In 5 years time…

Entirely by chance, I realised that today marks 5 years of the reincarnation of my blog.

Before “Parlez-vous moo?” came along I was simply “nuttycow” – a blog which has since, sadly, been occupied by spammers and only available via the wonders of the Way Back Machine. The nuttycow blog had been, in various incarnations and platforms, live since around 1998. How things have changed since those heady days of teenagehood. And how things have changed since I moved here.

This blog started off with a dream about Rupert Penry Jones (ok, so maybe not everything’s changed!) and has tracked my course over the trials and tribulations of my 20s.

And, of course, when I say “this blog” I mean you.

Thank you.

Here’s to another 5.

 

Posted in blast from the past, blogging about blogging, happy happy joy joy | Tagged , | 23 Comments

Continuation…

It’s a Sunday evening. I’ve spent the weekend being a happy Billy No Mates, making chutney, roasting chicken and generally chilling the fuck out. Not a bad weekend at all. Sir Charmsalot popped round earlier – I think I said the whole of three words to him, so engrossed was I in my 7 month old Sunday newspapers (one of the downsides about living here, no proper Sunday papers – I can get the paper bit (for the princely sum of £7) but none of the supplements. And, as you know, those great inserts of “things you never knew you wanted but believe me, you do” magazines. Those make a Sunday for me. That and copious amounts of Earl Grey.)

Where was I? Oh yes, a relaxing weekend. And, because I am sitting here, waiting for Downton to start, I thought I’d continue the story I started the other week.

As you know, I was at N’s wedding in the idyllic little Costwoldian (is that a word?) village, slowly drowning any residual memories in vats of wine.

I’ve known J for a long time – well, ever since N and I first visited his parents all those years ago. Of course, I wasn’t surprised to see him at the wedding. He’s one of N’s best friends and was playing the part of usher. What I was surprised about was the fact that I’d forgotten what a cheeky grin he had, how kind he was and how unlike N he was. We wandered up the lane towards the reception arm in arm.

“It’s good to see you again”, he said.

“How’s my hair?” I asked.

“You look lovely.” He grinned and brushed my hair back behind my ears.

Fursty Ferret and I were on the raucous table. There’s always one at every wedding. Generally made up of the random waifs and strays, this one was no different. FF sat on one side, the charming (if slightly inappropriate) Australian sat on the other. Various rugby club bods filled in the seats in between.

J sat on the table behind me.

N’s niece had taken a shine to FF and I (it all started with a very stupid game FF had made up in the pub. He really should know better than to play with children who have a higher intelligence than him) and so most of the wedding breakfast was spent hiding a bunny and drinking wine with not a lot of eating (which may account for my behaviour later). As I padded my way round the marquee (high heel shoes had been taken off due to the active nature of the game that N’s niece had decided on), I noticed eyes on me.

The “local” locals (you know the type, those who are relatively new to the village act as if they’re the oldest family there. They consequently look down on everyone around them and, in turn, are looked down on by everyone else – albeit quietly) glared at me. Surprised to see me, I think they were the only people who were actively hostile to me.

The Australian watched me through increasingly drunken eyes.

And J just smiled at me.

The rest of the evening blurred into dizzying dancing, rivers of red and the obligatory flirtatious chatter with the old boys of the village.

N and his new wife left at around 10 and then, suddenly and quite by surprise, I found myself in a marquee surrounded by enough dry ice and lasers to host Stars In Their Eyes*. J was there with me and, enveloped in the haze, he pulled to me towards him and suddenly we were two 13 year olds at our first disco. As the smoke shielded us, we danced to cheesy pop, old rock and cringeworthy ballads. That cloying, fantastically flirty dancing that you only do at a certain level of drunkenness but which is fun, giggly and unbelievably sexy.

It’s at this point it all gets a little hazy (and I don’t think it has to do with the choking dry ice). I remember laughing, I remember dancing with the father of the groom and I remember more and more red wine. Suddenly it was the witching hour and Fursty Ferret was telling me it was time to go.

“I’ll walk you to the cab” J said.

Fursty Ferret staggered in front of us.

“Where do I go?” Fursty Ferret sounded bemused. “There’s no line!”**

J and I meandered. I can’t remember the conversation, I can’t remember how he looked or how I acted. I can’t remember who made a move on who (although knowing me, and as my friends will probably attest, it was probably me – I can be such a drunken hussy. I know! Shock!)

I do remember a sweet kiss before I got into the cab.

I also remember grinning all the way home.

 

*Thanks to a member of the Swiss family for that comparison!

** one of the last times FF and I were in the countryside he managed to get home by crawling down the middle of the road. This is why our local pub is called the White Lion – you have to follow the white line home.

Posted in blast from the past, look at me, lovely men | Tagged , , | 11 Comments

It’s a nice day to start again

“What am I doing here? What am I doing here? What am I doing here?”

Despite the words of encouragement and love I’d received from various friends and family all morning, the angry birds in my stomach seemed to have launched a full-on attack.

The weekend had started in a semi-relaxed manner.  A leisurely flight to Heathrow, Fursty Ferret in his impossibly dirty car waiting for me. A drive into the Cotswolds punctuated by laughter, random snippets of song and Radio 4. The small village pub with its relaxed opening hours and friendly, if slightly bemused, locals (“You’re going where love? Your ex’s wedding? And you’ve come over from Switzerland?”). A late lock-in was followed by the sleep of the dead in an all-encompassing duvet and smothering pillows.

The day itself dawned. We went for a short constitutional before finding a nearby pub for Bloody Marys and a harrowing game of rugby.

Soon though, I couldn’t put it off any longer. The day I never thought I’d see, or at least, the day I thought I’d be slightly more involved with, had to begin.

And so there I was, sitting at the local pub, memories assaulting me from every angle. There was the corner where the best man and I danced round like loons after one too many gin and tonics. There was the bench we spent all summer on. The little church that we went to midnight mass at fortified by nips of sloe gin. The little lane that led onto rolling fields and stunning views over the Cotswold countryside. As much as I wanted to forget it, this little village and I had history.

And there was the biggest chunk of history ambling towards me now.

Wearing shorts (they lucked out with the weather! 27 degrees? A summer bride could only dream of that) and an old rugby shirt, he strolled up to the pub.

“Hullo” he said. And that was that. All nerves vanished and suddenly I realised that the man in front of me was nothing more than that – a man. A slightly older, slightly fatter, slightly more tired version of the man I used to go out with.

He walked up the stairs and pulled me into a hug. “Lovely to see you Miss Moo” he said. “You too”, I grinned. And it was.

Having not seen N for over 2 years, I wasn’t sure what I was going to think when I saw him again – let alone how those thoughts might be amplified due to the situation. The conversation flowed easily, there was no hesitancy, there was no fear. It was just two friends on a wedding day. Fursty Ferret was tasked with helping with ties and button holes. I was tasked with buying N’s brother beer and amusing the guests (both of which I performed admirably, I hasten to add).

The wedding ceremony itself passed without a hitch (except for that part when the vicar asks if anyone knows “any just cause” etc. The rows around me all turned and looked at me just in case I was going to do a Hugh Grant esque type declaration of love). The libation undertaken before we made it to the church ensured that the motley crew on the back pew belted out the hymns with abandon (for those of you keeping score, they were all cracking rugby based hymns – Bread of Heaven, I vow to thee and Jerusalem).

Outside of the church we did the usual “lovely service Vicar” and “you must be so proud”s and then suddenly there I was, in front of the new me. “You must be NuttyCow”, she said. “Thank you so much for coming along”.  “You look lovely” I said, meaning it.

And that was that.

It occurred to me then that, despite all the warnings of doom and shunning and escape plans (believe me, there was an escape plan), this whole day was going to be fine. It was going to be a blurry whirl of too much champagne, inappropriate dancing and the kissing of people that one really shouldn’t.

But you don’t want to hear about that part… do you?

Posted in bad boys, blast from the past, love 'n' things, lovely men, random | Tagged , | 28 Comments

Oktoberfest flu

It was never going to be a tough sell. When the email came through late last year, I don’t think I’ve ever responded so fast.

Oh yes, oh yes, I’m so up for that.

My fingers almost blurred on the keyboard I was so excited.

5 days in Munich over the start of Oktoberfest? Hell yes. What more could a girl want? I mean, what’s not to like? Beer, German men, German food and the added bonus of feeling like you’re on holiday because you’ve had to get a plane to get there.

As the weeks and months passed, I got more and more excited about the impending trip. Research was done, dresses were bought and I became very adept at saying things like:

Oh sorry, I can’t make it that weekend. I’ll be in Munich. You know, for Oktoberfest?

(side note: as I get older, I find myself becoming more and more organised. I like to know “stuff” like where the nearest tube stop is, how much taxis cost, the best way to get from the airport to hotels, what the normal tipping practice is etc. I’m not sure if this is a good thing but hey, it means I’m always prepared and I can come out with stonkingly attractive chat up lines such as “Did you know that the going rate for a stein is about 10 Euros in Oktoberfest but only about 5 Euros at one of the many beer halls in central Munich? Hello…? Hello…?”)

And then, finally, the day arrived. I was Munich-bound. And so, as a mental note to myself, and others planning the trip, I hereby give you a list.

Things I learnt from my trip to Oktoberfest:

  • Boys are horrible. Seriously. I don’t think I’ve ever had to endure quite so much scatological conversation in my life. And I used to play rugby. Chatter was non-stop poo and farting.
  • Going to a big old booze up in a group of all men is not conducive to being chatted up. Apparently me sitting down with 5 guys is a tad intimidating.
  • That said, American firemen are made of firmer stuff.
  • If you’re a woman outside a beerhall on your own, it’s very easy to start talking to 8 firemen from Baltimore. It’s even easier to get them to buy you drinks and persuade them that all they want to do is end up in a German industrial estate in some dodgy club.
  • When this happens, you’ll be pleased to have your wingman with you, just in case things get a bit weird.
  • All German nightclubs seem to play the same kind of weird music. Also, on a Thursday night they are depressingly empty apart from the obligatory slutty girl in bikini and sleazy men circling the dancefloor.
  • Some firemen look younger than they are. Case in point, the 40 year old fireman I ended up kissing. Seriously, he looked about 25. This is not a bad thing.
  • I have a strange affinity for blood. I think I might be a vampire. After aforementioned 40 year old fireman got into a fight (told you it got a bit weird) I found him all the more attractive for the fact he had a little bit of blood on his face.
  • Evidently, I’m still not quite over my bad boy phase. Dammit.
  • Germans live on a diet of pork, veal and pickled cabbage. I don’t think I ate anything else for 4 days. My stomach was not happy with me.
  • If you leave the hotel organisation to someone else (especially a male someone else) you’re going to end up in arse end of nowhere (in our case, a council estate, 8 miles outside of Munich with the delightfully named “Freak Pizza” and “Las Vegas Casino” handily just down the road). Memo to self: book your own hotel next time – unless you like staying in a something akin to Bates’ Motel.
  • My hair doesn’t go into a plait very well. Especially when I manage to break my hair bobble and have to improvise with a piece of string. Particularly after sitting in the rain for 3 hours.
  • Munich is one of the prettiest cities I’ve visited in a long time.
  • The German stereotype of order and regiment is fully deserved – one of my favourite bars in Munich had all the chairs outside set up so everyone had to face in the same direction. This meant if you were in a group, you all had to sit in a row. Oddly compelling.
  • Even if you get to the Oktoberfest site at 8 in the morning, you’re still unlikely to get into a tent. Instead, you’ll have to sit on the hardest garden benches for 4 hours before anyone brings you a beer.
  • The pomp and ceremony of the opening of Oktoberfest makes that first beer taste all the better.
  • I can be very sly when it comes to perving on men and, in particular, and I quote my drunken self here, “the best looking man in Germany”. I made one of my friends stand in front of him and pretending to take a picture. Except the camera was pointing somewhere over his shoulder. I have no shame (but I did get a pretty picture)
  • There is such a thing as Oktoberfest flu. It is what you get after getting caught in a tropical style downpour (sans the warmth) in the middle of Munich with no change of clothes. Apparently walking round all evening in a sopping wet dirndl causes evil flu-y bacteria to have a big ol’ party in your nose and throat.
  • That said, dirndls: best dress ever. Even for a lard arse like me.
  • Also, lederhosen? Oh yes. That is, if you like pert man-bums. Which I do, funnily enough.
  • If you try and translate in-jokes to outsiders, they’re just not as funny.
  • A full Irish breakfast and a Bloody Mary while watching England play is one of the better starts to the morning after the night before I’ve ever had.
  • Irish bars – they get everywhere. And German guys with Irish accents (and vice versa) sound incredibly odd.
  • After a long couple of days drinking, there is nothing so delightful as your own bed.

But, when’s all said and done, a cracking weekend. Who’s up for joining me next year?

Prost!

Posted in cow abroad, look at me, lovely men, stuff i've done, this is the modern world | Tagged , | 14 Comments

Oktoberfest

I’ve wanted to go to Oktoberfest for ages and finally, this year, it’s been organised. In true rugby spirit, I’m going dressed up.

I’ve tried on the dress.

I’m not going to get out alive.

These girls have nothing on me.

Bugger.

Posted in random | Tagged | 3 Comments

Yes, I know…

I was told off on Friday night.

It’s been a long time since you… you know…

Rightly guessing that even good friends of mine wouldn’t be so cruel as to rub in my total lack of love life, I can only imagine he was referring to this, my little corner of self-indulgence.

And he’s right, of course, I haven’t been here for a long time. Half developed thoughts sit in the drafts folder, none of them warranting the time and effort required to form them into something nearing readable. Toe-curling, cringe inducing memories of recent nights out crowd my brain, shouting at me to be written down, committed to posterity and yet, for reasons of I don’t-know-what (shame?) I can’t quite bring myself to do it.

And so the page remains static. Un-updated.

Keep watching. I’ll come back.

Posted in blogging about blogging | 4 Comments

Fist-bumping

Once a guy fist-bumps you or tries to high-five you, it’s all over.

My life is currently a never ending whirlwind of lust. I flit from one crush headlong into another, never stopping, never tiring of agonies and ecstasies of the heart swooping, stomach curling, head turning maelstrom of emotion.

I rarely get anywhere.

Maybe it’s because, frankly, I’m truly terrifying. Maybe it’s because I’m just the kind of girl men like to be friends with. Or maybe, in combination of both of the above, “he’s just not that into me“.

Yes, despite mocking The Rules in my last post, I have a confession to make. I actually sat down and read the master of all female self-help books – He’s Just Not That Into You.*

Grammatical clunkiness aside, the book (and I can’t believe I’m saying this) actually resonated with me. I saw behaviour that I put up with over 4 years with N and I saw behaviour that I put up with now. In a startling moment of self-realisation, I’ve come to the conclusion that, actually, the crushes I’m currently harbouring aren’t ever going to go anywhere.

Popeye – although we still talk most days, he’s never made any kind of move to make it anything more than a gentle work-based friendship. He mentioned his unrequited love problem very early on after us meeting and he’s not talked about it since.

Conclusion: he’s just not that into me

J – I’ve known J for a while but it’s only recently that we’ve started to get on. Despite the fact he’s charming, kind and flirtatious again, there doesn’t seem to be anything else. Yes, when I see him randomly on a night out he invites me to stay drinking with him and his friends. Yes, when I don’t, he brings it up the next day and asks me why. Yes, he asks me what I’m up to at the weekend. But it’s a friend thing. How do I know?

 Yesterday, he tried to high-five me (and we all know the kind of problems I have with men I’m crushing on trying to high-five me)

Conclusion: he’s just not that into me

K – funny, not immediately goodlooking but still compelling. Single (but, as he was quick to point out, with a recent long term ex) and with a lovely self-deprecating humour (which, because I do it a lot myself, I find attractive in other people). Yes, he texts me and emails me. Yes, we made plans to hang out (albeit with company) however a) he bailed on me and b) he organised drinks with a prettier, funnier acquaintance of ours (and didn’t think to invite me which kind of hurt)

Conclusion: he’s just….

I think you get the picture.

However, despite this, and despite the fact that last night the realisation made me eat three bowls of pasta in an orgy of self-loathing**, I think I’m ok with all this. I deserve better. I deserve someone who actually likes me. And yes, I know I’m not going to find it here.

And yes, that makes me feel shitty and lonely but you know what? I’ve got to man the fuck up and stop worrying about it. There are people out there who are perfectly happy to be alone – I used to think I was one of them. I think I still can be.

I just need a little bit more practice.

P.S. I apologise for the cacophony of emo posts I seem to be spouting at the moment. I’m going to blame the fact I watched Twilight over the weekend. All three of them. Back to back.

* I’m still not entirely sure why. A moment of weakness I like to think.
** goodbye WeightWatchers apparently

Posted in a cry for help, bad boys, having a grump, how i'm feeling, lovely men | Tagged , | 15 Comments

The allure of the unobtainable

They always say that if you stop looking for something, you’ll find it.

Lost your keys? Stop looking for them and, all of sudden, there they’ll be, right where you always leave them. (or, in my case, a couple of weeks ago, in the fridge)

Need a perfect pair of shoes to go with that perfect dress for that perfect occassion? Don’t go out shopping for them, you’ll never find them. Instead, when rushing back to the office one day after a long lunch break, 5 minutes late for that mega important meeting, there they’ll be, sitting in the window to that shop you always pass, calling you.

Want a boyfriend? Reject the idea of having a man completely and slowly settle into a single life of fun and frolics et voila! There he will appear, the man of your dreams.

If you read any of the myriad of self-help books there are on the market – pumped out by American “gurus” who seemingly think that flogging one idea to death and writing 1,000 pages based on one premise is the epitome of literature – you will see that acting unobtainable is the sure-fire way to get the man you want. 

The doyenne of the “get the man you want (who isn’t neccesarily the man you deserve but dammit, good looks trump personality, stability, trustworthiness etc, don’t they? And you do want to get married, don’t you? You don’t want to be a failure FOREVER, do you?)” books is The Rules.

Based on a 1950s style of courtship, it’s full of gems such as

Take care of yourself, take a bubble bath and build up your soul with positive slogans like “I am a beautiful woman. I am enough.”

and

The Rules helped me re-establish myself as a priority in my own life, and consequently, I found a man who makes me a priority in his!

Their website goes on to claim that Kate Middleton managed to nab William by following The Rules (and, as much as I’m a bit “meh” over Kate/Catherine, I can hardly believe that a sensible woman like her would stoop so low). A couple of the Rules quoted (explanation my own except where in quotations):

  • Don’t talk to a man first – you should let him approach you. Otherwise, how do you know if he finds you alluring or is just being polite?
  • Don’t stare at men – let men look at you. (this one, I don’t get. What am I supposed to do in return? Stare at the floor? Not make eye contact? What?)
  • Don’t tell him what to do – “If you don’t like a guy’s behaviour, just act like you don’t need him. Get busy and he’ll come after you”  Be distant and aloof.
  • Don’t meet him halfway – in fact, don’t give an inch, make him do all the running, all the compromising etc Make yourself a challenge to be around.

Apparently, according to the authors, if you follow their 33 rules to the letter, you can “expect a proposal in 2 years”.

Your problem is not if he marries you, but when! If it’s been more than a year, see less of him and think about dating others. You’ve already spent more than a year waiting for him to propose; do you have another year to wait?

What self-repecting woman wouldn’t want that? <sarcasmfont>* And, if you’re not convinced you can do it on your own, why don’t get a consultation? All yours for $300! In the meantime, of course, you’ll have lost all your friends, your self respect and will have been a complete bitch to the man you’re looking to hook. A great start to any marriage, no doubt.

However, for all its sexism and archaic methodology, and as much as I hate to admit it, there is a glimmer of truth to The Rules.

There is something intrinsically seductive about something you know you can’t, or shouldn’t, have.**

A friend of mine recently announced that he would start looking for a girlfriend in 2012 – you know, to give himself a year of singledom since the last girlfriend before settling down again. (I admit, I rolled my eyes at this. If only it were so easy. If only you could just decide when you were going to find someone to be with. Plus, the fact that there’s an apparent time limit on how long it takes to get over someone?) Anyway, not the point…

The point is, what really annoyed me about his statement was the fact that it made him seem all the more attractive. The fact that I knew he wasn’t looking for anything means my interest was piqued and I was ready to play. And, worse than that, I don’t even really fancy the man – he’d be an awful boyfriend and has far too much baggage to play with. But that, sadly, is incidental.

So where does that leave women like me?

I’m in a weird damned if I do, damned if I don’t situation.

If I admit that, actually, I’d quite like to have someone in my life, then that automatically repels all men within 5 miles (if my physique and personality haven’t already done their job, of course) and so I’m alone.

If I then decide that, sod it, I don’t need a man, I am woman, hear me roar etc then, at the back of mind, I’m aware that for some reason, this makes me more attractive. And so I’m back to hoping it will work and that I’ll have someone in my life. It’s a never ending cycle.

So basically, I’m screwed.

Just not, sadly, literally.

What about you ladies? Do you follow The Rules? And you chaps, what do you think on the acting like a bitch to get the man school of thought?

 

* hey,as it’s been discussed before, I’m all for marriage, and I kind of get their point that you should waste time on something that’s not going to happen. I just don’t think that you can make a woman feel like a failure because it doesn’t happen to be on her list of things she wants. To me, these kind of books make assumptions about a person if they don’t happen to subscribe to the same ethos.
** a subject I’ve written about before, at length.
Posted in bad boys, having a grump, love 'n' things, lovely men, ponderings | Tagged , , | 24 Comments

Bad Influence is a bad influence shock!

Mondays are never the most productive of days for me. With too much to catch up on after a weekend off, I tend to spend my time wading through emails and phone calls and not getting round to getting actual stuff done.

This Monday is no different but, as well as the normal deluge of admin, I’m heady and glowing from a weekend visit from Bad Influence.

It makes me incredibly proud to know that I have friends who are (and I quote from the myriad of comments from friends who met her over the weekend) “really hot”, “excellent fun”, “amusing”, “great”, “just like you, you could be sisters”, “funny”. Hell, it makes me look better.

The weekend included:

  • Arranging to meet friends and then turning up 1.5 hours late due to excessive chatting over pizza and rose wine.
  • A mini-pub crawl ending up in the diviest dive in Switzerland (purely because of its incredibly generous shots barman and the fact it reminds me of a place from Uni)
  • The realisation that Shots Barman is a weird anomaly in the beer-goggles continuum. To wit: when drink is partaken, most men get better looking. Shots Barman is no different. Over the course of the evening, he gets better and better looking BUT once you’ve realised this, your beer-goggles don’t work on anyone else. Everyone else stays as ugly as they always were, it’s only HIM who gets better looking. (apparently, this theory works best, and is understood better, when drunk).
  • Finding out that shots barman has a real name. Apparently his parents didn’t christen him “Shots Barman”.
  • Bad Influence succumbing to “food poisoning” at about 4 in the morning.
  • Waking up to a house full of people. Three of whom I knew. Two of whom were new acquaintances. Saturday morning/afternoon was therefore spent making a full fry up and watching Disney films.
  • The whole house suffering from “food poisoning” for most of the day.
  • Not climbing up mountains with Sir Charmsalot as originally planned.
  • Bad Influence making the words “I’m just going for a quick nap” her new catchphrase (at last count, she had 5 naps in a 7 hour period)
  • Mobile karaoke as we drove round Geneva for two hours looking for a parking space (and eliciting grins from three men in an Italian restaurant as, much to their amusement, we pulled up outside in traffic, warbling along to some suitably trashy song, complete with drumming and actions, unaware that all windows were open. We closed the windows and continued – as if that made a difference)
  • The “really good bar” I knew in Geneva being shut (yeah, probably should have checked that out). Bad Influence took this in surprisingly good humour (by this I mean she had hysterics for the next 10 minutes while I stood around looking mildly miffed) 
  • A visit to the strangest placed kebab and pizza shop (in the middle of a quaint French village) resulting in big fat greasy pizzas to stave off the hangover food poisoning.
  • Getting all settled in for a long evening of wine and chatting on a balcony, overlooking an idyllic Lake Geneva, only to realise after about 10 minutes that we were both knackered and sloping off to bed at 11 o’clock.
  • Preventing Bad Influence from buying hippy-chic (now there’s an oxymoron) at the local market and flirting in very bad french in order to obtain free samples of tapenade, melon, olives and random dried sausage.
  • Spending 15 minutes debating different breeds of basil.
  • Relaxing in the sun, messing about on the lake and establishing that Bad Influence, while a secret surfboard-kayak specialist, has bugger all balance and can’t do the splits (although she did attempt this – possibly not on purpose).

All in all, the weekend was a mad whirlwind of laughter and sunshine, interspersed with “food poisoning”, fry ups and new friendships.

Who’s coming to see me next?

Posted in happy happy joy joy, lovely men, random, stuff i've done, switzerland, tres amusant n'est pas? | Tagged , | 4 Comments

Temporarily…

… away.

Bad Inflence is jetting over to see me tomorrow.

I’m preparing myself.

Posted in ask me about me, bad boys, happy happy joy joy, look at me, lovely men, stuff i've done, switzerland | 1 Comment