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.

So then I went to Perth...

Spurred on by the possibility that the hard ass internet posse lead by Mars might discover my true identity as a Bendigo Bank teller leave me more bossy comments, and since it's such a nice day, I decided to blog again.

Ok, I was bored and there's lots of crap in my head. Sue me.

As a resolve to my previous issue, I ended up calling a confidential help line to talk about things, and am thusly in a far improved state of mind. And that's the last I'm going to say about the matter, even including defending myself against cowardly taunts. For the record, I do not take pictures of my feet/shoes in toilets. Ick.

And so yes...I'm going to Perth. Cunningly organised between my mother & her sister, I get my airfare paid, I get to stay in a house five minute walk from Cottesloe Beach, have use of cars, and, I don't know, be away from everything. I should get dumped more often.

Speaking of being dumped, today will mark the three week anniversary. And I've not heard one word from him. Is this an odd thing - not one word? This is all very foreign to me; normally, I've had contact with the ex for ages after. Although, I must say, it's kinda handy, as it lets me get over him a hell of a lot quicker (OK I'M STILL WORKING ON IT). But you know what I mean.

Anyway, I'm setting myself some goals for Perth. I plan on coming back with a clear head, a plan of attack, and hopefully a tan. (Out of all of those, I'm least likely to succeed at...the last one!)

First of all though, I need to find some summer clothes! Hurrah!

Hurt (Updated)

Sorry, I was a bit dazed when I first posted this.

I'm fine; feeling like I betrayed The Boy was a RIDICULOUS thing to feel (as I've been told). I'm not cheating on him, he dumped me. Der.

The bruises will go, I'll be able to sit down without pain soon enough, but hopefully there is a guy out there with really sore nuts. I kick hard. (Yay, kickboxing).

To clarify, I'm not using the 'R' word, just what he did really hurt, and I asked him to stop repeatedly, and he didn't, so I fucked him off.

Lessons Learnt:
- Stay away from boys for a while
- Despite my bravado, still not quite over The Boy yet
- Smoking is DISGUSTING.

And if I want to post on here, I will. If you are going to judge me for picking up a guy in a pub, at least do it in the comments section, don't send me fucking anonymous emails. I post on here to get clarity about how I'm feeling about things, because more often than not it's hard for me to get that in real life. I'm not proud of what happened, but I'm not ashamed either, so go fuck yourself.

Now, for the rest of you, you can see me waving from a hot air balloon tomorrow morning; that is, if I get up in time.

Over and fucking out (for a while).

M

People that are over things, go to Geelong.

Might I just tell you that I'm going to Geelong tonight? DON'T ask me why, just run with it.

Because what else does a girl do on a Saturday night?

I have thousand little angry red bites on my legs (mosquitos??), and a thousand little angry red pimples on my face (Ok, I'm exaggerating), and I've just decided that I'd like to have a crush on someone.

Not a boyfriend, not a relationship, just a crush. For it's been TWO weeks now since I've been dumped, and really, I'm fucking over it.

Sure, I check my moblie 75 thousand times a day to see if he's text me (he hasn't), sure, I check my MSN every day to see if he's deletd me (he hasn't), and sure I think him all the time (he doesn't think about me I'M BETTING), but I'm over it.

OVER IT.

And people that are over things, go to Geelong.

Fare thee well, my pretties.

Holy flying fuck batman.

Drinkin' the tequila with the lemon and salt. Yeah Tequila!

So. Started off at Fiddlers. Then moved onto the Deck @ Waterside. Then to Marquee. The to Riverland @ Fed Square. Then to Transport. Then back to Marquee.

Fuck I'm seedy.

Getting back on the horse and falling off the other side.

Only a week single, and already a friend of mine wants to sign me up to RSVP. She wants me to go to her house, and she'll take some pictures of me, and we can make up a profile.

Great idea in theory. I checked out some of the guys this morning (NOT BAD EITHER), but my heart's not in it. I'm not ready to go through all that dating thing yet; trying to make conversation, dressing up, worrying if I'm impressing someone. And while the ego boost is good, and the initial, flirty stages are always exciting, the dating part scares me, and I realise that I just want to be by myself for a while, and become confident enough in myself so if he turns out like The Boy, I can tell him to fuck off, first time round.

Did anyone read This article in yesterday's Herald Sun. Okay, so Dr Cindy Pan (she of the milk commercials), and Bianca Dye (some radio chick) are telling me where I went wrong. But god, they probably are right. Instead of trying to get attention by being depressed about myself, I should just be confident, and feel sexy.

HENCE WHY I'M GOING AWAY (FROM BOYS) TO FIND MY CONFIDENCE.

Although, it would be very nice to have some sort of male around right now. There's a giant fuck-off cockroach sitting in front of my bookcase, and I'm too scared to get out of bed and vacumn it up. Or go near it. So if I had to have an RSVP profile, it would say "WANTED: Man to save me from cockroaches & spiders".

Where is my dad when I need him?

Whoa

Well, i did find something to do on my Saturday night. Not half as good as sharing my bed with someone (sleeping, not anything else, gutterheads), but still made me realise what an arsehole I've been.

I went back through, in chronological order, all my entries for the past year or so, about The Boy. Actually, that's nearly every one. So much whinging, so much pain, and I could have controlled it ages ago.

Amazed you guys even put up with it.

What an annoying shit I was (still am, don't say it!).

Actually, I'm really pissed off that I put up with his shit for so long. I remembered back a couple of other times, especially when I got upset because there was some chick in a bikini as his screensaver, so obviously he had a case to build, and last week was not just some heat of the moment thing.

HOWEVER, no more dwelling, it's a brand new month, and in the spirit of brand new things, I've got goals. Not April resolutions, but actual goals. And making sure I keep them, I'm going to pledge to you that I will, pledge to important people in my life, and follow them up all the time.

So without any further ado, I present MY GOALS...

* Save money to go on Contiki trip to Europe - next year
* Save money so I can buy a house - By the time I'm 30
* I want to be a curvy, toned size 14 - by end of year
* Join boxercise class - next month
* Start up running program - next fortnight
* make new friends - immediately

Also goals, but didn't make the list: Clean house, do washing, take dry cleaning, buy new handbag (TODAY).

I'm excited. Weekly progress reports coming soon.