Wow, like, hello? Facebook IS NOT MYSPACE. Get over it!

I was just poking around for Aaron Sorkin fan shit on Facebook, because I am indeed a fan of Aaron Sorkin, and now that the news is out about him writing a movie about Facebook (holy crap! Who's gonna play me?!), I felt prompted to "show my colors/colours" by joining a group I will never, ever look at again on Facebook.

So I went to the "Aaron Sorkin Fan Club" group (how original!), and on the group's "Wall" (for you non-Facebookers, that's just a place you can scribble notes), all the posters were saying shit like "I want to add Aaron Sorkin as a friend." One ugly-ass dude posted twice with this: "I can't access his Facebook acct."

YEAH, UGLY-ASS DUDE, cuz he's NOT YOUR FRIEND.

Honest to god, are people really THAT STUPID? Facebook is not Myspace! It's not all about adding stripper-bots to your friend list so that you look like you're capable of getting lucky! It's not a stand-in for actual friendships - it's a way for you to stay in touch with ACTUAL FRIENDS (*gasp*).

You wish you could meet Aaron Sorkin, snort some coke with him, introduce him to your Mom? Sure, me too. BUT WE'RE NOT GONNA.

Otherwise, this would be the death of friendship, for sure. If some dumb ugly-ass dude that Aaron Sorkin doesn't know from a licorice milkshake were actually able to say, "Aaron Sorkin is one of my friends," the whole idea of friendship would have gone down the toilet.

But it hasn't! Not yet! Ya can't add Aaron Sorkin as a friend! And you know what I say about that?

Tough titties.

Whilst BebBek continues to naval gaze, I would like to keep my sights set firmly ahead. Provided ahead of me struts the bearer of a firm male backside. Granted, the barer of a firm backside wouldn’t go amiss either.

British Boys don't have butts. Zero ass. Zilch bummage. No trouser-back filler. Their legs grow straight into their backs. It's the oddest thing. So BekBek, if you do happen to make it across the pond this Christmas we'll be hard-pressed to fill your stocking with a yummy British... correction (I've been given enough crap about this lately)... ENGLISH bottom. So much so that upon moving here, I was warned that if I were to spot a well-built hottie on this island, he'd likely be an Aussie or a Kiwi. The English Arse, in a manner of speaking, remained a mystery.

I have since discovered the Rugby bum, (or Sweet Sweet Ass.) It's funny what lengths a Welshman will go to when you deny him his bottom. But hey, if an entire team of rugger buggers feel the need for me to squeeze in order to make their point... who am I to argue? We'll leave the glory that is the Scottish kilt for another day. (And the Dublin accent is still my weakness.)

It's time I explained that there are aliens among us, yes there are, and don't be bothering me about no Mexicans, neither (not to mention certain transplanted Canadians). I live in the sweaty little penis (Pinellas County) of the sweaty big penis (Florida) of the United States of America, and I'm here to tell you that there are REAL aliens among us, and they are a sneaky, subversive lot, and it's time somebody stood up and spoke the truth, and that's me, that's what I'm all about this afternoon after my little bike ride with my belly all full of corned beef hash and eggs and potatoes yum. Nothing like a bike ride with breakfast to defeat all chances of getting fit ever again. Not to mention the doggy bag.

But where was I?

Oh yeah. Aliens.

Seriously now - you're going to think I'm nuts, but here goes:

I have an inny.

Some people don't. Some people have outies. I have an inny, in which the button part of what is called "the belly button" is cutely nestled in a deep dimple on my belly. And it is indeed cutely nestled, because what's not to love about my belly button, WHICH IS AN INNY BY THE WAY.

An outie, as I think we can all agree, is where the button part of the belly button sits atop the skin, with nary a dimple to call home. When we were kids, we had either innies or outies, and we didn't just compare notes, no sirree bob, we compared buttons dammit. Everybody had a button, and some kids' buttons were in dimples, and other kids' buttons weren't, and that was that. Innies and outies.

So we're clear on all this so far, yes? Because I'm going to tell you something quite shocking, and I want you to understand the import immediately. Here goes: There are creatures among us that have NO BUTTON.

I'm not kidding!

They've got the dimple --the rightful home of an inny belly button. But there's no button in residence. Zip. Nada. There's just this empty dimple, a tiny, neat little empty cave. (It's actually a little sad. So deserted. Hollow. Without soul.)

These creatures claim to be human, but how could they be? A human being has either an inny or an outie. So I confronted one of these beings, and you know what he said to me?

YOU KNOW WHAT HE SAID?

HE SAID HE'S GOT AN INNY. And I, apparently...

It's almost too shocking to type.

This... "person"... claims I've got an outie.

WHAT?!

Seriously. Aliens. Nice enough to marry and live with, sure. Buy a house with him. Let him convince you to ride a bike to the farmer's market and eat way too much corned beef hash and potatoes on the way home, okay, fair enough. But he's still an alien. Keep a sharp eye out. He's got no button.

No button at all.

I’m still waiting for the flowers.

I mean, I never expected breakfast, and I had lunch plans anyway, but surely… flowers weren’t too much to ask for. After all, it’s not like I even asked for them. They were offered – practically promised. In light of the evening we’d just shared, a girl should expect nothing less.

Picture it ladies, you’ve got that fresh out of bed, dishevelled look that all but invites your man back into bed with you. Only you don’t have a man. This stunning dark-haired lovely standing in your doorway isn’t yours… yet. He’s tall. We like tall. The street lamp catches a definite sparkle in his mischievous, yet sincere, eyes. And when he opens his mouth to apologize, a lovely Irish lilt escapes the lips that you’re almost certain are begging to be kissed by you. Tall, dark and Dublin. Just the way I like ‘em.

Have you ever awoken at 4am from a dream of your home being broken into? I have. Still in dream state, my eyes barely open, I awoke to see ― through the French doors that lead to the private garden outside my bedroom ― two dark figures. The only other way into the garden is through my flatmate’s room, but she’s on the Isle of Wight this week. Discarding the “I’m imagining things” impulse… I stepped closer, pressing my face up against the thin sheet of glass that separated me from them. I’m all alone and there are two men breaking into my flat.

“You’re going to want to get out of my yard!” I belted, rather authoritatively.

This resulted in convincing frightened cat impressions from the two of them, as they sprung backwards, two feet in the air. Not far enough for my liking. What then ensued was the most blundering of apologies and drunken backstory. It soon became evident that these boys were but drunken visitors to the brother of girl who does indeed live one floor above me. Just as I was listening to the two bungling would-be criminals discuss roof slants and tiles amidst colourful expletives, my doorbell rang.

Enter Tall, Dark and Dublin. At my front door stood the type of man women dream of magically showing up on our doorsteps. He smiled a winning (and pleading smile).

“Please don’t call the police. My friends are idiots.”

We were in agreement. I wouldn’t call the police, but I would let this silver-tongued, crisp shirted, tasty looking boy apologize to me a little longer. After all, the more we spoke, the greater his chance of looking passed my baggy unmatching men’s pajamas and envision the physical perfection my “Hot Chihuahua” pjs enveloped. (Yes, I’m afraid it’s a definite that when a gorgeous man unexpectedly walks into your life in the middle of the night, you will be wearing your most unattractive nightie.) After clearly coveting my every curve and longing to run his hands through my silken, dark, glorious (bedhead) hair, this dark stranger would soon find himself no longer able to make excuses for his trusty sidekicks and instead turn his focus to making amends with me. Clearly he’d startled this damsel out of her (hardly needed) beauty sleep. A gentleman could do no less than make the following promise:

“I owe you breakfast. Let me take you to breakfast in the morning.”

As desperate as I’d know I’d be to see this welcome intruder in a few hours time, I knew there was no way these guys would be awake for breakfast. And if he was sober, he’d know it too.

“Flowers then. I have to get you flowers. Thank you for… being the kind of woman every man goes to bed longing for”… is what he said in my head. His actual thanks was for “being so great” or something equally lame. With that, we said our good nights.

It’s been two days now.


I’m still waiting for the flowers...

What comes around, goes around. Spin the big wheel. Moss grows fat on a rolling stone. Those two birds are either dead or sporting matching lumps. Ah, lumps. Lumpiness. It's all good. And as I lay me down to sleep, it comes around again on the guitar: My turn.

Helen just seemed to be wanting for a bit of a push-start. Have you ever push-started a car? "Pop the clutch" has such a nice ring to it, putting the Karate Kid's Jersey Mom delightfully in mind before her image fades in favor of the image of a tow-strap. I hate towing/being towed on a strap, but I've done it at least twice, because I bought a lemon of a car. I should paint it yellow, I really should.

So, Helen, here's a push, along with a nudge and a wink, say no more, say no more. What shall we talk about? Is it time to tell the story about the toilet seat? Or shall we hold that one for when they're least expecting it? Yeah, that's the ticket.

Carry on.

I could have inserted Helen and BekBek in lieu of Laziness and Procrastination, but we all know I’m the spring chicken in this terrible twosome so the question hardly leaves one to ponder. Unless of course, you start questioning which of us lead the race in failing to commence the pursuit of our potential. Are we actually all that bright, or can we continue to fool the world with caustic wit and profound insight without ever having to prove otherwise? We’re colourful characters in this universe. If this isn’t enough, can we not simply argue “Tough Titties!”?

Only those that know me will raise an eyebrow (and a swift backhander) when I sell myself as lazy, so I’m hardly offending the masses when so doing. That said, in bringing my friend down with me, you may very well question my quality of character and the nobility of my friendship. The fact is, I believe it is in recognizing our friends’ quirks, flaws and curious ways, and loving them all the same, that one builds a true friendship. Occasionally though, we can’t let our friends get away with allowing themselves to believe they’re meant to make certain mistakes. We won’t let one another lose sight of who we truly are.

This is what my mates and I delight in referring to as: “Calling each other on our shit”. This is that magical moment we’ve all experienced when we’ve got a better handle on our friends then they do during a particular moment of self delusion, and we’ve got no problem telling them so. We intervene in moments of nutty boy ponderings. After the hundred and twentieth excuse your friend comes up with for why “he didn’t call” you get her to snap out of it. When she says she’s not obsessing, you have shoe polish on standby. You’re also not going to let a good friend get away with giving up on herself. When you recognize that wickedly intelligent, refreshingly witty, unfathomably creative friend of yours is settling for less than she’s supposed to be doing in this world you get your boot ready.

As human beings, we’re programmed to seek the greatest reward for minimal effort. If we can get away with less stress, less late nights at work, less exercise, less putting in the effort and still receive all the kudos, promotions, fitness and accolades, then that’s just what we do. We do what we enjoy. The rest is work.

And so, when your best mate makes a choice you can’t back, you need to find a way to continue supporting that friend without supporting their decision. Easier said than done. That friendship then becomes work. And there’s nothing wrong with work – when you’re not lazy.

That’s me. Laziness personified. Perhaps I haven’t discovered my muse. Maybe I just need to be inspired. More honestly, I just need a kick up the arse. And a good friend will do that to you, for you even. What I need, is someone to keep me from clinging to the security blanket of laziness, an equally clever and imaginative mischief maker to prompt my inner scribe.

BekBek is that friend. Together, we’ll be bringing you our thoughts on life in the Sunshine State, The Big Smoke, personal beefs, boys, boobs and otherwise. And whilst we’re arguably a couple of tough chicks, I assure you all things breast related remain as soft, supple and delightfully bouncy as ever.