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?