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[09 Mar 2015|09:50pm] |
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Lockdown.
CUSTOMS, SCENES, OOC.
ALL COMMENTS SCREENED.
( Locations )
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| One dignity delays for all. |
[10 Mar 2010|08:20am] |
One of my best friends, delightful chap by the name of Chris, called me today to let me know he'd read a little comment on some website wherein someone suggested I looked like a Thwomp. Honestly, this had him laughing down the line for a good ten minutes and refusing to explain what the heck a Thwomp is, insisting I had to search for a picture myself before cackling once more and then hanging up, leaving me sat with a cold cup of tea in hand and a Google image search mission on my mind.
This is a Thwomp. The more I look at it, the more I see the angle they're coming from and, come on, how good a word is Thwomp, anyway? I'll take the comparison just to have more opportunities to roll that word around my mouth. It's a bit delicious.
On a similar theme, a journalist said I looked like a cliff the other day, which is a little bit more abstract but equally charming in its whimsy. I don't think I've ever had my face examined in as much detail as I have in the last nine months. I can't say I've ever paid it too much heed, beyond the fact it's obviously stuck to the front of my head and hoves into view whenever I glance into a mirror. It's just there; I look out of it, occasionally I can make some utterly cracking expressions with it, people have even taken a fancy to it in the past. I never thought I'd see it... I don't want to say dissected, dissected brings up some horrible mental images involving scalpels that I'd rather not associate with my own face, but you get what I mean, right? I didn't expect to see people finding marvellous ways of describing bits of it, or caring that much about how much forehead I have. Kaz, bless her stark raving heart, informed me over breakfast just recently that I'm in possession of what she likes to call a 'fivehead', then she set about giggling and rocking back and forth, right up until the moment I stole her toast and a pitched battle ensued, ending only when Costume Harpie* shrieked the place down over a butter stain on my jacket. And where was the esteemed Miss Gillan when I tried to point the finger of blame? Performing one of her famous, fabulous disappearing acts. She's magic, you know, that's what got her the job.
*Name changed to protect... Well, me.
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