Don't believe the heinous lies of the decadent capitalist running dog Evil Catullus. I've been nothing but civil to him; besides, who poisons Irn-Bru? It's dangerous enough as it is. That having been said, he's right about how awful Glasgow Airport is. It's one of those brilliant ideas designed by bureaucrats; a big white box twenty miles away from anywhere - or anywhere worth going, and I don't include Paisley in that - with ugly linoleum floors, a Starbucks, and an agonisingly long wait in arrivals. It does have a certain Fulgencio Batista vibe, actually, weather notwithstanding; you half expect to see CIA agents unloading crates of cocaine, or a stranger in a raincoat with yesterday's newspaper starting to follow you.
Nonetheless, I met EC off the plane. His eyes glimmered with malign threat, for customs had gone through his luggage. ...actually, that first part's not true, but on the other hand I didn't throw any knives at him. Dammit, Everything, he's lovely, and it's hard to be sarcastic about that. Evidently he managed to be, per the last daylog, but that's because his heart is black and shrivelled with years of bitchness, like a smoker's lungs.
It's at times like this that multiculturalism, the plural society and tolerance really fucking piss me off. Dammit, if you can't make out with your boyfriend in the middle of a crowd without someone taking issue with it, what's the point of even being gay? I was looking forward to exercising my punching hand, but noooo. Anyway, we shared a cab back to the city, which was being typically dreich and dour and cloudy. Sadly, however, the curse of globalisation means a transplanted Californian can feel at home anywhere. "Ooh, look, American Apparel. And there's an Urban Outfitters!". This is the problem with hipsters; 836 years of history, utterly derailed by some cocknozzle in a floppy hat with a messenger bag.
It was late-ish when EC got in, so we haven't done a great deal yet, but I did enjoy making him try Irn-Bru and watching the 'not sure if want' reaction face (pictures available on request). It's quarter to six in the morning, and when it gets light I plan on breakfast. To eat well in England - and I suppose, Scotland - you should eat breakfast three times a day, goes the saying. It's not wrong. French toast, love and mocking hipsters for victory, always and forever.
-M.