Robyn, Thor and a Marsupial.

And... Go?

Day 3, and I'm once again on the computer, listening to cat vs dog outside my window. Wow, cats are pussies, they scream like creepy plants from Harry Potter whenever a more dimwitted animal approaches them. So I said I was going to talk about my girlfriend today, and so I will. For introduction's sake, her name is Robyn, lets not forget that. Robyn has wild, totally and utterly wild, dark brown hair and boobs that officially ended the broadcasting of baywatch reruns on many channels worldwide. And of course a striking forehead as mentioned in my previous post, after it replicated itself upon my daughter's brow. What I also managed to mention was that a story was attatched to that particular feature. I didn't forget, but before I remember I'm going to hold that thought and have you wait a little bit longer.

 Back to the girlfriend, yes we're unmarried, that much should be clear by now. And yes its even clearer that we had a child before wedlock. I love how lock has crept its way into marraige terminology. Men did invent language after all, there's no doubt in my mind. Marraige is obviously a hot topic in the little loft apartment and it's tennant's lives, and in the two years we've dated its had us come close to Celebrity Deathmatch style friction minus the celebrity status, of course. And the whole clay putty vibe . . . And the commentary . . . If only though, they'd make the situation a whole lot better. You know how often I wish there was someone who knew exactly what we were fighting about, and kept us informed throughout the fued, because sometimes it feels like we're arguing like we're married about not being married, while not being married, because we're not married. So whats the point, I ask? There is a point and my girlfriend knows it almost too well. I sometimes question her about whether she knows why people get married in the first place and why this tradition means so much and why it is so neccessary and where it actually originated. Her response is the Bible, in more words, even though all one has to do is mention the word Bible and we know exactly where they are coming from. I personally don't understand it completely, but who am I to question a tradition as old as the Bible itself, or older, doesn't matter. Everyone's doing it. Having said all that I am prepared to get married, its just, the last thing I want is a shotgun wedding because we've gone and had a child so soon.

 Let it be known, Ella, my daughter, was not at all planned. Robyn and I had only been dating nine months, ironically, before the fateful coincidence of anti-biotics counteracting the purpose of contraception. A two week window was all Ella needed to shoot on out of my penis and soar past weakened defenses until burrowing into a fully fertile egg, despite all possible odds. Strong willed, eh? If she is anything like that growing up I'll have my hands full. When she is all grown up, however, it won't be as much of a problem, though I may have to pity the poor lad that annexes her surname. I know she has a bit of her mother in her already, because she's the headstrong one between the two of us.

 And a lovely play of words has triggered the forehead story I've been prompting . . . Headstrong doesn't begin to describe the lethality of one of her headbutts. Trust me, I've been on the recieving end of one these blows, and it hurts, damn does it hurt. It's foce is what I imagine Thor's hammer, Mjolnir, would resemble when the Thunder guy slams it into your cranium. It leaves a shiner not much smaller than Asgard itself, too. Speaking of Thor, I underwent a haircutting experience I am not too familiar with when I traded my Samson-like hair for a dry pillow at night, resulting in me looking a little more Captain America-like. Beneath the blue swimming cap with a large capital A and Mercury wings, that is. Listen to me, I'm all over the place like a marsupial on a typewriter, darting from one topic to the next. To clear up the haircut story, I sweat like a pig plugged into a geyser, its horrible. Fortunately though, I don't have such bad body odour. I suppose I sweat so much that all possible toxins are excreted in the first five litres, leaving me more like a portable water filter with salt reserves, mmmmm . . .

 Anyway, lets go back . . . Ah, yes, my girlfriend, who I fondly call Bubby, derived from Bobby. We met out one night just over two years ago in our small home town's only dingy bar (the one other bar I'd consider an embarrassing attempt at a cigar lounge,) she recognised my friend, who recognised her, which meant nothing to me because I had never met her before, despite her younger brother and my younger sister being childhood friends, which is irrelevant. It was mutual attraction at first sight, between myself and Robyn that is, my friend thought he was the one but that came to an awkward conclusion several months later. Anyway . . . There it was, I probably saw her on two or three occasions over the next few days which mostly involved me driving her and her friends around and abandoning them in strange, unwanted siuations. Ok, at this point I didn't know there was a mutual attraction, I was still grasping at straws hoping one had our name on it. What happened next was she left our home town to her other home town 500kms away, without either of us knowing what the one thought or felt about the other. It was time to get serious. I would systematically search out every Robyn with her surname, until I eventually found her. Turns out there was only one, I was spelling it wrong each of the first 100 times. Which is odd because I think there's atleast 47 other Robert Thompsons in the world. I then made the 500 km trip to reunite with her and hopefully with any luck manage to drag her back home so we can turn a mutual attraction into something that made a little more sense. Which is exactly what I did. I used a friends 25th birthday as the platform to reacquainting ourselves and propose for her to come stay with me in our little home town. Of course, we had to get through the first holding of hands and the first kiss and the first night together with me absolutely Irished. It was a triumphant success, and my trophy, the girl, of course, because 3 days later and we were sharing my single bed in my tiny room in my folks place. Right on!

 Once again I've left you short on information describing my little home town, because tomorrow's post will be all about it. So calm down, FUCK! I'm actually so incredibly over typing this post because the longer I write, the slower the computer or the internet, or both, is getting. And because it saves like every 60 fucking seconds, slowing the process down even more, its got me all worked up and in a 5 litre sweat, which is unneccesary to say te least. There will be no editing again today, be grateful that I took the time to seperate the paragraphs, because I almost didn't, you know. Lucky bastards.

 Done . . . Can I go now . . .