Okay, life is just weird nowadays. My bedside lamp is zzz-ing and apparently me who giggles over little green men is getting a visit, if I read the signs right. Or I can just condemn you all to the eternal darkness (my light just buzzed out) because you just didn’t get me smoking my socks.
Not for me to say my critics who so eloquently removed my tinfoil hat are spaced out. Not for me to say you missed the point about my take on the wonderful universe; not for me to say I’ll never giggle at the little green men after my reptilian eyes episode (but that’s another second of my life I’ll never have back).
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Not for me to even say I know my death date (yes, what am I smoking?) Remember my psychic friend who tells me my clock is ticking?
Turns out I don’t have a death date – if I change my course with the Grim Reaper. He tells me yesterday, years too late, to simply put this out to the universe: “Mr Right, call me; I’m waiting.”
A man is apparently what I need to live fully and fulfilled. And not just any man. The right man. “Do it now, Carine. On Facebook. Not once, however long you need.”
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I did, three times, because sensitive soul me believes in psychics. Gmph. I instantly got Arthur with his dirty raincoat and wooden crocs flashing me all the way across the faraway seas from Holland.
Married, of course. As is the next… and the next… Maybe it would help if I change my profile pic to me riding the flying pig rather than a cleavage, but so they streamed in for me to cross off. Fussy, fussy me.
I virtually have men throwing themselves at me, right? But my mind goes blank and my heart keeps its algorithm. Because deep down, I know: I’ve already met my Mr Right. We both just have to recognise…
And that is a game I don’t know if I can play: him being too old and too wise; me being too careful. But if it means I live? I think I’d rather die. Let’s just say: So in walks Mr Right. I left…
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