragraph after paragraph of refined civilised Times New Roman espousing refined civilised legal principles in the refined civilised library, I really just want to write FUCKING.

No Simile Intended

From Cryptonomicon:

“The taxi stops. The driver turns and looks at him expectantly. Randy thinks for a moment that the driver has gotten lost and is looking to Randy for instructions. The road terminates here, in a parking lot mysteriously placed in the middle of the cloud forest. Randy sees half a dozen big air-conditioned trailers bearing the logos of various Nipponese, German and American firms; a couple of dozen cars; as many buses. All the accoutrements of a major construction site are here, plus a few extras, like two monkeys with giant stiff penises fighting over some booty from a Dumpster, but there is no construction site. Just a wall of green at the end of the road, green so dark it’s almost black.”

I reread this paragraph a couple of times, struggling to figure out the simile. Then I finally realized there wasn’t any. He meant real monkeys.

At Least Nobody Threw Haggis (Burns Day 2002)

At least nobody threw haggis, even at this joke (slightly modified from how it was delivered):

The other day, my friend told me she’d just received a delivery of a dozen red roses from her boyfriend. “I suppose this means I’ll have to be spending the weekend with my legs in the air,” she said. “Surely you have a vase?” I said, bemused.

As I said, at least nobody threw haggis. Small mercies.

My Mind Has A Mind Of Its Own

So I’m walking back to my hall from Tesco’s, and when I pass the computer room I decide to pop in and send Russ a free SMS to update him on my efforts to find us accommodation in Paris. Where we’re going on Friday, by the way. I think I haven’t mentioned it here yet.

So I sit down, sign into a terminal, and am just about to open Netscape (UCL computers only run Netscape. This pleases me greatly) when he calls me. This is just another one in a long list of Freaky Telepathic Russ Moments. Maybe I should actually start keeping a list of those, just for interest.

It’s actually rather stupid of me to be writing this here, because when he reads it he’ll nag me about having been on the computer instead of doing the ten million other things that I should be doing instead. And he’ll be right. Dammit.

Oh, before I go, a conversation fragment. I was in my hall common room looking for some of my French hallmates to ask them something about calling Paris:

Me: Johanna, have you seen anyone French around today at all? As in, people from France, not people French kissing.
Johanna, giving me a strange look: No. As in, to either question.

Why does my mind work like this? Stop embarrassing me, mind…