So India won the fight. We were talking all night about how nervous her opponent looked and then she came out swinging like a lunatic and there was a moment were things were a bit touch and go. India hung in there though and just kept hitting her. Then in the second round it was obvious that the other girl was out of steam, she was just clinging onto India and India was just raining in body shots by the dozen, literally. Round two ended with the other girl on the ropes and India just laying into her like a mad thing. Then round three basically went straight back to the ropes with India again just raining punches on her with no response, and then the towel got thrown in and it was all over.
I actually see her in a new light, I really like how tough she is. Before her fight we were standing watching another bout and she was practically shaking with aggression, she just wanted to get in there and fight and, okay, I want to fuck her, the sexual tension between us is a known, out in the open, quantifiable thing, but last night seeing her so fired up……yeah I was getting pretty fired up myself. I love her spirit. I’ve seen her take a pounding and then give one back and I want to give her a pounding of my own albeit of a different kind.
Then there’s Dakota, I can’t say that I don;t think about her a lot, because I do. I think she’s actually coming home for Halloween but I doubt I’ll see her, I’m trying to, I don’t know what I’m trying to do. Semi get over her, semi hoping that she’ll miss my attention. Something. What do I want? I want to cuddle up to her on a bed strewn with rose petals, lit and surrounded by a multitude of scented candles. I want to tell her everything while I gaze into her eyes and then make the slowest, gentlest, most sensual and passionate love to her.
Or I want to fuck her like an animal while her face is buried between India’s legs……….one of the two.
I think I’ve actually been feeling lonely. It’s a weird thing for me; I’m like Thorpin in Eric the Viking when he feels fear for the first time and he doesn’t know what it is and the coward of the group has to explain it to him. That’s me with loneliness.
Big no nos of course are buttoning both buttons on your suit up or doing the bottom button of your waist coat up or wearing a tie with a button down shirt, or having your tie match your pocket square or other things that indicate that one is a pleb.
Sartorial question of the day: Cufflinks with sports jacket? I shall enquire of the paternal figure since he has a wealth of sartorial knowledge. This generally devolves into a, “What do the army do?” discussion since the British Army has all kinds of ideas on how a man, or at least the officers, should dress in and out of uniform and with dad’s background what the army does is what is done and is the only correct way.
One of those things.
Normally when I walk through the town centre I get a bit of eye contact off the opposite sex, which is good. However I’ve noticed that when I am wearing a sports jacket I get tons of eye contact, which is most interesting. I think it’s just the extra layer of smartness in a world of tracksuits, blue jeans and trainers, that and I carry myself like I own the place.
I’m so tired, I’m really not sleeping well at the moment. I’m hoping that I can get a good solid seven hours in tonight, then a nap tomorrow before I go to see India’s fight. Hopefully I’ll be meeting Plato too and getting rekt as in Tyrannosaurus Rekt.
I’m watching a Horizon episode on sex. It’s presented by Prof Alice Roberts……………The things I would do to that woman just for her intellect. Although she is a vegetarian……..
I am quite proud of myself, although maybe I don’t have full agency and so I’ve nothing to be proud of. So far I’ve not let my situation get me down, I’ve managed instead to think about what I can do rather than what I can’t and I’ve managed to do everything I can to move myself forward. One day I’ll be all smiles.
In other news the war on misery porn continues. I thought I’d thrown it all out but we get so much of it that if I turn my back for ten milliseconds someone puts some out on the shelves. I’m actually pretty reviled at how many older women there are who come in and buy what amounts to paedophile porn books. Okay, so it’s meant to be “nonfiction” and is supposedly survivor’s real life experiences all that bollocks, but I’ve flicked through some of this stuff and it’s written like porn, which disgusts me and so in the fucking bin it goes.
I swear though people don’t bother to look at what they’re putting out. I found a copy of In the Shadow of the Sword in amongst the fiction so I immediately relabeled it and put it in the history section where it belongs. The lackadaisical attitude to things grates on me a bit. I found a Warhammer 40K book on the shelves for £2 and I checked it out and sure enough it’s worth about £20. I reckon about once a week they’re letting books like that go for stupid prices mainly because they’re just not switched on. They’re taking books off the stock room shelves and not even bothering to look at them, it’s just a book. Take the front facing books: the non-fiction section has them, because I do them, we do actually have some good books in so I make sure that they’re on show. The fiction section doesn’t because the person who runs fiction basically doesn’t give a shit. Of course my books are selling fast: people can see what the fuck they are.
I am beyond chuffed! So I bought a blu-ray player and today I came home and dad had bought me some ridiculous 48+ inch smart TV. Naturally this was immediately put into operation and I am now watching Prometheus and it is awesome! I rule! Just the sheer size of the TV in my room is amazing and it’s great that I can now lay in bed and watch films.
Also I was in the second hand shop raiding it for blu-rays and it’s so funny. This is such a middle class area so we have these really middle class rockers with the purple hair and the full sleeve tattoos, only the hair has obviously been done in some expensive hair salon, the nails are professionally done, you can see that these aren’t your normal rockers who are barely scraping a living in some minimum wage job. They’re proper “Daddy, I need £150 for my hair” girls. They have a job so that their parents will give them money……….which is actually a bit like me now that I think on it. I am, it has to be said, a bit of a spoiled brat, this is why I have a brand new smart TV in my room because nothing.
I find it so interesting to see these class differences: I can look at someone and know immediately whether they’re from here or not. Height, for instance. Middle class women are taller than working class women, they’re more relaxed, more confident, they look at you as if you’re some bug under a microscope, there’s a detachment there. Style gives class away too: the basic fashion is the same but somehow the middle class women pull it off in a more subdued, more classy style, the working class women are the ones that seem to be trying just a little too hard, a little to eager to be noticed.
Meh, I need sleep.