Imagine how funny it would be if a woman called Jaffa, married a man with the surname Cake.
I have a problem with that. Not because it might be misconstrued as racist, because that’s just stupid. It’s just a name! No, what I do have a problem with, is that women have to change their names when they marry. That’s pretty bloody old fashioned, and sexist.
When I marry, I’m taking her name. We’re taking each other’s. Yeah, we’re hyphenating. Then when one of us dies, the other will be abbreviated. That’s a bit of an inside joke, let me explain it.
Years ago, I worked in door-to-door sales. Fucking horrible, thankless job. Anyway, I chapped on a door, and the person answering it told me to go away, but it was horribly funny the way she did. I opened with my usual spiel, but she cut me off:
“I’m sorry, I’m not being rude, but could you go away? I’ve had an abrievment.”
“Oh, I’m sorry for bothering you. Hope you feel better soon.” (Or something equally as silly. What do you say to that?)
“Thanks,” she smiled at me.
I had to hold back the laughter, though. It was a combination of what I thought, and the awkwardness of the situation. I don’t even know if I spelled that non-word properly, but my immediate thought was cruel. I turned to the person I was working with:
“I felt like asking her if she’d been abbreviated there.”
Then I laughed. I laughed so hard that I collapsed, tears streamed down my cheeks and I had trouble breathing. Eventually, I calmed down, rolled a cigarette and propped myself against a wall smoking. My co-worker just went off on his own. Heck, I was fully trained and ready to work on my own. I was really just going around with him because I couldn’t be bothered. Well, okay, I was scared, too.
This was in a place called Easterhouse. It’s notorious for being tough, rough and just not a very nice place. I come from a place that has that same reputation, but the thing is, my place is just a reputation. It ain’t really that rough. Hell, I can walk down the street after midnight and be unhindered by the great unwashed.
I wouldn’t do that in Easterhouse, especially looking like I do. Long hair, well dressed, well spoken. Yeah, that’s going to go down well. But that is just how it is in some places of Glasgow, and I suppose the world. You just have to know where to stay away from - you get a vibe, when you live in a place long enough, and that tells you where to go.
All in, Glasgow isn’t that bad. It has the reputation of being tough, but also has the reputation of being friendly. Who knows what it’s like? I live here, so I’m not a very good judge. Tends to be, when you know something, or someone, well enough, you ignore things about them. You take them for granted.
I try not to take anything for granted because I know how easily anything can be snatched away. Your health, sanity (or lack of), possessions, they’re all temporary. That’s maybe a dim view to take, but it’s true, even your life is temporary.
Anyway, another train of thought is overtaking me... This is dangerous, I’m thinking! So, yeah, thought: When you meet someone, get to like and/or love them, you miss them when they aren’t around.
But, here’s the thing. I missed someone, a very specific someone, before even meeting her. I don’t know if that is even possible, but it seems like it is. I think your soul needs someone specific, and when you don’t have that someone, be it through the fact that you haven’t met yet, or some other twist of fate, your soul has this deep longing for them. It’s like you aren’t complete without them, but even when you’ve met them, you can still function as a person, as an individual. I love that.
Oh, I’m still a sinner, by the way. Well, so say the narrow-minded. I don’t care. You can attack my beliefs, my morals, just about anything, but there’s two things you don’t attack: My intelligence and my family/friends.
That instantly makes me insane. Livid. Violent. Yes, it makes me violent. It is horrible, but also an old defence mechanism. People would often be belligerent to me, then when I retaliated with a well-rounded argument, they’d insult my intelligence. I knew it was just them spouting off because... Well, probably because they were jealous, due to their lack of intelligence, compared to me. I’m not being cocky; I’m not that intelligent (sure, I’m allowed to insult myself, that’s just me: Self deprecating). Anyway, they would say something about my intelligence, or call me posh or some crap, then swing a punch. I since learned that when someone calls me stupid, they’re going to hit me, so I hit them first. I suppose you could say I’m mentally scarred from being bullied, but I don’t see it like that. It’s just armour. Any insults are armour, as Tyrion Lannister on Game of Thrones, is famous for having said.
Insulting my family, well, that’s just normal to be defensive as a reaction to that. Well, you can insult one member, but that isn’t even a member of my family, so fire away with the barbs, ‘cause that’s the only thing that I genuinely hate. Notice my lack of gender assignment, that’s because I don’t see it as a person, much less a gender. Less said about that, the better.
So, if the woman was called Jaffa and the man was called Cake, I think that would be cool. Did you know that the name Jaffa means beauty? So when you eat Jaffa Cakes (you horny buggers!) you’re eating beauty cakes. Does that make you beautiful?
Kittylove
Andrew =^.^=
I have a problem with that. Not because it might be misconstrued as racist, because that’s just stupid. It’s just a name! No, what I do have a problem with, is that women have to change their names when they marry. That’s pretty bloody old fashioned, and sexist.
When I marry, I’m taking her name. We’re taking each other’s. Yeah, we’re hyphenating. Then when one of us dies, the other will be abbreviated. That’s a bit of an inside joke, let me explain it.
Years ago, I worked in door-to-door sales. Fucking horrible, thankless job. Anyway, I chapped on a door, and the person answering it told me to go away, but it was horribly funny the way she did. I opened with my usual spiel, but she cut me off:
“I’m sorry, I’m not being rude, but could you go away? I’ve had an abrievment.”
“Oh, I’m sorry for bothering you. Hope you feel better soon.” (Or something equally as silly. What do you say to that?)
“Thanks,” she smiled at me.
I had to hold back the laughter, though. It was a combination of what I thought, and the awkwardness of the situation. I don’t even know if I spelled that non-word properly, but my immediate thought was cruel. I turned to the person I was working with:
“I felt like asking her if she’d been abbreviated there.”
Then I laughed. I laughed so hard that I collapsed, tears streamed down my cheeks and I had trouble breathing. Eventually, I calmed down, rolled a cigarette and propped myself against a wall smoking. My co-worker just went off on his own. Heck, I was fully trained and ready to work on my own. I was really just going around with him because I couldn’t be bothered. Well, okay, I was scared, too.
This was in a place called Easterhouse. It’s notorious for being tough, rough and just not a very nice place. I come from a place that has that same reputation, but the thing is, my place is just a reputation. It ain’t really that rough. Hell, I can walk down the street after midnight and be unhindered by the great unwashed.
I wouldn’t do that in Easterhouse, especially looking like I do. Long hair, well dressed, well spoken. Yeah, that’s going to go down well. But that is just how it is in some places of Glasgow, and I suppose the world. You just have to know where to stay away from - you get a vibe, when you live in a place long enough, and that tells you where to go.
All in, Glasgow isn’t that bad. It has the reputation of being tough, but also has the reputation of being friendly. Who knows what it’s like? I live here, so I’m not a very good judge. Tends to be, when you know something, or someone, well enough, you ignore things about them. You take them for granted.
I try not to take anything for granted because I know how easily anything can be snatched away. Your health, sanity (or lack of), possessions, they’re all temporary. That’s maybe a dim view to take, but it’s true, even your life is temporary.
Anyway, another train of thought is overtaking me... This is dangerous, I’m thinking! So, yeah, thought: When you meet someone, get to like and/or love them, you miss them when they aren’t around.
But, here’s the thing. I missed someone, a very specific someone, before even meeting her. I don’t know if that is even possible, but it seems like it is. I think your soul needs someone specific, and when you don’t have that someone, be it through the fact that you haven’t met yet, or some other twist of fate, your soul has this deep longing for them. It’s like you aren’t complete without them, but even when you’ve met them, you can still function as a person, as an individual. I love that.
Oh, I’m still a sinner, by the way. Well, so say the narrow-minded. I don’t care. You can attack my beliefs, my morals, just about anything, but there’s two things you don’t attack: My intelligence and my family/friends.
That instantly makes me insane. Livid. Violent. Yes, it makes me violent. It is horrible, but also an old defence mechanism. People would often be belligerent to me, then when I retaliated with a well-rounded argument, they’d insult my intelligence. I knew it was just them spouting off because... Well, probably because they were jealous, due to their lack of intelligence, compared to me. I’m not being cocky; I’m not that intelligent (sure, I’m allowed to insult myself, that’s just me: Self deprecating). Anyway, they would say something about my intelligence, or call me posh or some crap, then swing a punch. I since learned that when someone calls me stupid, they’re going to hit me, so I hit them first. I suppose you could say I’m mentally scarred from being bullied, but I don’t see it like that. It’s just armour. Any insults are armour, as Tyrion Lannister on Game of Thrones, is famous for having said.
Insulting my family, well, that’s just normal to be defensive as a reaction to that. Well, you can insult one member, but that isn’t even a member of my family, so fire away with the barbs, ‘cause that’s the only thing that I genuinely hate. Notice my lack of gender assignment, that’s because I don’t see it as a person, much less a gender. Less said about that, the better.
So, if the woman was called Jaffa and the man was called Cake, I think that would be cool. Did you know that the name Jaffa means beauty? So when you eat Jaffa Cakes (you horny buggers!) you’re eating beauty cakes. Does that make you beautiful?
Kittylove
Andrew =^.^=
