Let us sing and dance in an internet-based frenzy, for my internet peeps have Got Their Shit together and are allowing me to peruse blogs, lonelygirl15's videos, and porn (I think I've covered the whole of the internet there?) to my heart's content once more.

To celebrate, here is some marvellous (cough) bullet pointage of the highest order:

• The other night at dancing (yes, I am still going, and yes, I am yet to maim anyone!) I was doing a bit of a swirlytwirl when I gracefully stepped forward and gave my partner a nice gentle nudge in the groin. And you're thinking that this is my subtle way of saying that I completely crotch-crippled the poor guy, but no, I am serious, it was a stripper-lap-dance-dirty-tarty crotch stroke. Which, to be quite frank, is approximately one MILLION times worse than a proper knee to the groin. Well, from my point of view, anyway. At least if I'd kneed him he would've doubled over and I could've apologised profusely, but is it really appropriate for me to stop and say, "oh, I'm sorry for stroking your penis through your clothing with my thigh." Is it? Instead, I remained very calm, turned only slightly purple, and tactfully ignored it.
• My job is bullshit, and bollocks, and a royal load of arse.
• I have begun a half-arsed attempt at learning Spanish (or, as we bilingual-types call it, good ol' ess-pan-yoll) and though I can only say good morning, what's your name? and I'll have an orange juice, thanks, I'm doing a tremendous job when it comes to pronunciation. It might be something to do with coming from a part of the world where the place names sound like a chain-smoker having a five-minute coughing fit, but I am just fabulous at all of the dislodging phlegm words. I don't just want my sandwich with jamon, I want it with chhhggghhlllllhhhhhamon, gracias. I'm sorry, let me wipe you down.
• You may have noticed that, according to my sidebar, I have been reading Love in the time of Cholera for approximately twelve years now, with no end in sight. Truth be told, I did finish it quite a long time ago but I appear to be completely rubbish at taking photos of the new books and updating that Reading bit. This is completely boring for you and all I really wanted was an excuse to mention that the book mentioned above took up hours of my life that I will never get back, and seemed to consist of page upon page of boring drivel with a wee bit of paedophilia thrown in for good measure. Hey. Just my opinion. It's a modern classic, y'know. Searching google for 'Love in the Time of Cholera is crap' and 'I hate Love in the Time of Cholera' gives me no results, so I probably just don't get it.
• Reg was going for a bit of a joy flight around the room the other night, miraculously landed on the rim of John's pint glass, and promptly plopped a shit into his beer. No, he didn't continue to drink it, despite my cries of 'it's good for you!'
  

Welly well well then, I fired this post up with guns a-blazin' and full of enthusiasm, but I have just remembered that, unfortunately, diddly jack shit ever happens to me. Bah.

Yes. Well.

It seems that the Great Gods of Internet are out to spite me for spending such a long time sinning by ruthlessly thieving my nextdoor neighbour's wireless connection. That is, once I finally make an honest woman of myself by going to the Internet Shop and buying my own, the company goes bust and leaves me stranded and void of internet lovin'.

Which is shit, by the way.

So I'm back at the internet caf', just to let you know that I'm probably shafted for a while.

Yes. Very shit indeed.

John was cooking dinner. Some sort of curry. And I had arrived home from work and was quite busy with lounging about and sitting on my arse. Then I realised that helping with the cooking (or at least making a cheerful offer) was probably a good idea, since I was going to gorge myself on the result.

"Can I help with anything?"

See? Done. That's all it takes to seem like a fabulously helpful and giving girl. And then he replied.

"You can either chop the chicken, or the garlic."

Gah! Why don't you tell me to go and scoop poo off the floor with my bare hands, because that would be preferable. This is the offer I get? I was hoping for 'stir the contents of this pan' or 'stand in the kitchen and drink the rest of this cooking wine.'

It's not that I hate chopping chicken. There's just things I'd rather do, for example, hacking out my own liver with a rusty piece of barbed wire or, say, slowly decapitating myself with repeated papercuts. Hooray for manhandling OOZING SLIMY GIBLETS.

I ran for the garlic.

As I was finely chopping two cloves of garlic, it crossed my mind that I was due to attend a fancypantsdancing class that very evening, and that I might smell quite fragrant. I washed my hands very thoroughly.

We ate, it was fab, and we trotted along to the class.

And then we danced.

And then I started sweating.

And then I started positively PONGING.

All I could smell was garlic. I wiped my hands furiously on my jeans, to no avail. Boys walked up to me, did a couple of dance steps and then RAN AWAY with an 'oh, uh, that was great, thanks. I'm going to stand over here. Um.' The instructor showed me a couple of things, gave me a friendly tap on the shoulder, smiled, and swiftly walked to the other side of the room.

Who needs silver bullets and a stake through the heart to rid themselves of their pesky local vampires? Just grab the nearest GBE; your very own vampire pied piper*.

I sure know how to make an impression.

(*John has just made me aware that a vampire wouldn't actually follow a pied piper who reeked of garlic. They would run away. And this has made me laugh, so I have left it there. Perhaps if the pied piper chased the vampires, instead. An anti-pied piper. Instead of leading the vampires away, I could just move into the centre of town, and they'd all leave immediately. Um.)

So, the other day I worked out what the hell YouTube is. Well, I think I did. It's apparently a website that you can post videos on, and, um, I'm hoping I'm right, so that I don't come across like a complete thicko. I don't really know what the kids are getting up to these days.

I was then introduced to the concept of the 'vlog.' I don't know if they pronounce it vee-log, or whether it rhymes with clog, or whether it's a bloody typo. I have even jumped on the lonelygirl15 bandwagon, which, in case you don't know (and I'm sure you do, even if it was all new news for me), involves a girl's video diary recently being exposed as scripted and staged and stuff and oh I AM SO INTRIGUED.

I have even learnt about Emmalina, and in doing so I somehow saw pictures of her putting things in her private parts. Wa-hay!

But. To move right along.

It appears that this standard text blogging business is Old News and VLOGGING is the way to go. I should get started pronto. Ideas include:

• A vlog of me drinking beer and cramming my mouth full of chips.
• A vlog of me belching the Australian National Anthem.
• A vlog of me strumming my guitar and singing hippie songs, sounding not entirely unlike a cat being garrotted.
• A vlog of me punching and pinching John.
• A vlog of me saying, "Vlog, vlog, vlog. VLOGVLOGVLOOGGGG." Etc.
• A vlog of Reg after he mysteriously gets his own poo all over his own beak.
• A vlog of me rolling around on the floor, in fits of giggles, after discovering that there is a TV show called 'Simply Ming Cooking.'
• A vlog of a vlog of a vlog of a vlog OH!
  

Internet stardom, HERE I COME.

(I still don't know what a 'podcast' is, though.)

Things to do when John is away in New Zealand for a night:

• Watch made-for-TV movies and realise afterwards that you've just wasted numerous hours of your life.
• Blog, when you should actually be looking for jobs.
• Watch Monster's Ball and think 'woah, she really did deserve that Oscar.'
• Yes, I am aware that this constitutes a pretty sad Saturday night.
• Cough your guts up.
• Wonder why the hell you're STILL sick.
• Do your washing.
  

I am a boring git. How about:

• Have a MASSIVE orgy. With booze and whores and booze!
• Get drunk! Yeah!
• Do something wacky, like steal a car or flash your underpants at strangers!
• Watch a foreign movie... without the subtitles!
• Eat your soup straight out of the tin!
• Take your medication at the appropriate time and go to bed!
  

I am going to write a book called How To Spice Up Your Saturday Night and it will ROCK YOUR WORLD.

Presenting... The GBE Diet!

(Are you excited?)

In order for this to work, it's important that you follow all of the steps precisely. It is also beneficial to have some sort of horrendous virus slowly destroying your body from the inside out.

Over a five-and-a-half day period, only the following food items may be consumed:

One slice of meatlover's pizza.
One piece of cottage pie.
Three slices of bread.

That's in total, there. You might want to spread them out a bit.

Your drink choices are limited to:

Water.
Utterly vile herbal tea.

But hey, you can have as much as you like.

During this time, sleep a lot, cough a lot, and cry occasionally. And then, when you change from your fat pants to your jeans so you can go to the doctor, you TOO will discover that they are so loose that you could fit not one, but TWO cans of beer down them easily (Ooh, cold!) and that they are now so hideously ill-fitting that you probably have to go to the shop and spend $100+ on a new pair. Hurrah!

Oh, wait. This is SHIT.

I went to the shop.

This was a completely unplanned visit, as I had originally been planning on going to work. This change of events occurred upon waking, when it became evident that the only way I could possibly breathe was if somebody had a very long straw they could stick down my throat and then blow into quite generously.

So I called in sick, and then caught the bus to the shop.

That is, I almost missed the bus. I was there, at the bus stop, nice and early, and there were two different buses due. Three other women sat on the bench, clearly oblivious to my fatty-fat-throat suffering, seeing as they made me stand up and cough loudly. My bus came along, and everyone stood up. The middle woman noticed that it was my bus, rather than the other bus, and on behalf of everyone there decided to shake her head vigorously and WAVE THE BUS ON.

Thank you, thoughtless twatting cow. I HATE YOU. The bus driver saw the lady and sped up to continue past the stop, and it was only with my frantic waving and hobbling onto the road that he pulled over.

So, fast forward to the shop. I bought the following items:

• Vicks Throat Drops
• Honey and Lemon Herbal Tea for Soothing the Throat
• Chemist's Own Mighty Strong Pills, for which my ID was required, because obviously I want to grind them up and make Speed to sell to the children
• Herron Ibuprofen, which I am not planning on mixing with the other medication, but wanted to keep in my drawer for when the Speed runs out
• Nyal MediThroat Gargle
• Bread, mince, and bog roll, but these are irrelevant to the story
  

The throat drops are utterly useless to a world of pain such as mine. The honey and lemon tea, which smelt quite nice when it was in dry, bagged form on the shelf, is actually utterly MINGING but I am sipping it regardless, for the soothing, soothing heat. The Strong Pills are yet to kick in, but when they do I shall dance about in a pseudoephedrine-induced frenzy. The Ibuprofen is sitting in my drawer, making itself quite at home.

And the gargle. Oh, the arsing gargle. It came with a little measuring cup which I was to use to dilute the potent mixture. Do not use if hypersensitive to iodine, it said, when it actually should say THIS IS PURE IODINE, YUM YUM.

I squirted in my 1mL, added 20mL of water, and swirled it around.

Now I don't know about you, because maybe I have an abnormally small mouth, but 21mL was one hell of a gobful. I poured it in and let it sit while I composed myself. Becoming wary of my teeth turning a lovely shade of purply-brown I tilted my head back and began The Gargling. It frothed out of my mouth and a bit ran down my cheek. I took a short break to mop my face down and continued.

Gargle for thirty seconds, it said. I watched the clock. I got to twelve seconds before I stopped and began to gag. It was so fricking vile, and there was so much of it bubbling out of my mouth that I nearly vomited purplebrown, then and there. Maybe I have too much in my mouth, I thought, and before I knew it the whole lot had come out and sprayed all over the sink. Purplebrown sink. I rinsed my mouth, shoved about eight Vicks Throat Drops in to get rid of That Taste, and sat back down.

Stupid arsing sickness. Why didn't I take the taxi driver's advice and knock back a bottle of brandy?

Boy, have I had a shit few weeks health-wise. First the son of a bitch wisdom tooth forcing its way inside my flesh and causing not only a throat infection, but an ear infection. Yeah, thanks tooth, for not being able to fit in my God damn mouth like all my other teeth do. What are you there for? Why, God, why? Do you aid mastication? NO.

Secondly, a week ago, and I was up half the night regurgitating the contents of my stomach due to either some suspicious sushi or nasty nachos. Boy, that was pleasant. It had been a long time between non-alcohol-induced vomiting moments. And I'd rather like to avoid those from now on.

BUT NO! Why must I speak too soon? Allow me to introduce you to sickness number three, which kicked in on Saturday night and has been playing havoc with my poor body by inflicting racking coughs, pounding headaches and YES, some more midnight vomming.

I cannot help but think that my immune system must be completely shot to shit, and that it may be in part due to my extremely rubbish diet which currently consists of M&M's and Coke.

This will make it two weeks in a row that I have had to call in sick on a Monday, which looks Extremely Bloody Dodgy, but then again I do not care because we all know what I think of my work. The only downside being that I will not get paid, though, because if you do not have a doctor's certificate - even if a doctor's visit is completely unnecessary - then obviously you are a sickie-chucking LIAR who deserves to have their pay docked and be left scrounging for the next fortnight.

Jesus. And... breathe.

To top all of this off, every time I have a dance class I wake up with an enormous festering zit somewhere on my face, which, despite my 'gentle encouragement' manages to remain large and proud (and sometimes grows in size) by the time my lesson comes around, so that all the boys I have to dance with are probably completely repulsed and have to look at me through squinted eyes so that it doesn't appear that all they can see is my gargantuan welt.

Today's pus volcano is situated directly above my top lip. GET READY BOYS.

But gosh, this cup of tea is just lovely.

I have decided that it's not worth staying at my work until we get a car, just so I can get half-price insurance for it, because a saving of $250 (or so) cannot be compared to another month of wanting to stab myself in the ears. So I am officially On The Market and will start applying for jobs posthaste. Perhaps I could even make a couple of calls today with my nasal snot voice and continually interrupt the conversation with fits of coughing.

Yeah. I know how to impress.

(Hire me? Please?)

I clap my hands. Count 1.. 2.. 3.. 4. Move my feet in time.

"I don't get it," he says. "Where does Number Four come into it?"

"Well, there's four beats in a bar," I explain. "1.. 2.. 3.. 4."

"I don't understand. I don't know what a bar is."

"You don't need to know what a bar is. You just need to hear the beat. Can you hear the drummer? The drummer keeps the beat."

I play along with the drummer by slapping my knees.

"But what has this got to do with anything, or the fourth beat?"

"You have to hear the beat to know what time to move your feet. They move in time with the music."

He shakes his head and looks at me, resignedly.

I don't know how to teach somebody this. Do I click my fingers loudly in his ear? Buy him a drumkit? Smack his head into the table on counts 1 and 3?

Does anyone know?