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!