Well arsing arsity arse.

Allow me to mount my exceedingly high horse.

Fitness First. Or, as I have taken to calling it, Shitness First. Shitness First and Foremost. Fitness later.

The sons of bitches are charging $36.95 to my credit card every fortnight, and do you think I get anything for it? No. Diddly squat. The reasons for this are as follows:

1. My hours are all over the place, and I have entire weeks where I am unable to go due to late finishes. And I personally am not a fan of the 'allow me to take all of my gym gear to work, plus my work clothes, plus everything I need to get ready for work including everything necessary for a shower, and allow me take three million bags to carry it in and smack them into people on the bus, or almost die from walking to work whilst carrying them, negating the need for the gym visit' method of visiting the gym in the early morning.

I warned you how high this horse is.

2. An extraordinary number of my co-workers visit. Yes, this seems silly, but seeing them all day and THEN having to see them while I'm stomping on a treadmill, dripping with sweat with a face the colour of an extra-red beetroot, after work is gone and done with is just not my cup of tea. Yeah. I'm petty.

3. I am now walking to and from work Every Single Day, which is giving me shitloads more exercise than I would get from my pithy occasional gym visits, making the membership completely unnecessary and a waste of my hard-earned beer money.

4. I DON'T WANT TO GO.

So, seeing as I am trying to save for that whole Different Continent thing happening in seven months or so, I figured I'd cancel the membership. I made an enquiry or two and was told that there's a bit of paperwork to get through, and a $150 fee, but I can drop in and do it anytime. A $150 fee is nothing compared to another nine months of paying for that bastard fortnightly, so I was all 'sign me up, hippie' and dropped in as soon as I could.

They told me I had to make an appointment.

Oh. Ok. I made one.

I met Jasmine, who is a pretty girl who slowly revealed that she is actually the fruit of Satan's loins.

Jasmine: Ok, so work is causing a bit of trouble lately?
Me: Well, my hours have changed, so I can't make it anymore.
Jasmine: Oh, ok. Well, you have two options. You can transfer your membership to somebody else if you like, or you can put your membership on hold for up to four months.
Me: Um. Well I called and they said I could cancel it and just pay a fee.
Jasmine: Oh! Ok.

Jasmine slowly ponders this and her master, The Dark Lord, gives her instructions on what to say next.

Jasmine: I'm sorry. I don't know who you spoke to, but you need a medical certificate for that. Or proof that you've moved at least thirty kilometres away from a Shitness First.
Me: I'm sorry? I was told different by two separate employees of your company.
Jasmine: Oh. It's incorrect.

She refuses to make eye contact with me. Little smarmy bitch. I notice that she's carefully picked a seating area surrounded by other Official Gym People so that I'm less likely to grab her pretty ponytail and slam her head into the table.

Jasmine: Otherwise you can pay out the rest of the membership. It comes to... [pushes buttons on a calculator] $665.10.

She smiles. I make a hmm noise and pick up a pen on the table, twirl it between my fingers and ponder the feasibility of stabbing it into her eye. She waits.

Me: Look. Jasmine, is it? Ok. I WILL NOT be using this membership. I will be paying money for absolutely nothing if you do not cancel it, which is something I don't appreciate very much. I want to cancel it.

Which would have been loads more impressive if I had said it all stern and grown-uppish, but having the voice of a 14-year old and a hair-twirling habit probably detracted from my toughness a bit.

She says nothing in response. Just sort of shrugs and looks away. Are you telling me that I CANNOT leave, you pack of arses? HOW ABOUT I CANCEL MY CREDIT CARD, YOU HO. Yeah, now I'm getting gangsta. I say all of this in my head, while I twirl my hair and giggle.

Me: Ok. Well I'll put it on hold for a month while I see what I can do. If that's ok?

IF THAT'S OK?! Somebody punch me.

Jasmine: Oh, sure. Let's go up to the front desk and arrange this. So, have you got anything planned for the weekend?
Me: NO.

I don't do small talk. Not even at the best of times, and certainly not when I'm seething with fury at a company who made me wait in the city for two hours after my shift finished to tell me something they could've said over the phone, gave me contradictory information, and don't list their terms and conditions online so I can't go through them with a fine-tooth comb and get all legal on their arses.

All the way home, I muttered, "I'll get them. Yeah, I'll get them. I'LL GET THEM."

Ever been in this situation before?



Yeah. Google knows what I'm on about.

John: Yeah, I done it.
Me: You did it.
John: Yeah.
Me: No, you did it.
John: Um.
Me: Did. Did not done.
John: Sorry?
Me: 'I done it' isn't the correct way of saying it. I did it.
John: No. I don't think so.
Me: [incredulous] You're the one who's supposed to be bloody English. You named the language after your country. Or the country after your language. Or. Um.
John: I'm good at English.
Me: I'm not talking to you anymore.
John: I DONE IT!!!

Ok. Vote time*.

(*Though keep in mind that this is my blog, and should always show me to be in the right and terribly, terribly clever, and admitting that I am wrong would lead to utter humiliation and I CAN BAN YOU, you know.)

I done it.

I did it.

The words don't make sense any more.

AHOY!

Oh dear. The internet that I mercilessly steal was stolen back from me for several days, and I found myself internetless, and void of bloggy inter(net)action, and forced to speak to real-life human beings in real-life situations with a real-life voice.

Yes, that's right. Hell. Living hell.

As a consequence, I am typing at three million words per minute, in case it drops again, so please forgive the tpyos. (Ha! What a cracking sense of humour.)

So, right, to get right down to business, here is the latest on me:

Um.

Shit.

Oh! I watched The Chronicles of Narnia last night, and is it just me, or does Lucy form some sort of child bride relationship with Tumnus the faun?

Also. Work shits me to tears, and in the last week three of my original training group have announced that they're leaving (or have already left quite unexpectedly) and they're telling me all about their fabulous new jobs, which are easier, and pay so much more, and don't require that you sell anything (and, let's face it, my sales skills are equivalent to those possessed by the Aussie Home Loans guy), and it's stirring up feelings. Should I be searching for the perfect job, too? Or am I such a big sissy that I'll stay in the position I'm in forever and ever until I am old and wrinkly and saggy and crusty? Oh. Oh my.

Went to the pub last Saturday. Was drunk. Etc.

I'm still trying to gather my thoughts after my sudden delirium at discovering I had an internet connection, so I'll now go to my thinking corner, have a sit down and a cup of tea (Yeah. I drink tea now.), and get back to you shortly. What's the best number to reach you on? Can I help you with anything else today?

Shit. Work has completely brainwashed me.

Well Holy Arsing Shit.

Does anyone know where I can buy an edible hat?

Man, this World Cup thing is tough. The first week was fine. Picking the winners was a matter of 'they're crap, they're good'. And then a couple of matches pass, and suddenly we're examining their every move, assessing who has more to play for, 'he's been yellow carded, so they'll probably sit him out', looking at the hunger in their eyes, going for the upsets, hoping that they'll make us rather than break us.

I thought it was just about blokes kicking a ball. This shit is driving me nuts. When that toss of the coin doesn't work out, my blood pressure soars and my heart audibly snaps. I apologised to my Tipping Buddy for a bad call, and he said 'oh, it's ok', with a tear in his eye and a face filled with sorrow.

I knew that being a lazy shit wasn't the only reason I was never hugely into sports. I was saving myself heartbreak by sitting on my arse and reading. HEARTBREAK.

Moving along (HEARTBREAK, PEOPLE), John has gone to fetch Indian spices and a wok and I am off sick with a case of SnotNose-itis, so Hi Blog! Missed you, old buddy old pal. Here, have some bullet points, baby. Just the way you like it.

• John bought a bookcase! I actually unpacked two boxes, which had been packed since all of that backpacking bollocks in early 2005. I filled these three shelves immediately, and there's another shelf full in the Unread Books pile, too.
  
  
  
  I have never actually had a proper bookcase before. This is why I am very excited.
• The anniversary of the day of my birth led us up Mount Tamborine, which was chocka-block with arty farty home-made crafty foody winey shops. I stuffed my face and drank wine, and it was terribly terribly fun. John gave me a book voucher! And boy, do I love books. Hey, did I mention my bookcase? So yeah, there was a book voucher, andalsodiamondearrings and BOY, do I love books. Then we got home and started discussing what we would do with the evening, before I almost spewed and then FELL ASLEEP FOR 14 HOURS. Uh huh. I know how to make birthdays FUN.
  
  
  
  
• The day after that fiasco, I was feeling fine and dandy and John and I visited Mumsy and had lunch at a little country pub, full of tourists with prestige cars whose ideal weekend involves driving a prestige car to a country pub. John met my mum, and my mum said, "He creates a pleasant atmosphere," which I think means she likes him. John told me I look like my mother, which is OLD NEWS. Everyone thinks I look like my mother. Even people who haven't met my mother.
• I dropped into a co-worker's place on the weekend to fix his computer, which actually involved copying three files into a directory (taking a total of four minutes - the majority of which was spent waiting for the computer to boot up), and he gave me a box of chocolates for it. And I am thinking HEY NOW, this is a lucrative fricking industry. Why do I not work in Computer Fixing? I could be stuffing my face with Cadbury Roses Day. And. Night.
• The weekend was Hugely, Massively busy. And I realised I'm pretty used to the weekends where I drink beer and live like a hermit and don't do much at all. But, it's ok, because I'm off work now and am having a mid-week weekend. Except I can't actually drink any beer because I'm ill and it would knock me out, and I keep having to blow my nose and sneeze and cough and OH WAIT, this is a right load of arse.
  
  (But still better than work.)
• Today I am going to read, eat, blog, and read. In that order.
  
  
• 
  
  This is a box of sweet biscuit things with soft, chewy, sweet stuff in the middle. John brought them from Kuala Lumpur, just so the following could take place:
  
  "Oh no, the kok-kok fell out!"
  
  "Mm, I fancy some kok-kok."
  
  "This kok-kok tastes great."
  

Small minds.

I want to sit down and write a proper post on here, about all of the birthday bollocks and the insane busy-ness (business?) and the evening of sleep and illness, but I'm completely distracted by catching up with everyone elses blogs right now, and also cake, and beer. And ironing. And the second half of Desperately Seeking Susan, which I've been meaning to watch for five days. Numerous things, really.

But I looked at my own blog and saw that I hadn't posted since Thursday and went Woah. I should post.

So. Um. Hello.

I have to go now.

(Yeah. It was worth it.)

I have a humungous 'hello, I've just hit puberty' zit on my face, which I suspect is something to do with John inflicting masses of British chocolate on me. Also, I won a State of Origin jersey. It is worth something like $150. I didn't get to pick a size, they just handed me a women's size 14. It is moroon. Moroon is the colour of the Queensland team, apparently.

If you would like to buy it, let me know. Because otherwise it hits e-bay. As soon as I can be arsed.

(Don't ask me why I would enter a competition for a State of Origin jersey when I barely know what a State of Origin is. It was through work, and the entries were free.)

I was given a pen! One of those fancy ones with the metal tip bit. You know what I mean. A posh pen. I am ridiculously excited.

I now have three days off work for The Birthday, during which time I will cease being 22, and commence being 23. From all reports, I hear that 23 is ok. We'll see how it goes. I am hoping my wisdom tooth will magically piss off. Perhaps it could fall out. That would be good.

This post should really have bullet points.

Now that John is here, I can no longer pee with the bathroom door open.

Ok. That's all.

Lessons learnt:

• Running through a room packed full of England supporters and yelling "I'M FROM PARAGUAY!" does not a good joke make.
• Drinking too much leads to waking up with a blister on your toe, a burnt nose, and a scratch on your eyelid.
• The Lad is still, well and truly, an absolute twat when he drinks.
• Typing out really long, rambling posts about how you got really pissed on the weekend and ended up stuck in a room packed with hundreds of men in England t-shirts, singing 'It's coming on, it's coming... FOOTBALL's coming on, it's coming on, it's coming on...' makes you sound like such a pisshead that you delete it and resort to bullet points.
• (You don't have to tell me that I still come across like a pisshead. I know, I know.)
• Wimbledon is truly one of the most appalling movies I have ever seen in my life. Kirsten Dunst is the spawn of Satan.
  

I've really got nothing, kids. I'm picking John up from the airport tomorrow morning. And by 'picking up' I mean I'm meeting him there, and then using public transport and taxis, because I am carless. Carless, not careless. I am quite careful. With everything in general.

Rightio. I'll be leaving now.

My phone makes a plopping noise. This means that I have received a message.

change your god damn address with the electrol [sic] commission. sick of getting shit from them for you.

You know, it's funny the way these things work. It was an amicable parting, and full of tears and heartache. He said he'd always love me and be there for me, no matter what. We'd discussed splitting up, and changed our minds a hundred times, but in the end we knew it was time.

Well, I knew it was time.

It happened gradually. He called me frequently, and told me he loved me. He called me less frequently, and told me he missed me. For the last few months of my overseas trip, he sent me the occasional e-mail, telling me how great he was going.

He picked me up from the airport, took me home and asked me if I was going to stay with him. Deliberately led me into the bedroom so I could see the pictures he had of me lined up on his desk. Wore his favourite shirt. Showed me his new couch. Told me how expensive it was.

When I told him I was staying elsewhere, I noticed the first signs. The Bitterness. The pained look on his face. The way he'd give me a friend's hug, hang on for a moment too long, and then roughly pull away.

Geez exBF, I'm sorry to be such an inconvenience.

The friendly phone calls I'd receive, in which he'd ask me how I was before quickly moving on to how great he was doing. His plans to move interstate, because he'd received not one, but two job offers, both paying over $100k. Namedropping his new girlfriend. She's moving in. Sleeping in our room. In our bed.

I didn't react. I said, 'Oh, that's great.' 'Oh, she always seemed nice.' 'Oh, I'm happy for you.' He started to hate me. Because I didn't want him. Because I wasn't jealous of him. Because I didn't regret leaving him. Because I didn't express any desire for him. Because he knew I'd been spending time with somebody else.

I hate the thought that the three years we spent together have ended this way. With catty text messages and gloating phone calls. I thought we'd done it differently to the rest of the world.

It hurts.

What hurts most of all is the burgeoning spite, and the sudden realisation that maybe I really did waste three whole years of my life.

Hello there. I work, and sleep, and have no life. I play Pink on the guitar. Yes, you can punch me for that. I am teaching my bird Spanish, and he whistles the phrase instead of saying it, and this is about to lead to some serious Bird Slaughter. Mock me, will you, Reg? I'll show you, bird punk.

I wear grandpa vests to work in grandpa colours. Old Man Cup of Tea Brown is a favourite, as is When I Was A Youngun In The War Green. The married man at work invited me to dinner with his wife, and I was very weirded out, and also feeling guilty for suspecting him of wanting to put his thingy in my thingy, since he wants me to meet his wife and chat and eat.

I've been watching DVD's. This week it's been Secretary, Full Metal Jacket, Mulholland Drive and Disco Pigs, and I enjoyed Secretary way too much, which I secretly suspect has something to do with never having sex ever never ever. Maybe it is my secret fantasy to have a good-looking boss who spanks me. Maybe. (YES)

I accidentally crushed a loaf of bread on the walk home. And I was carrying a hundred things, and so annoyed by it that I wanted to throw everything on the floor and stamp on it all, and seeing that crushed loaf of bread meant that I actually could've done it anyway, and my burning desire for stampage would have been sated.

Tonight's soup is some sort of Malaysian Laksa, because I came to the conclusion that I have actually tried Every. Single. Soup in the soupermarket (ha). I wish I was at Split Enz tonight. The World Cup tips are in and I'm actually excited about watching it, even if my knowledge of the game only extends as far as "hey, you, kicking bloke! Go, um, kick the ball in that goal thing! Go on! Yeah." I bought a really cheap ironing board which turned out to be made of wood, and it makes my clothes smell piney. And a bit sappy.

...

Every now and then, a blogger reaches a point where she/he realises she/he has no one topic to rant and rave about, and that she/he is neglecting her/his blog because of it, and suddenly spews forth masses of absolute shit to fill the non-blogging void.

Welcome to my moment.

Dear Brain,

I don't ask much of you. There's little use for you in the job I do, I only make you read books containing big words for a tiny part of the day, and I let you sit there, happy and numbed by beer, on a pretty regular basis. To my subconscious, or the bit that makes my dreams, all I ask is:

Please stop giving me sex dreams about my co-workers.

Sex dreams are fab. Really they are. But I don't want to walk up to people at work, all familiar and touchy-like, turning bright red and thinking, 'Gosh, how awkward - I wonder what made me shag him, knowing that I have to see him every day at work? This is really embarrassing. OH WAIT. DREAM.'

Brain, if you would like to give me sex dreams, then perhaps they could feature one (or all of) the following people:

• Colin Firth
• Keanu Reeves
• Natalie Portman

If you could grant me this, then I solemnly swear to keep you hangover-free for a period of two weeks. Starting yesterday. But no longer, because then it will be my birthday and I'm going to kill off a heap of your cells. Oh, shit, sorry. Forget I said that. I love you, brain.

Faithfully yours,

girl.blog.etc

Miscellany:

• It's dry RETCH. Pronounced RETCH. Is there an A in there? Or an extra E? It is not pronounced reetch. Unless you are a New Zealander. And I don't mean that to be offensive. It's just that New Zealand e's have more of an ee sound. Sometimes. Usually. Sorry. Bollocks.
• Hey! If you're going to push past the whole group of people at the pedestrian crossing so you can stand at the very front, DON'T WALK AT TORTOISE SPEED. Punk. You push to the front, and now I have to push past you, and step into oncoming traffic, when I'd actually like to push YOU into oncoming traffic. Punk, did I mention punk? Punk.
• It is Friday, and I am at home, and I about to start picking through the guitar tabs given to me by that guy at work, but I HAVE NO BEER. And it's Friday, and I'm playing guitar, and I like to add beer to this mix. So if you have beer, and you live in Brisbane, please share the beery love. I almost wish I had that bottle of dodgy spiced rum that John left here.
• John! He is coming to visit me for my birthday, he says. Which means, you know, I won't be acting like I'm a loony hag who talks to my bird all the time. Quite so much.
• You're dry reaching? What are you reaching for? And how are you doing it 'dry'? If I spray you with water will you wet reach for this mysterious object? GAH DON'T TALK TO ME.
• I bought lip balm. And, um, soup. I am going to have one of these for dinner tonight. Guess which, and win a prize!
  

Is anyone else sitting on their arse on a Friday night?