Greek Style

Just lately, I've had a real craving for Tzatziki.

So much so, that it became my dinner for tonight. Tzatziki & water crackers.

My mouth now has that fuzzy feeling, and I'm sure I'd kill off a whole host of vampires, but I couldn't stop. Last week it was poached eggs, and now it's Tzatziki. Weird.

What's even weirder is that normally, I can't stand yoghurt. The thought of eating it makes my throat get all tingly and threaten to close over! Those live culture things...ick!

But somehow, yoghurt with garlic is okay. Which is essentially what tzatziki is. However, if someone said, "here, have some of this garlic yoghurt" in the beginning before I ever had any, I would have run a mile.

But you know, here I am, already planning tomorrow's lunch (chicken with rocket & tzatziki). YUM.

And thus ends my weirdass observation for today.

Fugly Sunday

Today I wore a black skivvy, and regressed to Year 10 drama.

I didn't quite get all the way back to primary school - the skivvy was black, not bottle green.

What an odd piece of clothing to wear on a Sunday.

Dear Men of Melbourne Australia World

1000 apologies for not looking like Lara Bingle.

From,

Martie

The badness is back...

...because for the life of me I can't figure out if I'd rather be in bed at 1.20pm on a Sunday afternoon eating rubbery two minute noodles, or with him.

Of course, NEITHER, but you get my drift, don't you.

The problem I suspect is further compounded by my innate ability to trawl through the RSVP website and pick out guys that sound like they'd make fabulous boyfriends, and hope to christ their profiles are still up after the 10 years it feels like it's going to take to feel good about myself.

My bathroom needs cleaning, my bed linen needs changing, my floor needs cleaning, my washing needs putting away.

I need to go shopping. I need a new pair of work shoes. I need to find a solution to my white legs/inability to wear stockings without laddering them two minutes after I put them on, so that I can wear skirts to work in winter.

I need to save up enough money to get a new laptop, so I can download iTunes, so I can buy an iPod, and a docking station and actually listen to some friggin' music in this stupid house.

Pfffffft. Motivation. WHAT THE FUCK IS IT.

And now I shall get out of bed.

A dilemma of sorts

One of the bad things about being dumped by an idiot is that the sex dries up. There. Is. No. More. Sex.

And this Saturday night coming will mark seven (count them) 7 weeks without sex.

This is some sort of Martie record. Even after the Ex-Fucker dumped me, I still had a fuck buddy going.

And masturbation can only take you so far. There is no substitute for the kissing, the touching, the excitement, the whispers, the cuddling. Masturbation is just check out some free porn on the net, all over, goodnight.

After the Easter Weekend Incident, I swore it would be a one off, until I met someone and took my time, knowing for sure it was going to be a lasting thing.

However, the last few nights, I've been really jumpy, and I just figured out why; I'm horny (horny horny horny tonight).

It's the same sort of feeling I used to get after not seeing Him for a couple of weeks, only, I think the length of time is due to the Easter Weekend Incident.

And what to do about my conundrum? I'm not real keen on picking up a guy in a pub after the last time; disco pashing, yes please, but no back to my house or his house again. I could be like my ex best friend and root him in the carpark, but you know, gravel rash, etc.

I could go straight for the jugular and advertise for reals on Adult matchmaker, but there's just something about it that doesn't appeal. Maybe it's the fact that I don't want to seem like I'm interviewing for a fuck buddy; the romantic in me would like it to be a natural progression from a friendship/attraction. Yeah, fat chance.

So how else does one meet a fuck buddy? From where I'm sitting, there's not a lot of options. So perhaps I'll just have to stick to internet porn and my own spank bank for now.

Even so, I'd still have to 'tidy myself up' for any action. HAHAHA.

If you thought I was disgusting in my last post, wait until you hear what I did today:

Went to Chadstone* in trackie pants & thongs.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

/end maniacal laughter/


Things I am continuing to do:

- Not shaving under my arms

- Not shaving my legs

- Paying no attention to my bikini line

- Wearing my hair up every day

- Drinking Diet Caffeine Free Coke from the 1.25 litre bottle in bed; no cups for me.

- Using a towel as a bathmat

- Buying a 'polar fleece' jumper.

Am I turning into some sort of lesbian, or am I just entering the 6th-week-I-Can't-Be-Bothered-Stage-of-getting-dumped?

NB - It's 10:30pm, Saturday night. I'm pretty sure lesbians have better social lives than that.



*Chadstone for the non-Victorian - The Fashion Capital, dahlink

Topsy Turvy Land

Things are all over the shop here ( where 'here' equals Victoria, had a very nice time in WA, thank-you).

And the highly anticipated transformations taking place in Martieland (the life, not the blog), are in place, and whilst slow, are bringing a sense of self-confidence to me that I didn't think I had. The dwellings about The Boy are becoming less frequent, and whilst I'm far too sick at the moment to exercise, a detox and exercise program are ready to go, as soon as I stop sounding like a 90 year old smoker.

However, there are some unexpected changes that I don't seem to be able to stop.

First. I'm wearing socks to bed. EWWWWWWWW.
My absolute pet hate is socks to bed - don't even TRY to engage me in the sexness unless you've got bare feet. And here I am, with my grey 'trackie' socks, under the covers. Wonders will never cease.

I've let the thatch of pubis run rampant. It's like lost in the forest, or something.

Now for the big one - I HAVEN'T SHAVED MY LEGS FOR NEARLY TWO WEEKS. GROSS.
This is coming from a girl who shaved every day, sometimes twice, so there was never a chance a follicle could spring up, and now she has hairs more than 2 millimetres long on her legs for the first time in years.

What's going on?


This could only mean one thing...


I'm going to the dogs. I'm washed up, at the age of 27, and don't care anymore about how I look, or indeed, how I look naked.

And I actually am rather fond of it.*

Tune in next week, for stringy hair, and no makeup.


* denotes no sexing going on, obvs.