Twat of the day:

Me: Can I help you with anything else?
Him: Aw, yeah, can I have your number?
Me: The company's number? Sure, it's...
Him: Aw, nah, YOUR number.

Oh, Mr. Shamah Hacharachiskbach, I have been waiting all day for a man like you to sweep me off my computer chair.

Me: Oh. I'm not allowed to do that. It's, um, a breach of contract.
Him: Go on. No one will know.
Me: I'm, um, not allowed.
Him: Well let's just meet up somewhere.

Because if I won't give him my phone number, I'll DEFINITELY meet him for a hot and steamy date. I really enjoy meeting people who I've spoken to for a total of eight minutes concerning their car insurance and shagging them rotten. It's my thing.

Oh, wait, this is my Very Sarcastic way of talking.

Me: No. Not allowed. I'll get fired. They listen to calls. No.
Him: Oh, hey, that's ok.
Me: Um. Sorry.
Him: No. It's cool. Have a great evening.
Me: Bye.

Does anyone else see this as odd behaviour?

The past two weeks:

• I didn't work much. I took two days of leave, and had one day of alcohol poisoning.
• The alcohol poisoning occurred after an evening of fun at the Belgian Beer Cafe.
• The Belgian Beer Cafe serves foreign, VERY STRONG beer.
• When I felt like I could handle one more beer, my body expected normal beer, not 12-fricking-percent crazy drunk beer.
• I threw up much.
• I visited a Japanese restaurant and embarrassed myself by asking loudly for a spoon for my miso soup. "Aren't we supposed to drink it?" asked John, quietly, and I said, "Oh." Then I picked up my soup and said CHEERS! and a man looked at me disapprovingly and tutted.
• We visited the beach, and then went to a pub, and after I'd had lunch and a couple of drinks I visited the toilet, undid my miniature board short things and heard a loud SPSHHHH noise, then looked down and discovered I had covered the floor with sand.
• I completely forgot about the way sand collects inside a bikini.
• I hadn't been to the beach in a long time.
• A lot of sand managed to fall into the toilet, too. And sand doesn't flush.
  

• I bought a jumper. And since it's only a MILLION DEGREES outside, I should be able to wear it in, oh, four fricking months or so. I am such a knobhead.
• In June, if you see a girl looking like a grey-and-black bee, wave and say hi.
• Reg can wolf-whistle and imitate rainbow lorikeets freakishly well. I keep saying 'hello', 'bitch' and belching loudly, but he refuses to learn from me. He just bites me and breaks my jewellery. It's a very abusive relationship.
• Did that Red Rooster ad just start with, 'They stuff this big, warm 9-inch roll...' and if so, does it seem inappropriate, or do I have a dirty mind?
• Does anyone care about superannuation? STOP SENDING ME MAIL. I am 22 and very un-retired.
• I spent a lot of money. On taxis, and dinners, and South America.
• Hey, Harrison Ford, what's with the identical, shitty movies?
  

Sorry. Turning totally random now. Sleep time.

We check in, and the guy at the desk says, 'Getting rid of him, are you?' and I say, 'Yeah, sick of him,' and we all laugh.

We look in the duty free shop and sniff perfumes. That is, I sniff perfumes, while John fills out his customs declaration form in the corner. 'Ooh, sniff this,' I say, and he does, and doesn't look very interested, because he's a bloke.

We sit, and eat soggy Red Rooster chips and discover that boarding is half an hour later than we thought, so he doesn't have to leave so soon. 'Does this mean I'm stuck with you for another half an hour?' I say, and he says, 'yep,' and I say, 'Gah, but the other boys are WAITING, John,' and we laugh.

We share an iced coffee, and it has ice cream in it and I am confused and say 'What is this big ball of shit in my coffee?' because I am stupid and not used to it.

We look at our watches, and walk to the gate, and I say 'I could so go down to customs with you. Look, there's just one security guard, and he looks bored and tired. He wouldn't give a toss.'

We hug. 'I'll see you again soon,' he says, and I nod. We kiss. He turns to leave, then looks at me, and hugs me again. I laugh. I look over and see everyone watching. We are those people at the airport. 'Go on, you'll miss your flight, you git,' I say. He nods, and hugs me again. Kisses me again. 'Get out of here, you stinkin' pom,' I say, in my best ocker accent, and he laughs and hugs me again. I laugh too, because if I don't laugh, I'll cry.

We part. He disappears down the escalator, waving once and then looking away, because that's the smart thing to do.

...

I told my taxi driver I worked in an inbound call centre and he thought I said inbound cold centre and started pointing out how terrible it must be to go outside when it's so hot.

'Yes, that's right,' I replied.

To the people who stand up on the bus when there are seats free:

Oi! You're in my way, you shits! I bet the driver's pissed off with you too. There's such a thing as being courteous, and then being an utter twat, and which category do you think you fall into?

To the school children who occupy seats while adults are standing:

Hey. Shithead kid. See that sign that says 'Scholars are not to occupy seats while adults are standing'? I know you don't know what a scholar is, and probably can't read it either, but what it actually means is STAND UP OR I WILL KICK YOUR ARSE. Punk. This is my angry face.

To my bus driver:

When that 90-year old lady gets on the bus, and she can't walk all that well and is slowly making her way to her seat, could you please not hoon off down the road, almost sending her A over T? Prick.

To people who occupy two seats when people are standing:

If it was legal for me to hurt you terribly, I would. And I'd chuck you in a big barrel with the bastard children and evil bus drivers and stomp on you. With spiky shoes.

Can you tell I'm annoyed? What else can I add to the list?

We were calling him Shithead, and then Bastard, and then El Birdo, but finally we decided that anything was better than no name at all and called him Reg.

Reg just shat on my hand.

On a completely unrelated but very Holy Shit note, last weekend we visited the annual travel expo in order to pick some well-travelled brains. We filled a bag with brochures and talked to a lady who didn't know much at all, but she was very forthcoming with brochures.

Me: Answer this question.
Her: Here's a brochure and some false information about the wet season in South America.

But, this is entirely beside the point, because the point is that around this time next year you'll find me at Machu Picchu, yelling 'Hola' and 'Tapas' because that's all the Spanish I know, and trying to avoid llama spag.



Which is Very Exciting.

Except for that bit about llama spag, which is pretty bloody disgusting.

Who's coming with?

Dear Blog. Am well. Still busy. Went to beach. Am redder than before. Am sandier than before. Have been acting like a tourist, and drinking, and sleeping, and relaxing.

Back to work tomorrow.



John, who is lovely, surprised me with Birdie McChirpchirp. This is not actually his name. He is nameless. I would like to give him a name suited to his personality, but all I know about him from the two-day span I have spent from him is that he's clumsy, and chirps a lot, and acts a bit mental on occasion.

All suggestions appreciated.

Will revert to normal internet-addicted blogaholic state soon.

So, I was sitting on the bus, fearing for my safety, when a lovely, lovely Officer of the Law jumped on for the ride.

Ain't no shit goin' down on the Outbound 204 this afternoon.

I started singing 'What's the colour of a two-cent piece? COPPER, COPPER,' but only in my head, because singing that out loud would've meant I was Crazy and I would've had to start smashing windows and screaming.

John is visiting me.

John, formerly known as J., formerly known as Him, but now known as John, because I have noted that the odds of somebody working out who I am by an association with a person bearing the most common name in the known universe are slim to none.

You might remember John from such episodes as 'Here's My Reasoning For Crying Like A Sissy At The Airport' and 'Hey, I've Actually Been Reading Your Blog - SURPRISE!' and 'Who Would've Thought That Tunisia Is A Massive SHITHOLE?'

That's him. He flies in tomorrow morning and is staying for two weeks, while he does worky things, and drinks beer with me, but probably not at the same time. This means that this blogging palaver (palaver!) will be a bit less frequent for a wee bit.

Catch you on the flip side, kids.

True story.

So I'm sitting on the bus, no more than 20 minutes ago, quietly reading Atlas Shrugged and half-listening to the slightly mental lady who's decided to sit next to me and talk to herself/me. Suddenly, I hear some yelling, and I think that perhaps somebody is arguing. But I then note that it is Very Crazy Yelling and turn around to have a look.

I'm censoring all of the profanity in this one, because otherwise I would surely be sent to hell.

A nutty looking loonbag in a blue dress has turned on her seat and is screaming at somebody at the back of the bus. "You! YOU and your f**king phone call. LOOK, F**KER! I don't want to listen to your phone conversation, you RUDE C**T, so shut the f**k up! F**KHEAD! SHUT UP!"

And then she sits down.

Admittedly, there was somebody on his mobile phone at the back of the bus (but not for much longer, surprisingly), and yes, most of the people could hear him, but he wasn't loudly talking about his penis size or how he'd murdered his grandma, or anything. Definitely nothing to get riled up about.

So everyone looks at NutJob and then looks away, because everyone knows that you ignore crazy people. We continue driving along, and suddenly I sense somebody standing in the aisle.

A lady had approached CrazyNuttyHag for some reason or another. She might have been confronting her, or she might have been asking her for the time, but either way, she didn't get more than one word out before the psychotic bitch started THROWING PUNCHES AT HER HEAD.

Pandemonium!

NormalLady pushes her arms out to try and keep CrazyBitch from taking out one of her eyes, while screaming "Call the police! Please!" Meanwhile, MentalCase is flailing around, screaming "F**K OFF! GET THE F**K AWAY FROM ME! C**T! F**K!" and hurling punches and kicks at anything that moves.

The bus driver pulls over and there's a mass evacuation. But not before there's a loud smashing noise and LoonyCow SMASHES HER ARMS THROUGH THE WINDOW. We're all going 'Jesus Christ' and BusMan is on his radio going 'Jesus Christ' and NormalLady is in a corner trying to recover going 'Jesus Christ' whilst ForgotHerMeds is sprinting off down the road.

No shit.

We all pile onto another bus, while BusMan and NormalLady wait for the police to arrive.

Crazy!

"There was an attack on the other bus and a window was smashed!" I say to the new bus driver, all hurriedly and scared-like, because this is what you do, you see.

"Oh," he says, not caring, because he is a bus driver.

So. Holy shit. Any other contenders for Nutjob of the Year?

First, I watched Phantom of the Opera. It involved singing all high-pitched and stuff. That is, the movie did - not the watching thereof. Actually, now I think about it, yes it did, and I'm sure my neighbours are lodging complaints at this very moment. I am totally gonna hit on the next guy I see wearing a half-mask thing and high pants.

Then, I watched Dirty Dancing. Which features Patrick Swayze thrusting his hips. And hey, a guy who manages to seem like a bad boy when he's a fancy pants dancer is ok in my books. Especially when he's in several scenes wearing high pants. High pants! Oh, high pants.

This was followed by American Beauty. Which is very good, and features no high pants. It does feature Kevin Spacey though, who is tops. That is all. Go watch.

And then (yes, there's more - is watching movies all weekend a crime?) there was Bridget Jones's Diary, which confuses me, because shouldn't it really be Jones' and not Jones's, or did I completely miss something in school? You know, like 'I washed Jesus' feet with my hair.' You didn't wash JESUS'S feet, Mary Magdalene. I am confused. And easily distracted. Colin Firth! Oh, yes. Colin Firth.

There was beer consumed somewhere at this point.

"Hey, I found some porn the other day. It's really crap. Wanna watch it?"

I shrug.

And proceed to watch the shittest porno in the history of the world and wonder how the hell it is possible for men to be that well-endowed. Impossible! What have you done to that thing? Too large! Ow! Look at her boobs. Too fake. How is she bending that way? Oh my God! Ow!

What did you do on the weekend?

Hi. Can you see me?

I wouldn't normally ask, except I can't see me. My site, that is. Or any other blogspot sites, for that matter. Which is a bit of a pain in the arse, really.

So, um, if you've commented recently, thank you. And if you haven't, why not? Do you hate me? Stop or I'll cry.

But, to get back to the point, either blogspot is down, or I'm down. Something's down. I don't bloody know. But I managed to post, so hi.

And also, another point is that I want to see Split Enz, but I'm too tight to part with the money.

But I don't think this is related.

I talk too much shit for words. I think I'll leave now.

It was fun at the time.

We took a taxi into the city with a driver who defied every sterotype known to the taxi profession by being unbelievably attractive and not weird.

We drank, searched for an hour for a party, gave up and went back to the pub, drank, danced, avoided sleazebags and posers, repeated.

Examples of shit pick-up lines:

"So, hey. Where's a good place to get food around here?"
"Um. There's a Subway accross the road."
"Oh. So. Um."
"Bye."
"Bye."

"So, hey. Where's good to go around here?"
"Go?"
"You know. Out."
[We run through a list of nearby pubs and clubs.]
"Hey. Thanks. Um."
"Bye?"
"Bye."

"Hey, girls. We'll dance later."
"We will?"
"Yeah."
"Hmm. Later."
"Now?"
"No. Later."
"Ok."
As he's walking away: "NEVER!"

I drank entirely too much. It hit me when I got home and I threw up like a trooper. I fell into bed.

When I woke up this morning, I was completely naked and lying ON TOP of my underwear. I had for some reason pulled my towel over me and discovered the rest of my clothes in various places around the room. The icing on the What The Hell cake was looking down and seeing a PREGNANCY TEST that I'd bought during a scary two-weeks-late moment a long time ago on the floor next to the bed.

Which just sounds terrible, but all it really means is that in my extremely drunken state, I decided to rifle through my things and pull out a pregnancy test and throw it on the floor, even though I didn't do anything that would warrant the use of one.

Which isn't that abnormal, really. Is it?

Yesterday, my boss sent me home after I mentioned something about my throat, ulcers, and I may have thrown in a pus reference or two. I went home, and did nothing, but did discover that House is starting again and so is a new series of The Amazing Race (I couldn't find a link without spoilers), so I'm thinking that I may be able to watch TV again without throwing the remote in disgust.

Today. Today is a Rostered Day Off.

Two beefy delivery boys paid me a visit and delivered a heap of boxes and a big rectangular springy thing.

Then, I made this:



With my hands and God Damn Allen Key. Or a G-DAK for short. The bed AND the fricking bedside tables. I even heaved the Bloody Heavy mattress onto the frame and put sheets on it.

I am very tired.

I'm pretty sure Mr. Allen was one of Satan's pseudonyms, because why a normal person would create such an infuriating instrument of UTTER TORTURE I don't know. The rest of the world was happy using bloody screwdrivers, but not Mr. Allen. No. He wanted to PISS EVERYONE OFF.

I am annoyed, and bruised, but I built a bed. So it's ok.

Things I can do on my new Grown-Up Bed that I couldn't do before:

• Stretch out and roll around without falling onto the floor.
• Shag. Oh wait, NEVER HAPPENS.
• Sleep either lengthways or widthways, if widthways is a word.
• Leap from one side to the other when I'm, you know, happy.
• Invite girls around and have them all sit on my bed while we do eachother's hair and talk about boys.
• Yoga.
• Pfft, as if I could do yoga.
• Shit, I don't know. Sleep good? Stupid lists.
  

Oh, and while I've remembered, last night I had another one of those dreams.

Featuring Elijah "Frodo luvs Sam 4EVA" Wood.



WHAT THE HELL.