Itsy Witsy Teenie Weenie

You've probably noticed an abundance of

these


sort


of


pictures

on my blog lately.

Yeah. I have bad body image. B.A.D.

Ever since oh, let's see, 1988, when I was in Grade Three, and my teacher did a weight graph of the whole class, and mine was the 2nd highest.

Ever since all through high school, in particular one comment from a cunt in Year 8 who promptly informed me (via messenger - AS YOU DO IN YEAR 8) that he didn't date girls over 50kgs.

Ever since Ex-Boyfriend No 2 dumped me in part because I was fat (SO WHY GO OUT WITH ME IN THE FIRST PLACE?).

Awesome.

Now, I don't neccessarily find myself to be grossly overweight a la the above pictures. Although, I have my days where I consider myself to be a pretty good representation.

My best friend tried to set me up on a blind date about a year ago; part of the description she gave my potential date was "she looks top heavy, but only because she has big boobs".

So I've got the curves. Years of netball have conditioned pretty good legs. But still, I fight every day with myself; every bit of food that I consume; everytime I look in a full length mirror. I'm depressed.

Not outwardly. Outwardly, I'm friendly, intelligent, happy. I'm 'smashing through glass ceilings' & wearing 'power suits' and shit (Hello-Hi!) as I climb the corporate ladder. I'm occassionly sexy. It stands to reason really; I've not been without a boyfriend for more than six months since 1997 (ALTHOUGH IF YOU'RE REALLY GOOD AT PSYCHOLOGY/MIND SHIT, YOU MIGHT SAY IT'S A SELF ESTEEM ISSUE AND I LET MYSELF GET TREATED BADLY BECAUSE I'M SCARED OF BEING ALONE - WELL DONE YOU). Regardless, people still want to have sex with me, in the daytime, with the lights on, sober. And thank god for disco pashes.

I've tried Weight Watchers at least four times; I've tried my own at-home version of Weight Watchers with some friends (who still have my $10 entry fee). I've tried Jenny Craig. I've tried a nutritionist. I've tried a personal trainer. I've tried exercising with friends. I've tried making the psycho ex-boyfriend act as my personal trainer, and get up at 5am in the morning, and drive to my house to go walking with me. I've tried exercising by myself. As a team sport. In a gym. I've tried hiding my wallet so I'm not tempted to by junk. I've tried making my mum my food nazi. Fuck it, I've tried everything.

It's said that you can never achieve something unless you truly want it. So you might be reading this saying "Oh, she's lazy, has no willpower, etc".

But that's the thing. It's the one thing that I want more in life. Not money, not sex with a fantapants. I just want to be able to fit into good looking clothes. It consumes me. Day & night.

This is the worst time of the year for me. It's the time that summer stuff is coming in & the realisation that winter is over & with it go the (long suffering) jeans & jumpers, and here come the singlets & mini shorts/skirts.

I try to stay away from people in the summer. I don't want a reminder of people wearing cute singlets looking cool (temparature-wise as well) while I'm stuck in my t-shirt to hide my ugly arms & a denim skirt to my knees to hide my upper thighs. Don't even ask me what I do to compound the problem that is my middle section.

I could probably write about try 170,892 at having a go at this diet thing - although I know you're probably all sick about reading about my failed attempts by now. I'm certainly sick of thinking about them - be grateful I don't write about this every day.

Please don't write me off as someone who is too lazy, and who has no willpower. Well actually, maybe I don't have any; I could be picking up, and paying for a bar of chocolate, just staring at it, and thinking of the million & one reasons I should put it down. Even while I'm eating it, I feel nothing but shame, & disgust for myself. To combat these feelings, I'll usually go shopping right afterwards (or the next day if it's a late night binge) and try to fit into clothes I want to buy, just to punish myself.

I need to break the cycle. Permanently. Not for five weeks, like my last big effort last year with my nutrionist, but forever. But how? How do I tell myself to break a lifetime habit, even with all the resources at my fingertips.

It does all come down to how badly you want it. And how strong the catalyst is. But where do I find my catalyst. Can it come soon; I really want to buy some new bathers for my holiday.

OR:

Martie on holiday

*withdraws*

Nothing to be excited about except for hotdogs

Gosh, why aren't you at a pub/BBQ watching the biggest game of the year?

After years of trying to join the 100 club (100 shots of beer in 100 minutes), I feel a little old and a little jaded. I had a choice of watching with a bunch of drunken wankers at a pub in Richmond, or with a bunch of drunken wankers at a BBQ closer to home. Awesome. So I chose to sleep in and cook a hotdog instead.

You sound depressed

No, not quite. Just pissed off at the world. It'll pass. How can it not - it's such a beautiful day in Melbourne.

For a supposed football fan, isn't not watching the GF a little strange?
Fuck no. It's not like I'm not watching it. I was flicking over on the ad breaks between Gone With The Wind, until they inexplicably put some Talk To The Animals rip off show on as the interval. Now I don't think they're going back. Who the fuck programmes like that??? Fucktards.

Anyway, where was I? Yes, I did sit outside and try to get the broadcast on my crappy radio, and eat ice-cream, all the while inducing skin cancer, but it was just a lot of hiss and crackle, so I've succumbed to the TV.

Can you cook us hotdogs too?

Well, when I said I chose to cook a hotdog, it was techically correct. However, this would involve going to Safeway and actually buying one. So yeah, when I actually get around to doing that, it's hotdogs allround at Martie's house.

So what are you going to eat??!!!?

Well, I did have the aforementioned ice-cream - Cadbury' peppermint, if you don't mind. And my parents have very kindly invited me up for pizza tonight. Awesome.

Boring

Well wouldn't you be if your best friend dumped you for a guy; your (completely wrong) crush is too busy with Ebay to see you and you're not really in a drinking mood?

You need to fuck off people in your life that fuck you around.

Tell me about it, stud.

What about Teh Sex?? Tell us about Teh Sex!

It's always about teh sex with you people, isn't it? There are more pressing matters...such as why Barry Hall is having such a dog of a game. I can't think about Teh Sex when I look and feel like this:


Awesome.

I need a nap

I'm such an Ikea slut.

Yesterday, I went to the Lesbian Mecca (or maybe it's just coincidence there's so many chicks with short spiky hair holding hands) and bought a Billy bookcase, and two bedside tables.

$200 bucks later & I'm jizzed up to see my books in their little home; I'd forgotten how calming it is to look at shelves full of books.

All I need now is the couches/lounge suite, and my apartment will actually look fairly grown up (NB - Probably not best to take the alphabet magnets spelling out crazy shit on my fridge into account at this point).

Also, I'm going...on a holiday! Well, not quite a holiday, more like a short break. But I will be driving up the Sapphire Coast of NSW for Melbourne Cup Weekend, going to country pubs and betting on the greyhounds, and staying in a cabin on the beachfront.

I paid the deposit yesterday afternoon, while having sex. Yep, that's about as wild as it gets around here; riding the pony whilst conducting credit card transactions over the phone.

"Would you like a receipt for that?"
"Yes, oh god, YES"

I know, lame.

Speaking of Lame, Australian Idol comes to mind. There are all sorts of interesting-er commentaries about, so I'm not even going to try.

All I want to say is - I hope Damien the Irish Guy doesn't win. Only because I like him so much. Thus concluding this episode of embarrassing confessions.

And speaking of embarrassing - do you think it is at all humiliating to pluck stray pubic hairs in front of another? I just can't figure it out.

JUST BECAUSE SHUTTING YOUR BLOG DOWN IS THE NEW BLACK, DOESN'T MEAN I'M DOING IT

Not up to much. Bought a new pair of shoes. Bought a new pair of thongs. Too poor to go to the show. And my apartment looks like a chinese laundry.

2 loads on the couch waiting to go into washing machine.
1 load in the washing machine, waiting to be put on the line.
1 load on the line, waiting to be brought in.
1 load on indoor clothesline, waiting to be put on chair.
1 load sitting on the chair, waiting to be put in dryer.
1 load in dryer.
1 load out of dryer, waiting to be put away.
1 load in washing basket, waiting to be put in pile on couch.

I seriously think that someone breaks into my house, wears my clothes, and puts them in the washing basket to be washed. How could someone go through so many clothes??

In other, unrelated news, I now have one dedicated shelf in my wardrobe for my Bonds singlets, and two dedicated shelves for my underpants.

Have a fabulous weekend, and if you go to The Show (Melb), please go on a ride, or eat buttery corn on a cob for me. Bless! xxx

Have you been Zinged?

Pet Hate: People that aren't up front.

Example:

A friend of mine went to stay at her boyfriend's house the other Friday night, as they had an event to attend the next day. That Saturday morning, said boyfriend went to have a haircut - 2 hours before they were meant to leave.

Come one and three quarter hours later, boyfriend arrives back home. When she asks where he's been (already fully knowing - call it women's intuition) he says "having a haircut, and I had to pick up my shirt from Mum's house". Zing.

So, she thinks "I'll get you".

Later on, when they arrive at their event, she feigns hunger (actually, not much feigning was needed), complaining she hadn't had breakfast, and was going up to get something from the food bar, and did he want anything? When he said no, she asked why - to which he didn't reply.

"You've had breakfast already, haven't you?"
"Yeah, I was at Mum's and she wanted to make me toast, etc because she hadn't seen me nearly all week."
"Yeah. Thanks very much for that."

If it hadn't been in front of all of his mates, whom she was meeting for the first time, and for the fact that all of her stuff and car was at his house - which was ages away from hers - then she would have walked out there and then.

Why not be upfront about it when he got home in the first place? Why not say "Yeah, sorry, I had breakfast with my Mum, but how about we go thru Macca's drive thru or something for you"? I guess that's just too thoughtful, hey?

It's not just a bit rough, it's plain bad manners. Men are cocks. They never change. And we just get Zinged because of it.

Martie does Flemington

Friends.

You know sometimes when you just get it all together; you're hot, you're on top of your game, and nothing is going to bring your confidence down? Bear with me while I still get over the shock of it all, as I present to you Racing's Unofficial Hot or Not List.

HOT: Cleavage.
NOT: Cleavage; arms/shoulders; legs; cut out bits of dresses; vadge. Ladies, you do not need to get your minge on at the races. Guys will be drunk enough to entice for a quick grope without it. Put it away.

HOT: The Member's Enclosure.
NOT: Not going to watch the actual race. If you want to watch it on a big screen TV, go to pub. It means you can take your jacket off without being told off by men in green top hats too.

HOT: Chicken & 'green stuff' sandwiches.
NOT: Paying $1.50 for a quarter (one triangle) of a sandwich.

HOT: Cheaper drinks than at a bar in the city.
NOT: The Fucktard who did not know how to make a vodka, lime & orange. It is NOT a strange combination.

HOT: Men in suits.
NOT: Men who go out of their way to look like they picked up their clothes from the Op-Shop that morning. Mate, no one was buying your brown checked pants; bottle green & red checked jacket; multicoloured stripe shirt and purple paisley tie. Try. Hard.

HOT: Me!
NOT: Me this morning!

Thoroughly glad I did go. My fake airbrush tan did not render me a human carrot. My tits (despite walking in the door seven seconds ahead of me - curse damn dress) were awesome. I had a win on Race Two, which gave me enough money to bet and drink with for the rest of the day AND I did not have to endure the Pissed Race-goer Parades Around The Casino All Dressed Up Like A Wank scenario. Although I nearly did freeze said tits off whilst waiting for a cab.

I already have my outfit planned for Caulfield Cup. Bring on Spring Racing!

Confessions of a Shopping Centre

Overheard in Kmart tonight:

Girlfriend: "I just bought a really nice L'oreal eyeliner, and it's like, wrecked already. Cost me like, $30."

Boyfriend: "Don't worry. You can borrow mine."

EEEEEEEEEEEEMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Seriously though, isn't L'oreal a bit mainstream? Isn't there some sort of make-up brand out there that caters for these mizundertood kids with names like 'Death eyeliner' and 'Cut me Lipstick'? Very disappointing. Although the Commerce Student within is thinking 'Hmmm. Market Opportunity?'

***

Teasing me with Rusty Cock.

A crowded peak hour train.

Face to groin with the most FantaPants ever; his skin was practically orange too.

So, so SO hard to resist temptation to pull down his zipper, and take a little peek.

So close to the holy grail of pubes; only a piece of material separated me & it.

Going to see my therapist now.

Do I bother to straighten my hair?

Fucking. Weather.

Just when I've been looking forward to something for weeks. Just when I've fitted into the dress. Just when I've bought my pretty little hairpiece and entered the world of 'girl' by booking in to have my nails done.

It rains. Literally.

And it's going to keep on raining. Until Sunday.

At least I might brighten things up:


"Yellow is so very in, dah-links"

The God For Tarts Who Have A Predeliction For Drunk Men In Suits is really, really mean.


Note: At least all the rain will render the track 'dead', hence giving my 'Colours and/or Horse's names tipping theory a lot more credibility. Hurrah!

Crikey! Obligatory post ahead.

I can't not hey.

Steve Irwin. If you play with fire, eventually you're gonna get burnt. Or stung. Or barbed. Or whatever.

I'm suprised by the amount of vitriol going around about this 'tragic accident'. Sure, the bloke was a dickhead, and over enthusiastic in his animal love, but I'm not sure he deserved to die. Rapists, murderers, dog killers may deserve to die, but someone that was smart enough to build an empire on playing up the Aussie Ocker image, well, it's a little extreme.

OMG!!!!1! I should go to a forum or something. No. While it's tragic, the general consensus around the office was that it would have been more fitting had it been a crocodile. Oh! The so near irony of it all.

Now. I hope this all just goes away and we're not subject to tributes; repeats of The Crocodile Hunter; re-enactments, etc.

It's gettin' hot in herre.........

Heh. I meant to post on Tuesday to assure you that I wasn't taken while I slept by Mr Bad, but I just couldn't be bothered plain forgot.

Anyway, it's a SWELTERING Thursday night here in Melbourne, so much so, that I'm wandering around in my undies; rubbing myself with ice cubes to cool down*, etc. It's also the end of the week, and with it goes my ability to construct whole paragraphs. So for your Friday (unless, like me, you can't sleep because of the heat), here are some more Shorties.

***

My attempt appears to have paid off somewhat. Tonight, I tried on THE dress, and even though I'm going to look like a walking pair of tits, it's not at all the horror I thought it might be.

How ridiculous, that in four years (YES, that's correct. I am wearing a dress that is four years old to the races), I've obviously put on the most weight on my boobs. It should be the last place! At least I have the booty to match though.

Now, it's off to Priceline so that I may try on some red lipstick.

***

11:10pm - it's getting nearer to Serial Killer time again.

***

Uh-oh. I think I'm getting addicted to Idol. Sad but true. Actually, it's the second time that someone I actually know has been in the Semi-Finals/Final 12. I won't say any more, but I'm glad this person didn't get through because ZOMG he/she always thought she was soooo good when they were at high school. Suck it.

***

Father's Day. Sunday. So, little bro & I made the inevitible trip to Bunnings tonight for purchase of all sorts of hardware/hose nozzles/fluoro stanley knives. Anyway, we stood at the employee board out the front, pissing ourselves laughing at their stupid photos (and job titles - PAINT SPECIALIST! When I grow up, etc), and then we happened upon a poor girl with the unfortunate name of 'Che'. (For those of you not in the know, it means 'what?' in Italian (vocab translation only), and quite possibly Spanish too (Puss?).

Anyway, we had more than a few jokes about her name, until we had to actually walk inside, and who should be 'door duty'? Che. Oh Fuck. And I'm tipping she heard every word we said. Awww, I almost kinda feel bad.

***

Remind me to request that the Landlord to install air-con next week.

***

11:24pm OMFG - It's nearly the witching hour AND serial killer time.

***

I do not like boys with long hair. I have finally come to this conclusion. For the most part, it's greasy, it's messy, it's usually tied back with a hair tie, and I'LL BE FUCKED IF THEY SHOULD GET HAIR TIES, WHEN I CAN NEVER FIND ONE. Despite the fact I buy packets of the things. Anyway, despite the hair-tie envy, I still have NO attraction to long-haired guys, which is a shame, because they are probably pretty cool, underneath all that hair.

Long hair is probably the biggest physical feature that would put me off a guy. What's yours (on a girl even)? Are any of you long haired, and want to punch my face in for being hair-est?

***

I never knew how much of a good invention belts were until recently. I thought they were just decorative, I didn't actually knew they ACTUALLY held your pants up. Snaps to them.

***

It's too hot for serial killers tonight. Goodnight & a top weekend (sunbathing) to y'all!




* slight exxageration

Shorties

I had three days off work last week. I had an ear infection. Sounds ridiculous, I know, but I literally could not walk a straight line, or think, or listen to any sounds, etc, my ear was that sensitive. And apparently I may have Vertigo (hello, hello, I'm in a place called...etc, etc). I'm just nervous about going back. I've only been there two months, and I've now had three sick days. I feel bad.

***

I had breakfast in Clifton Hill this morning, and spent the afternoon at Fountain Gate. And I live in Mentone. WHAT PETROL CRISIS??? Nah, but seriously, people of the world, wake up to yourselves. The Drive-Thru queue at Krispy Kreme was at least an hour long - and people just kept joining it. They are friggin' doughnuts, for fuck's. If you really want good doughnuts, go and buy freshly made cinnamon ones, take them home, and smother with strawberry jam & freshly whipped cream. rox0r.

***

No one wants to see Snakes on a Motherfuckin' Plane with me (or, as this household calls it - Ants on a Motherfuckin' Benchtop - fucking rain). No one, apparently, except for my Dad. WTF? Apparently, I'm taking him for Father's Day. Noooooooo! Father's Day is all about a bottle of OP Rum and a 'Daddy' card. The last time my Dad was at the movies was when Rolling Jaffas Down the Aisle was considering the most rebellious thing a teenager could do.

So I tried out some of the lines on him at the dinnertable tonight:
"I am sick of these motherfuckin' potatoes on this motherfuckin' dinnertable"
and promptly got handed some soap (presumably to wash out mouth).
I don't think we'll be going anytime soon.

***

I made teh secks this weekend. A lot. Friends with benefits, friends with benefits.

***

I have really made a mess of my plan to lose weight to go to the races, haven't I? Although I didn't hoe down on the KK's today, I did have ice-cream with ICE FUCKING MAGIC last night, and was eating some pretty serious chocolate last week when I was snivelling with a pissy little ear infection feeling pretty fucking sick.

So I have to take a new approach. I've decided I'm going to have one vice. Yep, you guessed it. Milk & Chocolate Teddy Bears. If I let myself have one thing, then maybe I won't end up having a whole meal of vices.

It's so fucked. Why can't I be determined enough to lose weight? It's the one thing that makes me SO unhappy, and unconfident, and unsexy, and I always like to fuck it up for myself. Bizarre. I've tried all the mental tricks - cut out of body I want on the fridge, food diary, etc, etc, but I start, then don't follow through. Weight Watchers must be littered with an array of old memberships of mine, and there's too many times to count when I've tried to go it alone. Also, my nutritionist that I was seeing last year, has written me off I'm sure, and she is friendly, but really cold with me now. I feel like I've let her down. And my trainer. Why do I bother paying $140 a fortnight? You'd think these would all be GREAT motivating factors, but, meh - I just keep saying, I'll do it tomorrow. It bugs me. A lot*

***

Sometimes I'm scared to turn off the light because I think there is a serial killer looking in through my window.

Which is why this is turning out to be such a long post.

***

For some reason, I watched the bit on 60 Minutes tonight about the woman who was cryongenically (??) frozen until they find a cure for her cancer. This made me really mad; although I'm no believer in God, etc, I just think we're fucking around with something we shouldn't be. Especially after they said that essentially the process sucks out everything from your brain, which will most likely, take away everything that makes you uniquely you. Then they started talking about people who choose to just have their heads frozen, so they can be reattached to new bodies when technology catches up. WTF? I mean, it would be nice to say "Attach me to the body of Catherine Zeta-Jones when I wake up, cryogenic people", but really, that shit is fucked up right there.

SO...then I turned it over and watched Australian Idol, and promptly fell in love with the Irish bloke. Fuck he can sing. The rest are just Wanke**

***

I don't know how much longer I will be at this blogging caper; not that I don't want to, but because my laptop screen is dying a slow death, and judging by the amount of times it's flickered while writing this post, I'd say that time of passing may be hastened. (MAYBE I CAN GET IT CRYOGENICALLY FROZEN?).

Anyway, this is the only 'puter I'm able to post from: work is not like the good old days, where I could do anything and get away with it, for I was the IT master, this work actually has CONTROLS, and INTERNET SPIES LOGGING ACCOUNTS, ETC. And fixing a computer is so far down on my list of financial priorities right now, soooo, we'll see how we go. If I suddenly stop posting, you know where I've gone (To the cryogenics lab).

***

Confession time: I LOVE the new song by Justin Timberlake. Although I hate him in a 'little brother's friend that wouldn't be allowed past the front door way', that song is hot. And HOTT to dance to. As is the 'Permiscuous' song by Nelly. It's times like these when I wish I had a portable music device, so that I might press repeat on these songs over and over again until I feel like a radio station.

***

Surely the serial killer is starting to get bored now?

***

Match the following words with their appropriate description below:
The Boy, Friends with Benefits, Teh Secks, The Exile, Waking up next to someone:

- May have been with me at Fountain Gate
- Fucking Brilliant
- Comfortable
- Is my way of not getting too close again
- Is now over, on my terms.

***

Excitng Monday Morning Read for you all.

***

The serial killer can get fucked. I'm tired.



* Suggestions, Tips, Tricks (TOTALLY NOT IN AN A.J. FROM THE BIGGEST LOSER IN NEW IDEA WAY) are welcomed - please!

** Keeping with the theme, a Fountain Gate/Narre Warren in-joke.

Somedays...are better than others

I have an ear infection. Cope.

Ta Da! The break up.

He apologised. For reacting the way that he did. Although, my words freaked him out.

However, a week with no contact gives me time to think, you see? And time to not care. And time to develop ear infections. And chat up Men From Adelaide at the bar.

So, as cruel as it may sound - he's the one in limboland. For now.

And for the weekend - suffice to say I'm going to have a pretty fucked up mobile bill next month, Men From Ferntree Gully are fucked up losers, and much hangover foods were consumed on the Sunday.

Also, I was looking at myself naked in front of the mirror this morning, and have decided that I look a lot better with clothes off, than on.

Don't laugh.

When clothes are on - they tend to cut up your body, and anything but black will make you look larger than you actually are.

However, when clothes are off, everything's the one colour (unless you have one of those fucked up stripper tans with the boob lines), and you can see all the curves, etc. Quite nice. I was impressed with myself.

It's just a pity that I can't walk around naked.

Things I should be doing...

Instead of eating chocolate teddy bear biscuits and drinking milk

- Nothing.

There's nothing better than teddy bears and cold milk. Yummy.

Right then. Two Questions for your perusal:

A) DOES THIS MAKE ME A BAD PERSON?

When I was with the Ex-Fucker, he liked to listen to Midnight Oil. I don't mind Midnight Oil, but it used to piss me off that he liked to listen to them so much and I tried to turn them off whenever I could.

However, when I was with Jungle Boy, he HATED Midnight Oil. So...guess what I did? I used to turn it up whenever they came on the radio when we were in the car together. That's mean, isn't it? I'm such a horrible person. No wonder why I can't keep a boyfriend!

B) DOES THIS MAKE ME A BAD PERSON?

One of my goals for losing weight was to be able to fit into a pair of jeans with the button-down pockets on the back.

I live in jeans, I covet those ones with the pockets (so 2004 but I still think it's hot), and I was prepared to spend the big bucks on designer ones when I achieved my goal.

However, one went shopping today. And one just happened to be wandering through Target. And there, on a special rack, was a pair of jeans with button down pockets in my size.

For $15 (NB: not a miss-print)

I tried. I buyed.

They actually are a pretty good fit/wash/style. I quite like looking at myself in the mirror with them on.

The question is - now that my motivation has been removed, will I still continue on with my quest? I don't think that anything else turns me on more than those jeans - so I certainly can't think of anything I want to fit into badly enough. Any suggestions?

I shouldn't have bought them, should I? I have no willpower. No wonder why I can't lose weight.




Coming up - An Uplate Update update on the break-up. Because I know you can't wait*


*Not true.

Martie's Weekend Survival Kit

Let's say you were having a pretty shit week, and now it's almost the weekend.







Instead of moping about home, you can purchase my Weekend Survival Kit, and be feeling better in no time!

Contains:


1. One pair of new shoes!


2. One new top, especially made to amp up the cleave factor.


3. One dodgy pub, that you know will be full of randy guys, to wear your new top to.


4. Vast quantity of alcohol.


5. Handy supply of dancing songs.


6. One disco pash - can be extended if required.


7. Three new mobile numbers to flirt with


8. KFC on the way home


9. One vomiting episode


10. A massive fucking hangover the next morning, but at least it will take your mind off Mr Cunty McCuntburger of the previous week.


11. More new shoes.

And there you have it folks. It's the weekend of I don't give a flying fuck. Let's reconvene Monday*, and tick the items that you used.

And, that was the week that was.


* You know it's going to be earlier if Cunty McCuntburger decides to 'end' the 'time-out'.

AT LAST - A (TOTALLY FUCKING LAME, NO BALLS) REPLY

Le fucking sigh. Hopefully this is one of the last posts on this ridiculous bloody break up, which now looks like it will be drawn out by the stupid fucking notion of "Time Out".

Anyway, A REPLY WAS RECEIVED!!! OMFG. For the ones who are not frustrated as fuck interested, here it is:

"Nah, I don't really liek how you made me feel with the things you said. I need some time out, to think about things. I dislike being pressured into things, and that is honestly how you made me feel. I can understand that might want to look at settling down with somebody in the near future, but that is not part of my plans just yet. If that is how you feel, maybe I'm holding you back, I really don't know"

Possibly the longest feeling-related piece of information that he has ever released. No wonder why it took him three days to send it.

But now, it's painting me as some pushy, wedding-hungry biatch. You know the ones, "Marry me or it's over".

WTF?

Despite being the least pressuring person in the world, marriage/kids are not on my short term agenda. Especially not to him. If I dare say it, if there had been more open communication, then he would have known that we are both on the same page in relation to those issues.

Ok. I can understand how it may have made him feel. And as I have commented, and advised him (repeatedly), it wasn't my intention. I admit I did the wrong thing, but not intentionally. Does that make sense?

However, I think I've got some sort of a right to know where he sees himself going (he can demand this right from me, of course) in the future. At the risk of sounding callous, I don't want to be wasting my time. However, I just should have worded it better. Mistakes. Learn from. Etc. OK, ok.

SOME GOOD NEWS!

You will be most pleased to know that I no longer have the urge to text or call him. The funny feeling in my tummy is slowly disappearing. I guess because I now know, I don't really care much. Have your sook, but don't drag it out, or make it into something that it's not. It's not like I asked when we WERE getting married.

And 'Time Out'? For fucks. If you've ever used this piss poor excuse as a delaying tactic I will come and stab you in the eye with a Derwent. Seriously, I don't know how you see it, but I think that's it's merely a delaying tactic, until you grow some balls.

So, the 'goods' are still sitting here on the couch...I resisted the urge to pick the bag up on my way out this morning, and dump it in the bin...good aren't I?

Normal Restored (Is anything fucking normal around here though?)

Totally don't forget to read the other post, to gain some perspective, and marvel at how strong I am for not texting back anymore (only three days later - MARVEL, DAMN YOU).

*removes tongue from cheek*

Life is now returning to normal here in Martieland (hate to break it to you guys, but I think I might change the title of my blog again) - I have other, more pressing matters to attend to.

* I miss Big Brother Up Late. What the fuck am I supposed to watch now to send me to sleep? I also feel like I'm missing out on a whole new Mike Goldman wardrobe. Never mind Hotdogs, Mike is the shiznit. I think the question needs to be asked: WTF does he do with himself during the 'off season'??? The mind boggles.

* I am totally like an honarary doctor now, yo. I performed some minor surgery on myself yesterday - scrub me up and find me my own McDreamy. Wanna see what I did? Well I would show you, but stupid Blogger won't upload any of my images. Anyway, after 10 years, I've poked my earring through at the top of my ear. SO Rebellious, I know.

* A piece of Nutty Fudge from Michel's Patissiere is sitting in my fridge, taunting me. Fudge is not part of my dietary requirements. But it's oh-so-good. And nutty. Perfect for me.

* Today, I bought a purple pen. Huzzah!

Alright. That's all. I'm not sure when to expect the 'end-of-the-time-out-text-message', but I guarantee you two things; He won't want to 'work things out' and I'm going to be 'sad at first, but happy as fuck not long after'. So stick with me, I promise this won't last much longer.

xx

Raw feelings with Martie

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

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

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

Stuff that happened before 6:03am:

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

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

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

Stuff that just happened right now:

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



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

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

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

I just can't feel it at the moment.

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

I called him tonight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


I am so lonely.

Masterful Martie

Alright. Caved.

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

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

No more messages.

AND

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

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

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

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

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


All I need is the keys to my apartment back.



But I can always get the locks changed...

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

My life is so HUZZAH at the moment.

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

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

Thou shalt be left with a smattering of dignity.

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

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

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




omg...

Boohoo. Woe is Me. Etc.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yours truly, etc

Martie.

Arrest me

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

Anyway, on with the show.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* Dollop. Because I like spa parties?

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

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

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

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

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

The Boy is back and I'm not blonde

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

HOWEVS.

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

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

SO.

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

OMFG Nuerosis!

*****

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

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

I hate when those bastards split.

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SHUT UP!

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

*****

Meanwhile, I'm off to Target to buy:


This dress.

AND


These shoes.

And possibly:


Dye my hair this colour.

Oooh La Fucking La!

Self-congratulatory

OMGWTFBBQ!!!!1!

Stop the FUCKING press.

You all owe me a thank fuck for that congratulations.

I did it.

I changed my mobile number.

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

NO MORE!

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

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

Fucking SNAP!

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

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

Day 1

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

CONSUMED:

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

SMACK!

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

Ok. Let's see how we go tomorrow.

Lastly: A plea for help

"Plea plea. Plea plea"

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


OMG - CHERRY RIPES ARE NOT YOUR FRIEND, MARTIE

Attempt #1759

You might totally think that I'm all

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

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

But, Like Fuck I Am.

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

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

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

So. September.







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

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


GET MOVING FATTY!

Blink and you'll miss, etc

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

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

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

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

And reading this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




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

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

Nup. No More.

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

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

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

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

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

And also, I love you.

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

There.

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

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

Crazy Prices

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

I feel so, inadequate.

Community Wednesday

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

***

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

Weekend update of death

I was all over the shop this weekend.

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

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

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

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

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



*Not literally fucking. It's Morals July.

****UPDATED: The one without a title

Kids: take note. Being in love hurts.

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

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

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

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

It makes you sent ridiculous text messages to assholes.

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

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

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

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

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




At least it's not about trains.




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

The weekend that was

I'm not getting any sex. WAHHH

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

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


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

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


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

My best friend made me cry on Friday night.

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

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

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

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

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

Bah.

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

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

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

Take this example:

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

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

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




On the other hand.....

Machines with a heart

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

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

That ad makes me cry.

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

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




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

Train wreck

Hi team.

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

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

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

Finally, he decides to initiate 'conversation':

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

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

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

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

But try explaining that to RC:

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

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

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

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

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

Recipe - Le self pity

1. Cold & Rainy Afternoon/Night - Check

2. New Sheets on bed - Check

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

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

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

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

7.
In Mint Chip flavour, of course - Check

8. Baileys. And Ice. - Check

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

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

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

Voila! Your Saturday night in the bag.

Train-gang

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

*** - Fucking tongue-droppingly awesome.

**** - Me. For stalking purposes.

ONE DAY TO GO

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

ONE MORE DAY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'd rather be in Albury...

Long weekends are Teh Jizz, you know.

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










.




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

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

As you were.

Regression

I wish I was in primary school.

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

Bonus points if they wave.

Not as smart as you think..

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

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

MADE UP. TEST. EX. FUCKER.

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

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

Is it worth savin' me?

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

Well don't.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Misson: Failed

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

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

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

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

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

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

Little Miss Perfect

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sore nipples and hot gay guys

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, of course.

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

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

*Cue spooky music*

*Cue microwave for hot chocolate with Codral flu caps*

*Cue goodnight*



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

VOTEZ FOR ROBZ TO WINZ!!!!1!