Sunday, April 30, 2006

I am consumed with the need to blab shit. Don't feel obliged to comment.

And I'm hormonal. I just cried over fricking Tuck Everlasting.

Last night was fun. I told a man that he smelt nice and he looked uncomfortable and left. An electrician asked me if I believed in magic, and I was expecting some fancy pants tricks but instead he jabbered shit for ten minutes before asking me for my phone number. RIPPED OFF.

But it was quite nice, actually. Normally I just get asked out to the car park. With the promise 'it'll only take half an hour.'

(Admittedly, that was a specific occasion rather than a regular occurrence, but I don't let a suitable moment pass without bringing it up.)

ExBF called me earlier. In his normal dramatic fashion, he declared "A man from the government came around here looking for you" which actually meant "A man was walking around taking tally of who lived where, to make sure the electoral enrolment records were correct, and he just so happened to have you still on his list for this address."

I asked him how he was and he replied, "oh, good. My new girlfriend is moving up from Melbourne in July." (because he never moved to Melbourne - it was a fib) "Actually, you know her - it's [that girl he used to work with who went everywhere with her brother and who I suspected was a lesbian but who did seem very nice]."

How strange. I knew he would be with somebody else, eventually, but it's odd to think of her living in my old house and sleeping in my old bed.

Actually, I probably shouldn't think about that sort of thing at all.

Gah.
Tis Sunday, and I'm hungover.


  • Napoleon Dynamite is actually pretty good looking when he isn't pulling that face and going "GOD, you're such a fricking IDIOT."
  • During our frolicking and rollicking night at the pub, a man cracked onto me who was British, and the spitting image of this guy:



    Which, to be honest, is not a good thing.
  • Reg decided to play "hey, let's pretend I'm a normal bird" and flew frantically around in circles and then into the ceiling fan this morning, and it made a clump noise and I thought he was dead, but he was fine. He's just a little shaken. Shaken, not stirred.
  • I don't actually have anything to say - I just wanted to post a picture of Napoleon. "Can you bring me my chapstick? But my lips hurt REAL BAD."
If anyone knows a way for me to join Blockbuster and get some DVDs without actually having to move, please fill me in.

Saturday, April 29, 2006

I went into the city today and spent money unnecessarily, and then I walked out into the mall to hear a band playing. Which isn't unusual - there's usually somebody playing for free on the weekend. I look at the band, and lo and behold, it's good ol' Russell Crowe.

Now let me point out that Russell Crowe is actually the most famous person I have ever seen playing in the mall, because Alex Lloyd isn't as famous, and who the hell are Kisschasy and Mercury Four anyway? Have they been in movies? No.

And I laugh, because it's Russell Crowe in town, but not to be famous and act like a movie star - to promote his band. Ha.

The following thoughts ran through my mind:
  • You've had sex with Meg Ryan.
  • You're a bogan.
  • Nice suit, though.
  • You're an ok singer, and if you weren't a famous movie star you could probably be earning a few squid doing Pearl Jam covers down your Local.
  • Those faux-goths in the corner are booing you.
  • Now you're mumbling incoherently. What are you saying?
Then I felt ashamed of myself for standing and watching Russell Crowe's band, and left as the crowd roared in appreciation. Of his band, that is. Not of me leaving.

I sent an sms to my best mate telling her I'd just seen Russell Crowe's band, and she replied with a message containing the sentence "Isn't his band called Four Cocks and a Camel, or some shit?" and I laughed out loud on the bus.

(I have decreed that today is Couch Appreciation Day, for after a week and a half of sitting on the floor, I have decided that my new couch is in fact my most prized possession and worthy of marriage. Have you hugged your couch lately?)

Friday, April 28, 2006

And now a post on everyone's favourite topic: boobs.

I have found myself subjected to a number of strange comments lately. In relation to my boobs. I would firstly like to make something clear, and if you are not at all interested in boobs, I suggest you stop reading: I have normal boobs. When I go to a bra sale, there's none left in my size, because my boobs are the most commonly sized boobs in all the land. Would you like me to say the word 'boobs' some more? Boobs.

So, right, we've established there's nothing special going on the chest region. Let us take Knobhead Number One, who I encountered on the streets of Brisbane one sunny day.

"Nice tits."

Oh, I see I distracted you from picking your scabs, hobo. Let me come live with you in your cardboard box.

Knobhead Number Two was on St. Patrick's Day and can be read about here. He was drunk and I was in a puddle of my friend's spew. I almost gave birth to 10000 of his children then and there.

And Knobhead Number Three, my friends, was this morning.

"Look at the tits on that."

'That' being me, of course. My close friends refer to me as 'that' in my spare time.

Gosh, doesn't everyone love the word 'tits'. I sure do. Why thank you, Degenerate Bread Deliverer. I would marry you immediately, but I fear I am not your sister and therefore do not qualify for the position.

I'm five minutes away from chucking a Boys Don't Cry. Somebody fill me in on the logic here. Unless you'd rather not discuss boobs. Which is ok. I'll just post about something else. Vaginas or periods or something.

I'll leave now. If you need me, I'll be off binding my torso.

Thursday, April 27, 2006

Out of all of the people who live in the TV, these are the ones I hate the most:
  • Dr. Cameron from House. Because she looks more and more like Skeletor every time I see her.



  • Sandra Sully. Because there's no way that that's her normal speaking voice. That's her News Bitch voice. And I hate it.
  • Uh oh. This was a stupid post choice, because I very nearly never watch TV.
  • Um, that guy, from that show. The one that's on the TV sometimes. Um. Oh, wait, I got one!
  • Oh, bollocks. Lost it.
  • Um. All the twatty couples from The Amazing Race.
I give up. Who am I missing?

Tuesday, April 25, 2006

Last night, I put a curtain up on a very high curtain rod, using only a broken shower rail and two pen lids. If I don't have a Sting mullet and the name Richard Dean Anderson, then I don't know who does.

The pros to this fantastic new curtain are these:
  • Reg doesn't chirp loudly at 5:30 in the morning as if to say "hey, it's light now. HEY IT'S LIGHT NOW, BITCH! WAKE UP!" Which means I now say "good morning, Reg!" quite happily, instead of "you little bastard, I'm going to rip out your feathers."
  • I can get up in the middle of the night (or the middle of the day, for that matter), wearing fat pants and a jumper that comes down to my knees, and know that my neighbours can't peer at me and make note of how dreadfully unfashionable I am.
The cons are, oh wait, NONE.

I love you, curtain.

Today, I've done a combination of Diddly Squat and Jack Shit. I had a moment of panic earlier when two F-111's flew directly over me, making me think 'God, it's not nice to start WWIII on ANZAC Day, is it?' But then I came to my senses, and ran outside to have a look, but then remembered I was wearing fat pants and a long mum jumper and ran back inside.

I watched Amelie, and realised that the reason I like it so much is because I think that I actually am Amelie, except I'm rather plain and Australian instead of gorgeous and French, and she knows Nino Quincampoix and I don't.

(This one time, in a restaurant, I ordered a creme brulee and thought 'oh, I'll chuck an Amelie and crack the top with the back of a spoon'. Except for some reason, the top was about a centimetre thick and it would've taken a jackhammer to crack that bastard, so I smacked it with my spoon until I was blue in the face, before resorting to a very large knife.)

Who wants to come over and sit on the floor with me? We can play Scrabble.

Sunday, April 23, 2006

My Sunday in pictures.

(This is all following the very long hot walk in the sun used to explore the area which brought about the following conclusions: Firstly, everyone, and I mean everyone, goes to their local cafe on Sunday morning. To drink coffee. Oh, sorry, not coffee - double mocha choca docka cino skinny frothy latte whatever. And secondly, if you go to a certain cafe in the area, you can get away with wearing a beret and looking like a twat.)



My dinner.



My entertainment.



My ironing board.



My seat.



My table.



My "thinking spot". (Can you spot the layer of birdseed?)

I'm not used to having this much time on my hands. Is it obvious?

All is well, because yesterday I bought a loungecoffeetablesaucepansknivesfridgewashingmachine and other things, which will make my life a million times better. As soon as they're delivered next week. Until then, I'll continue lounging around on my bed and sitting like a hunchback on the floor, groaning with old woman back pain every time I have to get up.

Today's puzzle is:



What The Hell are these supposed to be?

(I genuinely have no fricking idea. I've been hanging a rubbish bag off them.)

Friday, April 21, 2006

Random bollocks.
  • Somebody is playing that Starsailor "four to the floor I was sure" song.
  • I can smell onions.
  • I called Virgin to let them know my change of address, and finished the conversation with "thanks for calling." And then the Virgin lady laughed at me. Lots.
  • Reg has managed to cover 25% of the floor with seed. Which isn't that hard, given the size of the floor.
  • Ooh, now I smell oranges. Seriously, oranges and onions? What ARE you thinking, neighbours?
  • A mental old lady with two and a half teeth asked me for money, and after I'd said no (I'm a harsh bitch) and walked past her, she turned on her heel and started STALKING ME. I picked up my pace and ran across the road, thinking 'I can so take her on. She's old and brittle.' Then the crazy old hag went elsewhere.
  • I can't find my wheelie bin. I went outside to the Wheelie Bin Bit, and there's one for every unit but mine. I HAVE BEEN EXCLUDED. Well fine, you shits, stick my rubbish square up your arses.
  • I told my mother the suburb I had moved to and she said "oh, I used to live there 40 years ago. At blahblah st." And then I said "mum, I'm moving to blahblah st" and then I realised that I am actually LIVING MY MOTHER'S LIFE, forty years after she lived it. Better get onto that five kids thing, quick smart.
Soup of the evening: bacon, steak and potato. Mm, soup diet.

Thursday, April 20, 2006

Greetings from the realm of stolen internet. I'm currently sitting on the floor.

To tell you about my day, here is the most frustrating situation ever:

I had all these bits, see, and bits + bits + mattress on top = lovely, lovely bed. So my objective is, of course, to put the bits together. I did it once before. Rather than following the instructions to the T, I decided to wing it, because last time it took me over Three. Hours. and not a happy camper was I.

I was quite a sweaty camper by the end of it, in fact.

So I started pulling bits here and there and shoving bolts through holes, and it all seemed to be going well. Very well, in fact. I put it all together, tightened everything, and surveyed my very impressive effort.

Then I turned to walk out of the room, a smug grin on my face, and looked down to see two bolts sitting on the ground. I picked them up and looked at them. Two bolts, with a bolt bit and a nut bit to each, that should most definitely be in my bed frame somewhere.

I looked at the bed. Very thoroughly. THERE WERE NO SPARE HOLES. And there were definitely no spare bits leftover the last time I put the bastard together. Where are you, mysterious bolt holes? Gah. GAH!

I have a new mission in life, and this mission is to locate the stupid bastardly mysterious shitty arse bollocks bolt holes. If it's the last thing I do.

Monday, April 17, 2006

Tomorrow is the day of the big move. And seeing as I've been unable to get in contact with Energex to set up my power (is it even possible? All I fricking want is a "Press 1 to speak to a customer service representative." Is that too much to ask?), and haven't been bothered setting up my own internet connection (though if truth be told, I'm sort of secretly hoping I'll find a lovely wireless access point to scab some free bandwidth) or phone line or ANYTHING, there's a chance I'll be sitting in a candlelit room, on a milk crate, eating cold soup.

And even if there's power, the soup will be cold because I haven't bought any cooking implements. Though I did buy some plates and bowls today, which I am quite proud of. Not proud of the plates and bowls, but proud of buying them. The plates and bowls are pretty plain, to be honest.

Also, I don't know whether I need to set up gas, either, because I don't bother looking in to important things like that. I am a twat.

So, the point is, it may take a few days to get stuff sorted.

Or, I may be able to get it all done immediately, in which case forget I said anything at all.

Over and out.
[Apologies in advance to any readers I will completely alienate with this post, which is the majority, because you won't have ANY idea what I'm talking about. But hey, it's my last day off, and I haven't left the house in four days, and my diet has consisted of 55% chocolate and 45% reality TV, and I'm going a bit mental. So forgive me. Please.]

Two or three years ago, exBF introduced me to Dragonball Z. I had a "What is this load of arse?" response, but suddenly discovered that I was sucked in quicker than the mammoth shot of vodka I did last night (man, that shit is NASTY). Z (and subsequently, GT, and prior to Z, just plain Dragonball) is an anime about this warrior dude named Goku (and his various offspring) who fights bad guys who destroy planets and shit, and he's married to this chick named Chi-Chi. Die-hard fans are probably plotting my death right now. A single storyline takes longer than The Bold and the Beautiful, but man, it's crazy addictive.

Yesterday I discovered that there is a Supanova convention on next week which has a number of guest stars, including the VOICE of Goku. And I am considering going and waiting in the massive autograph-signing queue with the many sprogs, just so I can say a few things.

1. Do you secretly refer to Vegeta as 'Vagina'?

2. Do you secretely refer to Babidi as 'Scrote-head'?



3. Am I the only one who does things like that?

4. I HATE CHI-CHI. Do you hate Chi-Chi? She's always like "OH MY GOD GOKU WHAT ARE YOU DOING I HAVE AN ANNOYING VOICE ARGHHHHHHHHHH!!"

5. I've dressed as Xena so that nobody I know will recognise me.

6. Do you ever threaten people you don't like with Spirit Bombs? Because I reckon I would. If I were you.

7. Is that your bodyguard? Why is he coming for me? GOKU! YOU'RE A TRAITOR TO THE SAIYANS!

Holy shit. I am such a teenage boy.

Sunday, April 16, 2006

Must post must post must post. Most pust.

The long weekend so far:
  • Sleeping
  • Gorging
  • Watching TV
  • Surfing net
  • Sitting
  • Lazing
  • Arsing about
  • Gahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
Test message received:

"hey would u like to come out 4 dinner and drinks tonight?"

My reply?

"I'm dressed like a bum and watching a marathon of America's Next Top Model at the moment. So, sorry. No."

Then I sent it and thought 'holy shit, did I really just do that?' I neglected to mention in the message that I was also cramming my gob full of Bounty eggs, which are just fantastic. Yum good eat coconut chocolate mouth cram yes.

Are you making better use of your time?

Friday, April 14, 2006

Coupla things.

I am dreaming all the time. Boy dreams. Normally featuring people from work, which is Very Uncomfortable. But they're not about shagging this time, despite the fact that I am completely shagless. They're romantic. Dreams about people declaring their love for me, and holding me tightly, and whispering sweet nothings. Utter bollocks.

I miss John, and all the things that go with having a, you know, boyfriend. I guess? I don't know - how does this shit work? It's not me. I'm that girl who says they love sleeping alone because they get to stretch out diagonally across their queen-sized bed. The fiercely independent one who has a 'you can be my boyfriend, but I don't really care either way' attitude. The one who tells blokes at the pub to piss off and puts salt in their beer.

I don't know what it is that I'm missing, exactly.

Sigh.

I refuse to see Lassie, because it's a million times sadder when bad things happen to dogs in movies than when they happen to humans. Ever noticed that? War movies, people's guts spraying everywhere, mass carnage: "oh, hey, that's gory." Little puppy gets kicked: "[GASP] oh my God I have to cover my eyes. Poor puppy! Can you believe they would show something that GRAPHIC?"

Maybe I'm just talking out of my arse.

I'm hungover.

Wednesday, April 12, 2006



I went to a real, live concert, with real, live musicians, and real, live drunken people stealing bottles of vodka and falling over the staircase with the fake stair.*

I was a little out of place, because my shirt was green and therefore too bright for most of the concert-goers, and it also didn't say KISS or Iron Maiden or The Darkness on it so I didn't fit in at all. But hey, welcome to my life.

I'm no reviewer, but I will just say that there was some kickarse performing, and crazy guitar riffs, and nutty on-stage antics, and a cover of AC/DC's 'Highway to Hell', and there was a guy sitting next to me who'd taken a Happy Pill and perspired more than I thought humanly possible, and it was about three hundred degrees in there, and I wished I'd worn my glasses.

And then, there would've been six hours sleep but I couldn't sleep properly so I only had four or so and it was followed by a day of work and SHIT, I need to go to bed.

*It gave the illusion of a stair, because it was the same colour as the stairs, but it was only about an inch high and everyone kept tripping over it. HOURS of entertainment.

Monday, April 10, 2006

Also.

A girl at work was reading from a training manual, and kept pronouncing 'archives' as 'ar-cheeves'. Like 'achieves'.

I am dismayed.
Wholly uneventful and boring. This is my temporary blog title until I become a wanton sex kitten lust-driven stiletto-wearing sultry whore, which is what will supposedly happen once I move into my trendy, cough, apartment. It's got to be true - the TV told me so. And so did those books with the bright covers and swirly writing and pictures of wine glasses and high-heeled shoes.

I'm shitting you. I don't read that bollocks*.

*Statement is void if I am hormonal.

Ah, bullet points. The refuge of the blogger with jack shit to tell ye.
  • I finished my army book, and am moving on to To Kill A Mockingbird. Project Review Card (surely someone can come up with a better name than that) is still underway, but temporarily on hold while my lunchtimes are occupied with stupid moving house shit.
  • I am in training at the moment, and apparently the definition of 'training' has been changed to '7.25 hours of your day where you arse about and talk about Reality TV and search for Australian celebrities in the insurance database.' But, I am not dealing with bastards, and that is ok. And phwoar, Australian Idol contestants galore!
  • My supervisor offered me the opportunity to work two public holidays, and despite spending two-thirds of my saved money on bond/rent in advance, I turned her down. Because I am the laziest shit in all the land.
  • Don't try and tell me that She's The Man is a good movie. Just don't.
  • I love curry.
  • There is a pub very close to my new place and I have noted that they have not one, but TWO quiz nights per week! And I have never ever tried a pub quiz before, except for ones that I did overseas which were absolute shit because they were full of weird foreign questions, and I don't watch Eastenders. And also because the consumption of alcohol seriously inhibits my ability to think clearly and speak words of more than one syllable. Let us take the pub quizzing world by storm with our knowledge of useless shit! Who's with me?
  • You know what? I have used the word shit a LOT in this post. Shit.
  • And hey, I may love curry, but hot curry is bad. It makes my face red and my nose run, and that ain't a good look. And I don't like food that causes physical discomfort. Screw you, vindaloo.
I swear I'll quit bullet pointing. Um. Soon.

Saturday, April 08, 2006

I have been approved for my extremely trendy inner-city apartment, because the real estate could obviously see I had Trendy Bitch potential written all over my face. Or they didn't receive any better offers. Either way, I am moving on the Tuesday after Easter, and some changes are now in order. To fit in, I figure I will need to:
  • Buy some manolo blahniks. Are you impressed that I know how to spell that? That's because I am trendy, and also because I searched the internet. Yes. I hear they are some type of shoe.
  • Buy lots of puffy skirts. Because puffy skirts are fashionable, I think. Cyndi Lauper wears puffy skirts, and she is very trendy. Am I out of touch?
  • Drink champagne, and not pints of beer. Even though I much prefer pints of beer. Because it's not trendyinnercityish to drink pints. That'll be easy. No problem. Yep. Easy.
  • Refer to my home only as an apartment, and never as a unit, and NEVERorI'llhavetoslitmywrists as a, COUGH, flat. Pfft, a flat. As if. Ahem.
  • Buy a small dog. And put it in my handbag. And hope that it doesn't, you know, suffocate. And on that note, I should probably get a handbag. My hippie rainbow bag will NOT bode well with the metro's. Metroes? Oh, I must learn how to spell that if I want to be accepted.
  • Only associate with men who wear pink shirts and, you know, lime-green pants, and have coiffeured hair, and, um, God, I don't know. This explains it:



    (Just quietly, a few soccer balls to the face would fix that boy right up.)
  • Visit the hairdresser to fix my shite hair, and re-trendify it. And not pay any less than $220 for the privilege. Blonde highlights galore, even though my hair is so dark they will grow out in a day and I'll look skanky.
  • Maybe I can still have a pint of beer occasionally. Just to, you know, remember what it was like. That would be ok, right?
  • And I could sometimes dress like a bum. Within the confines of my own home. And when I'm visiting the shop on the corner. You know. Sometimes.
I'll start implementing these changes ASAP. Cough. Ahem.

Reg has a cold (or a feather up his nose, or something) and keeps sneezing bird snot all over me.

Thursday, April 06, 2006

My advice to you is to NEVER have a weird, vivid, implied-sex dream about that lovely bloke you work with, in which he takes you to a labyrinth/park thing made of hedges and tells you that he is quite keen on cheating on his wife and starting an affair with you, because then when you go to work the next day everything feels VERY WEIRD.

Stupid bloody dreams.

Tuesday, April 04, 2006

Right.
  • I chucked a sickie to see John off at the airport (which involved all of this, but this time it was worse), and the only downside of not working is that it is suddenly three MILLION degrees, and I am too scared to let my back touch this leather couch, because it will then be impossible to remove me without the aid of a very large crowbar.
  • My fringe has backfired and now that it's too long to wear straight down, I find myself casually brushing it to the side, which (in a perfect world) should look like this:



    But actually looks like this:



  • I've been to a couple of house inspections, and lodged an application, which could see me moving over Easter weekend. Which would be fine, except I was planning on drinking lots of beer, surfing the net and lying in a drunken stupor over Easter. Screw you, new house, for potentially ruining my plans. (But, incidentally, it's in the best location ever and it's very metropolitan-apartment-Icanwalktothepub-ish and would make me feel like I'm in one of those TV shows where they live in inner-city apartments and lead Very Exciting lives. Because, like, the exciting life must come naturally with the apartment. Right?)
  • Oh, actually, there is (supposedly) another downside to not being at work today, because today was the first day of some highly important training, apparently. Oh well. See me? This is me not giving a rat's.
  • To the lady or gent who wanted to find 'pashing virgins', my apologies.
  • To the lady or gent who searched for 'hello i am drunk', WELCOME FRIEND.
And with that, I am going to go and sweat elsewhere.

Sunday, April 02, 2006

I was going to post about the pub tonight, and how insanely drunk people were (so much more drunk than usual) and how people were shagging in the toilets and faux-bonking on the floor and falling over everything, but then I realised that I'm pissed, but not pissed enough to do any of the aforementioned stuff, and still sober enough to use the word 'aforementioned', but probably not sober enough to spell it correctly, and definitely too drunk to remember whether it's actually a word.

So I'll tell you about it another time. Possibly tomorrow, when I'm insanely hungover.

Incidentally, I smell like I've been rolling in cigarette ash and stale beer.

Hey! So.

But I will just mention that a bloke picked up a girl, ran over to our table and tried to lob her on us, before yelling I'M JOKING and falling over, before the girl fell on my best mate's boyfriend's lap and my best friend said GET OFF HIS F**KING LAP OR I WILL SLAP YOU DOWN. And if I'd told you this story in context when I was sober it would've been much better but hey. Oh. So. Well.

Yeah.