2006 is 'even', so I don't know why I've got my hopes up

Hurrah for the ass end of 2005! Hurrah for reflection of crap year by some beautiful water! Hurrah for lazy posting! Suck it up, bitches.

19 Things about me (because even numbers are bad luck):

1. I am absolutely terrified of Rabbits & people that dress up in the life size costumes at shopping centres, etc. I'd never be able to visit Movie World / Disneyland.

2. I believe that a well fitted bra is the most important part of a girl's outfit.

3. I'm currently feeling lazy because I haven't done any serious exercise since last week.

4. I am a secret aviation enthusiast, but I only like the big jumbo jets. You might often find me out the back of the airport, getting all jizzed up when the big internationals take off over my head. If a boy took me on a date to have dinner at the airport, then some plane watching, I'd be his forevs.

5. My job doesn't challenge me anymore and I know that I can do a lot better. However I seem stuck in my comfort zone. I aim for 2006 to break out and get that job that I deserve.

6. I hate my nipples.

7. My heart has been broken twice, all in the same year (2005). Once was the Ex-Fucker, where he tricked me into sleeping with him, by telling me that he wanted to get back together. The other was The Athlete - subject of my long but unattainable crush - who finally confessed his feelings, but out of deference to the Ex-Fucker, proceeded to 'take it all back'. No wonder why I'm thinking of locking up my heart in 2006.

8. I'm scared my brother might move to Japan permanently.

9. I'm fastidious about cleaning my sink. I heart Ajax.

10. I never really fitted in at high school. I wasn't tight with any one particular group - even though I had many friends from all different groups, I was sorta transient. I also prefered hanging out with the guys, rather than the girls. Less bitchiness.

11. I could have gone on with my netball career, 'cept I was lazy and more focused elsewhere. Then I nearly lost my leg from having a corked calf 'deliberately' inflicted to try and 'quieten' me during a match, and have vowed that if I ever find that bitch from NSW again, she's fucked.

12. I am a bag and shoe aficionado. Although, due to above injury, my wearing of high heels these days is few and far between.

13. I often will just open my cutlery drawer and look inside. It makes my heart sing to see the knives and forks and spoons all in their little compartments, with a sprinkling of pink cheap handled cutlery from Safeway for some cheer. Observe:


14. My other secret passion is history - particularly European aristocratic history. I am obsessed with their secret societies and protocols and will devour any book about the subject.

15. I have really sensitive skin, and don't wear a lot of make-up because of it. Hence, I perpetuate the tomboy myth surrounding me even further.

16. Balloons make me so happy; they are an instant cheer up for me. Not with things on them - just plain, colourful and helium-ised. I often think about buying a whole bunch and just distributing them throughout my apartment, but can't justify the cost. Again, if a boy was to give me a bunch of pink balloons, I'd be his forevs.

17. I lost a lot of 'friends' because I stood up for myself two years ago. As a result, I've spent a bit of time being lonely, but I'd rather be lonely than have friends that want to cut you up behind your back.

18. I haven't eaten microwave popcorn since I changed my diet for good, two months ago. I will eat it again one day, just when I feel a bit more in control.

19. I'm meant to be somewhere in five minutes, and I haven't even had my shower yet. Fuck. Luckily I'm finished!!


Anyway, this may or may not be my last post for 2005. Happy 2006 to everyone that read my crap this year & be good on NYE. Or if you can't be good, be good at whatever you're doing. And watch the news for drunk girls pashing policemen.

Martie xx

Are you a Random Policeman I can kiss?

Hope everyone had a terrifically wonderful Christmas and fucking massive hangovers on Boxing Day. Hope your Christmases weren't filled with dressing gowns masquerading as a present from your supposed boyfriend on your first christmas together. Like, the fuck?

Decided to forget all about the dressing gown incident, and spend a few days down the coast, relaxing. So, now, I'm back home to do some washing, then I'm spending another fews days down the other coast for some more,um, relaxing. Not a dressing gown or Jungle Boy in sight. Fuck Yeah!

Don't have a fucking clue what I'm doing for NYE - am I too old to think that going out and getting smashed and kissing randoms is fun (although a bit of policeman pashing is always HOTT)? I can only remember one NYE where I actually enjoyed myself immensely the whole night - every other time I have felt let down that the 'Biggest Party Night of the Year' has failed to deliver.

I know some people threaten to 'stay home' & to boycott NYE, but really it's an empty threat. These are the types who have got about a million things to do, but declare their false intentions in the hope of getting sympathy, and coos of 'but you've got a million things to do' from their minons friends. Ego boosting at it's finest, ladies and gentlemen.

I am not afraid to say that I WANT to do something on NYE, the question is, what? I asked Jungle Boy today if we were doing anything: standard answer "I don't know. What do you want to do?" Should have known, but somewhere in my heart I was hoping for something more like this: "Let's go out and have dinner somewhere; get happily pissy together; run around like little kids banging on saucepans in the countdown to 2006 then make use of all night trains and go home and bonk like crazy to see the new year in".

Maybe my expectations are too high?

Perhaps I am destined stay at home wearing dressing gown and drinking Baileys after all? Insert >but you've always got hanging around dodgy pubs pashing randoms to fall back on< comment here, thanks.

Yippee. Telstra just sent me an MMS wishing me a happy new year. Cunts. Despite the fact that their message really is for subliminal for "happy spending up big on your mobile/home bill and making us rich in 2006", it's arrived four days early. Fucking Telstra. They can never get anything right.

You're off the list!!!!

I'm not one to put a dampner on the Great Christmas Extravaganza (snaps to my HOTT pink & silver Chrismas tree), but really, who is with me when I say I hate Christmas Cards?!

Before you start with the Ice-Queen taunts and pronouncing me as a Scrooge on the spirit of Christmas (did I mention I put some purple & silver tinsel around my dogs' necks so they could be Pretty Christmas Puppies?), I don't hate all cards. I cherish the ones sent by my close friends and even the one that my Dad, bless his little unable-to-spell-heart, sent me in the mail, even though he sees me practically every day!

I just don't like the idea of them.

I hate the idea of having to sort through last year's; then making a list; then culling some people off the list; then adding new people on; then realising three days before Christmas that you've forgotten to send another 30 out anyway.

It's the most political, non-political thing that I'm aware of.

Christmas card lists are not just a turn of phrase; they are a living, breathing nightmare that can make or break a friendship. And really, probably more than half the people on the list are people that you'd never speak to except in a blue moon anyway.

Then there are the pretentious wankers that send out increasingly elaborate cards each year; to people they don't particularly like much, but with the aim of keeping up appearances and networking behind the guise of Christmas cheer. Bah!

Don't be playing fake niceties with me, just because it's Christmas. You can't make yourself feel better by hiding behind little baby Jesus' birthday. Next time you want to talk about me behind my back, maybe I will just remind you that it's little baby Jesus' 2 & 1/2 month birthday anniversary - then show me your cheer.

Anyway, to prove I'm not a complete bitch, here is my personalised Christmas Card to all of my Hottness readers, a la The Royal Family:





Ho Ho Fucking Ho.

I, err....Ummmmm

Note time and date of post??? That's right. It's nearly 11pm on a Saturday night, and I'm fucking here on the computer. Fuck.

I've hauled my own ass off to the naughty step; I was a bad bad little girl at yesterday's Christmas party, and I'm spending the night tonight drying out and contemplating the consequences of my actions.

Martie's recipe for disaster:


+

+

which was actually much more like this:


Blend well, then add the following:


+

+ some more

with a very liberal dose of Essence of Ex-Fucker and a shot of Sentimentality-magnified-being-the-time-of-year-that-it-is and you will be well on your way to:


+ some more


Serve over ice, in a tall glass and proceed to block out memory of taxi ride home with (much) older industry colleague. Fucking wrongtown.

Is Monday a public holiday or something????

Amazing Homes I

If you like, I can be Deborah Hutton for a while, and take you on a tour of some of Australia's most fascinating homes.

Or not. I can just be Martie, and give to you what I promised - a guided tour of my very own palace.

Tonight, we're going to start with the courtyard:


Well, there's not a lot to see really, is there kids? Just some pavers, a few weeds, my magnificent gardenia bush that is threatening to bloom any minute now. And oh, what's that in the corner? IT'S A FUCKING SEAL CARVED OUT OF WOOD.

Let's take some time to think about this for a while - I have questions and I need answers.

Firstly, who carves a seal from wood? What fool with enough time on his hands, decides one day that he is going to carve a seal from wood, and flog it as a garden ornament? Goodness knows what else he's been'a carvin'. I might just put in an order for a Walrus - with extra long tusks.

Secondly, who THE FUCK buys ones of these crazy wooden seals? A crazy landlord that likes yellow benchtops, that's who! My seal friend is sitting there like he's like the overlord and protector of, well, my washing or something. Maybe crazy landlord has fond memories of his youth spent at Phillip Island, checking out all the crazy antics those seals get up to. So he decides to buy aforementioned seal, and place it in his courtyard as a tribute to the fun times? The mind boggles.

Anyhoo, as now I'm obviously going to have to live with the bugger, I have a challenge for you, wonderful readers. I'm going to pull a Melbourne Zoo on your asses, and you GET TO NAME THE SEAL!!!1! Interactive blogging is the future, mang. Unfortunately, I don't have access to a wonderful newspaper like the Herald-Sun to advertise my quest to name the little baby-waby sealy-wealy, so I'm going to have to rely on your word of mouth to get Melbourne Australia The World involved to come up with the perfect name

Here's a close up of Sealbuddy to help with your entry:

("Look! No acne scars")

No complaints about the grainy quality of picture either. I had to run out in my undies while it was raining to get that shot for you.

Start suggesting now. Competition fun blogging activity begins...now!

You should have just been home in bed

Look here. If you are teenage lesbians, travelling home on the Frankston-line train at 12:30am Sunday morning, here are a few tips;

- If you insist on canoodling for the benefit of the country bumpkins in the next carriage, please try to refrain from putting your hands down each other's pants and rubbing your groins. Some people just want to get home, not watch a full blown peep show.

- Ok, so I know that the country bumpkins were quite rude to stare; given that they had probably never seen lesbians before, let alone teenage ones, you can hardly blame them. However, you were probably within your rights to be pissed off that they kept staring at you when you were originally minding your own business. And when they indicated their disapproval, you were probably well within your rights to wave at them, and exclaim "And they vote!!"

- However, given that you were all 'equal rights for teenage lesbians', I don't think the following was appropriate:

1. When the two Japanese guys got off the train, you obnoxiously waved and spoke in made up Japanese to them. They couldn't have cared less about your PDA. Teenage lesbians are so 1999 to them. So, apart from being quite rude, and somewhat racist, you then had the temerity to turn around to their friends, who were staring incredulously at you, and start talking your ridiculous langauge to them.

2. When the obviously homeless guy boarded the train with all of worldly possesions in a basket on the back of his bicycle, this was not a cue for you to start sniggering and exclaiming loudly that smelly people should not be allowed to board public transport. Imagine the uproar should people start calling for the ban on teenage lesbians on PT. I'm sure you'd put those smart mouths to use should that ever happen.


Now,don't get me wrong; I'm a big fan of lesbians. I'm a big fan of teenage ones. I'd sign a petition to let you ride on trains anyday. However, I think you have to learn that if you're going to get riled because society discriminates or judges you for your sexuality, then you really shouldn't be judging other people. Just because you are part of a 'glamourous' minority, doesn't give you the right to judge other social minorities for who they are.

And luvvies, you weren't glamourous.

I have standards too, you know!

Celebrities I'd hit hard & good, for free:


The Three Musketeers was like PG Porn. In fact, I had a very hard time trying to pick a google image for you, and ahem, had to take a short break in proceedings to take care of some business.
Although not traditionally 'good looking', his sex appeal and that HOTT 'come fuck me now' glint in his eye, make up for it, and I would be first in line, if he wasn't already married (y'know, cos I've got morals and shit).


Devoted readers of this blog would be familiar with my ardour for the future Mr Aniston.
You did a hell of a lot for yellow t-shirts, Vinnie my boy.


I so wish I was an ice vest right now


Celebrities that I'd hit after a nice dinner and dancing date:


I learnt the true meaning of the words 'sex appeal' whilst watching the The Late Show.


His exterior image, as in the one in the above photo, is so different from his character, so I think the less talking and the more 'dancing' we did, the better.


I forgive you for that disgusting beige suit & sandals get-up in Con Air, just because you're you. But don't fucking wear it on our date.

Celebrities that if you offered me $1M bucks to hit, I'd still have to think about it some:


I've never seen the attraction. Sure, I can see why majority of the world's female population might want a piece of that, but I've never been inclined. I'd like to dress him like my very own Ken doll though - the asthetics are excellent.


I like pool boy fantasies better


Ok, you've proved yourself to be classier than Britney. But even if I was an hysterical teenage fan, I probably still wouldn't chase you down the street to hand over my cherry. Although, being with an older woman has probably taught you a thing or two.

Celebrities who would need to learn the meaning of 'not a fucking chance mate' pretty quickly:


I don't care what you're packing, go pack it somewhere else.


'L' is for Loser, fuckbag


You remind me of a guy that offered me half of his muesli bar, then dumped me, all on the one day, in Grade 5. And you, Leonardo, still look like you're in Grade 5.

Detox Diary #3

The detox was good. Lost two kilos in first week, of which 1.5K was body fat, which is very good.

The past two weeks have been considerably harder.

It's hard to cook for one person.

I can't choose nice apples for shit.

I was so scared to weigh in last week that I put it off until this Thursday thinking I'd be really good. I was wrong.

Somehow I seem to slip into the mindset of having some chocolate, or pasta, and don't really care that I've just paid a nutritionist $350 to fix my diet.

I have a terrible relationship with food. I have a terrible relationship with my self-confidence.

My nutritionist gave me a goal of losing 10kg by Christmas. This has placed considerable stress on me (the only thing that I stress over is my weight), and what do I do when I'm stressed? Look for comfort food.

I feel like I'm a failure because I never can muster up the willpower to stick to something like this. Even moreso this time, because it's not a diet per se, it's simply what I should be eating.

Thoughts of avenging myself in a black bikini when I happen to 'bump' into the Ex-Fucker next time are all but lost, leaving me feeling even sicker and hating myself even more.

I am hopeless.

There's not a nice bone in my body.

Best. Sex. Ever.

But I feel like a an absolute bitch.

Whilst in 'recovery' one afternoon, I was laying in Jungle Boy's arms, and for one moment, closed my eyes and I thought I was lying there with the Ex-Fucker. Not that he's been in my thoughts much lately, and not that I'd ever lay in his arms again, but the thought was there. And as soon as it came, it went again. That's not the point though - my concern is why it was ever there at al??

It was not unlike the 'crazy' Drew flashbacks that Steph on Neighbours has been having. Stupid life mirroring neighbours plot.

I'm also confused on another point: am I entitled to be a bit pissed at him because he didn't get me anything for our 'anniversary'? I bought him a pair of Astroboy undies & even wrapped them (a mean feat for me); we went halves on the accomodation and food costs, so it wasn't like he was 'taking' me there himself - in fact it was I that organised the whole thing.

I'm not meaning to sound so materialistic; but there's not even any signs of small gestures that I've encountered in every other relationship that I've had in the past. Maybe this is my first encounter with a new-type-adult-relationship; maybe I'm just overly generous to others and expect some of the same back?

Then I think maybe that with everything that happened with the Ex-Fucker, that this is my lot in relationships.

Sometimes I look at Jungle boy and see a funny, smart guy, with a great attitude and who knows what he wants.

Other times, I look at him and see a selfish, over-indulged little boy, who isn't used to sharing and doesn't want to learn.

Meanwhile, this coming Tuesday will have been one year since the Ex-Fucker would have proposed, if it hadn't of been for those telling events, Grand Final Night, 2004. I've Dr Craned myself, and I reckon I keep flashing back to Ex-Fucker because of the state of play with Jungle Boy.

Anyway. I'm going to try not to think about it again this year. I've already had my heart broken three times this year (two times Ex Fucker, one time the Athlete); I just wanna lay low now and see what transpires.

Van debate? Not here.

Well hello. 'Member me?

I'm back, having wrestled control back from Gabrielle (that was one HELL of a jelly fight). Have had no time to fuck around on computers; can't say that I'm impressed that I'm actually having to WORK during the day now. Etc.

ok, so you're going to shoot me down with bundle of sticks for being callous, but I'm sick of hearing about the 'last ditch pleas' by Australia to save Van Nguyen from the gallows. Instead we should be turning our thoughts and prayers to his family and to his mother, who, if Singapore continues with this hideous 'rule', will never be able to hug her son again. While I don't want to get into the 'abide by the country's laws/death penalty is wrong' debate - far too much of that going on -I will say that it makes me feel ashamed as a human being that she will not be able to say a proper good-bye to her son. They've doled out the ultimate punishment to a criminal; don't dole out the ultimate punishment to his family too. And that's all I have to say on the matter. THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU'RE NOT ALLOWED TO HAVE CHEWING GUM.

So....this weekend the Jungle Boy & I are off to the bustling metropolis of....Prom Country. Yeah Yeah, I know that we were meant to be breaking up. Turn around Bright Eyes. Every now and then I fall apart. Can't help but feel a little bit lonely, now that Ex-Fucker has got a new girlfriend and doesn't harrass me anymore, and my wonderful, platonic, first boyfriend is now completely busy with his new partner. Plus, the time I spend with him is always fantastic, it's just that I don't get to spend a lot of time with him. I am way down on his priorities list.

Anyway, the upshot of the whole deal is that I get Friday off. And that's fucking great in my book.

Pleased to meet you.

Hi. I'm Gabrielle Richens. You might also know me as 'The Pleasure Machine'.

No, not that sort of machine, silly. I'm all woman.

You might remember me better from when I pussy whipped some Australian rugby player, forcing him to leave his position on the field for a position between my tits, only to dump his ass and head on back to the UK when I suddenly decided I needed a man with a neck.

I then was asked to host some crappy Austalian tv dating show that lasted about two minutes. Not that I cared, because at least I got a bit more 'exposure' in Australia.

In somewhat of a coup, I got to be on the first season of Austalia's 'Dancing with the Stars'. Fuck YOU, Bec Cartwright. I hate you so much. Your baby is going to be born with greasy hair. You don't even have great tits like I do. I bet you can't make Lleyton give up tennis for you, can you bitch?

Ahem. Sorry, where was I? Oh yes, I was just about to tell you that the reason I didn't make it any further on DWTS was because all the teenage boys ran out of credit on their mobiles. Stupid mothers. Would have been a different story if their dad's had of been giving out the pineapples. (Fuck YOU, Bec Cartwright).

Anyhoo, the reason I'm here today is to say "You found me!" You sure did, you crazy image googlers. I mean this blog is meant to be anonymous and all, and 'Martie' is some sort of moniker for a long lost middle name that I gave up ages ago when I got famous (pleasure & machine being me new middle names now, of course), but you still managed to find me! Bless!

But I have to tell you, and this is where I'm going to get all serious and stuff (*practises new acting techniques*), the pictures you're googling of me kinda pisses me off. Oh sorry, being serious, wasn't I? Ahem. The pictures of me you are searching for on the intermanet are fairly disturbing. (There you go, intermanet is a big word).
When you can have this:

Or this:

Or for god's sake, I'll even give you this one:


Why on god's green earth would you want this one?

You crazy kids, I'm at the FUCKING LOGIES FOR FUCK'S SAKE.

I mean, I had to get my outfit at the last minute, so it's not even a proper dress or anything. Check out the sleeves. Then some Channel 7 cock did some butcher job to my face and I'm just looking so, so, blah. I don't know. I mean I'm flattered that you're trying to whack off to my photos (damp cloth for keyboard and monitor. Don't even try on a laptop. V. Unconfortable), but really, it's just not my best picture. To top it all off, I have to stand next to one of Bec's friends. Who has multicoloured, lopsided boobs. At least I feel a bit better now.

Anyway, what I'm trying to say is, 'Hi' google image searchers. You found me. If you're not shy, leave me a comment with your mobile no. Maybe we can, y'know, date, sometime. If not, move along, nothing more to see. And please, STOP LOOKING AT THAT FUCKING PHOTO!

Kisses,

Gabs



Fuck YOU, Bec Cartwright

Detox Diary #2 AKA Where's me fucken diet coke?

Yeah so. I'm up to Day Four. Going really well too, until the Ex-Fucker decided to jump back on the Herpes Train and bleat about he 'has' them, so I do too. Fuck off moron. However, I am the tiniest little bit worried about it, seeing as though the last time I slept with him was July and who knows who he'd fucked (for approximately 30 seconds) before that. So I'm off to the doctor.

Anyway, I jest with you in the title. I can honestly say that I haven't experienced any real cravings for diet coke or chocolate or even Microwave popcorn. The ones at the start were all mental I think - depriving oneself of one's staple drink would cause a mild panic in any event. But I've been so busy trying fill myself up on water, that I don't really notice it. Nice. Glad. Happy with self.

Anyhoo, here's a social conundrum for you all to ponder: What to do if one's Boyfriend asks you if you want to buy his DVD player? This is not the done thing, no? Fair enough if he's just asking a mate, but girlfriend? Wouldn't the right thing to do be to just offer it to me her, then I she could offer him some money, he could accept, no harm done? Or is that far too genteel in today's society???

Detox Diary #1

Not like a real diary. I'd never inflict that kind of pain on you. I'm feeling jolly good at the moment, but wait until I hit work tomorrow:

- Official Diet Coke cravings began at 12:01am last night.

- Cravings intensified after sex.

- Sex is a good distraction for cravings though.

- I'm sure omelettes are great, but I find they taste too 'eggy'.

- I've done the dishes THREE times today already. Cooking sucks.

- I was allowed a 'small fruit smoothie' for afternoon, so I cheated and went to a juice bar for one. Could. Not. Be. Fucked. Chopping. Fruit.

- Where the fuck do I find 'Performax' bread?

- Concentrating on food makes me sleepy.

- Have only done one poo so far

And there you go. Just some random observations, uh, 18 hours in! Lots more hours to go. I look to them in anticipation.

Bitch? You ain't seen nothing yet.

I'm starting a detox on Sunday. It will be just like Celebrity Overhaul, 'cept I can wipe my own arse. (I reserve the celebrity bit, because I was on 'Double Dare' when I was 11. Suck it up people - I got slimed).

Anyway, it's not detoxing in such that I take paste-y stuff in a drink much like this. And I certainly won't be posting poo pictures either. More like cutting out processed foods and eating the right levels of carbs and proteins, and lots of other nutritious stuff that I've totally ignored for the first 20-ish years of my life. However, my nutritionist promises me that if I stick to it for eight weeks, and intensify my kick-boxing, then I can lose about 8 kilos by Christmas. Huzz-fucking-ah!

But you know what that means, don't you? No fucking-microwave-fucking-popcorn. HOW WILL I GO ON?? WHAT'S LEFT IN MY LIFE?? WHAT COULD BE WORSE???

I'll tell you what's worse. No Diet Coke. Bad. DC is my crack, 'yo. I drink it for lunch and for dinner and after dinner and between meals and sometimes if I'm just having one of those mornings I'll crack one open before 12pm. Rebellious much?

My DC addiction is at Betty Ford proportions. I'm already experiencing shakes and sweats, and I'm sitting at my desk drinking the fucking stuff at the moment.

Actually I've been told to expect headaches and tiredness, all of which will make me very irritable. Yay! My favourite. At least now I'll have an excuse when some fuckbag at work asks me a dumb question and I pulverise him to ground yelling "if it's that urgent learn how to use a computer yourself". But who really needs an excuse for that anyway?

Right-o. I'm off to load up on popcorn and peanut m&m's and cheese and bathe myself in DC. Enjoy

On the verge of throwing my fucking mobile off a cliff.

I really need to write this down, or I'm going to scream. So bear with me, and offer to ply me with vodka after I finish, please.

A very smart person remarked in my comments box a couple of weeks ago that I think too much about the Ex-Fucker and I want him back. Hello, reality.

It burns me up to think that he has a new girlfriend. He has even just been texting me wanting to talk, so I told him to talk to her, but 'he already has'. Fuck. I wanna go back to the days when I was the special one in his life and he turned to me first and everything like that.

It pisses me off to think of all the chances I gave him, and then when I fucked up, he wouldn't give me a chance.

It fucks my head in because he is a fucking idiot and I don't really want to be with him but I am INSANELY JEALOUS about him and his new girlfriend and I wonder if it's the Scorpio coming out in me. I think I just hate failing, and I view our relationship as something I failed in.

When I'm alone I want to cry, because when I was with him, I was never alone. We were nearly always together; hanging out; making mischief, talking. I get none of that with Jungle Boy. The emotional side of it, anyway.

For my birthday, Ex-Fucker used to go all out and spoil me and buy me presents - even if they didn't cost me a lot of money - that he'd put a lot of thought into. Jungle Boy bought me a perfume/body lotion set that was wrapped at Myer, and I'd never even heard of it before. If he really knew me, he'd know (or want to find out) that I interchange Hypnotic Poison; Chanel No. 5 & Rive Gauche depending on my mood. A box set is a cop out and shows that you haven't really thought about who the person really is. I'm not a perfume-gift-girl - and I hate when people don't wrap presents themselves.

I did could have had some birthay loving on Saturday night, but instead I drank more then went home and gave Jungle Boy a headjob that I can't actually remember giving. At all. I'm sure it was pretty crap, but seeing as though he doesn't make any attempt to stimulate me, let alone bring me orgasm, I don't care. At least the Ex-Fucker tried. I know he's like learning and shit, but I have needs too, you know.

The boy I met on Saturday night was cute-to-boot, but is now getting clingy, sending me messages calling me 'sweety' (sic) and asking how my day was. Plus, he's already been engaged twice and went to my school, albeit 2 years a head of me. Not cool. I was really fucking drunk. I was also a bit pissed off, because we'd really gone all out to do ourselves up to go out, and all Jungle Boy could say was "You look nice" while keeping one eye on The Mummy on TV. Cute/Clingy boy told me that I have beautiful eyes. Jungle Boy has never said that. Sometimes, the little things like are all I need. Ex-Fucker was great at it.

AND NOW HE'LL BE TELLING HIS NEW GIRL THAT. AYE AYE AYE!


I know jealously is ugly, and this post is ugly and incoherant and 1000 apologies, but I had to get this stuff out of my head and I have to ask if anyone has any suggestions on how to move on, I would be forever grateful. People keep telling me I'd get there - after a year, I don't think I'm anymore than half way there.


Promise much more birthday hijinks when I'm feeling better. And have played the crap out of Gran Turismo (PS2 'on loan' from Jungle Boy), to get it out of my system.

Why was she born so beautiful, why was she born at all?

THIS:


+

THIS:

Makes one little blogger very happy.


THROW IN SOME:


AND A LITTLE BIT OF THIS:

And you've got yourself a party, mofos.

That's right, everyone's favourite vodka slut is turning 22 24 mind your own fucking business celebrating her birthday this weekend. I'm hitting the town in my new g-string and new 'fuck off slut I saw him first' high heels and aim to get as many birthday kisses as possible.

So if you're out and about, pucker up.



Enjoy, M xxx

The Imminent is imminent

Terrorist attacks are imminent friends, imminent. To the bunkers we go!

I seriously considered not going to work and using imminent terrorist attacks as my excuse, but knowing my luck, they'd think I was going to get my tits out at Oaks Day. No thanks, but I might head up to the pubs in the area to pick up a pissed bloke later. Ahem.

Like the trouper I am though, I soldiered on and went to work. My apartment building would have more chance of falling into a giant fuck-off hole than being attacked by terrorists. Shit hey, maybe the terrorists blew up part of the tunnel which caused the hole. I for one, am grateful to them. They have ridded the world of at least one UGLY bedroom for now.

So assuming that LJH's 'intelligence' is correct, and there are two states under threat, I think it would be safe to assume that Melbourne and Sydney would be the targets. No one is going to bother with Tassie or SA. They would leave QLD alone, seeing as it will most likely self-destruct anyway; there's not much point in blowing up the outback and WA doesn't even have Sunday shoppping, so there's no point talking to them about terrorism, they are that behind the rest of the country. September 11? Speak to WA in 2011.*

And now, with at least four state premiers agreeing to the rushed changes of LJH's anti-terrorist act, I wonder if this includes the 'shoot to kill' law so hotly debated a couple of weeks ago? Threats are imminent, so you never know.

Personally, fuck the terrorists, 'shoot to kill' should be introduced for all walks of life. I know that my Dad would be first in line to shoot to kill Daryl Somers if he saw him walking down the street, such is his contempt for the little man with a penchant for wearing knits such as this:

I'd reserve my shoot to kill licence for the cunt that killed the puppy in its own backyard in Bendigo. Shoot to kill is probably even too good for them, so my second choice would be the Fantastic Furniture chick. Fucking, can someone glass her already, please?

Anyway, my personal vendettas aside, who, given one 'shoot to kill' licence, would you target? The safety of this big brown land we proudly call 'Our Country' depends on YOU!!!!



*NB - WA readers, please don't shoot to kill me. I love your state, I'd love to live there, but I just don't understand why your shops don't open on a Sunday, ok?

Don't you just hate...

- When you forget to clean your teeth in the morning and spend all day not opening your mouth from the paranoia?

- When the delightful neighbours next door sit outside at 5:30am in the morning and talk loud enough for sleeping beauty next door to know the intimate details of their night on the dance floor?

- When people bring their (teenage) kids to work on a school curriculum day. Haven't you got shopping centres to hang around?

- When you can't grow nice nails so that you can wear some HOTT orange nail polish?

- When you can't decide between green & red astro boy underpants?

- When you see that ad for all the coloured balls bouncing down the street and get all excited, then get to the end and realise it's an ad for a TV?

- When your boss takes annual leave but announces he'll be 'popping in from time to time" thus ruining any chances wearing thongs in and drinking beer at your desk for fear he might walk in on you?

- WHEN THE FUCKING TAX OFFICE DECLARES THAT YOU NOW HAVE TO 'PAY' THEM $400 BECAUSE AS IF THEY DON'T RAPE YOU ENOUGH DURING THE YEAR. FUCKING HECS. AND BOSSES THAT CAN'T WORK IT OUT PROPERLY.

- When you can't decide what to have for lunch?

I'm getting so wet....

The best part of the day? The shower. I do all my best thinking in the shower. I probably waste water at a rate so alarming that Steve Bracks would personally come tell me off about it, but I'd just tell Steve to fuck right off. A girl's gotta think somewhere.

It's all totally random shit too. And I'd like to impose share my thoughts with you. Lucky kids.

- Orange & Passionfruit Primas are little boxes of liquid-y goodness.

- I'm not impressed that they've changed the shape of Bacon-in-a-biscuit.

- Who the fuck is letting Vince Vaughan marry Jennifer Aniston?

- I really need a pink laundry hamper

- Random singing: coming in halfway through songs like "All these things that I have done" by The Killers. "I've got soul but I'm not a Soldier". Profound.

- Haven't been to the airport in a while.

- Day dreams about me wearing a black bikini and looking teh hottness and walking past the Ex-Fucker with a 'you had your chance look' on my face and him falling into a pool or something equally as stupid and embarrassing.

- It would be nice to have some new shoes to wear today

- Fuck! I hate looking at the fucking toilet while I'm in the shower.

And so on.

My random thoughts get worse too. I might sit at my desk and day dream about going kite surfing in my black bikini and lo and behold the Ex-Fucker just happens to be strolling along the beach. Or that I need some more sandwich bags and shouldn't have thrown the old ones out - there's nothing wrong with them. Or that my sticky-tape dispenser is QUITE FUCKING UGLY and I want to hurl it down the stairs. That's only after I've spoken to some fuckwit client though. Most of the time Sticky & I are on the level. 'Yo.

So now over to you - where are your most ridiculous thinking places, and what ridiculous things come into your head? We're not trying to come up with a solution to world poverty here - I think Stevey-boy would be pretty pissed if we wasted that much water - just stupid random things that prove I'm not the only normality-impaired person in town.

Hmmph. Write an entire post about how much I hate toilets, then spend half the night with my head in one.

Here's a tip: Never mix vodka & orange juice and kahlua & milk, especially if you are going to be drinking rather fast after being accused by a certain ex-fucker that you've given him AIDS*; spread (true) rumours that he has been harassing you to all of your mutual friends; and then get told by him that he now has another girlfriend.

Don't mix your drinks if you just gone 10 rounds with a concrete wall (wearing the only boxing gloves that you could afford that wouldn't even knock out a 10 year old) after being told that "we can still be friends".

Don't drink vodka and kahlua (except of course if you are going to partake in some white/black russian drinking) at 12am on a school night if you just been told "everyone knows now so I better tell you before you find out from someone else" then proceed to throw your washing around the room. It's not conducive to cleaniness and visitors do not want to see your g-strings as window decorations. And you'll only have to pick them up in the morning, when you have a hangover.


Milo milkshakes are good hangover cures.


*NB - Accusation was made purely to hurt me. The Ex-Fucker has never been tested for AIDS, and in the last blood test I got when I first starting dating Jungle Boy, my tests came back clean.

In my previous life, I was a chamber maid

Toilets


Conveniences


Loos


Dunnies


Thrones

I don't care how you want to dress up the name - I HATE THEM. I'm going to have a total Jessica Simpson Tuna/Chicken moment here, but I wish toilets had never been invented.

Why? I hate the aethestic of them, for a start. They are poorly designed, stick out from the wall in an unfashionable way and are just generally ugly.

I'm also a bit of a germ freak when it comes to toilets; you should see me trying to clean my stupid toilet now that I'm living by myself: rubber gloves, longest toilet brush I can find, half a bottle of pine-o-clean, half a bottle of harpic gel, a mask and a hooded top with hood pulled down (I don't know the fuck why either). It takes me longer to get ready and psyche myself up to clean it, that it does to actually clean the thing.

And bad luck if you're building a house. Nearly all new houses now have ensuites.

Eww. I don't want to try and clean myself in direct view of a toilet. It just sits as unhygenic to me. And yes, I now have an ensuite. Showering with your eyes closed is fun, kids!

However, after all this toilet hoo and hahing, it's best left to the latest 'celebrity' on 'celebrity' overhaul, Anthony "It was either me or Casey Donovan" Sumbati to sum up toilet experiences for us all. For apparently, when the Big A goes poo-poo, he can't wipe his own arse, for his girth. The fuck? Do we have to now give him the nickname 'The Dag'??

I think there's something in that for all of us, don't you?

Of games and minds and boys...

Right, seeing as none of you bitches came over today for my blender party, I've been forced to wallow in self pity on such a beautimaful Saturday afternoon.

Actually, I'm not really. I'm just cranky because I've barred myself from macadamia brownies. And I just finished building what is sure to be hailed as master craftswork by future generations:

The Oppli.

Of course, now I know why we had to do 'woodwork' as a subject at school.

So while I wait for some van-age to help transport my latest aquisition, I just have to bang out about Jungle Boy or I will go insane. Sorry, yes I know I've moved on from moving out posts to boy posts, but suck it, I'm still cranky.

We played a cat and mouse game last night. He didn't text me until 8pm, which obviously meant he wasn't coming over, but an earlier message would have been appreciated.

So I didn't text back and went back to reading my history book (Fuck right off, I KNOW it was Friday night last night) I then text him this morning, then he text me and said he would come over this afternoon, and I text back that I was busy, yada yada blah blah blah, suck my fridge Jungle Boy.

I know it's childish to be playing games like this, but I think I'm just stalling the inevitable: The Talk.

And that brings me to you, dear lovely fuckers: HOW can I break up with this guy????

Mixed Bag End-of-Week

Another weekend, another trip to sweden-y goodness. Huzzah chaps!

I'm going because my new toy needs a house. And because I really can't afford the jizzed up white/matt silver low line entertainment unit that I've had my eye on.

I'm going to get it ALL BY MYSELF and assemble it ALL BY MYSELF and put said TV (all 70kg of it) on it ALL BY MYSELF. Why? Well judging by the amount of Mrs Field's Macadamia Cookies I'm devouring lately, there's trouble in Jungle Boy/Martie paradise. Nothing is official yet, but soon it will be Splitsville: population: Me.

Reasons?

I can't compete with his mother. Last week he spent Thursday & Friday night at my house, but then had to go home Saturday and be with his Mum all day because she thinks he is 'neglecting her', by not seeing her for two days. Oh. Fuck. He's a 26 year old man. Then he tells me that she just bought him his 'summer wardrobe' and made a hair appointment for him 8:30am Saturday morning. I just can't cope with that. Obviously, a close relationship with your parents is great, but there has to be a time that you cut the umbilical cord, surely??

Second reason? He has the constitution of an 18th Century woman. He's so delicate. He takes the day off if he has a headache, or if he something he has eaten the day before 'doesn't agree with him'. Said delicateness affects our relationship too. Can't do this because he's feeling poorly. Can't see me because he's got a headache. Before you all flame me for being a biatch, I am obviously aware that people get sick, but he's had more off days in the time that I've known him than I've had hot dinners.

AND - I can't go the Caulfield Cup tomorrow either. All of my friends are going, but because the Ex-Fucker already 'got in first', I can't go. So I'm going to sit at home and watch it on my new TV in it's new house, and put imaginary bets on and become an imaginary millionaire and I'm gonna do it ALL BY MYSELF.




Anyone wanna come? We can have a blender party...with Vodka...

Lovely Lady Lumps - 2005's 'small and humble' mammories.

Oh, she's back. Fresh from showering us with her body juice, she's now back singing about humps and lumps and exactly what she can get a guy to spend on her because they are so 'lovely'.

Oh boy. Is this song for real? Not only is it annoyingly repetitive ("My hump, my hump my hump my hump. My hump my hump my hump, my lovely lady lumps"), but why should we have to endure a song all about Fergie's tits and arse? Which I'm sorry, aren't even that good anyway - I wouldn't do her in a (literal) pink fit.

I'm no prude, but this is not the kind of thing I want to be hearing on my radio. Obviously, since the BEP are such a sell-out now, they are catering expressly for the 13 year old market, who can now skank around telling all and sundry about their lumps and humps at the shopping centres.

It concerns me that Jungle Boy actually downloaded their new album, and has a thing about her. If you get a chance, check out this week's issue of No Idea - and the pic of her. She's a MAN! And she sweats like a man too! I apologise friends, but I couldn't find that pic anywhere.

I did however, find some pics that supported my MAN theory:


Man.


Oh yes, lovely 'lady' lumps there. Sure you can't get them any further up your chin??


Here she is, accepting the award for best male Carmen Electra impersonator.


Pick which is the father of Britney's baby

So tell me, does this song annoy you as much as it annoys me? Does it make you wanna smash your car radio in frustration, hurting your hand and causing a 10 car pile up change the radio in your car whenever it comes on? Or maybe you like it, and want to get sprayed with Stacey-juice up the front of the stage at the BEP concerts? I don't know, you tell me - or any other song that drives you insane?

Martie & the Teevees....

No, unfortunately, not the little box of malted chocolate sticks. It's not even the name of my new band I've hastily put together to play a few gigs to drunk teenagers. Even better. I've got a new baby:



Me and Toadie from Neighbours are going to get a whole lot better aquainted. Yee-fucking-har.

My newest asset is the product of an intensive three week search, in which time I learnt that time is actually flying past me at the speed of light, or something akin to not owning a DVD player yet. Sometimes I can be such a technophobe, that I actually wonder if I'm not a 70 year old living in the body of a twenty some year old woman. Fucking scary.

But now, I'm so down with the lingo of plasma and high definition and wide screen and rear projectors, that I could sashay on down to the Good Guys and get a job, just like that. And maybe even the chance to crack onto that nerdy guy with the coke bottle glasses. I'm so hot for him.

Like, did you know, if your TV is only 'AV stereo', it means that if you don't have a DVD or video hooked up to it, then it will only play mono sound out of one speaker? I didn't know this until this weekend. Thank fuck the dodgy most accomodating salesman pointed me in the direction of a 'full stereo' Teev, or there would be a code red tonight. Like, close call dudes!

Unfortunately, Teevee (it's new official name) won't be arriving until next week sometime, so I'll just have to make-do with my little 34cm on top of the dryer for now. Not that I'm watching anything but 'Australian Princess' at the moment anyway (I'm sure that bush chick, given half a chance, would trade Teevee in for a 'sweet ute'). Not a chance, sweetcheeks. He's all mine! The only thing left to do is work out where I'm going to house the little bugger. Back to the Ikea catalogue for me, I feel.

And while I'm at it, check out the newest apple of my eye, sure to be taking its place in Cucina di Martie very soon:



I am jizz-filled already.

I'm doing it for the love of vodka, I swear...

Lemme get it straight - I'm only doing this because this vodka comrade tagged me, and I too, cannot resist the Big V or chocolate either. And possibly because even though I have a fuck off attitude, I think it would rude if I got tagged and didn't do it. But fuck off anyway. With love, of course xxx

Seven things I plan to do before I die

1 - Travel to England / Europe to study the history & complexities of the Royals & Aristocracy.

2 - Learn how to speak French

3 - Have a 69 on my 69th Birthday

4 - Meet Jonathan Brown

5 - Live by the sea

6 - Lose enough weight to become totally fabulous & buy a Tiger Lily bikini. Parade in front of the Ex-Fucker & anyone else that has been cuntish enough to give me shit over the years. Lots. (Petty I know, but these are MY seven things)

7 - Master the art of skipping

Seven things I can do

1 - Spend money

2 - Visualise interior design concepts and decorator ideas, albeit with no formal training

3 - Throw a right hand punch or hook. Hard.

4 - Drink as much Vodka or Baileys as I like, and not have to do wee. Excellent skill for crowded bars and vomit-y toilets.

5 - Send totally incomprehensible text messages when I'm drunk, but be able to decipher them when I'm shown them the next day

6 - Be generous to the people I love

7 - Enjoy my own company

Seven things I cannot do

1 - Forgive easily

2 - Tell the Ex-Fucker to fuck off for good

3 - go without showering twice a day

4 - Skip.

5 - Stand to see any animal suffering or in pain

6 - Say no to microwave popcorn

7 - Fashion my hair into a 'style'

Seven things that attract me to the opposite sex

1 - Dark hair

2 - Someone who understands emotions

3 - Looks good IN underpants

4 - Looks good in jeans

5 - Able to make me laugh

6 - 'Gets' women's problems!

7 - Can treat me like a princess, but can treat me also like an equal

Seven things I say most often

1 - Fuck off

2 - What the fuck

3 - I hate skipping

4 - I don't know what's wrong with your computer (insert name of incompetant colleague here). I don't work in IT

5 - Check out the mancandy over there

6 - Look at my new shoes

7 - I'll have a vodka, lime and soda, thanks

Seven celebrity crushes

1 - Jonathan Brown

2 - Tony Lockett

3 - Oliver Platt

4 - John Cusack

5 - Chris Chaney from The Living End

6 - Vince Vaughan

7 - Sam Worthington

People who need to do this

I'm breaking the chain here! So it's all bad luck for me, but I will leave you with seven 'tips', so you can have good luck. It's up to you if you want to continue...

Seven tips to get through life (thus far) by Martie

1 - Never forget what your parents did/do for you. And if they didn't do much or anything at all for you, learn from their mistakes and don't repeat the past with your own kids

2 - Don't leave your underpants on the front lawn after a big night. Especially when your Mum is the first up the next morning

3 - Never take anything at face value. Trust your instincts

4 - Learn to accept critiscm, but don't take any shit from anyone

5 - Drink Vodka

6 - Lobby for microwave popcorn to get its own food group

7 - Don't let people think they have control of you. (IE - Ex Fucker). Tell them exactly where to fuck right off to, and don't weaken to them.


Now, if only I could take my own advice re: No. 7....

Questions and Answers with Martie

***Just for you Hambo, I have turned on word verification in the comments. I am up with de times, mang!!1!!

Okaay, just for a bit of fun and because I'm feeling particularly cheery today, let's have some question & answer time. In which I will attempt to answer all your questions that you, dear readers, have emailed to me over the years months I'm making them up as we go along period of time I have been blogging, in an attempt to reveal more of the 'true' Martie.

1. Why is your blog called 'No Talent Time'?

Well, I'd been reading blogs and other such sites on the intermanet for ages before I decided I'd 'ave a go at it. And most of it was pretty bland, boring stuff like; 'I got out of bed and went to have a shower but ran out of shaving cream, so had to go to shops looking like shit, and per chance ran into my ex-boyfriend and' oh, whoops, that was my actual morning this morning, but you get the idea.

If you look around, majority of good and amusing bloggers are actually seriously creative people, who write 'stuff' for a living, or are (past)students of the humanities kind. I myself work in the dreary, staid world of financial services, where the most creative I get is putting a spin on company guidelines to make them sound more plausible to clients, or making up a good excuse as to why you can't speak to so-and-so right now, because he's a) in the conveniences b) in a meeting c) has a client with him or d) out of the office (that old chestnut). And no, fuck off I'm not a receptionist, but we have to answer the chain of phone calls that may come our way. Fuck yeah. So anyway, when I decided to join the big bad blogging world, I decided that I too would be lumped into the shaving cream catergory because I lost my creativity a while ago, so there was no point in trying to advertise otherwise.

Either that, or it would have been against some stupid copyright law to call it 'Young Talent Time', which would of course also been a misnomer, because I'm NOT young, and even though my 'going out age' is a 'young 22' just so I can trick those 19 year old boys into buying me drinks because they think it'll help 'em get into my pants, I feel that telling you my blogging age is 22 would not foster an honest relationship with you, dear readers. And now it's time to draw a breath and move onto the next question.

2. So what is your real age?

Fuck off. I'm not actually going to tell you that. Let me just say that I'm probably too old for Jonathan Brown, and too young to go to over 28's. Although I'd hardly knock either of them back. Spank me daddy...

3. Your profile pic is a bottle of alcohol. Guess it's safe to assume you like a tipple every now and again?

Fuck me. Sandra Sully with the late news there, buddy. Naturalmente, Vodka, lemonade and lime is my drink of choice, but the last few times I've been finding it is too sweet, and will now usually just settle for vodka lime & soda. Actually, who I am I kidding - I will settle for anything, I am a vodka slut. And I'll never pass up a glass of Bailey's on ice either. If I absolutely must, I can have a fairly decent go at polishing off a large number of lemon ruskis (s'cool in the late 1990's, that there were WAITING LISTS for them), as they aren't bad on a hot summer's day, and nothing beats a pot of Carlton draught down the pub with a chicken in pyjamas counter meal.

4. Is there anything you won't drink?

Bourbon. Ironic then, that I'm now kissing a bourbon drinker, isn't it?

5. Speaking of which, have you and the Jungle Boy done it doggie style yet?

No, and this damn well pisses me off. My lovely fellow blogger passed on some invaluable tips, because it appears that Jungle Boy is deficient in the kneeling on bed variety, but so far, no luck. I don't understand. The distance between my asshole and ass cheeks certainly couldn't have gotten any longer (not with all the lunges and kickboxing I've been doing lately) and I've done it with smaller dicks than his, so it must be some sort of logistical problem that I can't explain and it's DRIVING ME CRAZY, MISS DAISY. I need to work on my spacial awareness more.

6. You'd obviously never make it as a transport company operator, or warehouse manager, with logistics and stacking not your forte. So, what did you want to be when you grew up?

It was teaching all the way. You might say that I enjoyed school, and I got along well with my teachers, when I wasn't been thrown out of Home Eco (fucking pointless subject) for sticking my finger up at the teacher behind her back or being suspended for fighting. My Uni preferences read something like this: 1 - Commerce 2 thru 10 - teaching/early childhood education, etc. Excellent careers counselling there, Mr Careers Counsellor.

7. So you like kids then? When do you see yourself having them?

Kids? Can't fucking stand them. No, but something like that. I worked as an after-school care co-ordinator as my part time job at school (fuck retail. I hate customers more than I hate kids). I then did heaps of baby-sitting and finally some nannying when I was at Uni. Great kids I had too, but I realised all the running around after piano and ballet and school and tennis and the cooking and the homework just wasn't for me. Yet.

I'm way too selfish at the mo' to have kids - I like having my own space, and I'm just getting used to depending on myself, so having another human solely depending on me would just not be fair to either of us. I also want to do a bit of travelling before I start popping them out, and of course, there is the small matter of FINDING A BLOKE to have them with. I'm a little bit of a traditionalist in that I'd like to be married for a couple of years before I have them, and since there's no chance of me marrying anyone for at least 1000 years, I think it's pretty safe to say that I'm not going to have any before I'm 30. Which kinda doesn't fit in with my original life plan, but then neither does anything else I'm up to, so I guess that's the cards life has dealt me, or whatevs.

8. The cards life has dealt you? Are you into all that cosmic stuff?

Ummmm, I get the Tart to get my horoscope for me on Telstra pocketnews on her mobile, because it only costs one cent, and it gets sent almost similtaneously, which I think is great value for money. Otherwise, unless I'm checking out what NW or No Idea have got in store for me this week, I don't place much value on 'that cosmic stuff' at all. I'd much rather ring up a $4.95 porn line, rather than a $4.95 horoscope line.

9. You're into porn then. What sort of collection have you got?

Well actually, I don't really have much of a collection at all now; I lost most of it in the 'custody' batter with the Ex-Fucker. And most of what I've got now is either only 'R' rated or is totally old-school, and getting around on VHS. I have to buy a DVD player first, then start building up my collection again.

Most of my porn comes from snippets on the internet, from a wonderful site that provides free photo sets and video clips. You sometimes have to wade through bad Bon-Jovi-hair-esque 80's porn, but that only prolongs the inevitable and increases build up, and is usually worth it when you find a video clip of a hot foursome or a naughty cheerleader or something. I stay right away from dildos and all other paraphanelia like that. I just can't get off on the insertion of plastic/metal things, even if they are humming like a bitch and have clitoral attachments. Which is bad, because Jungle Boy thinks it would be hot. Okay, okay, I will work on my dildo/vibrator indifference.

10. Wow. You seemed totally unhinged and a touch Latham/Rivkin-esque during this interview. Are you going to go on to commit suicide or bag out innocent supporting members of your party family blogging community or total randoms that you pass walking down the street?

Um no. Although I may capitilise on my fame and get into the porn industry, or live the quiet life in a teepee in the country. (Wendy Matthews, you fucking wank. And if you find a snake under your blanket - KILL IT. KIIIIIIIIIILLLLLLLLL. I used to like "the day you went away", but now...)

Um, where was I? No, there'll be no suicide for me, although I totally cannot stand asian women with old Australian guys it makes me want to vomit for all the disgusting creepy-ness I'll-supply-you-with-a-feed-for-the-rest-of-your-life-if-you-suck-my-shrivelled-pruny-old-cock-for-the-rest-of-your-life of it. And anyway, mail-order is more Russian, isn't it??


So, ding my friends, that is it on what was possibly the first and last Martie expose (you'll just have to imagine the little inflection on the end of that 'e'). Feel free to leave any questions you might have in the comments box, and we'll see if we can't saddle up the old girl for another round.

Next Stop: Federal Treasurer

I don't want to turn this into a "I'm renting and now I'm poor" type of a blog, but seriously, I'm renting and now I'm poor. In fact, I'm just working out how I'm going to stretch $150 over two weeks, which includes petrol for the Love Chariot (TM) and a week of holidays.

Okay, I admit. Poor isn't 3rd world poor where there is like only rice and dubious drinking water and bloated bellies. My belly is big enough, thank you. I am still able to afford relative luxuries like my kickboxing sessions and hot pink keys for my apartment. It's just that, having gone from a relatively good income each week to the bare minimum in spending money takes a bit of getting used to.

I'm still in the mindset of seeing a cool top, or some shoes, and just buying them. Now, I have to sigh, and fondle them for a few minutes, then walk on, with just the memory in my head. Imagine going to the Vic Market and seeing 100 cool things to buy but walking away empty handed because 'you're on a budget'. Oh, boo hoo!

In an end to self pity, I've decided to make budgeting fun! That's right. Fun, kids! Fun for me was discovering a pack of 4 pocket-sized notebooks with colourful plastic colours, for $2.99. Pink, Green, Blue and Purple. How exciting. Just like the alternative 'Four Colour Pens' they used to make way back, when the standard blue, red, black and green didn't do it for you. *Sigh* I miss those pens.

I started with purple. I think I'm going to save the pink one for a 'special' budget. I've already budgeted up to the end of January. (Let me tell you, Santa's not going to be 24-hour Christmas shopping at Chadstone). There's a page for every week, and I've accounted for every last dollar. There's allowances for savings (although that might turn into shoe money, see how we go), petrol, phone, spending and if I'm really good, I can order my lunch on Fridays!! Hurrah! See, it's fun already. I only have to learn how to stick to it.

Perhaps cutting out $8 hot pink keys would be a good place to start.

I spray the Mortein on my undies...

Shock Horror! Do not adjust your computers - I'm real! I am finally getting around to posting. Yes I've been a bad blogger (applications to spank me at end of post), and no, I haven't left y'all for a couch. Although the couch I ended up getting ($120 from St Vinnies) is quite lovely and I'd love to show you a picture, only I can't get the mofo' internet to work in the Palace yet. Damn straight, this moving business is harder than it looks.

I've also been working like a mofo for the last week - just so I could take some annual leave. Stupid boss. However I'm finally on holidays - and I'm not chasing down fridges or plumbers or light bulbs or spider spray anymore. So I'll finally have a bit of time to fix internet connection, and in no time I'll be posting like a biatch again.

Spider spray, you might ask? Yes, for all the big fearless woman girl of the world that I am, I am shit scared of spiders. In fact, I'm so scared of them that I'm not even going to use google image search to post a pic here, because I'd be too scared to look at the pictures it brings up. 'Luckily', my apartment also seems to be spider HQ. I am sure there's a nest of them somewhere. I thought I might be able to turn it into an advantage: might get some hotness pest exterminator dude around to eradicate my 'problem', however, 'cos I've now signed up for the poverty line, my main weapon of defence is this:

It seems any old chemical spray stuff will do. God knows what I'm going to do when I actually work out HOW TO USE THE FRONT LOADING WASHING MACHINE AND TRY AND DO SOME WASHING MYSELF.* Bless you mum, for your washing machine, and your hillshoist.

And bless you all for being so patient and still coming by here, and Hambo, there is a European pillow with your name on 'round here! I promise you regular updates or you can all have a suckle of my zipple. One at a time though.

* If anyone has any tips on how to use these puppies, please let me know. I've only ever used the bad-water-wasting upright ones. I put my clothes in the other day, and eventually got it to spin around, but I can't get any water in it.** I mean, I know their meant to be water-economical, but that's just ridiculous.
(**Before you ask, yes, the taps are on...)