Boobs and irony

We were sitting outside a pub on the night of my best friend’s band’s gig. A guy started talking to us.

-You sing.- he pointed at her, then at me – And you?

- I’m an aspiring filmmaker, screenwriter and slut.

It came out naturally, I haven’t really thought about it. But sounds nice.

During the concert, apart from drinking free “I’m with the band” ciders and spotting a wedding ring on a finger of a guy that I liked, I had been thinking intensively.

I like the idea of using what you’ve got right now to get things you want in the future. For my friend it works pretty well, her voice (a gift from God or the product of years of practise) can be a stairway to immortality and coke without baking soda in it. Listening to her singing I realized that, even though the path to making living out of her talent is not easy, in this particular moment she’s in the exact place she is supposed to be to make a few steps further.

What is out there for me, since the only “talents” I’ve got are my imagination, boobs and the irony that helps me cope with this world?

The ciders didn’t know the answer, by made me forget the question for that night. All questions to be honest. They made a long walk in heels bearable and the freezing cold rain poetic. And they made some late night magic happen as well.