We just had our old flat painted by a hot, shirtless man...I think I'm starting to believe in a righteous God.

At the age of 26, Lyn decided that she is a grown woman and penis-bunny is no longer a part of her life. Alas, he will never get to know our new flat. Bought in a completely wasted state at Rock am Ring 2007, penis-bunny has been the subject of many amusing nights and discussions. He was one of a kind who loved sitting on the top of Lyn's closet, watching people (he was a little creep). The demise of penis-bunny officially marks the end of an era and our puerile phase.

R.I.P. Penis-Bunny

The date is finally set - Lyn and I are gonna move flats on 22 August. We both can't wait to get out of our current walls and start a completly new life...one story below our current flat. Ah well, you can't always get what you want. Plus, the new flat underneath our current one is much bigger and only slightly more expensive. It also has two loos. Which is absoultely brilliant, since now we can pee synchronically and continue our conversations if we leave both doors open. I love progress. Also, I was thinking that if we get enough people to help us move we can build a human chain down the two flights of stairs and simply pass down our furniture.
Today I thought I'd honour this special occasion by going out and shopping for some wall paint for my new room. So I get on the bus, heading for "Praktiker" and after two stops, I have to urgently leave the bus, because I'm bursting into tears. Now, was it because I saw a puppy being run over by a car? A mean guy stealing a baby's lollipop? A bratty youth not giving his seat to an invalid elderly? No. I burst out in tears, because I couldn't decide what colour to pick for my room. Pale mint green or lavender? I briefly decided to go shopping for Prozac and a straight jacket instead of the paint but then I remembered that women sometimes suffer from inexplainable, erratic, hormonal imbalance. Now I'm gonna curl up in bed and cry like a wounded, invalid, elderly puppy who didn't get a seat on the bus and doesn't have a lollipop. Honestly, this whole question of what colour my room will be better be dissolved by tomorrow noon. Otherwise I'm gonna walk into "Praktiker" and do my best Meryl Streep impression till they give me both buckets of paint for free.


Pale mint green or lavender!!!!

Have you ever had the feeling that you can't remember what you did on New Year's Day, but you blamed it on the fact that you were still hungover from New Year's Eve until you stumbled across some solid evidence that proved you wrong? No? Are you sure?
Well, WE can say that now. When Lyn was trying to make space on her digi-cam's memory stick last night she actually found a video of what *I* did on New Year's Day. I don't know what's more disturbing:

The fact that
1. ...I can't remember the video being taken
2. ...I can't remember that we had Karaoke Night at the Pub on New Year's Day
3. ...my Strongbow Shirt in the video seems to be indicating that I was working that day/night and I have no recollection of *that* whatsoever
4. ...I sank so low as to karaoke Backstreet Boys and actually seem chuffed about it
5. ...there wasn't a single decent soul left in the pub who would keep Andrea and me from embarassing outselves that way. It's a cruel world.

I'm speechless. There is no way I will ever be able to justify this to my grandchildren.

Tonight, me and Lyn discovered that there's a black hole in our apartment that sucks our forks into its solar mass, transports them into a parallel dimension and, by ways of tidal force, returns them as extra socks with no matching pair.
The result being, that we have to eat with our fingers (which is a right mess with spaghetti) and then accidently soil everything we touch because our fingers are permanently sticky.
Now, the next best thing to do (as we have been advised by a good friend) would usually be to put the socks back into the hamper to the sock-elf in there that can conduct the switch back from cotton to metal. If only we had a real hamper. Meaning if only my dear flat mate wouldn't abuse her proper hamper as a coffee table/rummage box/clothes hanger/luggage rack/place-to-put-things-when-I-need-to-tidy-up-box.
Now she's on the roof of our house throwing all our socks skywards yelling to outer space: "I want my forks back!!!"

We'll see what happens.