Eurostyle

Ive recently broken down in a moment of weakness. Well its a prolonged moment of weakness, to be fair. Sustained weakness, which i fought VALIANTLY for a really LONG time, ever since Ive landed here. I ended up breaking down eventually, even though I promised myself that I never would do what I just did. I bought tight jeans. Or what I tend to think are tight jeans. Stupid Europe and their tights sizes... i cant find nothing else. I blame it on the italians and their greaser styles infecting the rest of europe. Slimy, giant sunglass wearin bastards. But in actuality, they are not really tight, its just not loose like how I wear all my other pants. I must be getting more conservative and respectable in my old age, I did after all just turn 20 (cough)(cough).

Heres the worst thing, Im convinced these ones are not too shabby; when matched with the proper tops it looks pretty dope(I hope?) .. the one saving grace is that they are Diesels. Thats right Die Sel (I feel an email coming on from a certain Jeans snob, welcoming me to the dark side of stupid expensive jeans... arghh) I bought them during another shopping day in Belfast, one of my favorite places to shop now, its so good. WAY better than Dublin. On the holy trinity, it joins New York and London (so far), which is a lot to say. And on that note, Ill make another Marty prediction: with me and Eric egging him on, there is no way he cannot resist the temptation on blowing wack loads of money on euro cloths during their upcoming visit in two months. No way. He will not be able to turn down a vintage Mexico 1964 Black Red and White Addidas track suit for £75. Not a chance. And we didnt even get to the shoes... he better start saving like 5 months ago.

Anyways... yeap tight jeans. This sucks, Ive compromised my deepest values. Not only that, they are low cut too... no matter what I do my damn boxers always show. This is exactly the point when dudes stop wearing underwear...

And now that the flood gates are open, there is no stopping now. Welcome, Paper Denim Cloth and G Star...

The Felda Health Spa

In light of the maddening frustration and illogical pettiness found in a certain North American sport of late, leaving me with an awkward mixture of emptiness and ambivalence, ive gone deep into my bag of tricks to avert my attention to things more happy. Deep introspection lead to boredom unfortunately, and with nothing on TV, and my thumbs hurting from playing too much XBox, I went to the gym to worked out. And there, while on the seated row pull, listening to my bestfriend iPod, it dawned on me that Mr. Mister has two of the most defining music beginnings of the 80s, if not ever. Like, arent the beginnings of Kyrie or Broken Wings just the awesomest ever? Somehow in the years upon years, Ive forgotten. Damn shame, my attention span. With those two songs, all you need is that bait and that hook of hearing the very beginning and you brain gets perky nipples, it cant help it. So well done; so well done; its Pavolvian trigger. Listen to them... and if you are over 27 years old youll know what I mean. Throw in West End Girls into that pool too, Pet Shop Boys. So good.

Other random iPod workout related thoughts:

It Takes Two- Fatman Scoop version, is like spinach; as soon as this song came on, I was able to squeeze out ten more push ups, raising my total to 12. thats like 600% improvement.

Somehow I found myself closing my eyes and lipsyncing to Dont Stop Believing by Journey on the treadmill. Geez, I hope I was lipsyncing.

Maybe its just me, but when any Ursher song is on, and Im in front the big ass mirror found in any gym, I have to hold back hard to not start dancing. Very hard.

Im going to kill Jill for downloading Josh Groban onto my iBook, which automatically updates to iPod. I almost fell off the spin bike trying the skip song.

I think all old people and overweight people wearing shorts are obligated to wear black socks and pull them up high as possible.

Yoga is awesome.

My flexibility is embarassing but yoga girls...................

Gastroenteritis

The bane of my existence. Raw Oysters. So good though, with lemon. Or even better, with vinegar and tabasco hot sauce. But they are the reason that ive been curled up in the fetal position for the past two days. Saturday night, after kicking Irish ass with my 132 in bowling, I made the choice of ordering 6 oysters as appetizers at an Italian restaurant. Big mistake. Big. Huge.

I came down with a fever. I got intestinals pains. I got nausea. I got debilitating abdominal cramps so fierce that I cant even stand up straight, and I need to walk around with a old man's posture, bent over at the waist. I got put-puuuu-ruts so bad my ass hurts. Its the worst ever. I even looked it up on the net, googling raw oysters, and found my new friends, the reason for my missing work, bacterium Vibrio parahaemolyticus. And I NEED to get rid of this vibrio parawhatthefawkus before tomorrow because Im heading to the Ireland vs Portugal Soccer friendly in Dublin. Good seats, we are in the front row on the touch line; I could be on TV and this close to Christiano Ronaldo's sweeping and flashing wizardry with the ball. If I miss out on this, or if Im forced to run to the toilets every two seconds, Id be supremely pissed out.

At least I havent eaten in 2 days, except for OJ. This could very well be the best diet ever.

Lesson is... never eat raw oysters. In Ireland. From the Dundalk.