Despite the amount of shit that women are constantly accumulating and cannot seem to part with – there are very few things in life that we truly need. Yes, we do understand this. And these are the things we don’t need to search crowded shopping centres and E-Bay to find.
Orgasms, laughter, chocolate (aka stomach orgasms), compliments that make our hearts flutter (usually leading to orgasms) and, of course, our Best Friend (as terrible as this sounds…. Spirit Orgasms)
She knows more about you and your scandalous past than anyone (because she was kinda there poking you with a finger pushing you to get up to all that crazy shit in the first place). She knows how to calm you down, and she is the only person on the planet who is allowed to call your boyfriend a prick without getting a good old fashioned cunt-punt and she can handle you when you drunk and disorderly – which, lets face it, is more often than anyone would like to admit….
My best friend and I had rituals which we would tirelessly carry out on a weekly basis. We would talk about EVERYTHING, from comic book heroes to ex-lovers to brilliant tracks to world domination and of course the needless repetition of classic memories collected over the last 9 years.
(My best friend, if the comic book heroes didn’t give it away, is a dude)
I had a drinking carpet which we would plonk ourselves down on, despite the perfectly comfortable couches in the living room, with a bottle of Klippies, some coke, and a stack of CD’s which we would plough through over endless conversation and careful planning of every next song until 4 / 5 in the morning. And, boy did some of those conversations and duets get fucked up. I recall one where we were even admitting which members of the opposite sex we would shag (Eva Mendes, in case you were wondering, and probably Fergie).
The funny thing about those nights was that I never realized that one day they would end. That one day that drinking carpet would become an entrance rug in my flat and he would not be around the corner anymore. I would have to cut those shit-shooting conversations down to a sober, sneaky skype chat during office hours.
Here is to him – on his 28th birthday. I will be hitting the pub tonight, filling up on brandy and suitcases, sending him pics of the hotties and singing along, loud as possible to the good tracks – and more than likely getting home and passing out on the old drinking carpet with my drunk ass.
Miss you G. Have a good one.
PRK.
