Raw feelings with Martie

Following last night's Total Smackdown Humiliation (SEE POST BELOW - DON'T MAKE ME RELIVE IT), I still have the hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach (or is that just my broken heart sliding down?), however, at 6:03am this morning, I managed to do the following things:

* Collect his (un-maliciously-damaged) belongings and put them all in a plastic bag on my couch. Except for grey jumper, which truly is at my Mum's house and well if she shrinks it, I really don't care. Or, if he doesn't get in contact with me ever again, I guess I've scored a grey jumper with a paper clip as a zipper-upperer

* Delete the 51 saved text messages that I have stored since June last year. Lots of stuff; from the horny stuff, to the "I adore you" you stuff. I re-read them, then hit the button. BIG DECISION.

Stuff that happened before 6:03am:

* I put up a(nother) page on an Internet dating site. I don't particularly want anything to come out of it, but the ego boost would be nice. Getting back on the horse, I think they call it.

* I text a guy I met last year, that, for the fact that it was bad timing, I never pursued anything with. It was a long shot, and I doubt he'll even remember me, but I just mentioned we should catch up for a drink, etc. AT LEAST I CAN FOCUS ON THE REJECTION/NON REPLY FROM HIM, INSTEAD OF THE OTHER FUCKWIT.

* Replied to an email from a Fantapants from my failed Fantapants adventures. Was just checking old messages, and I found a follow up email from him, and he was cute and...well even if I just get a picture of his pubes, then it will be worth it. It's about as much dick as I want/will be getting anyway.

Stuff that just happened right now:

* I realised that I won't have to clean feverishly on a Saturday when he comes over - if I want to leave dishes in the sink for another day, then I damn well will. Although, then I realised, I actually enjoyed the cleaning up for him, not to mention that it made me motivated to do it. Guess who is now going to turn into the biggest slob ever?



I should get up now. Go to work. With the bags under my eyes from lack 'o' sleep, and that awful hollow pit feeling in my tummy.

Wow. So many posts; I should get dumped more often.

I appreciate all your kind words; honestly, I do. You are smart, intelligent people, and I know what you are saying is right.

I just can't feel it at the moment.

I vascillate between really angry, that he's taken something like this so personally and won't accept, or discuss my apology; to really pissed off with myself because I'm so stupid and emotional; to really believing that I love him.

I called him tonight.

You know that sick feeling that you have in the pit of you stomach; it just sits there, eating at you? I managed to get through the day ignoring that sick feeling. Despite the fact I just wanted to curl up in my bed and space out, I put on a good face, and was even cheery when I went out to visit some clients.

Except, at 8:33pm, I couldn't ignore it any longer.

I rang. I rang his mobile. It rang out. He never, doesn't answer his mobile.

I messaged him. Again, another apology - 'I just want to sort this out'.

But nothing. Even if it was a 'Get fucked, I don't want to hear from you again', I'd get it. I'd move on. I'd then become that strong girl that everyone's raving about, and move on with my life.

It's the not knowing, the not hearing that's killing me.

And I'm scared. Scared that the longer he ignores me, the worse the outcome is going to be.

I'm lying in bed right now, and I'm wishing I could feel his body against mine. It's such a warm, comforting feeling, and think that I'll never have it again...

For someone to accept me, in all my non-size eight glory, and my non-Miss Universe looks, and all my weird sense of humour, and stupid comments, is one in a million. And I fear I have not the strength to go through this again.


I am so lonely.

Masterful Martie

Alright. Caved.

I text JB - again - to apologise - again - and no reply - again.

So it's time for Martie to pull a little BITCH (or devastated 17 year old) out of her arse.

No more messages.

AND

It seems I'm in possession of a nice looking grey jumper. I might have just happened to give it to my mother/aka - Queen of Shrinking Washing. Whoops.

I might have just happened to DROP his toothbrush into my toilet. Whoops.

Oh no! I might have just dropped the expensive aftershave sitting in my wardrobe on the pavement outside.

And how did all of the packets of Nurofen end up in my desk drawer at work?

Don't even go there with the Mouthwash, or the favourite pyjama pants.


All I need is the keys to my apartment back.



But I can always get the locks changed...

OMG!!!!! IT'S SO MUCH FUN BEING DUMPED

My life is so HUZZAH at the moment.

I honestly couldn't even read all the way through that last post; so I apologise now to everyone that had to endure it.

I've sent two apology text messages (This bloke doesn't deal through phone calls, etc - I KNOW. I JUST ANSWERED MY OWN QUESTION AGAIN), and have heard nothing, so, I'm going to leave it at that.

Thou shalt be left with a smattering of dignity.

And now, I'm off to kickboxing to uh, kickbox it all out. Not that I can really be bothered. I don't know that I will be able to deal with a guy handing out orders to me tonight.

And yes, I'm glad some people concur with my 18 month theory. Thank you ever so much. I'm going to get the lease drawn up tomorrow, and then maybe start planning my (solo) trip to Europe in 19 months time.

A girl's gotta have dreams, AND THIS ONE IS STILL WIDE AWAKE!




omg...

Boohoo. Woe is Me. Etc.

This is probably going to be a long, rambling post. It probably won't even stay up very long. It's probably going to be in mosts parts very poorly written and all 'poor me' but I've got to write it. I've got to get it out of my system. So go eat a bag of dick if you don't like it.

It's so hard when the person who you consider to be the absolute love of your life, doesn't reciprocate your feelings. Or at least you think he doesn't. And he hates you. And doesn't think you're very nice. And won't return your text messages. Which makes you even more desperate and send more saying sorry. Let me explain.

In short, the lease on my place is up in a month. The rent is going up $10, but I have the option of locking it in for six months, a year, 18 months or 2 years. So far, no one has been much help with what I should do. Let me stress, I don't want people to make the decision for me; I just want some considered opinions.

Jungle Boy, with whom I've been going out for over a year now, hasn't been much help in this respect. But I guess what I realise now is that with wanting his help about what I should do, I also wanted some clarity on where the future of our relationship lies.

After having a huge fight with my parents tonight about what I wanted to do (sign for 18 months - I made my descision today), I was feeling all confused again. Especially after talking to my friend Grace, who said I should only sign for six months.

I asked JB what he thought. Honestly, I've never had to make a descision like this before, and, considering the market, interest rates, etc, I thought some advice from people who have their shit together WOULDN'T HURT. Let me stress, that I have never pushed the point about living together, kids, marriage, etc. I've always been quite content to go on my merry way, and wait to see what the future held.

Except, I started talking about the lease - my eighteen month time frame I THOUGHT was pretty good. Enough time to do my own thing, but just in case other things came up, a good enough time to get out. I mooted the possibility of two, or even three years. 2 years, I could nearly handle, but three is not really what I want. Let me now stress again that bringing up the possibility of three years was not solely a test to see how he felt about our relationship; I will admit it was a little, but I was thinking along the saving money by locking in the rent line as well: I do still have to look out for myself too.

To him now though, I probably look like one of those pushy chicks etc. I'M NOT!!! I feel all neurotic, and often lack self-confidence, but the last thing I would want to do is push someone into something. Please trust me on this one. But I am a planner, and an organiser, and it would be nice to have clarity on how someone feels about you (I know he purportedly adores me, but is it adore for 'now', or something that you could maybe feel for the rest of your life?), and where they think the relationship is going.

I know, I could be an adult, and just ask him. But something gives me the impression that he is not comfortable talking about stuff like that, and he has even said as much. Because he is not used to having someone to talk to etc, etc. And yes, I know I am answering my own question, but let's push on hey?

So, in all of my Fucked Up Martie Wisdom, I thought that I could find out while he gave me some help. Because honestly, if the roles were reversed, and he was thinking about signing a lease for such a long period of time, I'd probably say that I had plans for maybe taking the relationship a step further, and it would be within those three years, and maybe only sign it for a shorter period.

So you can see how I assumed that he obviously doesn't feel the same way as I do; when I agreed with me when I suggested the three years. So yeah, in some More Fucked Up Martie Wisdom, I took it as a sign that this was him letting me down gently. And then I told him it was all cool, and at least I know how he feels now, etc etc. Neurotic. Insecure. Yes, I did admit it.

So he basically thinks that I tricked him now, and that he doesn't think what I did was a 'very nice way to go about it'. By that I think he means that it wasn't a very nice way to go about finding out how he felt about things. And yes, I'll reiterate, I should have just asked him straight out. But, here's the next bit...

I'm afraid. I'm afraid of what he'll say. I'm afraid of rejection. I'm afraid of putting it out there, and getting it thrown back in my face. With the Ex-Fucker, it was easy. We both knew (or at least he pretended very well) where we were heading, and how we felt about each other. Now, with JB, I feel that very same way, but I don't know how he feels. Again, I'm probably answering my own question (if you can't communicate openly about stuff...), but I'm ridiculously in love with him.

Actually, even as I write that, I think it's a lie. I like him a lot, I think I do love him. But am I just in love with the idea that one day he is going to open up to me, and I'm going to break down all of the barriers he has up? Maybe it's a challenge, which is why I can't see past all the shit, because I think I'm going to crack the code at the end?? Maybe I'm answering my own questions again. I THINK I'M PRETTY FUCKING GOOD AT ANSWERING QUESTIONS, DOES ANYONE WANT ME ON THEIR TEAM FOR A TRIVIA NIGHT??

Maybe it's a distance thing. Maybe we just live too far away from each other's - we've both admitted that if we lived closer to one another, we'd be popping over all the time. Now, the drive is bring a six pack and a cut lunch. Maybe that's why we're not as intimate as we should be at this stage of a relationship? Because we don't see each other that often, so the communication still doesn't flow like it should. Or maybe I should stop comparing to previous relationships, and analyse this one on its merits?

Or maybe I should just throw this laptop at the window (a statement, not a question). This is driving me insane. I know it's nearly half past one in the morning, I know he's not going to text me back now anyway. I know I've probably blown my chance, by acting like a 16 year old.

There's snotty tissues lying all over my bed, and I have big puffy crying eyes, and I have to get up in five hours time, but, we'll push on, shall we?

I honestly, honestly, honestly did not mean to trick him. I can see how it might look that way, but it's not. Then when he really didn't protest against the three years, I just assumed. Maybe assumed wrongly, but what else was I meant to assume? just that he is missing a 'sensitivity chip', or if that's how he truly feels. He's a smart boy, so my bets were on the latter.

You know how I know he's smart? Because when I asked him how he went on his tax, he said 'good' and left it at that. If it was me, I would have said "I got $200 back", or similar. I have no qualms about that sharing that sort of stuff - especially when it's my boyfriend. Also, he got a payrise a few weeks ago - even though I asked, he never actually told me how much the rise was, or even how much he earns. Yet, I do & I have. I have never thought of it as a trade secret - sure you don't go round telling people at work, etc, but what does it matter if you're telling your partner?

Clearly, a lot. I might a have digressed a little, but I was just thinking of it then, and how it may be an indication that he keeps me shut out of his life. Kept at arm's length, except when he wants a root. How crass of me to say that.

Anyway, the short of it is; he never replied to my last text message, which indicates he is really fucking pissed off with me, especially since the one before that was the "not very nice" one. So I've to assume that it's over; it has to be over after this, surely? It's just one too many dramas when I'm around - I've really got to pull myself together, fuck it. If only I could play it cool - but sometimes I have that emotive voice in my head, and it seems to come out Sundays. Like the blonde thing last week. That stemmed from me being insecure on Sunday night, which led to him telling me that he liked blondes with big tits. Maybe it's because I get all emotional when he leaves - after seeing him for less than 24 hours? I feel insecure when he goes to have his regular Sunday night tea with his parents - after his mum rings him twice - maybe it's because I STILL HAVEN'T MET HIS PARENTS YET.

And yes, again I'm aware I'm answering my own question.

Ok, well now that I've written the longest, crappiest post in the entire history of blogging (see, I knew I'd be first at something) and chewed the ear off the nicest person in history, I'm gonna take my snotty tissues, and head to bed. Or at least, try and get some sleep, even though I'm just going to lay awake thinking about how much of an idiot I am.

Yours truly, etc

Martie.

Arrest me

I've totally decided to steal this idea from Enny, so put me in handcuffs and call me Doreen.

Anyway, on with the show.

Deal is; 'list your blogroll & say something nice about them in one sentence'. Ummm, don't know how NICE I can be, but let's give it a shot.

And just like Enny, I'm too lazy to link, so just check with corresponding order on links (NB: I might just use posting names). Yo.

* Tokenwoman. Happy to hear that she loves Meatloaf as well. Will watch read with interest to see if she moves in with her boy (if I am correct about her last post).

* Under-whimsy Mel. I am FASCINATED that she actually has the (metophorical) balls to post her pics on the interwebs. Not that they're bad, just that they're there.

* Katie-baby. I'm still not sure what it is that I'm supposed to have wanted. But she is ace. And she knows it ;-)

* Culture Strain Sam. I'm so down with the bitch. I kinda want Ian Thorpe to come out, just so I can read the post.

* Dangerous Curves/Janet. Not really posting much anymore, and according to Martie's bloglore, I probably should remove it. But I covet the blogtitle.

* Dawei. See Strain, Culture. I wanna see the bitchfight as to who gets the post out first.

* Dilletante. Who could pass up man looking like Tony Martin?

AM I BEING NICE YET? YES. YES I AM.

* Dot & Mars. A relatively new addition. I like their layout. Truth be told though, I am jealous of their housemate relationship. But not with Emo.

* En Garde. This chick has really bad luck with men. And she just bought a motorbike. But that's ok, because I TOTALLY am liking the way she words her replies to her illiterate suitors.

* Ruby. A tough chick, when she posts. I loved her series on all the guys she's scored. But again, very sporadic now and I might have to remove her.

* Interpret this. My fellow Scissor Sister lover, and hot to boot. Pity he lives in South Australia.

* Hambo. Me & Desci's shared internerd boyf. And he sounds cute on the phone.

* Desci. The original intermanet hotness. And still the best. But we DO want more sex! The second blog I ever read, and my 'inspiration' to start my own. LOLLERSKATEZ!

* Michael on Morons. I don't know about this guy. Sometimes he sounds like he is 15 years older than he is. I want him to have some fun for a change. So serious!

* Not Working to Potential. I like reading about her house dimlemmas, but the black and white template drives me a little bit crazy. And she's just moved blogs. And I have to email her to get the details. And I think I might be too lazy/unmotivated/scared of black and white to do it. But I LIKES the idea though.

* Whatnot Alex. OMFG THE CUTEST FUCKING GIRL ON THE INTERWEBS. I covet thee skateboard!

* Somewhat Sober. Another blog that I got reading because I like the title. Howevs, she hasn't posted since April, so it's probably another one to whittle off my list.

* Dollop. Because I like spa parties?

* DJ. Best stories about drunken Yarra cruises evs. Reminds me of...ME! (Not as a DJ, but as a drunken person on a Yarra cruise).

* Spin. First 'blog' that I started reading. Followed a link posted in the Idle Forums complaining about a recap. FYI - I was trolling, not singing the praises. So, in essence, Spin was the perfect site for me. Although I must admit it pisses me off that I don't get to comment on there as much now - by the time I get around to it, it's too late and I miss all the good threads. Fuck that.

* Ben. My vodka slurpee buddy, despite not ever having consumed one with him. Doesn't post much any more. OMG, all these people and uni and stuff.

* Enny. Cruiser habit is dubious, but this chick is tops, and will kick your ass to boot. And I'm sure she doesn't mind if I steal her blogpost idea.

There are others. I have about three that I read all the time, but I'm still too lazy to add to my links. So sozzie. Especially to Prue, I promise I will get there eventually! How can one pass up pink flamingos??

The Boy is back and I'm not blonde

SAY...you're enamoured of a boy, and the boy is enamoured of you.

HOWEVS.

Boy admits that he is most attracted to girls with blonde hair, and big tits.

And while you've got the boobies down pat, your hair is most definitely the colour of rich dark chocolate, not spun straw.

SO.

Is it something to worry about? Apart from the perve factor, is he always going to be on the look out for a 'blonde you'? Or should you just take it with a grain of salt, and believe it when he tells you that he is attracted to you and adores you?

OMFG Nuerosis!

*****

The GOLDEN CHILD is back! That's right, Brother Martie has returned from the Land of the Rising Sun, after 18 months of drinking teaching english, and is back in his Golden Child status as favourite of the parents.

I've been reduced to attempting to cook COCKTAIL FRANKFURTS and frozen peas corn and carrots.

I hate when those bastards split.

Mind you, I'm still waiting for an Authentic Japanese Souvenir.

*****

Now that GC is back, he's decided to have clean up. FOUND: all my old school diaries! I had a wonderful night reading through them; mind you every second page was "I love Tony Lockett" or "I Love Tim Fisher".

I won't bore you with all the minute details, although I was very colourful and artistic back in the day.

However, I did come across one year that my mate Bubsy saw fit to write a 'tip' on every week of my diary. I present:

* Week starting January 29th: Don't eat scabs from your knees

* Week starting March 4th: Don't put hacksaws up your arse

* Week starting May 6th: Try not to rip out your lungs

* Week starting October 7th: Don't kill your friends with rusty old screwdrivers

* Week starting December 9th: Don't turn your pets into dragons by using spells from the Ashton Scholastic Kids Book of Magic Vol. 1

SHUT UP!

1996 was a bit light on, okay??!!

*****

Meanwhile, I'm off to Target to buy:


This dress.

AND


These shoes.

And possibly:


Dye my hair this colour.

Oooh La Fucking La!

Self-congratulatory

OMGWTFBBQ!!!!1!

Stop the FUCKING press.

You all owe me a thank fuck for that congratulations.

I did it.

I changed my mobile number.

So there will be no more invitations to suicide parties; no more (false) accusations that I am the cause of drug taking; no more announcements of gay sex at male spas in Richmond; no more sticking the knife in about the 'new girlfriend'.

NO MORE!

And the best bit? This was last ever text message to him; my response to him wanting my help with his 'new girlfriend' and his message that her earning more than him makes him feel bad about himself:

"Well, at least it will allow you to stay home and look after the kids"

Fucking SNAP!

I'm so happy, I could post my mobile number on the internet! As long as the Ex-Fucker doesn't have it, I don't care who does!

And the best bit? No more boring sooky posts about him. Everybody wins! SNAP again! It's the weekend! Cheers!

Day 1

Ok, well, feel free to kick my ass...

CONSUMED:

Tall Mocha
Muesli Bar
Mandarin
Chicken & Salad Sandwich
Diet Coke
Cherry Ripe
Spag Bol
Lemon Pudding
Diet Pepsi
Cup of tea

SMACK!

I need to:
Ditch the Muesli Bar (please do not make me give up the goodness of Mochas that I have just discovered)
Ditch the bread, and just have chicken & salad instead
Ditch at least one diet cola drink, if not both
Ditch the pasta at dinner - have at lunch instead (if needed)
I'm sorry, Lemon Pudding??
Undecided about Cup of Tea.

Ok. Let's see how we go tomorrow.

Lastly: A plea for help

"Plea plea. Plea plea"

Do any of you gourmets out there know how to cook a chicken fillet like it has been roasted? You see, I'd make my own chicken & salad (to save some money), but I hate cold cooked chicken fillet - always so tough on the outside. I love Roast Chicken, the meat doesn't go hard, but too expensive to buy when I'm only going to use the breast meat ( DON'T HATE ME 'COS I DON'T EAT MEAT WITH BONES!!). Is there a marinade that I can use? If so, how long?


OMG - CHERRY RIPES ARE NOT YOUR FRIEND, MARTIE

Attempt #1759

You might totally think that I'm all

(Not actual brain. Perhaps try Drainage Pattern: associated with the work of streams, etc)

now that I have been invited to my very first suicide party. Boy, that Ex-Fucker of mine really knows how to party like it's 1999, hey?

But, Like Fuck I Am.

I'm not mental. I may draw pleasure from simple things like balloons and coloured straws, but at least I don't go round slashing people in the face with my stanley knife.

Anyway, for countless times, I've been trying to lose weight. 800 in fact. Just while I have been writing this blog.

But anyway, I know what to do - I just have to do it. And now I have an 'event' that I can use as a kick start.

So. September.







I've got a black and white dress that busts out the BEST CLEAVE in the business, which I want to wear with black tights, a nice pair of rounded toe shoes (if I achieve my goal, I'll buy myself a new pair), and a little black cardi. With red accessories (hairpiece/jewellery/lipstick - if I can pull it off).

So. My task starts today. I NEED to fit into that dress, if only because I can't afford to buy a new one.


GET MOVING FATTY!

Blink and you'll miss, etc

Not fucking likely. One needs an outlet when dealing with invites to suicides* and one's best friend 'goes missing'. I kid you not.

I'm also very sick and am gathering my inspiration from clothes, shoes, papers, electrical hair appliances draped all over my WHOLE HOUSE APARTMENT ONE AND HALF ROOM BROOM CLOSET. Bring on Vogue Living.

Hence, I'm staying in bed. And you're getting a blogpost. EVERYBODY WINS! The only better-er thing could be if you were all in bed with me and we were taking turns to write a blogpost, like some tripped out spa party gone wrong. The mind doesn't just boggle, it frys itself, sunny-side up.

So while you're all Saturday-ing yourself up, and CURSING BECAUSE IT'S SUNNY AND YOU COULD HAVE WASHED instead of...whatever non-sick thing you are doing, I'm holed up with culturally approved Flavours of the World - French Onion & Cheese Shapes (not tested on a pacific atoll) and a cascade of (caffeine free) Diet Coke.

And reading this.

Riding bikes is tough people. Ever tried the spin bikes at a gym. Where your trainer makes you go two minutes on each level from easiest to hardest, then back up again from hardest to easiest, except you get confused and end up with three minutes left at the end?? Ahem. Yes, cycling is tough.

So it would appear that the very naughty American has been on the man-juice (NOT THAT MAN-JUICE, GUTTERMINDS) to win the race. Bad American. They say he might get stripped of his title. Which is only because he has obviously taken the more effective man-juice than everyone else (try adding pineapple juice next time fellas), what with cycling being "right up there with the filthiest of sports" (Some Victorian cycling minion).

Let's try sticking sticking digits up the cyclists' bums next year and then see how filthy they reckon it's going to get, eh?

So it's the usual quotes coming from the scene; 'disaster for the tour', 'innocent until B sample confirms the result', 'very, very angry' (Runner up's Mum!), 'complete audit on the sport' (ACCOUNTANTS AND BIKES DON'T MIX. EXCEPT IF THEY HAVE TUCKED THEIR PANTS INTO THEIR SOCKS; IF THAT'S THE CASE, PLEASE CARRY ON) and so forth.

It's even more scandalous because it looks naughty American could be the last the first champion to ever be stripped of his crown. Those Americans, always have to be first in everything. The last time that a 'yellow jersey/Daryl Somers fan' was disqualified from a race was 1904! I bet there was no man-juice around back then (although I bet my bottom dollar there was plenty of pineapples).

So what could it have been that disqualified the defending champion? (In case you were too lazy to read the article).

"...Maurice Garin was stripped of his title when it was judged he had taken a train during the race, rather than completing the full route".

Dude had caught a train.** WHAT GENIUS. We shouldn't be stripping Mr Garin, we should be fucking showering him with medals and honorary doctorates and Academy Awards, etc. He took a train! Bow to his mastermindedness. Now!




* Literal relaying of text message from Ex-Fucker:
"I was considering suicide a couple of weeks ago and I was going to ask you to join me".

** I know, I know. I said no more train posts.

Nup. No More.

As an aside to snot inducing sale on Sunday, it seems that snot inducing sales can bring on Cold War II, or whatevs.

So, I'm playing the part of the totally confused little un-bloc-ed country WHO HAS BEEN WAITING FOR SOME SORT OF SIGN AS TO WHETHER IT'S 'ON' OR 'OFF'.

I'm sorry, alright. I'm desperately sorry that I made it such a big deal about you not showing me the clothes you were trying on. My feelings were hurt, but I don't need to be such a drama queen.

I'm sorry, I'm trying so hard to cope with the constant long delays between seeing each other; I understand what it is like for you, and I'm trying not to let you see how hard it is for me.

I'm trying so hard to understand how you are not an 'emotion displaying person', and how it doesn't correlate to my ideal of a perfect relationship.

And also, I love you.

Even if I can't say it to your face, I need to get it out.

There.

If only Rove hadn't fucked over the interview with the Scissor Sisters.

**NB: Due to aforementioned Cold War, I honestly have no energy, or brain power, to blog properly, or at all at the moment. I need to resolve this issue first, because I can't think about anything else. So, clearly, 'Community Wednesday' will be delayed. My apols.

Crazy Prices

I don't know how a going to a 40% sale at Surf Dive'N'Ski can make me cry, but I'm sitting here with tears and snot everywhere. Classy.

I feel so, inadequate.

Community Wednesday

EVERYONE'S got a regular feature on their blog; Desci has Freakline, Fits has Friday Questions, Spin has Neighbours recaps, Steph has Mid-week Banality Fests and Lefty has...Cat Pictures. Now 17 years later, Martie is getting one too.

So, welcome to Community Wednesday. Just like the page in Womens Day, only crunchy.

Rules of Engagement are very simple. Missing 'Hawaiian Snoopy'from your Happy Meal collection circa 2001? Want to know where you can get your hands on a copy of the 'Darryl & Ossie' vinyl? Even looking for a new housemate?

Then, email me at theonewiththegreenhair@hotmail.com, with what exactly you are after (the more details the better), and we will do our best to bring your wishes to fruition.

Every Wednesday, I will post a new Community noticeboard with your emails, to which people can reply to in the comments, or via your contact details that you left in your notice. If you want to remain anonymous, then it's best that you email me first, as I don't want to be an intermediary passing on the goods or money. Just think of me as your local Coles notice board!

So. To get the ball rolling, here is something that I DESPERATELY want, but have not been able to find - maybe someone somewhere has seen them:

***
WANTED:
Woollen, fingerless gloves, that have a little 'cap' attached that you can pull over your fingers (so that they look like mittens) when you are finished with the fingerless part. In case that is confusing, here is a picture to help, proudly brought to you by MS Paint:


(Whoops, I appear to have stolen someone's whole blog there)

Anyway, if you have seen these being sold anywhere - and I have a feeling they are more likely to be on the trendy, artsy side of town, as opposed to the toffy, Country Road leather glove side of town, please let me know in the comments. Possibly before the end of Winter, as I would very much like to wear these around the city smugly.

***

And that's it. That's how easy it is. So get cracking people. And we will reconvene back here next Wednesday for some more Community action.

Weekend update of death

I was all over the shop this weekend.

Friday night - I wrote myself off watching the sad sad remnants of my favourite cover band, Crazy Haus. OMGWTFBBQ - Terrence cut all of his hair off! Noooooooo. He looks - odd.

Saturday - Father Martie and I took ourselves off to the football, in perfect wintry conditions. HURRAH! I LOVE paying $800 for a warm bottle of diet coke, and a cold hot dog. Good to see some things never change. AND, St Kilda won. Suck it up, Daddy.

Saturday night - Do yourselves a favour, and DON'T go and see Superman Returns. Unless you wanna play Spot the Aussie (apparently it was filmed here?), it is lame, and can't make up its mind if it is a serious action movie, or a highly camp funfest. I did have nice pizza for dinner though.

Sunday - Possibly spent the whole day in bed...possibly watching The Poseidon Adventure...eating sausage rolls...drinking chocolate milkshakes. I love winter.

In other news, I seem to be feeling a lot better now, from last week. You're all gorgeous for sending me your best wishes. I'm still hurting, and still fucking around*, but secretly, the drama is better than nothing at all.



*Not literally fucking. It's Morals July.

****UPDATED: The one without a title

Kids: take note. Being in love hurts.

It causes you to leave ridiculous comments on other people's blogs.

It causes you to bust out the BBQ shapes at 11:30pm on a school night.

Even worse, it causes you to finish off the Mint Chocolate Baileys on a school night.

It makes you stay up until midnight on a school night.

It makes you sent ridiculous text messages to assholes.

It makes you vote in Big Brother evictions. (SMS 199 EVICT with the message 'Krystal'. Please, for my sanity).

It makes you neglect to bring your washing inside in the midst of gale force winds.

It makes you feel like going running at 12am at night.

It causes you to die just a little inside when the person you love...just doesn't love you back.

It makes you write seventy five hundred morose blog posts that make you seem like a shallow, narcissic bore.




At least it's not about trains.




*****UPDATE*****
It also causes you to forget to title your blog posts

The weekend that was

I'm not getting any sex. WAHHH

I went to a 30th at a Melbourne pub, where a vaguely familiar celebrity served me free beer until I tortured myself and caught the train home.

I still didn't get any sex. SUCH A WASTE OF A BRAZILLIAN.


OMFG YES. Bring it.
Mint. And Chocolate. And Baileys. Liquid orgasm.

Should drink it, BECAUSE I'M NOT GOING TO ORGASM ANY OTHER WAY.


Purple is the new pink. Remind me for when I finally get around to having my housewarming party.

My best friend made me cry on Friday night.

My extremely lame excuse of a 'male partner' made me cry on Saturday.

A kind (and very drunk boy) cheered me up, even though he was sad himself. (Thanks, H/M).

I bought two new bras, at the NEVER TO BE REPEATED MYER SALE. The two bras that I bought, were both full price.

I've decided that I can never have anything but an Oroton wallet, being the snob that I am. Even though I saw a perfect brown leather one at the NEVER TO BE REPEATED MYER SALE today, at the perfect price, I couldn't buy it because the name on it wasn't right.

No Sex. No Love. No Intimacy. It's all about the Money & Going on Holidays.

Bah.

"I'm addicted to you, but I know that you're toxic"

Britney Spears is a fucking genius. This is philosphy, 21st century style.

It encompasses so many human relationships; we know they're bad for us, but we just keep on going back. And back.

Take this example:

Girl A finally had it with Boy A's treatment of her, and exorcised him from her life. But soon after, she felt lonely, and craved his on-off attention. So much so, that they decided to spend the weekend together in the city, and she spent all her hard-earned on dinner, drinks and gambling, even when he earns twice as much as her. So desperate was she for his attention, she even bought him a ring to symbolise her feelings, when all he'd ever bought her was...well, we won't go there.

And to think, she did all this, while she knew there was another waiting in the wings; another who would wine and dine her, and buy her jewellery, and give her the sense of belonging that she craved.

Don't you just want to slap her stupid??




On the other hand.....

Machines with a heart

I don't know if this is indicative of my current state of mind, or if anyone else thinks it is a highly traumatic advertisement but:

You know the ad with the ANZ ATM? The one where he (The ATM) follows the guy around all day, until he finally needs to withdraw money, and The ATM is standing there faithfully, all out of breath, waiting for him?

That ad makes me cry.

I look at The ATM as a dog, ever faithful, and to see it chasing after that horrible man, apparently unwanted, breaks my heart.

To the extent where I now have to change channels whenever it comes on.




So now, when I open up my retirement home for dogs; I think I'll have to open a separate section for ATMS.

Train wreck

Hi team.

Yes, I've been MIA. It's kinda like that when you're minding your own business on a train, and then you get told you're 'too large to be entitled to a seat'.

It seems some random cunt (male, caucasian, early 40's, crewcut, ugly coat) decided to sit right next to me, when there were plenty of empty seats (even one right next to him), and proceeds to encroach on my arm space, pushing against my arm.

Not one to back down, I pushed back against his arm. It was fairly amusing at this point, and I'd imagine we would have looked more at home on a football field.

Finally, he decides to initiate 'conversation':

Random Cunt: "Gosh, you like to take up a lot of room, don't you?"

Me: "What would you have me do, sit in the aisle?"

RC: "Well yes, I mean, you're half on my seat"

At this point let me clarify that when Mr Perfect sat down, he bustled his way onto part of my coat, which was draped over the point in the middle of the two seats. So while my coat was stretched over to his side, my ass was nowhere near his godd damn seat.

But try explaining that to RC:

RC: "You're not entitled to one and a half seats, even if you are large."

Me: "Well, feel free to fuck off to any other seat if you wish."

As the Cocklord was getting off, he attempted to kick me. Me, being a kickboxing 'veteran' had the upper hand, and got a good one into his shin, half tripping him up. Take that!

However once the initial adrenaline wore off, I was quite upset, and spent the rest of the train ride with wet eyes. And, the majority of the weekend quite intoxicated, and quite possibly making a fool of myself in front of my new boss. At least I was making myself feel better.

So yes. Note to self. Toughen up when in city. And on trains. And promise; no more train posts.

Recipe - Le self pity

1. Cold & Rainy Afternoon/Night - Check

2. New Sheets on bed - Check

3. Freshly laundered pyjama pants stolen from the cunt that STOOD ME UP FOR THE BILLIONTH TIME - Check

4. Depressing Cold Play Music (Track 4) - Check

5. Feel-good take-away for dinner - Check

6. 'Off' button on mobile so I can't keep checking for the elusive little envelope
sign for the messages that the cunt won't send me - Check

7.
In Mint Chip flavour, of course - Check

8. Baileys. And Ice. - Check

9.
The Queen of them all, on DVD. - Check

Mix together listlessly. Avoid throwing squishy purple cushion against wall. Watch DVD, and resolve to become more liket the Grand Old Dame herself - chew 'em up and spit 'em out, etc.

Finally, follow with a spattering of vomit and a bit of No Doubt's 'Sunday Morning', and pass out.

Voila! Your Saturday night in the bag.

Train-gang

Ok. I'm sitting here, with one IE page open writing this, another IE page open reading blogs and what-not, I'm on the phone, I'm watching TV, I'm talking on MSN, and I'm involved in a text message threesome.*

Congratulations to me for being the 2006 Bestest Multi-tasker. Hurrah.

It is however, indicative of how my life is going to be now. No longer can I open up my fave blogs during the day; in fact, I've already discovered that some of my faves are not considered appropriate at all to open, even during my own time. Hello to internet usage monitoring. Thus, I'll be even further behind with my reading. And commenting. So 1000 apologies to those I love, and even those I don't love, because I'll be coming in three days late and by then it won't matter if I comment or not. But know that I still love/don't love you. In a mate's way.**

So. The Job. Well shoot me down with a bundle of sticks if this hasn't been what I've been looking for my whole life. Open Communication Channels; Ordered teams and designated work; Proper Processes and Procedures; A Cubicle; Pay Slips...the list could go on and on. Give me six months, and I'll be whinging more than a certain head-banded housemate BUT anything beats the ad-hoc approach to management, work and hr that my last job had.

It does have the inevitible downside though. The trains. I was already apprehensive about catching them; turns out that they certainly live up to their not-so-crash-hot reputation.

I caught an express the other morning; should have had me in at Southern Cross at 8:17am, plenty of time to walk to office, and check out suit talent*** on the way (my new fave past-time). However, it was running late - 12 minutes in fact. Not so great an impression to make on my second day.

So today, I caught the 7:31am train - this one was late as well. Like, this just makes me really fucking MAD. I'm paying PREMIUM prices, and this is the sort of service that I'm getting. I mean, they're trying to encourage us to catch PT, be more green, not park your cars in the city, etc, and they charge so much money for a service that quite frankly is not worth it.

For a first time user of PT (I've never had to use it before; not for school, uni or previous jobs. Yes I know, how very suburban of me - Mr & Mrs Croydon anyone? Yeah, well, meet Miss Mentone****.) it is a real eye opener, and it makes me even want to join the Public Transport Users Association because did I mention that I was MAD? And that's an extrordinary feeling for me, because I've never felt passionate enough about something to make me want to join a 'society' or similar. Except of course, cruelty to animals, but that goes without saying.

It's funny; too often people don't give a shit about something until it directly affects them. I don't necessarily think that's a bad thing; that type of selfish-ness is just human behaviour and didn't Bjork write a song about that? I don't know, I may not hold the informed, or even any views about topical issues such as detention centres and shit, but trust me when I say that I will hold society's best interests at heart when I will be taking on the cunts that run our PT system. And have no fear, if detention centres had train lines, I'd make sure they were re-zoned as well, so fares wouldn't be as expensive.

Who's with me? Do you think your fare's fair? Actually, that's going to be a great fucking slogan for my campaign, and I TM it right now. Or are you happy with your service? What improvements would you like to see? Obviously, this is fairly Melbourne-cised, but if you're interstate/overseas, how do you think your PT system compares? Especially price-wise. I would be interested to know.

Yeah...campaign...watch this space...



* - A non-sexual threesome. Sex (even text message threesome sex) needs your utmost attention

** - Isn't this the trendy thing to write on your blog these days?

*** - Fucking tongue-droppingly awesome.

**** - Me. For stalking purposes.

ONE DAY TO GO

I have to type quickly...or I fear that the Pharmacy Brand analgesic that I have taken to try and get some sleep will take effect and I'll nod off at my keyboard...either that or the World Cup will do the trick.

ONE MORE DAY.

One more day, and I'll be out of that god-forsaken minefield of bitchyness and more intrigue than a 15th European Court. And quite possibly into a bigger one, but there's more chance of getting away from it in a larger corporation, isn't there.

Actually, you could possibly pass it off as half a day, because the afternoon will most likely be spent at the pub down the road. But I promise not on the revolving dance-floor afterwards. Stalk away.

The one good thing to come out of it, was that I sneakily requested my own going away present, an ice-cream cake, and a trip to the pub instead of chinese in the office. Hurrah for me.

Then on the weekend I'm fucked-out busy, repairing shoes, taking up hems, getting hair done and buying a(nother) black suit. Hurrah, trains, here I come.

So yeah, here's a recap. Last day of work tomorrow; first day of work on Monday = too stupid to take a week's break in between.

Mmmmmm so sleepy now....have a good one....

I'd rather be in Albury...

Long weekends are Teh Jizz, you know.

And so to celebrate, here is a long weekend post.










.




I'm not that mean.
Here's some light entertainment for you. Oh, what I could do with such an acerbic wit such as that.

Now, I'm just off to buy a black suit (THIS TIME NEXT WEEK PEOPLE!) and also a parka/casual coat that doesn't look like it's squashing down my ample bosom.

As you were.

Regression

I wish I was in primary school.

In primary school, you never get cold. You get to walk around in shorts and a t shirt all day, and play after school at night at a friend's house in your shorts and t-shirt and you'll never feel the cold. Even when your mum nags and nags you to put your jumper on, you'll only put it on to shut her up, then when she's walked away again, you'll rip it off and go back to playing Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles or Shop, or Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles saving the shop from Shredder and Krang - whatever takes your fancy.

I'd also like to be in primary school, because you can get 'rostered' on to play Dinosaur Discovery in the afternoon. You and your partner get your floppy disk with your saved game from last week, and you'd sit down in the hallway to try and beat everyone else. And how good did it feel when you finally negotiated a safe passage? Almost as good as when you finally caught Carmen, I'd imagine.

In primary school, they'd give you a pack of coloured pencils. And one of those 'gummy' erasers too. They were ace. You could break bits off and throw it at people when the teacher wasn't looking. You would also get to sit at special lifty-up-py desks where you could hide secrets, and pick a new desk partner every fortnight from the teacher's Itty Bitty Bin, and hoped and prayed you picked Stuart (again). If you were really lucky, you could hear your teacher call Jonathon a 'moron' and think it was the MOST SCANDALOUS THING EVER!

So, considering all this fun stuff, it's no wonder there's kids walking around in t-shirts when it's 7 degrees. I wonder when you start getting cold. Probably when you get to high school, and there's boys and 'non-understanding' parents and science homework to worry about.

Obviously that's why adults are feeling the cold the most. They're the ones that are wrapped up in thermals and warm clothes and coats and scarves at even the hint of some fresh Autumn air. It's because they've got the most to worry about. Jobs, and partners, and money, and kids, and mortgages, and politics, and car crashes, and weight, and getting old and....

Or maybe, these kids are getting about sans jumpers because they've lost them for the 100th TIME THIS YEAR ALREADY?



PS - In primary school, I made up a game. Imaginatively titled 'Car'. What you'd do, is get a group of friends together (4-6 is ideal), and sit in the playground at lunch time where you could see the road. You'd then pick an order, and each car that drove past would be allocated to each person in that order. Then you'd play and play and play until the bell rang for you to line up and then you'd decide who won, based on the following:
- colours of the cars that you 'got'
- exciting-ness of the cars that you 'got'
- occupants of the cars that you 'got'.
I once 'got' a bus full of grammar boys on their way to sports. That day, there was no question of who won.
I'm giving you all free range to play my game now - in fact DO IT this weekend. It will possibly help if you are a little drunk, and maybe even a little bored, but tell me how triumphant you will feel when you get a Ferrari, a fat-ass 7 series BMW and a car full of saucy members of the opposite sex, and you can go 'WINNER'.

Bonus points if they wave.

Not as smart as you think..

Seems I could be the world's most gullible person. You know the old saying, look up the word in the dictionary, see my picture, etc etc.

Seems everything that the Ex-Fucker has been telling me - the swingers parties, the male spas, the drugs - was all made up as some sort of test, to see if I've been telling people about it.

MADE UP. TEST. EX. FUCKER.

I've got a fucking neon sign over my head, haven't I? "Idiot, stop here" or similar.

So I'm pretty fucking miserable at the moment. Apart from the Ex Fucker's histronics, I'm dealing with finishing up at my old job, stressing over starting my new one, my finances are pretty much shot to bits, and I'm stressing about where I'm going to be living in a few months; I'm due at the nutritionist tomorrow night, and I reckon that I'm even more unhealthy than I was last November, and....well, it's just catching up with me...

Is it worth savin' me?

Do you laugh at people in their cars when you realise they're singing along to something? Do you deride them, point at them, flick your radio over so you can try to figure out what station they're singing along to?

Well don't.

Chances are, you've encountered ME singing along like I had a hairbrush in front of a mirror. My friends, I have decided that I am a WALKING, TALKING, VIDEO CLIP!

In case you're not getting the gist of it, it's like It Takes Two, but there's only one, and I'm in a car, not a Channel 7 studio.

I can't help it. Everytime a song comes on, I catch myself singing and 'acting' along to it. Melancholy Pete Murray songs? Yep, I'm gripping the steering wheel and looking wistfully out the window while humming "Soon, you'll see". Until I get pissed off after about the 7th repeat, and change the station, and the director's yelling 'CUT', and I have to do the whole sceen all over again.

Lucky every single station seems to have it on high rotation through-out the day.

La la la Kylie? I've perfected her driving sequence from the video clip to a 't'.

Run DMC v Aerosmith - 'Walk this Way'? More like 'Drive this Way' when I'm in the car.

Bat out of hell? It's just one big fucking soap opera in the Astra at the moment.

Hand movements, gestures, head nods, swerving in time to music enthusiastic drum beats on steering wheel. You name it, I'm bringing it to the roads. A danger? Probably not at the moment, but stop me when I clench my hands all emotional-y like while singing along to "What about me" (NOT the Shannon Noll version - that's an automatic loss of licence).

However, what I've found to be most disturbing, is my enthusiasm for Nickelback's latest ditty 'Savin' me'. Yes, yes, I know my hatred for the 'Back is well documented, but fuck me if I'm not addicted to watching the video clip. I LOVE the idea of being able to see how much time a person has until they expire, and you only lose this 'burden' after saving someone from their 'expiry date'. Ace stuff.

Because this song doesn't exactly inspire much acting, and because I just don't have quite enough time to bust out the paddlepop lion suit when it comes on, I've taken to viewing anyone and everyone I see, with a little orange countdown clock on their head! OMG, I have totally immersed myself into this video clip; now all I have to do is find someone to save, and I won't have to do anymore takes!

Lollypop man? Nope. Big orange signs and a whistle are such a deterrant.
Strange woman who sits in her BMW all morning. No chance.
Stupid private schoolboys who ride their bikes in front of me. Can't save them if I want to fucking run them over, can I?

My quest continues. I will find someone to save, and I will be free of my Nickelback curse. And don't forget to wave, if you see a slightly nutty girl in an Astra pining for her lost love on 'the day you went away'. You might just get your head on camera...

Misson: Failed

Wow! An update on the Fantapants Experiment. It's been so long that....all the real gingery pubes have probably faded...

I am most ashamed to admit that I failed! Not one pubic hair photograph made it's way to my specially prepared inbox. I'm still in the dark as to whether carrot penises actually exist, and despite the reigning confusion of the past few weeks, a small flame (BAHAHAHAHA) still burns inside of me, wanting to be extinguised by knowledge. Of pubes.

I think I may have approached it from all the wrong angles though. My profile was fairly nice, and all 'I love redheads' which could have possibly given off the wrong impression. What I should have written was '18 year nubile girl, wants pictures of red pubes to get off on', then sit back and watch them roll in.

I did get an email from a VERY VERY VERY good looking boy/man/carrot, who scrubbed up extremely well in a suit, and seemed nice to boot. Of course me, being all introverted and shy and not at all self confident, didn't reply. Opportunity gone begging my friends, begging.

And now that the novelty of me being a 'new member' on the website has worn off, I haven't had any hits for ages, not even from desperate 50 year old guys with black hair.

So that kills my experiment, and apparently mission control have put a stop to funding and time spent on this particular research topic. Perhaps I need to apply for a Government grant to 'extinguish the flame'??

Little Miss Perfect

Bad. Bad. Bad. I did what I swore I wasn't going to do once I resigned, and that was tell people what I thought of them. Whoopsie. Daisey.

Silly me has gone and upset Miss Perfect, and now, I'm in the black books!

I couldn't help it though; I'm not a bubbly, perky person, especially not at 9:30am on a Monday morning. And it really pisses me off when people decide they want to do part of my work, then hand me the dregs.

So I was just fairly short with her, then all of a sudden she's having a go at me for being rude, rah rah rah. Consequently, my hands have been shaking all morning from adrenaline; as much as she shits me, I did not want to get into all out wars with people with only three weeks to go.

But she's just so...perfect! Perfect blonde hair, tan, body; a sing-song 'I'm always happy' voice, doesn't swear, owns her own house, lives with her partner, etc etc etc, and is only my age! Urghh. So infuriating. Yes yes, I know a lot of it is jealousy. But she is so perfect she makes me want to poke my eyes out with a pink highlighter.

Surely this is not an isolated incident? Is there anyone that you have to deal with constantly who is so perfect that it makes you want to scream? And how do you deal with them? I feel bad for being rude now, but in reality I just want to tell her to cram her sing-song voice back into her stupid mouth.

Sore nipples and hot gay guys

I've got the flu, my god damn nipples are so hard because it's FUCKING FREEZING, and I'm pissed off. Oh boy.

Why am I pissed off? There's a multitude of reasons; not at least the fact that people earning $400K and STILL not being able to do their job properly.

It's also the fact that the new shoes I bought last Thursday ALREADY have already scuffed and have had the leather fall off the toes.

And we need not mention all the extra work that has suddenly appeared from 'nowhere' now that I have given notice, and has to be finished before I leave, along with me training someone to do my job, and getting my normal work up to date.

However, probably the most perplexing, pissing-me-off issue is being told "I'm finally ready for you to meet my parents". After one year. The Fuck? Anyway, I'm going to do the Big Brother thing, and play the game. "Sorry, Sunday night is reserved for dinner with my parents"; "Sorry, I'm feeling a little under the weather, and would not be my usual sparkling self" "Sorry, I was so ready to meet them ages ago, that I have become un-ready again, and you and your mother will now have to wait until I become ready again" or "Sorry, I'M STILL PISSED THAT I WASN'T INVITED TO DINNER FOR YOUR BIRTHDAY YOU MUMMY'S BOY CUNT, SO YOU CAN JUST STICK YOUR 'GET-TO-KNOW-YOU-DINNER' WHERE THE SUN DON'T SHINE".

Yes, of course.

And speaking about Big Brother, I'm so bored with this year's crop of housemates, that I can't believe I haven't turned it off already. But oh no, little pervy old me was up watching the AO show last night, and while I was watching their impersonations of a lapdance, I was disturbed by a very sudden thought:

Imagine getting a lapdance from (rumoured stripper??) Gaelan? I'd be asking for my money back, quick smart. I hate to say it, but is it a just a strange co-incidence that he looks like a cousin to Michael Bryant, and it was the 10th anniversary of the Port Arthur Massacre this year?

*Cue spooky music*

*Cue microwave for hot chocolate with Codral flu caps*

*Cue goodnight*



*UPLATE UPDATE: I totally think that Rob looks hot dancing at the beach party

VOTEZ FOR ROBZ TO WINZ!!!!1!

This way please...

If you had been stood up for the SECOND TIME by the person who promised to take you to Cold Rock to celebrate your new job, and you had in your possession, their favourite pyjama pants, would you rip them up into little pieces and mail them back to that person??

Just asking.

Meanwhile, I'm keeping myself happy with a new bag and new shoes and a new job and A FUCKING BIG ANNUAL LEAVE PAYOUT COMING MY WAY.

I have one month to:

*lose 10 kilos
*fuck cocktards off once and for all out of my life
*stop swearing
*clean my fridge
*have a haircut
*save money for car registration/insurance
*go to Cold Rock.

For on June 19th, I plan on starting a new chapter in my life, starting with my career, and I'm going to walk out my door that morning on the way to the train station, more confident than I've ever been in my life. And I'm writing it all down here, just to keep myself on track. So, excuse me while the focus of my blog shifts a little; just keeping myself honest.

Next stop: Schoolies

Oh, for the love of regular posting.

By the time I'm getting home, I don't even want to face a computer.

However, something happened to restore my faith in mankind...

Last night, against my better judgement, I played netball again.

And what did the fresh faced 17 year old I was playing on, happen to ask me while the ball was down the other end?

"So, what high school do you go to? What subjects are you studying?"

Oh honey. I was probably looking after you in after school care.

Watch out for Martie in a short tartan skirt and school tie, coming to some patch of Victoria near you.

And oh. Note that I was stood up TWICE on Saturday night, and never got my Cold Rock. Are there any takers? Does anyone want to take me to get some M'FUCKING ICE-CREAM WITH SNAKES IN IT? Do I have to auction myself off? I JUST WANT ICE-CREAM. ICE CREAM.

Because, if I'm looking like I'm 17, I'm damn well going to act like it.

I do...I do I do I do I do I do

Yo bitches. Slack mole here ( :P to you Desci). A litany of excuses, of course; I have been job interviewing, working, kickboxing, working, watching TV in bed, and did I mention working? Fucking end of financial year.

So, anyway, if it was today without the circumstances of approximately one and and a half years ago, I wouldn't be at work. In fact, I probably wouldn't even be blogging. Because tomorrow, would just about be one of the biggest days of my life.

I'd be getting about wearing something like this:


Rocking around in something like this:


Entertaining here family, friends and obligatory guests here:


Consumating the union in something like this:


And then finally hiding myself (and the hubby) away somewhere like this:



That is correct. Martie would have been getting married. To the drug addict Ex Fucker. Good decision much?

Come tomorrow night, there could be tears, there could be celebrations, there could also be strawberry champagne and vomit. However, if I get the job I've been interviewing for, it will definitely count as a party, and to signal the next chapter of my life.

Do you think it would be too perverse to have dinner at the Portsea Hotel?

BAHAHAHAHAHA! Fuck no. I'm going to be enjoying (completely drug free) fucking awesome ice-cream instead.

And probably lots of strawberry champagne (fuck off, it was free).

So have yourselves a merry little weekend, wedded or not.

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!

Don't stop moving to the funky funky beat

It really is true that music can lift your mood. And ever since I discovered that my super-dooper DVD player will play my MP3s I have been rediscovering the joy of Martie's mix-cd, layed down this time last year.

And what a rediscovery it is. Where else could you find The Screaming Jets next to S Club 7? Not on 'So Fresh', that's for freakin' sure.


United by the moment, on Marties blog

A self-proclaimed disco queen, I've been out of action for a while now, wih various injuries. However, my physio tells me that I'coming along in leaps and bounds, and thus, it will soon be time for me to return to the floor.

This is all helped by the return of The Tart, my bestest friend in the whole wide world, who is making the move back to Melbourne, after finding Brisbane a bit too 'vegas' for her. We are the party Tarts, and April heralds our return. Fuck yeah!


People cleared the floor for the return of the Tarts

However - there isn't a hell of a lot of decent places to venture out to on this side of town. And I'll be fucked if I'm going to fork out my entire wage on a cab fare from the other side of town. Dude, we NEED those cheeseburgers on the way home.

There's a couple of disco pubs around. Suburban, but alright after a while, especially if you want to play pash & dash (Bayside boys are so easy). However the main one is now where the Ex-Fucker and his golfing buddies (and new girlfriend) hang out and until I'm ready to walk in there wearing nothing but a black string bikini and fuck off high heels, that one is off-limits.

There is a lounge/bar type establishment around the traps, which is much more famous for previously being a place called 'Jakes'. If you know the area at all, you'll know Jakes. It was famous for being 'the' kick on venue in probably the whole of southern metropolitan Melbourne.

Jakes was the sort of classy joint where, when someone vomited, it would be covered up with sawdust & everyone would get on with the party. It wasn't unusual for the line to get snake right up Church street, and to get there before 1am was just 'so uncool'. It was also a common sight to see most people in the queue eating overpriced hotdogs from the built in hotdog stand, before they paid $10 bucks to get in and go crazy on the shots. It is also where the Ex-Fucker and The Athlete first kissed me. Oh Jakes, I miss you.

So due to lack of 'cool' nitespots, it looks like we are going to have to dag out, and hit the quasi-over 28's for a while. Quasi, because at one stage they wouldn't let guys in without a collar, and also because you can get some serious grannies in there. Usually, if I've had a few, I'll walk past them and come out with gems like "Nanna! It's way past your bedtime" or "Don't forget to take your teeth out when you blow that guy tonight".

I never said I wasn't a bitch.

Besides, HOW CAN YOU GO PAST A PLACE THAT PLAYS 'ICE ICE BABY'? And yes, that is me up the front singing ALL the words.


Will it ever stop? Yo, I don't know.

Alcohol required

I SWORE to myself that I would never turn my blog into Martie's love life disasters, and in particular, I would never post another thing about one fucktarded boy in particular, but...

It's Jungle-Boy's birthday tomorrow. I thought I would get him a nice present for his birthday. Yes, even after the dressing gown & store perfume incident. What can I say? I'm generous. I don't like to 'buy' people with my gifts, but I like to get them something that makes them feel special.

$250 bucks later. There's only one thing bugging me - what to do about his actual birthday. I KNOW that he will be going out for dinner, and I'm wondering if I will be invited.

It seems not.

Apparently, his mum has 'plans' for him. Pick him up from work, then they (his family) go out to dinner. Non-inclusive of me. I'm not invited. His family. Not me.

You would think, that after nearly 10 months together, that you would have done the whole 'meet the parents' thing. Especially since he lives right around the corner, and sees them nearly every day.

It seems not.

A relationship that he proports is 'serious', but obviously not serious enough for something like that. Fool, Martie.

I'm just about to the end of my tether. I do something nice, I get flippant/casual/rude in return. Yet, I'm not angry at him; I'm pissed with myself because I obviously have a serious lack of self-respect to be treated this way. And because I spent my grocery and petrol money on his motherfucking present.


*****UPDATE: This just through on MSN conversation:

Jungleboy: I've got plans for you when you get a job in city
Martie: Oh?
Jungleboy: Yeah. An apartment in the city!
Martie: Okay. I'm going to have to get a pretty bloody good job then.
Jungleboy: Who said it would be all you?
Jungleboy: I've always wanted to walk to work.
Martie: So, you'd want to get an apartment so you could walk to work? (*Not to move in with me, just so you could walk to work?* OH HOW I WISHED I'D ASKED THIS. WHAT A PUSSY)
Jungleboy: Yeah. But I'd need somewhere for my car and pc's and stuff. So I'd live at home on the weekends.
Martie: ???

/

I've not lived with someone before, but I'm sure the whole deal is meant to be more romantic than that.

My hand is literally covering my face right now, and as soon as I finish this post, the other one will be right there with it. I need a good, hard slapping, for a good, hard wake-up-to-myself.

Not so Smartie Martie

Scoff you may, Caz.

And you would well be right. My 'exciting competition' is over before it even started.

The 'prize' has been snaffled.

So all you Chuck Norris lovers out there will have to wait until I create some other monumental fuck up ordering clothes from the internet for the next instalment.

1000 apologies to all.

Evil is coming*

Stick with me chickens - No, I haven't been eaten by cockroaches -yet!

But I do have an exciting competition where you can win actual real live STUFF! Huzzah!

Make sure your thinking caps are on and ready.



*Not in any way a Neighbours reference

You got me feeling emotions

Whey-hey! I felt emotion today. What a fucking relief. Sure, it was paralysing fear, but you've gotta start somewhere, right?



Of course, my little visitor wasn't exactly waving at me, but the pictures of actual cockroaches are gross. I didn't want to, sully my blog or anything.

8:10am - Get out of shower. Nude. Notice big black spot above doorway. Scream. Realise it's not a man eating spider. Just man eating cockroach instead. Goody.

8:15am - Still paralysed in the one spot watching cockroach negotiate doorway.

8:17am - Decide that to tackle problem, I will need to get dressed. Scurry about room, taking care not to let it know that I was there, and nearly break neck from keeping an eye on it.

8:18am - Damn. It's disappeared onto the other side. Grab Homebrand Coles Spray & Wash. Lemon fragrance.

8:19am - Stand at doorway, gathering up the courage to run (or rather limp-run) underneath. Terrified of finding lounge-room wall covered in its friends.

8:20am - Take a deep breath and go as fast as my legs can take me into lounge room. Look up, and discover that I passed right underneath where Mr Cockroach was climbing. Shake out hair in case any fell in it.

8:21am - Waste precious minutes negotiating with cockroach. "Please, just get out of my house" "Fuck off out of my house, fucker" *Stamping Feet* "Go, just go. I'm going to be late for work" "Fine. Now I'm going to have to do something about this"

8:22am - Spray cockroach with Spray & Wash from middle of the room. Realise spray is not long enough. Inch closer, spraying as I go.

8:23am - Quarter of a can later, cockroach falls to floor. Ahah! But, look out. IT IS COMING RIGHT TOWARDS ME! Let off spray, then dive for handily placed broom.

8:24am - Watch as it heads towards the front door, but not quite. Build up courage to 'sweep' it towards door with (long handled) broom. I have this fear that it will have the power to get me, up through the handle. Ugghhh.

8:25am - Push cockroach too hard, with my mighty power fuelled by adrenline. Cockroach goes behind door. Spend anxious few seconds in close proximity while I try and work out where it is. Is all good though, as it crawls out from under the door, helping itself to death.

8:26am - Open wire door, and with one last mighty push, sweep cockroach onto driveway. Uh oh. It's not there. Panic, as I think it may be stuck on bristles, but it's only stuck on the little rise from front step. One more mighty push & it's out.

8:30am - Leave for work. Walk past cockroach on ground. Damn. Not dead yet. No wonder why they say these fuckers can survice a nuclear holocaust. NOTE: Did not step on cockroach, as have fear of it being able to attack me from beneath my shoe. Probably wrong move. It will now gather the reinforcements and come back for revenge, no doubt.



When I grow up, I want to marry a man who will take care of all the creepy-crawlies for me.