In maybe typical male(child?)-hetero form, the shopping experience is one that always ends up pissing me off. Shopping for clothes is always a tightrope act, straddling an imaginary rope of dental floss over a crowd of plaid, flannel and super metro leeches, all vying for your attention whilst aching for you to at least let your wallet drop. You’d think buying nerd stuff, keyboards or furniture would be a lot easier – you spend hours in the halogen and liquid crystal glow of the internet, make a decision and then pick it up right?

What may not be surprising for anyone who knows me in real life™ is that I have the shittiest luck with both. With clothes I find out how whorrific or misshapen something really looks on me long after I’ve bought it. More commonly, my body shape keeps changing (improving hopefully) to being ever fitter but ever different. I’ve got a closet (well, a big stuffed box now) full of clothes in L, XL that fit me like a tablecloth.

To carry the eccentricity forwards, given shelves and rows of non clothing items, I can usually be counted on to pick out the one thing that’s either horrible at what it needs to do or is defective. I’m the canary in the Best-Buy mine then.

On my to-do list, I’ve got a desk lamp to return to ikea because I stupidly thought nondirectional mood lighting would work better than a tilting work lamp. Instead it shines directly in my eyes and not on my papers.

Damn you GRÖNÖ lamp, or whatever the fuck you’re supposed to be called.

The next chore is my fancy new wireless apple keyboard. This one is especially embarrassing:

When it first came out the idea of full sized laptop keys really appealed to me so I bought the normal wired one which worked fine except I found that having it wired really limited me, so I ended up having to sell it (losing 10$ in the process), and like a good lil’ Apple whore, going back and buying the wireless one. Now I’ve got it and it’s pretty hot and all (the batteries make it a little off balance to me), but every-time I press the space bar now it squeaks like an mouse. squeak squeak squeak Every mother-fucking time I finish a word. squeak I’m not being anal, it’s pretty obvious. And it’s yet another errand (and the burning of expensive fuel) I have on my conscience.

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As an aside (as if my writing is even half decently concise), I’ve been riding my bicycle to school a lot and despite it being salvage shoddily brought back to life, it’s a lot of fun going really fast and leaning over into turns. I miss how when I did motorcycle training, gas was almost like a limitless and expendable resource – forget keeping the revs low, motorcycles seem to always blast by at 14k RPM and climbing. Even when driven non-annoyingly, motorcycles really do call to me. Sadly, the sweat-inducing leathery gear doesn’t, but it’s still not putting me off.

Especially lately, reading about how Hiromi’s ditched her car for a bike and the adventures following.. screw the soliloquy – I wanna bike again!

Thinking out loud //