As such, my last name's a first name in the random name generator. So it was a thrill to see my name pop up.
Although, the name "Jago Organ" has to go down in history as the world's scariest Star Wars name...
* * *
Had the pleasure of taking in some Shakespeare today with Girlone, Kristus and Beth. I enjoyed the afternoon immensely. The production of A Midsummer Night's Dream was very well done, and I was able to hang out with friends I haven't seen in a while.
And today was the first time I've driven in an open top convertible. It was cool, but, alas, the Chrysler Sebring convertible has gone in my books as a car that I can't drive. Unless I slouch. A lot.
* * *
Received the statue girlone got for me in Rome. Another thing to add to my "authentic things from places people who are not me have travelled to" collection, which now consists of a Roman statue and a Yankees basbell cap my sister picked up for me a few years back on a trip to New York.
One dark, dreadful secret about my statue, though. For me, it is a statue of guilt. Because I harrassed my way into it, in my opinion.
Before girlone left, we were talking while she was packing. I told her to have a fun time.
ME: "Oh, and pick me up a statue from Rome."
ME: "I'm not talking some stupid little tourist statue. I'[m talking about a big one. A permanent fixture on the streets of Rome. An national landmark. I want one."
GIRLONE: "Riiight. How would I send it to you?"
ME: "Purolate it."
GIRLONE: "And I'm assuming you'll be paying for shipping?"
ME: "Nah. Just send it to my store. That's what my parents do with packages."
GIRLONE: (laughs) "Alright, then."
So, over the course of the three weeks that she was gone, every time she popped up on Messenger or called her friends long-distance, I'd throw a reminder to her, usually pretty brusquely.
"Where's my statue?"
When she was talking with Rach on Canada Day, I'm in the background, yelling, "WHERE'S MY STATUE? It'd better be big!"
When girlone came home, I immediately changed my handle to "Where's My Statue???"
"Nice," she said.
"Hold on," I replied. And changed the handle to "Where the HELL'S my FREAKING statue!!!???"
GIRLONE: "Just for that, I might not give it to you."
ME: "Hold on, what are you talking about?"
GIRLONE: "Your statue. Although now it's more authentic."
ME: "WHAT? You GOT me a statue?"
GIRLONE: "His head broke off."
ME: "I can't believe you got me one."
GIRLONE: "Why not? You asked for it?"
ME: "Well, yeah. By bullying you into it."
GIRLONE: "You didn't bully me into it."
ME: "What are you talking about? I practically berated you nonstop!"
So, yes, girlone. I feel guilty about the statue. Because I feel it was a coerced gift.
Here I was, just jokingly yelling at you about a statue, being a jerk for comic effect. And what do you do? Thoughtfully buy me one. The NERVE!
But the headless charioteer has a place on my makeshift mantelpiece, my stereo. And I will cherish it as a gift from a friend.