Friday Free For All

FIRST!!! An update on the Fantapants Adventure.

Total Number of messages: 16
Total Number of times I've been asked for my pictures: 16
Total Number of messages from actual fantapants'es...whatevs: 7
Total Number of HOTT fantapants: 1
Chances that HOTT fantapants guy will email back: 0
Total Number of actual fanta in pants pictures seen: 0
Total Number of hopeful sightings of actual fanta in pants pictures: 1
Youngest Fantapants: 19
Oldest Fantapants: 40
Total Number of times I've 'winked' at a certain (non-fantapants) blogger: 2
Total Number of sexually explicit messages received: 1
Total Number of times I've been told that "Anal is optional": 1

JOY! This experiment is working REALLY WELL. I even get to choose as to how I wanna put out. Bonus.

Further updates after the weekend, as I prepare to WRITE SOME EMAILS! WHEY-HEY!

Okay, so the second random Friday thought is brought to you by a large hamburger chain. Why is it, that whenever I order Onion Rings, no matter what the location of the particular store, it always ends up that there's a stray chip in the box? Always. Does this happen to everyone? Is it just a random thing? Do they sneak a chip in there to advertise 'hey, we do French Fries too y'know"? Does anyone actually eat Onion Rings besides me?

And the third thing today is something that has been driving me mad ALL WEEK. I wasn't going to blog about it, but some of you may have different opinions depending on your circumstances and whether you indulge in recreational drug taking. Soooooo...

I got a text message on Monday morning from the Ex-Fucker. First contact in ages from him, was frankly half asleep, but it read something akin to him telling me 'that he's now taking drugs, as in speed, ecstacy, & acid, and he enjoys it, it's just like beer, it makes him confident & happy BUT it's MY fault that he's decided to start taking them.

Yep. That's right. We've been broken up for more than 18 months, we haven't had any face-to-face contact since September 2005, he has ANOTHER GIRLFRIEND, yet it's my fault that he has chosen to do drugs. Obviously, I'm so fucked up that it's not clear to me yet. OBVIOUSLY.

It of course has nothing to do with him now running with his supposedly 'cool' crowd, and that BEER IS APPARENTLY NOT COOL. Gee, I'd better SMASH ALL THE CARLTON DRAUGHT STUBBIES THAT I HAVE IN MY FRIDGE. Beer is, clearly, the new Nicky Webster.

What's wrong with this guy? You'd think after 18 months and a new girlfriend, that he'd give up trying to torture me and lay the guiltrip down. I am completely anti-drugs - as in I'd never take them. Never have, never will. As for other people, it's their perogative, and I'd never shun them if they did. (The only thing I wouldn't do is seriously date someone who took them). And when we were together, he was of the same opinion. Which makes me think all the more, what a weak, spineless pathetic creature he is, because he is clearly taking whatever he has to, simply to keep up with a crowd that probably wouldn't give a shit about him when they came down.

However, not having experienced first-hand what the drugs can do to you, is there some really fucked mind shit that's happening here? Is it a normal thing - as in a side effect or something. I don't care, I don't want any further contact with him, but at the same time - it's not really MY fault? Is it?

Right. So some happier news. I bought myself some white gold earrings today. I think I look like a pirate. Maybe it's just because I haven't worn earrings since I was eight. However, they were on sale and I thought I might wear them to my job interview next week - something about looking the professional rather than the tomboy that I actually am. Hurrah for earrings!

And finally. COCKLORD. I just wanted to write that in my blog for a certain blogger. In a good way.

Have a fucking good weekend my fabulous blogging friends. I'm going to buy Narnia on DVD and re-live all those classic, incestual/bestiality moments, so you probably couldn't get much good-er than that, unless of course you were going to settle down in front of the TV with your best friend to watch the return of the Friday Night Games, followed by Skating With Celebrities, washed down with a couple bottles of Baileys and a replay of 'Mean Girls' on DVD. That's of course, if you were going to do that at all.

M xx

Martie's Anzac Day Hijinx

I masterbated on Anzac Day. Is this disrespectful? Should I have waited until after 1pm perhaps, to fall in line with the Casino and shopping centres? At least it wasn't like having a rave party where the diggers landed, was it? Was it?

Ahem.

Anyway on with the show.

I am always somewhat amazed to see most of my hits on this here very site, coming from google and other engine searches, for the following terms:

"Does the carpet match the curtains"
"Red Pubes"
"Bloodnuts"
"Ginger Pube"

Way back, I wrote a random musing about the fascinating subject of redheads, and whether their pubes really did match the colour of their hair. In all serious, it's something that I've wondered about, but I was just going to put it down to luck if I ever got up close and personal with a fantapants.

However, the fanta just won't quit.

I'm not quite sure if it's sexual deviates or zealous interior decorators that are conducting these searches, but by golly, it's roused the sleeping curiosity in me tenfold.

So. What to do, what to do.

Then it hit me. Where else would I find sickos and weirdos willing to share their pubes with me? Teh interwebs, of course!

I've signed up to a *cough*reputable*cough*dating*cough*site*cough*. It's just like advertising for redheads. Like advertising a job on Seek, for the right candidate. OMG!!!!1! How is it that my genius-like qualities are only just coming to the fore now?

I've already had 10 responses! Hurrah! Mind you, six are from guys WHO DON'T HAVE RED HAIR! Can't these cunts read? My profile is very specific about only wanting contact with guys with red hair - now I know how Puss feels when she deals with these fuckwits. One guy even offered to colour his hair red for me (Desperate? Him? No!),but politely declined when I asked him if he'd do his pubes as well.

So, as my quest to find a luscious red pubic thatch continues, brace yourselves for updates on The Fantapants Adventure. And don't say I didn't warn you about the pictures.

I truly did dream, about alcoholic ice-cream...

Firstly, I'd like to make a public apology to the uh, crazy computer king known as h/m. I'm so sorry I keep falling asleep! I can't possibly tell him this again, as I've done it every night this week and it would sound contrite if I did. And oh, one last thing; $110.21, and I've still got until 6th May for the end of my billing period. So I win. Ner Ner.

Right. So with that out of the way, I'm off to buy yet another Bonds hoodie to add to my collection. Which totals nothing less than five hoodies, two pairs of pants, chesty singlets in an absolute rainbow of colours, and a whole drawer full of underpants. Obsessed? Me?


Nooooooooooooooooooooooo.


Avagoodweekend, snotfaces.*




*obviously meant in a completely affectionate way. xx

A cunning plan...

Something I grapple with everyday is the (relatively) age old question: career or motherhood?

Not that I'm planning to go out and have kids anytime soon (so you can now breathe a sigh of relief), I'm just struggling to decide if I want to angle my career in a direction that will eventually allow me to have kids, or just go full pelt into my career of choice.

If I worked in an industry where it was an easy process and flexi/work from home hours were ok, even encouraged, then it would be a no brainer. However, the industry that I have chosen to work for is just one big old boy's network. It's okay now, while I'm one of the boys, but as soon as you show any signs that your tits are not just there to be groped* at Friday night drinks, the network revokes any sort of privileges you might have had.

And I do want to have kids. Despite proclaiming that I have had my fill of children on several occasions from the age of 15, where I worked in after-school care, and babysitting, and finally progressed on to be a nanny for some very well-to-do families, I do want my own. I love the time I spend with Piggy, my godson, even though I will confess I love the time I get to give him back. It's all the Ex-Fucker's fault; if we hadn't broken up, all the plans and dreams I'd had would be coming into fruition now. I'd be having my kids at a relatively young age, then going back to my career while I was still young, and...fuck him. In fact, I've just realised that in two weeks time, I would have been getting married. Expect some sort of emo post around the 6th of May. You have been warned.

If I stay on my current career path, I can make a fast and easy bucketload of cash, set myself up, meet the perfect man, settle down, get married, and get busy with the baby making process. I could then, hypothetically speaking, go back to that career on a part-time basis when I felt comfortable.

On the other hand, if I change tact just a little bit, I would slog it out on basic money, and would need to push myself to get to the top. Lots of years of hard work, but ultimately, more job-rewarding and more of an achievement of satisfaction. However, no time to meet perfect man, and get married, and have kids. And definitely no part-time work.

Then again, is it likely that I would meet the perfect man anyway in the alloted time frame?

Do I even want to meet the perfect man?

Should I just go for a celebrity-patented 'insta-baby'- no partner required?

What if? What if? What if?

This is going to do my head in.

My nipples are hard tonight. The back door is open.

I fail to understand why I just can't plan every facet of my life. I know it's impossible, but, wouldn't it be wonderful if I could? Everything would run like clockwork and I'd know exactly what I was doing, instead of feeling all confused, and lost like I do now. I don't think I could go all hippy and follow the crystals and be all que sera, sera. I look forward to a certain amount of destiny in my life, but I want to control it as well. I want to know where I'm heading.

So, because I can't plan my life, I will plan drinks instead. Lots of them. Coupled with a dancefloor and people to keep me amused. And sane, by the looks of it.

Confused girl: Explanation wanted.

*Sigh*

Dealing with boys and my relationships with them is so...brain frazzling.

Hot. Cold. Hot. Cold.

At least my relationship with Milo and Milk is not so complicated and confusing and a lot...wetter.

At least my pink journal* is getting a workout!




* Yes, journal. Because even some stuff is not appropriate for the 'anonymous' interwebs.

A great big vomit-y hello to Victoria

Yikes. I'm a tad hungover. Here's a tip. Don't ever go kickboxing with a hangover. Just saying.

Last night, we celebrated the Tart's first night back in Victoria with a tipple and a boogie. This morning, on our way home, we celebrated the Tart's first morning back in Victoria with a vomit on the side of Warrigal road, underneath the Monash freeway (a big wave to all passing motorists).

It all started with a little (okay, a lot) of this:


I swear, I never knew my TV could be turned up so loud.

So after we relived the Tart's 19th birthday at (the now defunct) Transformers (Ain't nothin' gonna break my stride, nobody's gonna hold me down. Oh no! I've got to keep on moving), in my living room, we jumped into the awaiting yellow chariot and drove to our destiny.

Or quite possibly, we just drove to a hole. In fact, if it had of just been a hole in the ground, with a bar and a dancefloor, it probably would have been much better. However, considering there was a bar, and a dancefloor there anyway, it was much of a much-ness really.

I must say a big cheerio to the cunt in the Easter Bunny costume who decided it would a good idea to go round and hand out easter eggs/cop a feel all night. As you all are probably aware I'm SHITSCARED of rabbits, and SHITSCARED of people in real-size animal/weirdo costumes. IT'S NOT FUNNY TO CHASE PEOPLE AROUND PUBS, OK? Glass the Easter Bunny.

Somewhere in between, I remember Tart disco-pashing some guy in a tight western-style shirt. Whenever I staggered in their direction, I yelled 'Yeehah' or 'Ride'em Cowboy', and was of course met with death stares, which made it even funnier. I am nothing but an excellent best friend, of course.

I also remember hanging out with some random guy who appeared to dislocate his finger on several occasions. I also know he was drinking beer with raspberry lemonade, so he was a pussy and I should have dislocated his finger harder for him.

I vaguely recall dancing to 'Flaunt it' and thinking I was teh sex and all things equivalent. I know it's a lame song but that guy's voice is pure sex (especially when amped with alcohol) and it got my juices going. Fortunately, I was able to hold back the tidal wave of girlcum and no one drowned. Hurrah!

Then the next thing you know, the Tart is passing out in the taxi on the way home. No KFC run either. WAH! No wonder why I was seedy this morning. There was nothing to soak the alcohol up. After she was safely home, I stumbled my way to my apartment, proceeded to convince myself that Ferrero Rochers were a great hangover cure, drank the rest of the milk, and eventually passed out.

Mental note to self for next time:
1. Do not take mobile out again.
2. Chips with potato & gravy are a required pitstop.
3. Watch out for rabbits.

Mmmmmmmm, steak....

I'm such a lazy bugger. As such, to celebrate Good Friday, here is a list post. Because Jesus liked lists too.

* I don't get the whole non-eating red meat thing on Good Friday. Surely it should be just don't-eat-human-flesh day? In any case, I'm having steak for dinner; if only just to prove my point.

* Good Friday is such a waste of a day - there's nothing to do! Open thy shops, damnit!

* I really should get out of bed and wash my towels.

* Everyone's leaving blog land. No such luck for anyone that reads this - you are all still stuck with me. But as such, I shall be updating my links page (another excuse not to get out of bed).

* *Someone* is cut at me because I told them that I wasn't buying Easter Eggs this year. Easter Eggs are for the kids, hey? And even though I had to get my mum one, and my dad some carwash (in lieu of chocolate eggs - what a MADMAN), I shall not be purchasing any for anyone else. Naughty Martie.

* ...I've got nothing else. This really is a good indicator of just how bored I actually am on Good Fridays. Is there anything in Christian 101 that says you can't start drinking before 12pm?

Have a spankin' good Easter break (I am so MTV) and watch out for Monday's special hungover edition, in which I will highlight the dangers of drinking alcomohol, and being around someone who likes to talk behind your back. Delicious!


*****UPDATE - GOOD FRIDAY 'NIGHT'*****
Oh, I was so, so, SO right with my call about not buying *anyone else* easter eggs. Again, so let down and so used. At least folding my washing is fun.

I want to ride

I would like to shake the hand of whoever sung the song "Love Rollercoaster". Because indeed, there has never been a truer prophecy sung.

Oh yeah. It was them. Figures.

I mean, RHCP was the favourite band of the boy I had a crush on the entire time at high school, TIM FISHER, with whom I'm sure you're all familiar by now. He even used to draw their '*' logo on his wrist in black texta in Year 10 geography, and I used to painstakingly copy him (at home of course).

Unfortunately, I also got rejected by him (although he did sign my shirt on muck-up day), but it just goes to show my mindset at the moment when I can't get a song out of my head that was on a CD that I gave my high school crush for Valentine's day who ultimately rejected me.

On second thoughts, maybe I don't want to ride the stupid rollercoaster anymore.

Saturday Afternoon Fuck

Don't you just hate when you send a text message to the wrong person? Especially when the message is about that person? Even if that person is acting very suspiciously and you know they're up to no good, the text message just lets them know you're onto them.

Fuck. And I wasn't even drunk.

COMMUNITY SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT

Attention all Phone/Fax users:

If you have one of these appliances, get the fuck out of Australia* now. These god damn fucking machines are the bane of my whole existance and if I have to send one more fax to one, I'm going to mow the whole lot of you down.

If you are one of the dumbfuck users of these machines, HAVE A BIT OF COURTESY and throw the fucking thing out, or get a separate line installed. Do you know how many problems these contraptions cause? No? Let me enlighten you.

Scenario A
Client: "Please fax document through right now; I have a phone fax and I'm turning it over now."

Martie (on phone): "Sure, not a problem."

Martie (off phone): "No worries, I'll just drop EVERYTHING I'm doing just because you're too tight to get a separate line."

Martie (off phone, quizzically): "Why won't the fax go through? WHY?"

Martie (on phone): "Sorry Client, I'm trying to fax through your documentation, but it keeps telling me it's not connecting."

Client: "Oh yes, I had to make a call. Fax it through now."

Martie (on phone): "Sure, not a problem."

Martie (off phone): "Fuck you"

Scenario B
Client: "Please fax document through in 17 minutes and 47 seconds."

Martie (on phone): "Sure, not a problem"

Martie (off phone): "I'll just set my fucking stopwatch, shall I?"

Some 17 minutes and whatever seconds were left later...

Martie (off phone, quizzically): "Why won't this fax go through? WHY?"

Martie (on phone): "Sorry Client, I'm trying to fax through your documentation, but it keeps telling me it's not connecting."

Client: "Oh yes, I forgot to switch it over. Fax it through now."

Martie (on phone): "Sure, not a problem"

Martie (off phone): "Fuck you and your fucking fucked phone/fax"

Scenario C
Client: "Please fax documentation through ASAP to my phone/fax."

Martie (on phone): "Sure, not a problem."

Martie (off phone): "If this doesn't work, I'm going to scream."

Martie (off phone, quizzically): "Why won't this fax go through? WHY?"

Martie (on phone): "Sorry Client, I'm trying to fax through your documentation, but it keeps coming back as busy."

Client: "Oh yes, that's because I've got message bank connected. You'll have to wait until I get home so I can switch it over. I will ring you when I'm ready."

Martie (on phone): "Sure, not a problem."

Martie (off phone): "FUCK FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK. FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKING TIGHTASS DUMBASS COCKTARD (for Hambo). JUST FUCK RIGHT OFF!


So yes, evil phone/fax users. Run. Run as fast as your stumpy little one line legs can take you. Because trust me, I will hunt down every single phone/fax and destroy them all with bare hands and it will be bad luck if you get in the way defending their honour, because Martie don't take no prisoners.


THIS COMMUNITY SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT WAS BROUGHT TO YOU BY THE LETTERS I,N,S,A,N & E.


*Victoria will do. My phone/fax bounty hunt budget doesn't extend overseas. Or even interstate. Or probably not past the Melb metro area.

COCKLORD

For Hambo






OMG!!!!!1! The triangles are coming!