Dating is super radical

Oh, Shutup, Weekend Karma Bitch.

Firstly, last night was a chain of events culminating in me wandering around the city and catching my first nightrider, after being used for my cash by someone who then proceeded to go chat another chick up. At q bar of all places, with all 6 people there.

Secondly, was meant to go on date tonight. A real, live, actual date. With a boy. But after I woke up from my disastrous night - an email 'postponing' the date. Riiiiiiiiiiight.

Fuck you, I am going back to work.

Also - am just wondering why all the bands acting as 'guest programmers' on Rage all look so surly and bored? Lighten up dudes, you're on TV. FFS, you won't lose any steet cred if you smile.

And - I'm sick of being treated like a dork because I don't have some HUGE SUPER RADICAL FULLY SICK BRO NEW YEARS EVE PARTY to go to. At this stage, it's pumpkin & almond pasta, a nice bottle of white and Boston Legal DVDs - is that such a crime. Yes apparently it is because I'm not getting mega drunk and running around like the world will cave in if I don't vomit in some NYE rite of passage. Oh, to be cool.

Once you pop you can't stop.

Does anyone remember that candy that used to 'pop' in your mouth?

Well guess what?

It now comes in chocolate! OMGWTFBBQ, yes it does!!!!!!1!

Don't thank me, thank Cadbury. I'm not normally a fan of cadbury chocolate, but this stuff is the shit, fo' shizzle.

So. It's Christmas. I bought myself some ace xmas presents this year - bonus of not having a boyfriend - I can spend all the money/time/effort on myself, and not feel guilty!

I can also drink until my heart is content and not worry about some stupid inlaws or driving anywhere.

Now in honour of the holiday season, all here in Martieland (me, jonathan brown and the fantapants community) would like to wish you a very merry christmas with our annual christmas card:


I get hotter every year

Hope you drink lots, eat lots and steal secret kisses underneath the mistletoe...

Do you think it's a sign that I'm growing up, that I declined an invitation to 'get drunk and go 24 hour Christmas shopping @ Chadstone'?

Yes, yes, I think it is. I mean, maybe eight years ago this would have appealed to me, but now, I'd much rather get drunk and run riot in a dodgy bar.

So not really much of a difference then.

Sweet, so there was no sexytime with any leaving colleagues on Friday; not sure how I really feel about that. Do I care? Don't know. Let's see how often we catch up, or at all. Regardless, it's nearly nine months since ANY sexytime at ALL - is it possible that I will have forgotten all of the necessary moves anyway? What is the longest that you could possibly go? Is there any point, or should I just bury myself in books and not bother to change the sheets on my bed?

OMG What if I forget what a penis looks like?

That is a very demoralising thought

Perhaps I will go drunk 24 shopping after all.

The Trashbag Returns

Le sigh.

It appears that I have once again failed in my mission to keep this blog active and updated. Not only that, but it also appears that I missed some fabulous comments from last post (james_t, I thank you from the bottom of my heart).

Not a lot has happened since then though. I did celebrate my 28th birthday, which was riotous fun, but sadly culminated in the fact that the next time I want to go out, it will be to the Chelsea Heights Over 28s (No Denim! Free Buffet!)

I did also buy a digital camera. I took said camera to my work christmas party, where I told one of the regional managers to 'open his legs' while I took a photo of him, with the camera. I also fell over numerous times at CQ (crap bar, DO NOT recommend), of which, the incident of me falling down the stairs was captured on camera, and then proceeded to pass out on St Georges Rd in Northcote, which was also caught on camera.

Seriously, knowing those krazee kamera kidz, keep on eye on You-Tube. I might be famous one day.

I also spilt ice cream on my kitchen floor tonight, and bought avocado dip, even though I don't like avocado.

FUN TIMEZ ALL ROUND.

My work crush has resigned and is leaving at the end of next week. Can't quite make up my mind if I'm upset, or if it will be the case of 'out of sight, out of mind'. But boy, he is a good kisser.

I am missing my best friend in Mackay, and my homie in Vancouver. I'm confused about whether I should stay in my current abode, or try to find a shareplace to keep some costs down. Downside - wouldn't be able to walk around naked.

I have smelly feet, and need a remedy. HAS ANYONE GOT A REMEDY?

I am also THOROUGHLY SICK of Delta Goodrem.

So, that's about it for this exciting installment. Tune in next time for the aftermath of going-away-drinks-for-work-crush (Maybe I'll get laid for the first time eight months) and other such hijinks.

Until next time Gadget



PS - Last ever session (hopefully) with psychologist next week. Yay!

Oh. No.

Oh dear bloggers, we (as in I) seem to have a leetle, tiny, problem. Someone is going to have to slap me silly. But first, a psychologist update...

So. After therapy tonight, it has come to light that I have a problem with 'Saturday nights'. As in, I don't have anything to do on Saturday nights, and this is affecting my depression levels. Well, I do actually; I get takeaway and settle in to watch Judge John Deed either at my place, or at the parents', but somehow it doesn't quite stack up with the pubbing and clubbing, and sleeping with people that have torn sheets that I seem to be confronted with every Monday. Now I know, and you know, that there's nothing wrong with taking it easy on the weekend, "I work hard, and like to relax on the weekend" (Copyright, RSVP), but in the stupid little regimented part of my brain, 'relaxing' every Saturday night with a Queso Fundido, and the trials and tribulations of the English Law System is lame and thus, makes me lame by default.

So, my homework for the next fortnight is as such:

1 - Accept watching Judge John Deed as a treat for working hard during the week; keeping telling self that Saturday night is not the be-all and end-all of nights.


Is this the be-all and end-all of British Law?

2 - Make a move to 'mix-up' my Saturday nights by myself and do something that I enjoy in public, like nudity. Well, not quite, maybe start off with something smaller like; go to Readings or Borders and read a book whilst partaking in a coffee on a Saturday night; Walk down a nice strip of shops (IE - Chapel Street, Burke Road, Brunswick Street); Go for walk along beach; etc. Brainstorming/Suggestions are very welcome. I only have two weeks!

3 - Enquire about 'groups' that I can join - that meet Saturday night. This is going to be hard.

So while I have a think about my homework, let's turn our attention to more pressing matters; MY PROBLEM.

It can be summarised as follows:









In somewhat disturbing news, I have a MAJOR CRUSHES on an ex-boy band member and the fat cunt from Australian Idol.

Oh. Fucking. No.

Who said I didn't have anything to write about.

A temporary relapse

If I close my eyes, I'm very good at making it all go away. I have a fabulous imagination, and once my eyes are shut, can dream/day dream about anything I want to.

Somewhat unfortunately, it's nigh on impossible to go around with your eyes shut 24/7.

You may have noticed that I've become increasingly slack of late with this blog. I feel like after all the drama with The Boy ended, I really have nothing to write about. Nothing of note anyway.

I found his profile on Facebook the other week. He is now dating a 32 year old. I also found the Ex-Fucker's. He is engaged. These two revelations, whilst completely separate, really piss me off. Not because I'm jealous, but because it bugs me that The Biggest Arsehole On The Face Of The Planet (The Boy), moved on seeming unscathed and I still haven't had sex in seven (7) months. And the Ex Fucker just annoys me full stop. Mind you, I have tried taking the view that now they are someone else's problems and...well yeah, it's one step at a time.

Fuck I'm addicted to Facebook, but it can be a bitch sometimes.

Anyway, I feel like I owe it to my little blog to keep going, or at least to try. I mean, there are plenty social issues to commentate on, or tv shows to recap, or boys I've kissed to write about, isn't there? Only time will tell...

kill the fluoros

Seriously bitches, get your own trend.

I lived through the fluoro movement once, now it seems it's back, along with statement tees.

Observe:

This t-shirt would be made that much more exciting if on the back it said:

"50 cent I swallow"



Even I would wear that.


But yeah, is this what our parents went/are going through when we first wore flared jeans and psychodelic tops and called ourselves 'hippies'? Or when we put on those white knee boots (NB: NEVER owned a pair, am speaking 'metaphorically') to bring back the mod movement, for about the 3rd time since the original '60s movement?

The '80's was ours, all ours, and now it can be raped and pillored by any 16 year old wearing leg warmers and a ra-ra skirt.


It's enough to make me write rude words with my finger on my hypercolour t-shirt.

Gentle Sunday Activity

I haven't ran on a treadmill for little over eight months. In fact, I haven't even been anywhere near a treadmill, or serious exercise, for little over eight months.

Logical Solution.

Hire a treadmill, and start running on it...



Someone call an ambulance, I think I'm having heart failure.

My head explained...somewhat

Walk with me.

I am 25. In my head. Not some messed up, confused, anxiety prone 27-verging-on-28 year old, but carefree and 25.

Before I had even met The Boy. The scars run deep and were hacked open many a time. My psychologist and I have established that the best thing that ever happened to me was getting dumped. I am now free to take control of my own life.

Getting lost in work has helped. So while I've had a new laptop for a while, I've been burying myself in work late at night; on the weekend. This goes part of the way of explaining the non-blogging period, sorry. Work, for now, is the one thing I draw my strength and confidence from, and the one thing I will use as a foundation to regain my strength and confidence in other areas of my life as well.

People at work have helped too. My entire social network at this point in time is mainly work friends; again, a good basis to build on. I drink with them, dance with them, pash them (ahem) and genuinely enjoy getting to know them. I am a single, carefree 25 year old again, as I was two years ago; drinking too much, partying too much, staying out late, chasing boys. It's almost as if the last two years never happened.

But they did. And I'm almost grateful. They've made me see what I never want to be again. What I never want to experience again. What sort of person I never want to be around again. Like I said, almost grateful.

It's a journey. I'm constantly employing my newly found cognitive thinking skills even to do little things like get out of bed in the morning, or to clean my house. I go back to see the doctor this week, and hopefully my mental health assessment will be enough to keep me off the little pills.

Obviously though, my sleep patterns are still all fucked up.

This may become a little journal-like for a little while. It's only know that I've felt strong enough to put pen to paper, metaphorically speaking. Thank you if you are still sticking with me. I promise to try and be more regular again. But not like a period.

*****

And in other news...does anyone realise that Channel 7 are showing re-runs of Popstars: The Bardot years??? SERIOUSLY. WORTH. STAYING. UP. (REALLY FUCKEN) LATE. FOR!

Who has time to blog

in between dead laptops, work and visits to the psychologist?

Will be back soon enough after I've bought a new laptop, done my work, and sorted my head out.

In the meantime, catch me at the pub across the road from work, in Geelong or in an office, painted a calming green...

Clarification

Or why doggy-style is nightmare, by Martie.

* I don't think I will ever trust someone enough again to have sex without eye contact.

* 2 years with Fuckface Ex No 4, who had all the doggy logistical ability of a mintie wrapper, has cemented my self belief that I can't stick my arse in the air good enough either, logistically speaking.

* It's a bit porn, but I don't want porn anymore, I want vanilla.

* The aforementioned act of sticking one's arse in the air.

* I don't feel very respected in that position.

* Yes, I realise that I have just cut my chances with guys by about 99%

Five reasons

Five reasons why I wish I still had a boyfriend:

1. Need help fixing my tv aerial & the cord that plugs in.

2. Would make me shave my legs (they are so ick).

3. Wouldn't feel bad about having take away and watching footy on a Saturday night, because it would be with someone, and not just myself.

4. There'd be someone to wake up to in the morning.

5. Kissing.

Five reasons why I'm glad I still don't have a boyfriend:

1. Can learn stuff about aerials & shit by myself - or ask cute salesman

2. Can get away with not shaving because no one is touching my legs!

3. No fights about what to have for dinner and I can change channel half way through football to watch Keeping Up Appearences if I want to.

4. My bed is mine alone to do whatever I want in it.

5. Don't have to think about the nightmare that is doggy style.

Greek Style

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

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

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

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

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

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

And thus ends my weirdass observation for today.

Fugly Sunday

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

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

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

Dear Men of Melbourne Australia World

1000 apologies for not looking like Lara Bingle.

From,

Martie

The badness is back...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pfffffft. Motivation. WHAT THE FUCK IS IT.

And now I shall get out of bed.

A dilemma of sorts

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Went to Chadstone* in trackie pants & thongs.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

/end maniacal laughter/


Things I am continuing to do:

- Not shaving under my arms

- Not shaving my legs

- Paying no attention to my bikini line

- Wearing my hair up every day

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

- Using a towel as a bathmat

- Buying a 'polar fleece' jumper.

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

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



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

Topsy Turvy Land

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

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

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

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

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

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

What's going on?


This could only mean one thing...


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

And I actually am rather fond of it.*

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


* denotes no sexing going on, obvs.

Living in the Wild Wild West

If you were astute enough, or bored enough, you could look back through my archives two years ago this week, and find the beginning of the Jungle Boy love story, from the first date where I stressed about the knickers I would wear, the first kiss, etc.

It's just lucky I'm chillaxin* in sunny Perth, with nay a care in the world.

And a nine year old's project about Sea Turtles to distract me.

And a lovely 17 year old who took me to Freo and bought me COLD ROCK!

And a 14 year old who is it the epitomy of surfing cool.

And I'm loving it.

The plan is not exactly in place. There's no tan lines. But my head is getting a little clearer, and I sat outside and ate my lunch today.

It's probably very fitting, that during this, this anniversary week, I am going to cut the heartbreak from my life. TGI Friday's is a CRAP place to go for dinner anyway. I've got my eye on the Cottesloe pub!

Come 1st May, 2007, it's a total, brand new, year.

So. That's over and out for me, probably until I get back. Sorry that I can't read/comment on your blogs, but do not want to leave trails for impressionable teenagers, do I, saucy blogsters.



*It's my mission to use this in every post I can from now on. I 'love' this word.