let's celebrate

This is Sister3's entry for tara's gallery, week 37
The theme this week in celebration ! Any one

Kind of dificult for me to post on celebration, as I'm strictly forbidden to post pictures of husband (except for his nose actually , as I'm really pleased to say each time I speak of him...)and child, and friends...
So all I have is my sisters...Not too easy , n'est ce pas ?

We were celebrationg, I swear !

Marianne is crying because it was the last day together,

(or because Alexander dpfjiofjzio didn't call her back ?)

 and Sandrine and her family were flying back to turquie, Marianne staying in Paris and I behind my camera...

But we were celebrating ! It was our Mum's birthday,

 and it was the 1st time since very long we were together

Now, since february, we are together in an other way, our blog

And our blog our posts, are the best celebration !!!!

Come on, let's celebrate !

Oh, one last thing. If you liked this post, would you mind terribly clicking on the RSS feed, here, or the Google connect buttons (top left)? And if you didn't like it, you might still want to look around. There's three of us, you know, so you're (almost) bound to find something you like. And then, if you've still got time, you could share this post or stumble it, or both and get in touch with your local tv station to sing our praises. We'll love you forever.

The proof in the (Christmas) pudding

A week late, as always, we stirred the pudding.

Our ingredients:

750g mixed dried fruit, bought at the market in Urgup, Capadocia, including currents (i.e. 'Corinthian' grapes) Sultanas (or 'Smyrna', i.e. 'Izmir grapes'), black and white raisins, that had to be seeded, prunes, soaked in Jameson so they're soft enough to stone (yes, not because I want to up the alcohol content. No, not at all), figs, dates, black apricots. Then there's the usual: sugar, bread crumbs, a bit of flour. Some butter (I'll be f****d if I use beef fat or margerine), eggs, black beer, our own limoncello imbibed candied peel, some white grapes pekmez (molasses) bought in Urgup. And spices: allspice, cinnamon, and, my favourite, mango armchoor powder. Don't ask.

So now it's boiling. It needs to be in for ten hours. We'll do five tonight and another five tomorrow. Then it sits on a shelf till Christmas day when it has to be boiled again (only three hours, though).

But before wrapping it (greaseproof paper over the bowl, tied with string, foil covering it), it had to be stirred, by all the family.
Starting with the youngest: our very own (very literal) Jamie Oliver:

And of course you have to have a sixpence in the pudding. They're not that easy to come by here, so we use a nazar boncuk: a bead for chasing away the evil eye.

So now, as they say, the proof is in the pudding. But the nice thing about traditions is that you do the same thing over and over again - so we're not overly concerned about how it will come out. Now all we need is for our friends from Istanbul to get going with the brandy butter!

Oops and some gratuitous cuteness

I posted a partial draft by mistake earlier. If you got it in your reader, please ignore!

In the meantime, here's a bit of gratuitous cuteness, just for the hell of it.

Portraits of Autism #13

Last week I asked my boy what he wanted Santa to bring him for Christmas.
He broke into a huge grin and said: 'A present!'
So I push: 'what would you like your present to be?'
He looks puzzled for a second, then he understand and the grin is back: 'A bus!'
- A bus for your playmobil?
- Yes!
- And anything else?
Now he can barely contain his joy:  'A car and a taxi too!'

This is not something we've had before. Apart from a good long period between his second and seventh birthday, where every time he walked past a sweet shop he would scream, Max has not asked for presents. His interest in receiving them has been on and off - never on for long enough to open all the gifts he would be given on a birthday or for Christmas.

So contrast last week  to my attempt at getting any kind of answer to the same question last year and his reply then: 'No! No Santa! Santa is ill! There will be no presents!' And then he covers his ears - the autistic signal for 'I don't want to be around this sort of shit, I'm in danger of freaking out big way, get me out of here now.' Ok. Santa is ill. He can't make it.

Now he was happy enough when presents were handed to him - as long as there was no Santa in sight. But after he'd opened a couple that was enough. And then, of course, there is no garantee he'd play with them - not straight-away in any case, and sometimes not for months. 


Last summer he got the idea of presents. My mother was visiting and he anticipated opening up her case and finding presents. He even stipulated that the present would be a plane. It turned out he was right - I managed to sneak in a quick phone call to her while she still had time to buy one. When his other grandmother visited, she was already in the plane when he told me she was bringing a bus. Oops. So I bought one on her behalf and that seemed to go down ok. Ish.

We've been working on his materialistic streak since July. After each session of homework, he gets a sticker. Five sticker means he can choose a small gift.  The first few times he asked for bottles of bubble mixture, the only non-edible thing he'd ever really asked for. Then it was drawing pencils. Then  in August, he got a brilliant idea. He asked for his very own water dispenser, tea-glasses and tea-spoons, so he could make himself (very watery) Turkish tea. Later that month, he dragged my husband into a toy shop. Full of apprehension they went. Max picked up a small plastic airplane that he'd spotted through the window: the cheapest thing in the shop!

Now every Sunday, after he's completed his sticker chart, we go to the toy section of the supermarket. So far he has had a dozen small airplanes and half a dozen small buses.

I don't know how to feel about his lack of imagination when it comes to gifts. He really does seem to enjoy the buses and planes. And he loves playing with his other toys as well, but just hasn't gotten around to thinking that he might like to play with other things he hasn't got. This might also be a function of the fact that he's just not exposed to that much advertising. His sister never really asks for much either. For Christmas she wants the Dr Who Annual, the Guinness Book of Records, and a couple of novels. That's it.

When I walk into a toy shop, or even a book shop, I see all these little plastic things that boys, younger than Max even, lust after. I don't know what they are, but I know they are hugely significant to little boys in terms of their social positions at school. If you don't have the latest 'thing', you know, the one with the lethal rabbit that turns into an atomic coffee cup, then you're nothing, your friends won't play with you, and you will be miserable. Max doesn't even know what these things are.  Part of me is glad that he's missing out on mindless materialism and the exposure to toy weapons. Part of me is sad that he doesn't belong in this way. On the other hand, I frequently find marbles in his pockets - that all important primary school currency. If I ask him where he got them from,  he'll give me a girl's name. Clearly some kids at the school want him to belong!

But now, finally, it seems he's understood that presents can be chosen, and asked for in advance in order to guarantee their arrival. This weekend, between finishing up the Advent Calendar and making the Christmas pudding, we are going to write our very first letter to Santa together.

Now I'll just have to figure out a way of explaining letters...

Oh, one last thing. If you liked this post, would you mind terribly clicking on the RSS feed, here, or the Google connect buttons (top left)? And if you didn't like it, you might still want to look around. There's three of us, you know, so you're (almost) bound to find something you like. And then, if you've still got time, you could share this post or stumble it, or both and get in touch with your local tv station to sing our praises. We'll love you forever.

Not a thanksgiving post

For this week's writer's workshop at Mama Kat's, I chose prompt #5 ('That time you fell down') because I'm French and we don't do Thanksgiving. But we do Beaujolais Nouveau. It's a national celebration that takes place every third Thursday in November every year and it's all about drinking wine that's not even good and way too expensive for what it is, but there you go, we're French.

So I have to tell about a time I fell down. Choosing one is pretty hard, because I fall constantly. I also hit myself all the time, but that's another story. I think there are two times I fell down that I'll remember forever. Here's the one I picked.

When I was in "Collège" (your Middle School), my mom was an English teacher there. I know. Not easy. I think nothing even remotely embarrassing should happen to you as a teenager. I mean, you're already ugly, either too fat or to skinny, with parts of your body that grew before others - and it's usually not the ones you want to see growing faster, so I think that's enough to deal with.

Of course we all were teenagers, excepts for perfect people who were always good looking. Well, as gorgeous as I am now (I AM almost dating Alexander Skaarsgard, I can call myself gorgeous) I was horrendous. My hair was permed and made me look like a sick poodle, I had no pimples, thank God, but I did have 20 extra pounds and that doesn't make your life easy. I kept a few ones, you know, just to remember those days. Right. Anyway. I was madly in love with a guy named Jeremy who did have pimples, so many that his blue eyes was all I could see (there wasn't any space for anything else, you see, because of the red marks. Am still wondering why I ever liked him).

When the bell rang in the morning, we all had to stand in line, outside, grouped in classes. I was late that day during my second year, because I had spent too much time trying to make my hair look better in the bathroom. I was fully aware it was a disaster, you see. Just a tad of good taste remaining, although certainly not something you could see in my choice of clothes.

So I was late, everyone was already in line, two by two, and he was there and OMG (to be read with a very high pitched voice) he looked at me. Of course he did. I was the only one there, walking, but at the time I just couldn't wait to write this in my diary.

So I walked, eerily, floating a little, trying to look cool, trying to pretend I didn't see him, trying to hide my hair. Now that's lot of things to think about when you walk. So I fell. As in, stumbled and collapsed on the ground, in front of the whole school. I tried to get up as fast as I could but my knee was apparently dead, so I just lay there on the ground.

Humiliated is not a strong enough word. Of course it makes me laugh now, but that day, I was mortified. Strangely enough, nobody laughed. They just stared and finally, someone came and helped me stand up. It wasn't Jeremy. He made fun of me for ages after that. He knew I liked him - I wasn't very subtle, you see, drooling whenever I saw him.

Of course Jeremy never dated me. But I did see him a few years later, perm and extra pounds free and told him he wasn't cute enough for me. Boy, that felt good. If only he could see me with Alexander now... I know. I know. We're not really together. But we could be. Definitely.

Oh, one last thing. If you liked this post, would you mind terribly clicking on the RSS feed, here, or the Google connect buttons (top left), or by email at the bottom of this page? And if you didn't like it, you might still want to look around. There's three of us, you know, so you're (almost) bound to find something you like. And then, if you've still got time, you could share this post or stumble it, or both and get in touch with your local tv station to sing our praises. We'll love you forever.

BLACK AND BLANC

This is Sister3's entry for tara 's gallery, week 36
And this week's theme is: Black and White.


So,

I took this picture this summer, we were in France, in a little town you might know : Saint Tropez...!!!
(Yes, you can hate me now)
And over there, there is no way you can go out without THIS hat
So I bought one (quite cheap actually)
It was perfect, except for wind
It travelled since this summer in the car
It is now a pancake, as flat !

Salad Bar Philosophy, anyone?

I was listening to woman's hour again today. It was a program I'd meant to catch on the day it came out but didn't in fact listen to for a while because my computer got virused (and all...) So I listened to the podcast here. The reason I was so keen on listening to it was that they'd announced it on twitter as being about women in philosophy. As in academic women philosophers. In actual universities, teaching in actual jobs. Why there are so few of us.

So the women interviewed were saying, surprise surprise, that it's all down to cultural stereotype. Women aren't supposed to be good at abstract reasoning, and cold stuff like logic and maths. Which is sort of what Rousseau said. And Aristotle, those pillars of the sexist bastards community.

Why you shouldn't just turn away when you see I've posted about zombies, again.

I wanted to start by saying 'some of my best friends are zombies'. But then I though some people might feel kind of targeted. So let me try this instead:

Some of my best friends don't like zombies.
Ok, that doesn't sound all that shocking. No one likes zombies. Except maybe other zombies. But even that's dubious as zombies don't really have complex emotions and tend to respond positively only to things they can eat - hence not zombies.

But I disgress. What I meant is that my friends don't like cinematic or fictional zombies, so that when I tell them I've written this really cool post about the zombie apocalypse, or about an eighteenth century feminist philosopher and zombie fighter, they just smile and say 'zombies aren't really my thing'.
Aside from the inanity of their reaction - zombies aren't any body's thing! It's more a matter of who will know what to do when the apocalypse comes and who will just get eaten -  they're missing  out on a whole lot of rich and fascinating social and ethical commentary. 

Dear Alexander Skaarsgard

For this week's Writer's Workshop at Mama Kat's, I chose prompt # 4: "an open letter to a celebrity".

I was very tempted, no, extremely tempted to write on the other prompt "that time you met your online friend for real" but it's way too personal. For those who've been reading me for a while, it has to do with Kiss #4. Yes.

And since I promised myself to write a book about this story, I'll just keep it to myself for now.

So here's the letter.

"Dear Alexander,

You are, by far, the most beautiful man on earth. I haven't met all men, true, but I can tell. You are just perfect.

Even though I know I'm not as perfect as you are, I'd like to draw a list of the reasons you should start dating me:

1- I'm French. This does not need more explaining, I think.

2- I think you and I would be perfect together. And I'm never wrong.

3- I'm not totally crazy. I think most of your fans are. Think about it for a second. Most fans believe in vampires and drool a little whenever they see you. I don't believe in vampires and I only drool when I sleep, sometimes.

4- I'm not photogenic at all. Which means you'd always look great in the pictures we'd send our friends from our vacation spots (by the way, the Bahamas, next February, is that O.K. with you?)

5- I am smart. I'm not sure you are. No offense, sweetie, but you're way too hot to be intelligent. So if you're not that bright, I can be the one talking at dinner parties and you'll be the cute one. If you are intelligent, it's also pretty cool, because we will need to do other things, you, besides, well (cannot write this here, as evil sisters will probably censor me but you know what I'm thinking, right?)

I only chose 5 points because I'm sure you're pretty busy with the shooting of True Blood and trying to look gorgeous at all times. I'm not even slightly worried that you won't answer because, truly, we're soul mates.

You and I are meant to be. (I repeat, though, I'm NOT crazy)

Yours,

Marianne."

Oh, one last thing. If you liked this post, would you mind terribly clicking on the RSS feed, here, or the Google connect buttons (top left), or by email at the bottom of this page? And if you didn't like it, you might still want to look around. There's three of us, you know, so you're (almost) bound to find something you like. And then, if you've still got time, you could share this post or stumble it, or both and get in touch with your local tv station to sing our praises. We'll love you forever.

Day of remembering

I asked my daughter whether she'd done anything at school on 11 November. She looked at me in that way she's wont to now she's a pre-teen, full of disdain and shock: 'No, she said. You're wrong. It was 10 November we celebrated'.
And of course 10 November is an important day in Turkey - it marks the death of the first leader of the Turkish Republic, Ataturk. But I'd thought that in a French school they'd at least mention Remembrance Day. So I told her, briefly that it was the date of the Armistice signed at the end of WW1, my husband added something about veterans and poppies, and that was it.

Then I read Julie's post at the Mom Slant, in which she gets a little annoyed with  Penelope Trunk's claims that there shouldn't be a Veterans Day.

I like Julie and I'm not terribly impressed by Penelope Trunk. Julie was in the US army, as was her husband, so she's got a thought or two on the question of whether Veterans should be remembered.

Now my one clear thought about the army is this: I don' t like it. At all. Get rid of it, please. I get a sick feeling whenever I see a person carrying a gun with a purpose other than killing rabbits (or other edible animals - for some reason hunting does not bother me in the slightest, and I like a good rabbit stew).

I've called myself an anti-militarist in the past. Not a pacifist - although, to my ears, that sounds more attractive - because I'm simply never sure  what to say if someone asks me whether I think I would fight back if I were under attack, or if someone else was under attack.

So I know, it's not a terribly consistent position to find oneself in - unless you believe rather implausibly that if there were no armies, there would be no wars...
But there you go, that's how I feel about things.

Now that's a very different position from one that denies that veterans are worthy of rememberance.

I'm happy to remember that a lot of people have died to deliver Europe from the Nazis. I'm happy to remember that in any war, many young men and women go through incredible hardships and give up their lives because they want to protect us, to protect justice, and they are told that this is the right way to do so. I am happy to remember that a huge number of people died in the first world war because they were sent there by superiors who valued the lives of soldier very little indeed.

So when I do remember, it's never with pride, sometimes with gratitude, but more often with sadness that lives should have been wasted and gambled by men playing little soldiers from the comfort of their armchair.

Publish Post

The logic of zombie apocalypse

In times of great stress, when the world is on edge, reporters often revisit the more unlikely myths. That is the time to interview the man who spotted Nessie, the little girl whose dog was abducted by aliens.

This is a good thing - as otherwise we would never get to find out anything about the lochness monster or alien abductions then where would we be when faced with actual danger? I refer you to the endless horror movie scenes in which the irritating skeptic is eaten by the monster from space. 

So I want to do my bit towards helping you be better informed. Here goes.

Why you shouldn't despair if a zombie apocalypse happens. 

We've all heard it. If - when - the zombie apocalypse begins, we're all gone.

There are two main reasons for this. First, we are bound, by the laws of horror, to do the wrong thing every time, just like we are bound to go and look in the attic if we hear strange noises caused by a demonic entity, or to open the front door and step outside to look when a murderer is lurking in our garden. Nothing can be done about that. If you would like to know before hand which stupid things you will find yourself doing in the event of a zombie apocalypse, then head over to the Oatmeal who offers a fairly comprehensive guide.

The second reason we are led to believe by the literature on the topic that zombies will eventually exterminate us is more dubious. Zombies, it is said, will reproduce faster than us. There will be millions of zombies for every pocket of surviving, shivering, arm-missing humans.

But what exactly are our grounds for thinking that this is the case?
It's not entirely clear how, precisely, zombies are created and how they reproduce. The consensus seems to be that zombification is the result of an infection, of sorts, kind of mixed up with voodoo magic, and maybe extra-terrestrial influence. Any way. 

The point is, how exactly does the infection spread? Does it spread only to corpses? Corpses that have been exposed to zombie saliva? This makes sense. So: if you are bitten by a zombie and then die, you will in turns become a zombie. But that requires contact and chance. The zombie must catch you. It must bite you. It must kill you. A zombie may well be lacking mobility or speed. A zombie is traditionally a rather clumsy heap of rotting flesh. Not as fast as your average unfit, overweight, stroller pushing, shopping carrying forty year old. So, unless you're actually stuck in an elevator with a couple of zombies and no blaster (not sure whether these are actual weapons or just things they have on Buffy, but they seem like they would be kinda effective on zombies - messy, mind you) - you'll be fine.

The part of the story that usually scares people is the thought that all the buried dead will come back as zombies. This is no where more obvious than in Halloween parties where people see fit to dress up as Victorian zombies. I mean, come on, people, use your common sense. Why do you think zombies are all torn off limbs, leaky eye ball, and exposed bone? Because they are rotten corpses. And how long do you think it takes for a buried corpse to fully decompose? (I can't believe I googled this). The flesh is gone within a year and in fifty years, so are the bones. So Victorian zombies? I don't think so. All you'll get out of a graveyard is the recent dead.Only those corpses that are sufficiently complete will become zombies. The rest may want to get out and eat our brains, but they won't have the means to claw their ways out, or if they do, to bite us.

I'm sorry to be blunt here, but, as a philosopher and a blogger, it befalls me, in these troubled times, to set the record straight. To believe that we would be suddenly invaded by armies of zombies is the result of a simple error of reasoning.

Of course, there are still ways in which a zombie epidemic could go bad. Zombies could attack a hospital, finding thousands of potential victims tied to their beds, and, let's face it, probably glad of the opportunity to become brain eaters so they don't have to swallow any more hospital food.

Another bad stroke of luck would be to have an epidemic in Egypt, where corpses tend to keep longer. But then it's not clear whether that would count as a zombie apocalypse rather than a mommie apocalypse, and if the latter, it's outside of the topic of this post.


So I will conclude by advising my readers not to be overly worried in the event of a zombie apocalypse, but to get a blaster, or, if you can't get hold of one, avoid getting into lifts with people who are obviously rotting corpses.

Confessions of a blogaholic

For this week's writers workshop at Mama Kat's, I chose to write about confessions. I'm supposed to write about mine. Now that is a hard thing to do. Not that I have nothing to be ashamed of -I've been acting so crazy and stupid lately I could write a BOOK, but I really don't know where to start, since I've never actually confessed in a church.

I love churches. Always have, always will. Not as much as I love cemeteries, and that was quite disturbing for my parents when we had to stop on the road to visit new ones I'd never seen, I guess I'd worry too if y 4 year-old daughter did that, but see how well balanced I am, now, as a grown-up, hum... Well, back to churches. Don't you need like a priest to confess? That's how they do it in movies. I was raised an atheist, so I wouldn't know. Now that I can think by myself, I like to say I'm an agnostic, because I still haven't made my mind up about the existence of a higher being.

Confession. Interesting word. Did you know it came from fateor, in Latin? To admit that you've committed a sin, that's what confession is all about. I don't believe in sins. I don't believe in the whole "Let's meet up when you're dead and do the math between what you did right and wrong". I respect religions, all of them, but seriously, I couldn't care less about my afterlife, I have enough on my hands with the present one. I'm only trying to do my best, and I live. As in, I love, hate, laugh, cry, eat chocolate, envy others sometimes, but I don't need to confess those things, because doing them just means I'm human, and that's not something to be ashamed of.

So I guess you'll have to go on someone else's blog to read proper confessions. But it was nice talking to you. As usual.

Oh, one last thing. If you liked this post, would you mind terribly clicking on the RSS feed, here, or the Google connect buttons (top left), or by email at the bottom of this page? And if you didn't like it, you might still want to look around. There's three of us, you know, so you're (almost) bound to find something you like. And then, if you've still got time, you could share this post or stumble it, or both and get in touch with your local tv station to sing our praises. We'll love you forever.

Halloween in Cappadocia

A few pumpkins were spotted in the fields.

Treats were shared

Tunnels were investigated

Pebbles returned to the river

Saints visited

Strange artefacts discovered

Scenes from Star Wars re-lived

Spices were bought

And a good time was had by all

Oh, one last thing. If you liked this post, would you mind terribly clicking on the RSS feed, here, or the Google connect buttons (top left)? And if you didn't like it, you might still want to look around. There's three of us, you know, so you're (almost) bound to find something you like. And then, if you've still got time, you could share this post or stumble it, or both and get in touch with your local tv station to sing our praises. We'll love you forever.

saisons

This is sister 3's entry for week 34 of Tara's gallery. The theme this week is seasons
As usual I tried to find a different editorial line. So no leaves or flowers for me. (too bad, because I took awesome pictures this week of green orange and red trees!)
Here goes my interpretation of the seasons

 PRINTEMPS

ETE

 AUTOMNE

HIVER

Oh, one last thing. If you liked this post, would you mind terribly clicking on the RSS feed, here, or the Google connect buttons (top left)? And if you didn't like it, you might still want to look around. There's three of us, you know, so you're (almost) bound to find something you like. And then, if you've still got time, you could share this post or stumble it, or both and get in touch with your local tv station to sing our praises. We'll love you forever





Portraits of Autism #12

So I meant to have this posted on Monday for Speak up on November 1st!
This was a reaction to the communication shutdown advocated by an autism charity on that day, which was designed to raise awareness of autism by modelling what it feels like to unable to communicate with others. People would donate to the charity and put up a badge on their sites, shutting down virtual communication for the day. A few contrary people, like Rachel Cohen-Rottenberg who wrote the Speak up post, Varda, and Jen thought this would be a good opportunity to speak up about autism. I was definitely going to join them. Then I got virused, so went through an enforced communication shutdown. (Although I may well have sent out a few hundred thousands emails about penis enlargement...).

Anyway, as this is a Portrait of Autism post, let me take you back to the waiting room at the centre where Max gets his special education twice a week.

I'm already regretting this

For this week's writing workshop, I chose prompt #2 "A post you regret publishing". I thought it was really cool. I also thought it was funny I had none. I don't regret any post I published. I thought I should give it a shot, posting something I'd immediately regret publishing. Daring, I know.

So there you go. I feel like shit. My life totally sucks. I miss my kids when I don't have them with me, I keep myself from crying everyday because I strongly believe crying is for pussies, I drink way too much, I either don't eat or stuff myself with chocolate, I either can't sleep or wake up at 2pm, I fall in love every two seconds, I wonder what the hell was wrong with me to end a marriage that, after all, wasn't so bad, I lose friends, make new ones, try to understand what got me here, who the fuck I am, I work like crazy and never feel like it's enough, I am full of guilt for my lovely children who never asked for this shitty situation, I think about me as a 4-year-old, remember what my parents' divorce did to me, what it did to them, what it did to my sisters, I feel like I'm the stupidest, shallowest, ugliest person in the world. I have no self-confidence left, no hope, no nothing.

But you know what? I'll survive this. I'm gonna make it. I've been through worse.

No one knows that. No one ever knows when I'm really down.

Which is why I already regret publishing that post, and why I'll deny any of this was ever true.

If anyone asks, I'm doing O.K.

Oh, one last thing. If you liked this post, would you mind terribly clicking on the RSS feed, here, or the Google connect buttons (top left), or by email at the bottom of this page? And if you didn't like it, you might still want to look around. There's three of us, you know, so you're (almost) bound to find something you like. And then, if you've still got time, you could share this post or stumble it, or both and get in touch with your local tv station to sing our praises. We'll love you forever.

Abstinence

It's like being a smoker, stuck in some far away cottage on a bank holiday, and when you reach for your last pack, it's soaked.
It's like realising you've caught an STD. First you think it will pass, that's it's just some minor thing. Then you realise you can't even walk without pain, let alone sit down. You try various over-the-counter cures, but nothing works. You have to see a doctor, but you know you'll be judged. Chances are you caught it doing something you weren't supposed to. You've told your partner, and you're eyeing him up, wondering if he'll get it too, or if you caught it off him.
You know the cure, whatever it is, will involve abstinence for a while, and then, taking precautions you don't like to take.
You feel bereft, but mostly, you feel stupid. And whatever happens, you know it won't be that bad, because it's not your body, it's your computer that's affected.
Yep. I'm virused. Not the computer I'm writing on, fear not. My lovely pink mini laptop.
Fuck. Is all I can say.