Stale? Me? Never!

Thanks to an overwhelming respose of supportive comments (shucks, you guys, am blushing!) I've been provided with a nifty stack of writing prompts to keep me going. And going. And going. Heck, by the
time NaBloPoMo rolls around this November, I'll have nothing else to talk about. (Except for maybe one thing. Yep. Bunnies.)

The lovely Miss Heidikins suggested embarrassment, which is always a good conversation starter. Except, of course, when you're like me and have conviently locked all of your embarrassing memories away into the
'Derrrrr' (also known as 'I Simply Can't Remember') section of your mind. Seriously, I'm not just piking out on you. I honestly find it really difficult to think of any moments that I would deem hugely embarrassing. After sitting here for a good half hour and resorting to the bribing of my brain ('I promise, tomorrow we won't think at all!'), I've come up with a couple. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Alright, so there was this one time when I was learning how to drive and let my true blonde colours shine through; if you've read my 100 Things, you'll know this one already. So I was happily driving along in
my instructors car, when he abruptly asked me to signal and turn left. I obliged, doing what I thought was a great job, until I heard the car crunching, and realised I had actually driven across a concrete island in the middle of the road. What's that? Oh. The other left. Silly me. I didn't cause any visible damage to his car, but I think he was pretty surprised when I finally managed to pass my individual driving test.

How about all those times when you get yourself all dolled up, think you look fabulous but then see photographs a few days later and wonder what the fuck you were thinking going out like that? And since when did a hippopotamous take up residence in your trousers? Blech.

And then there was this one time where I was meeting a few fellow bloggers, had a couple too many glasses of yummy white wine and then found myself gleefully screaming out the number of counting the bats I saw flying past the balcony. '33!' '39!' 'Jase, do you think they're all different bats, or is it the same bat doing laps and just fucking with my head? No really. That's alot of bats.'

(Don't you all REALLY want to meet me in person now?)

Actually, any situation where I drink a wee bit too much alcohol is prone to ending in embarrassment. A few late nights in Europe fit well with that statement, and really, anytime I get up on the chair and start dancing with my shoes off, you know it's going to be one to remember. Or not remember, depending on the morning after.

My verdict? I obviously need to get out more often.


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