Dear et Al.

I can't sleep again. And this time I blame take-out joints. Why does everything have to come with a drink? Especially after you've been having "tea" with PJF's mom.

Wine makes you thirsty. Fact. And since the Chinese place didn't offer a dinky to accompany cashew nut chicken, my options were limited: Coke, Fanta or Creme Soda (not even water!)

I'm in Jo'burg and so I knew to definitely NOT order a Creme Soda. Not with these Precious Bees buzzing about. And I have it on fairly good authority that Fanta, well it's practically sugar-free. So a no order there. But a coke! Ah, for a sip of coke! A coke: a truly glorious thing.

And I know I shouldn't. But I do it anyway. I drank me some icy coke. All of it. And the result? Caffeine-induced sleeplessness and itchy feet. (The coke has nothing to do with the feet. But they are itchy.)

So here I am. Listening to the noises a sleeping house makes. Dripping tap. Turning bodies. Buzzing (effing) mozzies. Is that a clock tick I hear? (Is there even a clock in this house?) And I'm thinking of all the letters I never wrote. The ones I'd like to have written.

Now if I was thinking of all the stuff I did write and shouldn't have (particularly boozy post-break-up texts), well, I'd be burning up with shame.

So here goes:

1). Dear Geek Who Made Silly Thoughtless Comment About Regina,

You are not and never will be cool. Dissing Regina is tantamount to tattooing "I R Cocksucker" on your forehead. Please don't do it again. I don't want to have to waste you.

With love,

The Pant.

PS. Please keep reading my blog. Thanks muchly.

Oooo! This feels good.

2). Dear Geek Ex-Boyfriend With Perm (no, not Larry - his literature falls under the other category),

What was I thinking?

Regards,

The Pant.

3). Dear Barman,

I was not trying to use my boobs to get me served first. I just stand like that: leaning forward slightly, using both arms to squish mammaries together. It's my posture, okay?

Thanks,

The Pant.

PS. It worked, though. Didn't it?

4). Dear House Mother From High School Hostel,

I am The Pant. PJF is a different person. I know you got us mixed up but you must know she was good. She didn't do anything wrong. It was all me.

Sorry,

The Pant/PJF

And finally.

5). Dear God,

What's with the periods? They suck, you know. The only kiff thing about them (and this is real scrape-the-bottom-of-the-silver-lining barrel stuff) is that I may win a trip to Mauritius with my BFF through Lil-lets.

And it's not just the period. It's the pain. The mood swing. The acne!! What's with that? Come on!

Men hate us for between 5 & 7 out of 28 days.

And what do they get?

Yup, I thought so.

So if you're thinking of doing away with the whole period thing, I'll second you. I'm behind you all the way.

Thanks God. You rock my world. Big style.

See you on Sunday,

All of my love,

Your Pant

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