So I went to work, with my heavy head and my droopy eyes and my snotty nose, whinging all the way. I sat down and filled my mouth with Soothers and Vicks (the little drop things - not the claggy white goop you rub on your skin) and settled in for a day of work. Somewhere along the line, my voice came back, which was beneficial for everyone involved (as is generally the case in a role predominantly focused around speaking).

Cue phone call from Crazy Bi-Polar Cow:

Her: Oh, thank you for that, you've been very helpful.
Me: Thank you.
Her: BUT I THINK THAT YOU'RE PUTTING UNDUE PRESSURE ON ME AND TRYING TO FORCE ME TO LIVE BEYOND MY MEANS! JUST THINK ABOUT WHAT YOU'RE DOING. JUST THINK ABOUT IT.
Me: Um.
Her: Could you please post that to me, darling?
Me: Oh. Ok. Just regarding that last thing...
Her: I KNOW YOU HAVE THESE THINGS YOU HAVE TO SAY BUT JUST DON'T BOTHER TRYING TO JUSTIFY IT, BECAUSE YOU'RE ALL THE SAME AND PEOPLE LIKE YOU CAUSE TOO MUCH TROUBLE FOR WORDS.
Me: And is that Kathy with a C or a K?
Her: A K. Thank you, dear.

Following this, a scary man who owns many guns introduced himself as 'the militant hillbilly' of the company and then said he'd finalised a heap of sales I'd made, and I was happy, but frightened.

As I sat on the bus on my way home, I peered out the window at one of Brisbane's resident plastic bag-toting bums, before discovering that his pants were down, and I had inadvertently STARED AT HIS PENIS. This is burnt into my memory forever and ever.

These days just happen to me, right?

Pile of bollocks internet connection? Check.

A weekend stolen by work? Check.

A gut that seems to be bigger every time I look at it? Check.

And nothing to blame it on except for chocolate and beer, because the "I'm pregnant" shock tactic is completely useless due to everyone knowing that an unfeasibly long time has passed since I have had any sort of physical encounter with the opposite sex? Check.

Publicly whinging about Never Getting Any on my blog? Check.

A near punch-up the whiney bitch at the supermarket who audibly 'huffed' at me because I was trying to find a loaf of bread and therefore caused her to have to move her trolley around me? Check. Screw you, trolley bitch.

Nose running like a tap, throat feeling like there's more ulcers in there than normal throat bits, red and streaming eyes, aching body, headaches, lethargy, inability to taste, nasal voice, constant sneezing, coughing, and such vivid descriptions that I should really consider a career writing the blurbs on the back of cold and flu medication boxes?

CHECK. HOLY SHIT. CHECK.

(cough)

Some fiendish person has stolen the internet I was stealing, and I am therefore stuck on a 36k connection. For those of you who don't know what this means: it's an absolute PILE OF ARSE.

So I'm posting this just so you know I didn't piss off too many sailors and end up sitting at the bottom of the Pacific, or in their jellyfish-infested engines.

I did piss off a couple, though.

I'll update properly when my stolen internet is back for the stealin'.

This picture of a craggy rock covered in bird shit is my subtle way of telling you that MY PICTURES HAVE ARRIVED! and I am stoked, and happy, and stoked, and you may have to put up with some wistful reminiscing-about-travel bollocks. My apologies in advance.

Because I am working on Saturday, tonight is my Friday night (as tomorrow is Australia Day, and therefore a lovely, lovely public holiday). As mentioned in an earlier post, this week is Sailor Week (or 'Fleet Week', as the people who are good at rhyming shit like to call it), and every venue from electro dance clubs to the indie pot bars will be flooded with crew-cuts.

Things I will say:

• "In the Navy, you can sail the seven seas! In the Navy, you can put your mind at ease!" (Accompanied by foot stamping and saluting.)
• So. Do you guys turn to Man Love when you're out at sea and lonely, and the ratio of men to women is about 3000:1?
• Skip? What sort of a name is that?
• Chuck? What sort of a name is that? Stop with the verbs already.
  
• I refuse to feel your biceps. Leave me alone.
• Does your Sergeant Major Lieutenant Officer Commander in Chief ever say, 'Swab the decks, me-hearties!' or am I confused?

Any suggestions appreciated.

(Before anyone tells me off for picking on their starched white suits, jaunty hats, very flat hair and shiny shoes, I was actually going to join the navy. And then I didn't.

Because I would've looked like a knob.

No, I'm kidding. They're alright.)

I hate Staring Girl. I HATE HER. Because she stares daggers at me when I haven't spoken a word to her. Her new name is Staring Shithead Bitch Arse Cow. Or maybe I'll stick with Staring Girl. If I stole your boyfriend, ate all of your chocolate, pissed on your clothes and headbutted you in the kidney, then you can hate me.

BUT YOU'VE GOT TO HAVE A BLOODY REASON, COW.

If I used Bitch Tactics to snag the promotion you were supposed to get, said that your perfume smelt like the urine of a cat with cystitis, and declared war on your pithy country, then you can hate me.

NO REASON. COW.

And I am not the type of person to sink this low, but since I am annoyed, I will tell you that not only does she dress weird, she has a stupid name and shit hair.

Hey, you know what's not fun? Putting on a pair of shorts (and risking blindness caused by the pasty white glare of your thighs), then sitting on a leather couch. My legs will need to be surgically removed from this thing. Or you might be able to pry me off with a crowbar.

But, I will worry about this once I have invented a thigh-levering device or find somebody to peel me off.

My options for Staring Girl are as follows:

1. Walk up to her, yell obscenities and punch her in the liver.
2. Approach my boss, tell him that she is sexually harrassing me, show photoshopped images of pornography with her head pasted in, and say that she sent them to me.
3. Gradually poison her, causing her immune system to break down and make her think she has an incurable disease. Hold on, is this the plot from a movie?
4. Say, "I'm sorry, but this whole staring thing is making me a little uncomfortable." And then punch her in the liver.
5. Sabotage her work, so she is fired.
6. Change seats, so she can't see me.
7. Find out where she lives and anonymously harrass her until she has a nervous breakdown.
8. Ignore her. (Please note if you select this option, you will have to put up with my whining FOREVER MORE.)

What do you suggest?

I have no stories. This is why you get this bullet point shit.

• I am working this Saturday. I object.
• The news has just told me that the sailors have arrived. This is very amusing. When the sailors arrive, they flood the pubs and clubs and every girl within a 25km radius is guaranteed to pick up, if they want to. Please note that I am not a Sailor Girl - I'm just used to seeing them in dark corners, slipping their wedding rings into their pockets and discreetly trying to put their hands down girls' pants. I find it funny to refer to the navy boys as Marines, and to the marines as Navy Boys. They hate me after that. Does anyone else get Sailor Week?
• The news also just featured a story on the fire situation in Anakie. The story directly afterwards had the caption, 'Friendly Fire'. I thought it would have been suitable if the previous story had had the caption, 'Very Shitty Fire'. But this is not funny, because fire is a bastard.
• Hey. This blog has turned all current affairs all of a sudden. This is Ray Martin. Goodnight.
• If anyone has any of Air's albums and wants to send them to me, or, cough, you know, copies - notthatIcondonepiracythisismydisclaimer - hook me up, yo.
• Yes, I used the word 'yo'. I'm all pimpin' and shit. This is Snoop Dogg. Goodnight.
• There is a girl at work who stares at me. I turn around, and she is staring. I am frightened and want her to stop looking at me, or perhaps go away and die. Dear Agony Aunt, or Good-Advice Grandma, what do I do?
• I AM GOING OVERSEAS NEXT YEAR AND IT CONSUMES MY EVERY THOUGHT. Particularly the niggling 'you only get to travel for a month, bitch,' voice in my head, which sounds quite suspiciously like Liz Hurley. Does anyone else find British actresses who were cheated on by Hugh Grant even though they're absolutely stunning residing in their heads?
• Do I ask too many questions?

• I am distracted by Giselle Bundchen.
  

This is Liz Hurley. Goodnight.

Why I should never, ever be allowed in pet shops:

"Ooh, puppies! Puppies puppies puppies! Look at that one! He's trying to kill the other one! He's so cute! Ooh, birds! I want a bird. Hi, birdy! Look, he's trying to bite my finger! Ow, birdy! OW. Stupid bastard bird. KITTY! Hi, kitty. Wake up, kitty! KITTY. Stupid kitty. I hate kitties. Puppies! Ooh!"

Etc. If you think you might possibly like to kill me, join the queue behind the pet shop staff.

I bought a bed. It was a bargain bed, and so cheap that I suspect it is secretly a second-hand bed formerly owned by somebody who peed, shat, and had sex on it numerous times. It may be a brothel bed. Who knows. But you just don't get beds at that price. I will sterilise it. With steam, hot water, and dettol.

Those are the only sterilising things that spring to mind.

Contrary to popular belief, I am not drunk. But I have just eaten some particularly delicious cheese.

Tonight. Tonight I am having soup for dinner. What are you having?

So I had about 12 vodkas, and danced like a dick, and had shit hair because of the rain, but didn't care because of the booze, and watched my co-workers grinding on eachothers legs, and took somebody home, but she was a girl and we're both heterosexual and she slept on the couch, and I made a million promises I won't keep, and it was fun.

This has nothing to do with anything, but every time I wear my hair down, somebody says, "wow, I like your hair that colour." Yeah, mate. God did an alright job there. It's not in a pony tail, so it must be a different colour? What the hell? Could somebody explain, please? Should I be including pictures?

Today, I saw Memoirs of a Geisha, and it wasn't bad. I could start ranting here, but it would only make sense to people who've read the book and seen the movie, and I can't be arsed. So I won't.

Dude. I'm tired.

Today, they sent me to a different floor, where I did some filing, and took some messages, and didn't have to speak to bastards all day.

Which is a good thing.

But I am tired, and I've got nothing for you.



Here is a tree.

That is all.

What is God Tower? Why are the rules in gibberish? Do you want me to type random shit in that password box? I don't understand! Gah! I AM SO ANNOYED.

Different stuff:

• I was drinking Yakult the other day, which I refer to as 'Fermented Yak's Milk', when I decided to read the back of the bottle and discovered that it's beneficial for those with intestinal and digestive problems. And then I realised that I have no real reason to be drinking Fermented Yak's Milk, and wondered why I was doing it, especially since it tastes quite shit.
• Do you ever look at a kid and think, 'woah, that kid is going to be hot when he grows up'? And is it appropriate to be evaluating how attractive somebody's going to be, when they're 12? If it's inappropriate, then I've got problems, and I probably shouldn't have said that Draco Malfoy is going to be the most attractive out of the male HP cast members, as long as he gets rid of that stupid bloody white hair and his sneery face.
• Ignore photos like this, because he looks skinny and weird:
  

• Give him time.
• It's true, though. Ron is a gimp, and Harry is just alright.
• NO. STOP. THEY'RE ABOUT TWELVE YEARS OLD.
• And hello, Hermione. That girl's going to break some hearts.

[Images stolen from here.]

• COLD HARD PROOF.
  
• Sorry. Stopping.
• Well, we all know who's put far too much thought into this, don't we?
• While I've already made a dick of myself, if Harry doesn't die in the last book, I will eat my hat.

Right. Continuing. With something else.

Um.

Shit. I have completely lost my train of thought. And I swear to God I had one.

Me: Good morning, this is me, how can I help you?
Him: Hello, I was just wondering about motor insurance?
Me: Sure, I can give you a price on that. Where's the car normally kept overnight?
Him: Shitville.

I'm sure you're aware that this isn't an actual Australian suburb, but I thought I'd tell you, just in case.

Me: Oh, Shitville, hey?
Him: Yeah, not sure of the postcode.
Me: That's ok - I should know it, really, since I went to high school there and all.

A moment passes.

Him: You went to Shitville High?
Me: Yeah, for a while. I left there eventually and continued my education elsewhere.
Him: Smart move?

So this guy obviously knows what Shitville is like.

Me: Yeah, it wasn't the most productive learning environment. Just about the only thing I learnt there was how to type.

A longer moment passes.

Me: Good old Shitville.

An even longer moment passes.

Him: I used to teach at Shitville High.

Shitarsewankbollockscrapknobbastardshit.

Me: Oh.
Him: I've moved on from there now.
Me: Oh, where you are now must be much better.

The longest moment in the history of the universe passes.

Him: I enjoyed the work I did there. I put in a lot of effort.
Me: Oh. Yes. Right.
Him: I used to teach instrumental music there.
Me: I took saxophone lessons for a year or two.
Him: Really.
Me: Yeah. Um. So. Insurance?
Him: Yes. Insurance.

Shit. Arse. Shit arse shit arse shit.

Is it more embarrassing to discover you've been heavily criticising your old high school to a former teacher, or to admit publicly that you took saxophone lessons in high school?

Things I could've said, but didn't:

On the bus.

Him: When are you getting off?
Me: As soon as possible. WA-HAY!

At work.

Him: What'd you get up to on the weekend?
Me: Not much.
Him: Go out?
Me: Yep.
Him: Pisshead.
Me: Hey! Call me a pisshead, when you're a boozer who's destined to have a beergut and broken veins, even if you are currently VERY ATTRACTIVE. Hot hot hotty hot hot hot HOT. And if you could remove your clothing immediately, I would be grateful, though don't feel too flattered because I still think you're a twat and the number of days I have been shagless means I would probably proposition the hobo who sleeps in the gutter and picks at his scabs.

On the phone.

Him: Well I'm going to insure with somebody else if you can't do it.
Me: Oh, really? That's ok, because YOU'RE AN ARSE. And we don't want business from GIGANTIC BASTARDS.

On the phone.

Her: I want to speak to your manager about my policy.
Me: Here's an idea. Take your policy and ram it square up your arse.

On the phone.

Her: I'm a snarky bitch. Whine whine whine.
Me: GO AND DIE.

Oh, sorry. Went off on a tangent there.

At the pub.

Him: [slurring, staggering, spewing] You're dead-set hot.
Me: You repulse me, and the fact that you can't see straight means your comment was completely insincere. If I did go home with you, which I won't, I would be extremely annoyed after making the effort to take off all my clothes, only to discover that you are suffering from an extreme case of Brewer's Droop, and have filled up my Doc Martens with your vomit. QUIT TOUCHING ME.

Too much info?

Is there a theme here?

Stuff:

• It's embarrassing when you spend a couple of minutes pulling faces at a baby, only to look up and discover the kid's father pissing himself laughing at you.

• Smallville really is a mammoth pile of shit. Who the hell is Lana? What happened to Lois? Am I missing something here?

• God damn, it's hot. Skin-permanently-fused-with-leather-couch sort of hot.

• My apologies for the drunken post.

• When I was in Woolworths earlier today, purchasing items necessary for my survival (i.e. food), an announcement came over the PA thingie saying, "Could Crystal Ball please come to the courtesy desk. That's Crystal Ball for the courtesy desk." Crystal Ball! Ha! I am so very easily amused.

• The other night I had a dream that I went to work in the middle of the night and it was full of weird vampire-types. I said, "Who are you, and why have you pushed my desk up against the wall?" and a vampire-type goth man said, "We work the night shift." There may have been muahahaha-ing after that. What is the meaning of this?

• You know what's funny? Watching your co-workers drink cocktails and stagger around the dancefloor, before showering everyone with hugs and kisses and declaring their love for one another. This will be happening on Friday.

Today is random picture day.



Little bastard almost took my finger off.

Hello. I am drunk.

Yes, two nights in a row! ALCOHOLIC ALERT.

Now, people. That's quite enough.

I am very annoying lately. Very annoying. Everything I see reminds me of travel, and everything I say starts with 'I remember when I was in ______.' Which I'm sure you'll agree is very annoying.

Hooray for beer!

But, now listen, now but, now listen. Braveheart's on the TV, and I remember when I was in Scotland, and visited some sites from the movie.

See what I mean? Annoying.

But! Hey. Now.

Today I bought some shoes.

They are black, and shoe-like. And suitable for wearing on my feet. Shoe-ish. Shoe-errific. Shoe-tacular.

So! Ok. Let us never speak of this again.

Right.

I am not dead, though the way I currently look and smell would suggest otherwise.

Imagine collecting the contents of 35 full ashtrays and tipping them over my head, and then massaging the ash and butts into my hair. Then, go collect some tar, and pour it into my lungs. After that, find every near-empty beer bottle and pour the backwashed dregs in the bottom over my clothes.

This is me. Hello. How are you?

Things I remember:

• Giving my best friend some sort of bizarre grinding/lapdance thing, while she roared with laughter and screamed, "YOU SHOULD WORK IN SHOWGIRLS!"
• Drinking a vodka and coke, then a vodka and coke, then a vodka and coke, then a what? Vodka, what? Voddddddkaaaaaaaaacoooooooooke whooooooooooooo thishhhh ishhh gooooood shtuuuuuuufffff.

Um. And that's all, really.

But the point is, I'm not dead, and besides the slutty dancing thing I didn't really make too much of a fool of myself.

Um.

The plan for tonight.

Take a shower, wash hair, straighten hair to get rid of annoying flickiness, put on clothes and Docs, go to pub, drink like a bitch, dance until everything goes fuzzy, get a taxi home, talk shit to the taxi driver, fall into bed, wake up and feel cheery tomorrow.

Here's how it will probably go.

Take a shower, wash hair, straighten hair and NOT get rid of annoying flickiness, put on clothes and Docs and think I look semi-respectable, when in fact I've got toilet paper stuck to my shoe and lip gloss smeared across my cheek, go to pub, drink like a bitch, "dance" (which mainly involves highly embarrassing arse-shaking) until I start tripping over things and falling on my face, get a taxi home, convince the taxi driver to not kick me out for being offensive and vomiting on the seat, fall into bed, wake up and DIE.

I'll let you know how it goes.

She was rude, obnoxious, and had manners that suggested she was raised by wolves.

So I said we couldn't insure her car.

She said she wanted to speak to a manager.

I should be able to deny business to arseholes, shouldn't I?

God, I am so shit at customer service.

So there was the new job, with the learning and the questions and the confusion and the money.

And this kept me very busy.

Then there was Christmas, with my mother and brother and their hugs and the look in their eyes that told me they missed me and that I was a terrible, terrible daughter/sister for not making more of an effort.

And I caught a train home on Christmas Day, and it was extremely full of bums and backpackers.

There was New Year's Eve, with Too Much Booze, and an evening of Playstation II Singstar goodness, and a morning after of throwing up repeatedly, in the style of a 16-year old who's just experimented with three casks of goon.

And the next day we listened to the last song we'd sung, at two o'clock the previous morning, and it went something like this:

"Cos we are li-ving in a mateeeeeeeeerial world, and I am a material girrrrrrrl. Oh-oh-oh-oh! I'm fifty and HOT! I'm married to Guy Ritchie! Oh! Material girrrrrrllll."

And we laughed.

There were drunken nights out, and dancing, and drunken men trying their luck, and hangovers, and vows to never drink again that were conveniently forgotten when the headaches went away.

But things started quietening down, and my life has a routine, and except for the whole moving house thing happening next month I think things are pretty well normal.

So I'm blogging.

Consider yourself caught up.