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.

Existence

Living v Existing

If you're existing, you're getting up in the morning, and going to work. Not loving it. But not hating it either.

If you're existing, you're eating and drinking because it is a neccessary requirement. You're not enjoying it; it's not social, in fact it probably all tastes the same.

If you're existing, you're talking to people, and being polite, but you're not going out to par-tay with them, or telling them to fuck off because they're wankers or some such. Most of the time, they're faceless.

If you're existing, you're not happy, bright or bubbly. But you're not sad, or moody or gloomy either.

You feel like a robot, on autopilot, going through the motions, but never quite experiencing the emotions of it all.

Profound? Not really. So how do I know?

Because I am currently just existing.

I go through my day-to-day routine, but I have no interest in it.

I'm not depressed, but I'm not waking up excited about what the day will hold for me.

It's as like, there is no 'point' to my actual existence at this moment in time. Fear not, this is not a suicidal cry for help. I'm not cowardly, or smart, or even fucking stupid enough to take my own life. I know that some time in the future (next week/month/year) there'll be a point, but for now, I feel nothing.

I alluded to the fact that I don't have any/many friends early this year/late last year. This is not exactly true. I have many varied friends. Some a bit older than me, some my age, some boys, some girls. I have a bestest friend, between who, the tyranny of distance cannot come.

However, my friends aren't a 'social network'. They don't all know each other. I used to be part of a large, and sometimes rather incestous, social network. However I've been on the outer for the last few years, and the last straw came when a former close friend had his annual birthday barbeque, and I was not invited, at the insistence of another former close friend to whom I stood up to when I found out she had been going to town about me behind my back.

This kind of shit, I don't need. Sure, I've lost the social aquaintance of a few people, but I'd rather sit and watch the Commonwealth Games opening ceremony again, than be in a room full of two faced people.

So, I'm afraid, it's me and my values that sit home alone most friday nights (a lot of my friends having kids you see). The prospect of spending a weekend by yourself is not thrilling, but I'm not moping about it either. The whole thing's rather apathetic really.

I know I need to get out there; meet new people; get that new job I've been promising myself; start eating right again (dinner last night was cashews and not-so-cold-diet coke), and then I will be able to experience emotions again. The rush of excitement you get when you get a crush on someone, or the enjoyment of going out for good food. Or even the disappointment you get when you find out your crush has a (stunning) woman, or the anger you feel when the service you experience in your favourite restaurant is non-existant. This is living.

This is why I'm just existing.

Martie....at the movies

Hello, and welcome to this end of holiday-day post.

Unfortunately, I have no exotic tales of drunken-ness or sex fuelled romps to report - life's like that when you're still all banged up and unable to walk long distances and cause fuck off long queues to get on escalators at Chadstone. PATIENCE, FUCKWITS, PATIENCE.

Ahem.

Ok, so I like, totally joined the 21st century this weekend instead. I bought a DVD player.

After years of resisting, I finally realised my efforts were futile when I went to my local Blockbuster a couple of weeks ago and the only VHS related product I could find was an ancient copy of Chuck Norris' Good Guys Wear Black for $1.50.
There really is only so many times one can watch this, despite all the Chuck Norris goodness.

In honour of buying said DVD player, which I bought totally because it was able to seduce me with it's sleek silver and black looks, I....watched some DVD's! Yatta!
Allow me to now review these DVD's for you (PATIENCE! I probably won't use it for the rest of the year, thus saving you from my crappy movie reviews), in my own, Martie style (read: grumpy & disinterested).

The Island:
The first movie I have seen with Scarlett Johansson, and my, didn't she just captivate my attention. She reminded me of one of those 'perfect' people, blonder than blonde hair, blue eyes, perfect skin, etc. However, the highlight for me was everytime Sean Bean was on camera, where I giggled somewhat uncontrollably to myself about his name "Seen Bean". Bahahahaha. Geddit?

Crash:
Unfortunately not the one where people get off on car crashes, this was the Academy Award winning one. Whoa. A more depressing movie I have not seen. Although I was kinda glad to see Sandra Bullock playing a bitch, the whole purpose of the film for me, was to highlight the fact that Ryan Phillipe is a total loser and he will be career will be stuck in reverse forever. Go for broke on the settlement, Ryan.

Deuce Bigalow: European Gigalo:
Fuck me. Even more depressing than Crash.

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind:
It cuts like a knife that the disc buggered up just when things started to happen, and NOW I'M LEFT HANGING as to how Jim Carrey goes in a 'serious' role.

Harold & Kumar go to Whitecastle:
Why do we not have these Whitecastles in Australia? Little cute baby hamburgers - awwwww. And Doogie Howser, pretty much playing himself in real life. Because I imagine that's all Neil Patrick Harris has to do these days in the failed life of a child star: coke up and fuck anything with a hole. And oh, the movie was American Pie: Version 4289.

At least now that I have my DVD player, I will be able to get all down and dirty with my Carmen Electra Striptease series. Oh wait. No, I can't. Fuck.

Not so way cool after all

Ok, my bad. My very very bad.

It seems that not only will my Blogging Crush think I'm a nuffy, but he also won't think I'm very smart either. I honestly forget that TV & radio, etc are different in each state, and that half the people reading would have no idea who the motherfucking Tint Professor actually was.

1000 apologies to all.

In other, more National news, it is my great delight to inform you that today is the JOINT BIRTHDAY of two of my most favourite men.


Tim Fisher

and


Tony Lockett.

Hurrah. If I wasn't on crutches still, I'd...bake 'em a cake or something.

Lastly, don't you think it's a spooky co-incidence that the two guys that I fantasised the most over during high school should be born on the same day? It's a sign I tell you. They don't call me Mysterious Martie for nothing you know. But wait, there's more! Stay tuned for that one though.

The Nutty Professor

Do you ever catch yourself introducing words and phrases into your normal everyday conversation that you garner from our mainstream, and sometimes not so mainstream, forms of media?

Do you surf a website and find yourself calling every second person 'mang', or similar? (Thanks, Caz).

Do you hear the 'Counting the beat' song on the radio, and immediately think of what you need to buy, immediately, from K-mart?

Do you find yourself going to discotheques, and singing "Get out on the floor", from the Dancing With the Stars tune when your crazy mates are trying to decide the 'right' moment to cut a rug? No? Ummmmmmm, ok, let's move on shall we...

Anyway, I now find myself in this position again.

Ask me how I am; how something is; answer my question correctly, or agree with me, etc, etc and for the answer in the affirmative, I catch myself saying "Way cool with the Tint Professor". Seen the ad? You know what I'm talking 'bout then. Dot com dot AU.

So, everthing's fucking way cool with the fucking tint professor then. I'm sure it's driving people nuts. It's a bit like several years back, whenever you would ask someone "Where you going", they'd reply "Australian Lighting", like it was the wittiest thing on earth. Funny, ha ha.

So, ask me to describe something. It's way cool eith the tint professor, mmmkay? It's all way cool; my blogging crush is even way cool with the tint professor, in his own, slightly offbeat way(!) Which of course, leads me to deduce that my Blogging Crush, if indeed, he reads this post at all, will think I am some sort of nuffy, and will run through cyber space in the opposite direction at 100 millions miles an hour. Is it really such a good idea to be laying bare all these disturbing, slightly peculiar facts about myself on the interwebs for my Blogging Crush to pick up on?

So. One for the boys. And the girls too, because you always give good head answers too:

"If you were my Blogging Crush, would you mind being described as 'way cool with the tint professor'?