I ended up lost in blog land today. Frenetically clicking on different sites at high speed. Does anybody else encounter such a strange and addictive phenomenon here? Anyway, I ended up on someone's site where they had all these tests to assess what kind of person you are, mainly, it seemed, in terms of sex. Well I had to have a go.
I have found out that apparently I am a kinky, confident, submissive lover who prefers to give ('What Kind Of Lover Are You?'), who is not into cute girls but instead attracted to curvy and naughty girls with larger than average breasts, arses and sexier composures ('The Tits, Ass and Cuteness' Test). My favourite kind of gal would be Angelina Jolie and apparently I am 'A Good Fuck'('How Fuckable Are You?'), but most disappointingly, smart but not gifted ('Are You As Smart As You Think?' Test). Well, glad I've sorted that one out. Am wishing now I had not resisted the 'Would You Have Been A Nazi Fascist?' test. Next time.
I've just arrived home from a Christmas drink at The Neptune with someone from work. I drank whisky and ginger, she drank Guinness and we talked about families, plasterwork and putting on weight in your thirties.
It is a strange phenomenon being in my early thirties - all the things that older people used to whinge about, is now making sense. I seem to be followed round on a daily basis by an anxious voice hanging on my shoulder cooing "go on, do it, it's now or never", or on a really bad day, "you've blown it, you're too old, you've missed the boat". When I was twenty, the years seemed to stretch out in front of me like something from an American road movie. Now it goes as far as the cornershop, if I'm lucky, and I am beginning to sound dangerously close to some Bridget Jones type caricature.
Oh, the one thing I felt pleased with, reading the results from my various 'tests' on the internet, is that apparently, in this 'How Much Feminine Or Masculine Are You?' type test, the results showed that I am 'Androgynous', thus showing an equal balance of masculine and feminine qualities. I do feel quite androgynous at the moment, a strange hybrid of voluptuous earth mother energy and the spirit of some 18th century bisexual teenage boy (!). I am enjoying it, and yes, one joy of thirtiesdom is losing that tiresome desire for male approval, to realise there is much more to life than worrying whether males that you aren't often even that interested in feel an irresistable urge to run their hand up your leg.
Nowadays, I find writing and music the sexiest things I can think of, and real soul, the biggest aphrodisiac.
So I am off to an unexpected party tonight, with people from my friend's art course. I'm already feeling that warmer than warm glow from the whisky recently drunk, and a kind of sexiness I doubt the writers of those tests really have a clue about. Because yes, as a woman I have many secrets under my skirt, but so many more behind my eyes, like every woman, if you just take the time to look.
I have found out that apparently I am a kinky, confident, submissive lover who prefers to give ('What Kind Of Lover Are You?'), who is not into cute girls but instead attracted to curvy and naughty girls with larger than average breasts, arses and sexier composures ('The Tits, Ass and Cuteness' Test). My favourite kind of gal would be Angelina Jolie and apparently I am 'A Good Fuck'('How Fuckable Are You?'), but most disappointingly, smart but not gifted ('Are You As Smart As You Think?' Test). Well, glad I've sorted that one out. Am wishing now I had not resisted the 'Would You Have Been A Nazi Fascist?' test. Next time.
I've just arrived home from a Christmas drink at The Neptune with someone from work. I drank whisky and ginger, she drank Guinness and we talked about families, plasterwork and putting on weight in your thirties.
It is a strange phenomenon being in my early thirties - all the things that older people used to whinge about, is now making sense. I seem to be followed round on a daily basis by an anxious voice hanging on my shoulder cooing "go on, do it, it's now or never", or on a really bad day, "you've blown it, you're too old, you've missed the boat". When I was twenty, the years seemed to stretch out in front of me like something from an American road movie. Now it goes as far as the cornershop, if I'm lucky, and I am beginning to sound dangerously close to some Bridget Jones type caricature.
Oh, the one thing I felt pleased with, reading the results from my various 'tests' on the internet, is that apparently, in this 'How Much Feminine Or Masculine Are You?' type test, the results showed that I am 'Androgynous', thus showing an equal balance of masculine and feminine qualities. I do feel quite androgynous at the moment, a strange hybrid of voluptuous earth mother energy and the spirit of some 18th century bisexual teenage boy (!). I am enjoying it, and yes, one joy of thirtiesdom is losing that tiresome desire for male approval, to realise there is much more to life than worrying whether males that you aren't often even that interested in feel an irresistable urge to run their hand up your leg.
Nowadays, I find writing and music the sexiest things I can think of, and real soul, the biggest aphrodisiac.
So I am off to an unexpected party tonight, with people from my friend's art course. I'm already feeling that warmer than warm glow from the whisky recently drunk, and a kind of sexiness I doubt the writers of those tests really have a clue about. Because yes, as a woman I have many secrets under my skirt, but so many more behind my eyes, like every woman, if you just take the time to look.
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