On a sidenote, after St. Patrick's Day we found a mysterious mobile phone that didn't belong to anyone we knew. It was turned off and locked with a PIN, so we arsed around and tried a few PIN numbers before the thing locked us out and we put it aside, figuring that if it belonged to my work crowd, somebody would come forward.

It's been a couple of weeks, so we put a SIM card in there, just for the hell of it.

Holy shit.

An entire photo library of dirty, smutty, oral sex-fixated PORN. Home-made porn, at that. Featuring a girl who looks ever-so-innocent and who I fortunately do not work with. Thank. God.

Who votes I should shame the poor (very naughty) girl on the internet?

I don't know if this is a worldwide thing, but here in good ol' Brisbane the local bookshops do this thing where the staff put helpful little reviews on cards under the books they have on display. As an example, under Atlas Shrugged there might be a card saying:

"Holy shit, this book is really long. Reviewed by Cindy."

Except they're never quite as good as that. In fact, they're bloody annoying. Nine times out of ten, the helpful staff member has copied the blurb directly off the back of the book onto the little review card, and I don't know if you ever did book reviews in school, but that is NOT ALLOWED.

And the other ten percent of the time, this is what you get. Now this is an actual card at Dymocks on Queen Street:

"For lovers of fantasy, try this book by Katherine Kerr."

Well NO SHIT, 16-year old zitty book shop employee. I bet that one took a stretch. You have really earnt your $9.50 an hour.

Enough ranting. I have a fabulous plan, you see. I was sitting in the car today and made a comment about a book I'm reading. Ben Elton's The First Casualty.

"So far, it seems to be about the stupidity of war and masses of buggery in the army. Imagine THAT on a Dymocks review card."

I'm going to get some of these blank cards, or bloody pieces of paper if I have to, and write some 'helpful' reviews. Which will shit all over the legit reviews. Then I will subtly slip them underneath books on display, which they will never notice because I'm in there every day anyway. Is this a marvellous plan, or what? I feel so Fight Club right now. Excuse me while I go punch some people for fun.

All review suggestions appreciated.

I have no life. Here are pictures to prove this.



You know, I only got my hair cut about two weeks ago, and that fringe thing is already completely hanging in my eyes. Which really pisses me off. Note how in this photo I look like Satan. Ha.



I'm not ripping off Steph, here, and I'm sorry that this picture is dark, but this is the first pair of proper heels I have owned (besides dodgy work heels) since a pair I bought in my late teens and subsequently wore once to a wedding. Because right now, I'm feeling a bit girly.



This rainbow bag and wallet have both been approved by hippies. I am so alternative right now. Except for, um, that heel thing back there.



When John visits, he brings the sort of presents that really matter. This should keep us going for a few weeks.

Today is my RDO, and I am househunting, and renewing my learner's permit, because I am starting to suspect I will never get my driver's licence. Also, I have had several dreams recently in which I am extremely mean to small children. What's up with that?

To the 'ladies' of my workplace who frequent the Level Two ladies' room:

A. Ok. Now correct me if I'm wrong, but you are female and it's highly unlikely that you have a penis or pee standing up. So why is there pee on the toilet seat?? WHY? Do you stand up mid-pee and wiggle around? Do you get up before you've finished peeing? Are your peeing bits located in an unusual place? And once you have noticed that you've pissed on the seat, why do you not CLEAN IT UP? There is toilet paper there, in that roll thing. Jesus.

B. Right. Now I understand everybody needs to 'go' and sometimes Number Two-ing is necessary. Apologies if you don't want to hear about Number Two-ing. But is it really possible that EVERY TIME I go to the loo, the person who has been in there before me has left the room filled with an almighty stench? Surely this is not possible. I am beginning to suspect that there is a conspiracy, and that people are studying my toilet habits, and five minutes before it is statistically likely that I will visit the toilet they are running in there and doing their, you know, business.

C. WASH YOUR HANDS. For Christ's sake.

I've always suspected that it was the guys toilets that smelt a bit funny and had puddles of pee on the floor, but I'm learning that women are truly bloody gross.

D. Pubic hair on the toilet seat is a no-no. I just don't want to see it. There's a reason we all wear pants, and that's because the status of hairdownthere is None of Your Business.

E. I am Very Dismayed when you go into the toilet with no toilet paper, only to pee as usual and walk out after flushing without a single cry of "can you pass me some bog roll, please?" Because this makes me think, 'Um, you just went to the toilet and didn't use toilet paper, so you either drip-dried or have piss pants.'

These ranty posts are becoming pretty common. John is visiting, and the blogging is dying down while I go out to dinner wearing slut heels and drink champagne (I did that last night. Seriously.). I'm also looking for a place to live and working Saturdays. Right now, Everything Is Crazy.

I was wandering to Subway for lunch when I spied the hobo-whose-penis-I've-seen loitering in a bus shelter, with his collection of plastic bags and raggy suitcases. He looked me up and down and then GRUNTED IN RECOGNITION.

He grunted in a way that suggested, "Oh, hey, you're that girl who looked at my knob a couple of weeks back." It was so familiar a grunt that he may as well have asked after my family and been declared godfather of my children.

Not that I have any children.

But I am dismayed at being a hobo's penis buddy.

As you can imagine.

Incidentally, he was still doing a pretty shoddy job of holding his pants up.

Things that boys have done to impress me:

Age 6: Held my hand and kissed me repeatedly, particularly in front of teachers so they would go 'awwwww' because two six-year olds kissing eachother is the stuff Kodak ads are made of. But I was six, and thought 'eww, this is gross', and dumped him. I mean, come on. That's moving a bit too fast, don't you think?

Age 8: Went out with me for an hour and a half before dumping me for my best friend and 'giving' me his own best friend as a substitute. Which was really very kind of him. Rather than leaving me boyfriendless. Now that I think of it, I'm pretty sure he had a mullet.

Age 11: Ran past me, gaily slapping me on the head as he went. But his finger went INTO MY EYE and the next day I woke up with my eyelid swollen and puffy and discovered I had a MASSIVE STY. And that's not one of those things a pig lives in. Though my mammoth eyelid could have probably housed a pig or two, it was that puffy. He was my 'proper' boyfriend and everything. And then another girl had a nervous breakdown in the toilets and screamed "WHY DID YOU GO OUT WITH HIM? I LOVE HIM!" and I'm thinking 'Woah. I'm 11, how 'bout you?'

Age 11 (again): Asked my friend out repeatedly, and was turned down every time, before asking me out repeatedly. There's nothing like being the last resort. He then gave me a necklace with a loveheart on it and I thought 'wow, maybe he really does like me', before I discovered that he'd already tried to give it to my friend that very morning. Age 11 was hectic.

Age 12 - 14: Called me names and threw things at me.

Let's jump right ahead.

Age 18: Talked to me for HOURS about CARS. Ooh, cars. I know lots about cars. Let's see: they drive, and, um, rev. And you put petrol in them. Yes, this is how much I care about cars. And you see how I'm sort of saying 'mm' and gazing the other way? This means that I'm not at all interested. You're still talking about cars. I AM DYING.

Age 18: Introduced me to the bong-smoking gang, saying 'these are my mates'. And then positioned me in front of the TV for FOUR HOURS while you smoked bongs with your mates. That was fun.

Age 18: Convinced me that I really wanted to have sex with you, only for me to lose my virginity and think 'Well Holy SHIT, does sex really only last for 13 seconds? And if so, why the hell do people go on about it so much? I'm not going to bother with that shit again.'

Oh, actually, the last three were all the same boyfriend. I'm going to work before I go off on a tangent.

So, we were all sitting down and watching the women's weight lifting. The Snatch, to be exact. Yes, we were engrossed by the women's snatch. The commentator also obviously enjoys a good bit of snatch, because he said, 'There's nothing like a good snatch'. A woman with a good snatch is a very good woman indeed.

I'm sorry. I'm going to wet my pants now.

See what happens with a little provocation?



Ooh, Reg. You're such a bad boy.



He loves me really. Truly. Honestly.

On Sundays, I like to read, watch DVD's, and poke my bird. How about you?

Well. Are you ready for this shit?

St. Patrick's Day just so happened to be the same day as my supervisor's farewell, so half of the staff plodded over to the dodgiest pub in existence for some 'goodbye, best of luck, what a fantastic excuse to get shitfaced' drinks.

At this point, things were going well.

I wore green, because it was, you know, appropriate. Then I sat down with Co-Worker and a couple of pints.

Things still going well, yes?

Then everyone was suddenly drunk. And I don't just mean drunk, I mean HOLY SHIT DRUNK. Hideously. Horrendously. Spewtastic. Drunk. And everyone was acting like they were the best of friends. And then my supervisor said he liked my top. And then the guy who sits next to me at work danced with me to Madonna's 'Like a Prayer' and put his arm around my waist. And then Co-Worker, who is a pretty little thing, ran up to me and told me that she had been semi-attacked by a sleazy guy while his girlfriend was less than three metres away. And then.

And then.

Co-Worker said she would like to go home. We had pre-arranged that she'd sleep on our couch, you see. We walked outside, and she wobbled a bit before COLLAPSING ON THE FLOOR. And I was like, 'dude'.

A bouncer helped me carry her down to a bench, where she rested her head on my lap for a while before SPEWING ALL OVER HER SKIRT. AND MY SHOES. Then she started convulsing while vomit bubbled out of her mouth. And the bouncer told me to check her pulse. And I'm thinking, 'God, this is a bit serious. She's only had as much as me.' But fortunately she wasn't dead - just so drunk she was completely unaware that she was lying in her own puke.

I waved frantically for taxis, but do you think a taxi driver will stop for the crazy-waving girl with spew feet, jumping up and down next to the unconscious girl with a spew skirt? No. This is very unlikely. And then I did something that made me feel very bad, but I felt very stuck and my feet smelt like vomit.

I called my flatmates. At an ungodly hour. And this is what I said.

"Hello it's me I'm outside the pub and Co-Worker's unconscious and lying in a pool of her own spew and no taxis will stop for me because she looks dead and she's got spew on her and I've got spew on me and can you help me please I would be grateful forever."

And because they are awesome, they helped me. And while I was waiting, a man sat next to me, said, "Is she alright?" and followed it up with, "You've got nice tits."

I said, "Thanks, mate. That's the way to pick up the ladies." And then he left.

Drove home, blah blah blah, slept it off, sent her on her way the next morning, blah, etc., blah.

How was your St. Patrick's Day? I didn't even drink any Guinness.

So, I joined the gym. It's my first gym membership since the days when I used to go to a class, prance around for half an hour and then discover that everybody could see my underpants through a hole in my ugly gym pants.

Underpants, Mark. Yes, underpants.

It's been a while, and I figured I'd better join up if I didn't want the whole South America thing to turn into an episode of "Watch How Quickly I Can Die"*.

(*Not a real show, but wow, what a premise.)

It's costing me a shitload, because it's a Posh Gym, and by 'a shitload' I mean 'a fairly reasonable amount, but I'm just used to my Cheap-and-Nasty gym.' But here's what I'm noticing. I haven't even been there for a sweat-my-cobs-off session yet, and I'm jamming shit food in my mouth like there's no tomorrow. Like my body's saying, 'hey, you're going to be burning calories, better stock up, bitch'. And, 'you're trying to be healthy, so eat these M&M's, skank.'

Is your inner voice as abusive as mine?

Take today, for example. I jammed an entire pack of peanut M&M's in my mouth before my large and greasy lunch had made it through to my gizzards. Then I washed it down with a can of coke. And a can of V. And then I ate 12 tablespoons of sugar. Only one of these statements isn't true.

Any psychologists in the house? Is my body craving fat and sugar to be spiteful, or am I just a twat?

Wait. Don't answer that.

Good weekend, chaps and chapettes?

There was Friday night revelry, with:

• 8 vodka + mixers.
• 7 trips to the toilet, as I wondered whether my bladder had shrivelled up to the size of a peanut.
• 6 lecherous sleazebags trying to vigorously rub their crotches on me.
• 5 very packed mouthfuls of pizza, post-booze.
• 4 near-stacks as I drunkenly tripped around the dancefloor.
• 3 weird, paralysing stomach cramps, which hit at about 7am and made me wonder what the hell was in that pizza. Spinach and fetta and POISON.
• 2 faux-lesbian couples, pashing for the sake of attracting attention from men. Girls like that shit me off.
• 1 stupid bloody 'I am NEVER drinking again' headache. I'm never drinking again.

We watched Serenity. And then that movie about the 40-year old virgin. With that funny guy in it. And I laughed. And ate cake. Cake. Laughing. Virgins. But most importantly, cake.

I dislike work. Let's all quit together. On the count of three.

And the winner of the Stupidest Invention Ever goes to:

The twat who invented underpants for girls with a seam running up the middle. As in between your legs. I'm sure you understand anatomy, and how a great big seam could cause discomfort, but let me just say that the words 'camel' and 'toe' do Not. Do. Justice.

Sorry if you didn't need that mental imagery, but I don't need that uncomfortable seam action.

I'm going to the pub. Coming?

Ten things you really don't give a shit about:

• If I take a sip from a glass, I put it directly back on top of the ring of condensation left on the table top. So they match up perfectly. None of this multiple ring bullshit for me.
  
• I've never broken a bone or felt any sort of extreme pain, and I imagine that if I did I would cry like a sissy.
• When I was at school, I went through stints of learning the following instruments: the flute, clarinet, saxophone, trombone, recorder, piano, and violin. The only instrument I can semi-play now is the guitar, and badly.
• I don't have my driver's licence. In two weeks, I will be getting my learner's permit for the seventh (SEVENTH) time. I took my test when I was 17 and my examiner scared me and almost made me cry.
• I've never had a one-night stand. Just good, old-fashioned, relationship shagging. One-night pashing is another subject, though.
  
• Before putting my freshly-washed underpants away, I fold them up neatly. I FOLD MY UNDERPANTS.
• When I was in my late teens, I was obsessed with fitness and spent the vast majority of my time exercising. I had abs, biceps, and could do the front splits - never sideways - as well as that backwards bridge thing. Actually, I can still do the bridge thing. But the abs and biceps have been replaced with jiggly bits.
• I have a freckle on the underside of the big toe of my left foot.
• My most commonly used phrase at the moment is 'top banana' (as in "This dinner is... TOP BANANA"), and it's driving everyone insane.
• I've never dyed my hair a different colour. Because it's so bloody dark it would be the biggest pain in the arse EVER to maintain, and I just cannot be arsed.

Waiting for The Amazing Race. Time. Passes. So. Slowly.

Do you ever see those Cadbury ads on TV, with the kids made of chocolate, and wonder why on earth they are eating chocolate if they're made of chocolate, and that there is something wrong and very cannibalistic about the whole thing?

Random bullshit while I wait for something interesting to happen:

• Hey, seedy old men, could you please stop flirting with me over the phone, because I am 22 and you are married with grandchildren and I am GROSSED OUT. In particular by the man whose response to 'Can I help you with anything else?' was 'Yes, but that's nothing to do with insurance. Hehehe.' Sick. Old. Bastard.
• The hair doesn't look too different, except I have a fringe. A fringe! This is not a big deal to anyone but me, because I haven't had a fringe since I was six. So I am all excited until I get used to it at which point I'll start tying it up and won't bother with it anymore.
• Reg, the cockatiel, shat on me three times, and can say 'wuh-woh' in a birdy voice which is sort of like 'hello'. Very nearly sort of.
• Atlas Shrugged really is one of the longest books in the world. It looks average, but it's secretly Very Long. Deceitful lengthy book. Either that or my reading skills have deteriorated to a Watch Spot Run level.
  
• Shit, you know you've got jack-shit to talk about when you're struggling at Bullet Point Five.
• So, um. Curry for dinner here. Mm, Korma, how lovely thou art. And you?
• Ooh, St. Patrick's Day soon. Who's in for some Guinness-ing and green hat-wearing?
  

God, I'm going to bed.

After discovering that somebody had found my blog by searching for 'arse scratching devices', I decided to see how highly I ranked, and then noticed this:



Gee, thanks Google. That's EXACTLY what I was looking for. What would I do without you?

I'm going to the hairdresser.

Except probably not today, because today I am hungover and smell like an ashtray.



Should I go for:

A. The mullet. Which is apparently fashionable these days.
B. A bogan rat's tail.
C. Shorter.
D. Longer (hello, hair extensions).
E. Shave the shit off. Stupid bloody hair.
F. A very puffy mid-80's perm.
G. A different colour. Blue! Or green!
H. Something else (i.e. I'm tired of thinking).

My only requirement is that I remove my scraggy split ends before my entire head is smothered in skanky fly-away split hair.

MAJORITY RULES!*

*Unless I disagree with majority, in which case, I RULE.