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.