Without Rhyme or Reason

paranoia has taken over

2011-03-07T00:54:00.000+11:00

Kids, it's time to move on.

I've been feeling a bit of paranoia lately. I keep getting a ball of anxiety in my stomach - what if Lara found out about the blog? About my feelings for Fletch? All the terrible things I've said about her? The effect would be devastating to my friendship with her (which has never returned to what it once was) but also to the whole family. The chance of discovery is slim to none, but I can't risk it.

It's not just a fear of discovery that is sending me packing. It's also whenever I think of this blog, I think of Fletch. I want to be able to write here, about whatever I want to, but I feel like he's always hovering. I don't want to feel any kind of connection to him, in 'real life' (whatever that is) or on the internetz.

I will start another blog soon (just as soon as I think of a new name) and of course I want you to come along for the ride. I've changed the settings for this post so I have to approve the comments first so if you want to be told when the new blog is up, leave me your email address (I won't publish it. Obv.) and I'll let you know.

Thanks for the love and I hope to see your email addresses in the comments.

knowing

2011-02-21T13:48:00.004+11:00

Sometimes, you know exactly how something is going to play out. The exact direction a situation is going to take. And that knowing fills you with confidence and you can act the way you always imagined you could.

I knew I was going to kiss Fletch's friend, The Doctor, from the moment I saw him. We had a met a few weeks ago, just before Christmas. He was cute in a geek-chic way. We flirted. Lara later told me that she wanted to set us up but he had moved to Asia. For a year. As you do. But she was wrong, he was only going for a holiday and when I saw him on Saturday night, it was as if a sixth sense kicked in. I knew how the night was going to go.

It did, of course. Go the way I knew it would. It felt good to be kissed by someone who could kiss properly. The Nice Guy, for all his niceness, wasn't a nice kisser. The Doctor was good.

What I didn't see coming though is still blowing my mind. I thought we met in December, two months ago. He told me a story in which we met in December, five years ago. That night. He knew about Dirty Matt because he was there. I was mortified. I don't remember him at all but then I wasn't really making eye contact with the three guys that were sitting in the living room when Dirty Matt took me home. Funny how something from five years ago can come back and kick you in the arse and kick it hard.

I also didn't see us not exchanging phone numbers coming either. Maybe that is connected to the first thing I didn't see coming. Maybe it isn't. When he was telling me the story, I didn't get the vibe that he was trying to embarrass me, just the Actually, I have met you before kind of vibe. I just didn't ask for his number, he didn't ask for mine.

Another thing I didn't see coming: I wanted to see him again. And that surprised me. Not all that long ago, I said to the tree-hugger that I wanted to hook up with one of Fletch's mates. It was a childish thing to say and I knew it wasn't going to achieve anything that I wanted it to (him to get jealous and realise all those things I want him to realise) and when The Doctor fit perfectly into that plan, I thought that was going to be it. I didn't expect to want to see him again but I did. I do.

I don't have that sick feeling that I had after I met The Nice Guy. I dreaded getting a text from him. I'm kind of surprised that I would like to hear from The Doctor again. I didn't see that coming at all.

2010-11-28T16:13:00.004+11:00

It's the same old shit.

The tree-hugger is having some issues with her housemate. He says he's in love with her. This has been going on for over a year or so. She has told him that she isn't interested, but he persists. He is aggressively rude in putting down the guy she is currently seeing, all the while following her around like a little lost puppy. I tell her that he needs to get over it, let it go, and then I say Says me who hasn't let go of the idea of Fletch for five years and we both laugh. Ah, the tree-hugger says, clutching her wine and cigarette, unrequited love.

I am hesitant to call what I feel for Fletch 'love'. Surely I need to know him better before I can say that's what it is? But perhaps not. Perhaps it is love. Maybe if I did know him, I wouldn't be in love with him.

I found myself at a bar, drunk and with Lara and Fletch, a few weekends ago. We had been to our aunty's birthday, had a few drinks and went out. Just the three of us. She told me she missed me, that she thought she had done something wrong and that was why I didn't talk to her anymore. It would have been the perfect opportunity to say I couldn't be friends with you; I hit on your boyfriend and felt guilty as hell. But I didn't because people don't say that kind of thing.

I'm lonely. I'm not unhappy, just lonely. The kind of lonely that aches. Before anyone says it, internet dating isn't for me. For months, I've weighed up the pros and cons, have listened to my friends talking it up, checked out online profiles (and, admittedly, become mildly fixated with two), but I just can't go any further. I'm okay with that. I'm not ruling it out altogether, but for now, it's off the cards.

So. Loneliness. What a bitch. It's a battle to decide which is worse: loneliness or depression. One can lead to the other, I suppose. It hurts. It makes me feel like I'm missing something, like a part of me is missing. I guess that's what people mean when they refer to "my other half". Not that I think I need someone to make me complete, I'm enough of my own person, but I do have an emptiness and I know what is required.

I'm just waiting. Going about my day-to-day, in the hope someone out of the ordinary will happen. That's how I would like to meet him.

I used to be full of optimism about 'him'. I believed he was out there, also waiting for whatever twist of fate would bring us together. These days, it's getting harder to keep the faith in that belief. And that's understandable, isn't it? It's been so long. So very, very long. And I've waited patiently. If he doesn't come along soon, I fear I will explode or implode or just fade away.

a short-lived textual relationship

2010-10-14T19:39:00.003+11:00

In my lecture yesterday, instead of listening, I wrote out a blog post I had intended to post last night in response to the Nice post. Here it is:

I know what is written in the previous post sounds awful. Know that I don't believe in being in a relationship where the other person is more into you is than you are to them is desirable. Know that. That is important to me to know that you know I don't think like that.

Know also that I am not considering taking this nice guy on a flight of fancy. I am not keen on playing with any one's affections. That's not me, that's not what I do. Last night, I wrote at a low point. I've been single for so long, it's been years. I've thought for so long that I would never compromise what I wanted, that I would never settle. I've taken that as a matter of pride. You might choose to be with someone that you don't feel passionate about, but I would rather be alone than to have less than perfect.

Next month, it will be six years since my last relationship ended. Six years. In that time, my brother met a woman, got engaged, got married, had a daughter, had a son. It's been a long time. It's easy to feel moments of weakness.

But it is true. I would rather be single than to settle. It's just sometimes hard.

I started to panic yesterday. I was thinking of that rule, the one of how many days you have after the weekend to get in contact - Wednesday, I think (or is it Tuesday?). I remember sitting around with my friends back in the day and us trying to decipher. Monday! It's Monday and I haven't heard anything yet! Don't worry, he's got until Tuesday night to get in touch. I hadn't heard from him and I didn't want to. But I had said in a text on Sunday night: speak to you during the week. I said it. I had to do it.

I ignored my phone. I put my phone on silent, hid it under the bed covers and spent the night in the lounge room, determinedly watching television, pretending not to think about it. At midnight, I checked. Yep. A message from him. A really lovely message, saying that he hoped I'd had a good week so far, that everything was good and that he was free on Friday or Saturday nights for drinks or dinner. There was a smiley face.

Honestly, I felt wretched. I didn't want to go out with him. His niceness repelled me. I would think about things he said or did on the weekend that annoyed me. If I was feeling like this so soon, then there was no hope. I knew I had to tell him so I resolved to tell him I'd meet him for a "quick" drink on Friday night, but because of the lateness of the hour, I decided to wait until morning to send the text.

Today came. I felt slightly nauseous all day. (Is this a major overreaction? Other people seem so blase about all of this kind of stuff.) I didn't want to meet him at all, not for a quick drink, not for anything. I didn't want to risk him reaching in for a kiss. I spent a good few hours researching "break-up+text message" etiquette on the internet. It wasn't a break-up though so most of the information was irrelevant, although people said less than three dates = text message is borderline acceptable. Anymore dates, unacceptable. Total agreement. I would call him. When he finished work. Late in the day. Give him time to get home, don't want to call while he's driving.

I found some good articles about what to say when there's no chemistry. I wrote a few lines down. I said them aloud, trying to imagine myself saying them over the phone. I just about broke out in a rash, I was so nervous. Had to be this way though, have some courage and do what you know is right. If you can't do it face-to-face, then at least - at the very least - do it over the phone.

Then my childish side kicked in: Hang on. Why should I have to call him to tell him this? He asked me out on a date via a text message. Surely I can do it this way too?

I grappled with this for ages. I swayed between having some balls and calling him, to being weak and texting him.

It was after five and I knew I had to do it. It was getting too late and I didn't want to be rude. I did a practice run and felt incredibly sick. And I'm ashamed to say, I took the cowardly way out. I texted him.

Niceties out of the way, this is what I sent:

This is probably going to sound shit no matter how it's worded... I had a lot of fun last weekend and am glad to have met you, I think you're a great guy, but I just don't think the chemistry is there. Which is crap because I think you're great, honestly. But I can't ignore chemistry. I really appreciate being asked though and I'll probably regret it later, but this is how I'm feeling and I want to be honest.

He responded within ten minutes:

No worries, honesty is the best policy, I appreciate that! Take care and look after yourself.

There was another smiley face. (Is a 37-year old man too old for smiley faces?)

RELIEF. Fuck, I felt better. Well, kind of. What a nice response. I'd probably have felt better if he had said Bitch. Made me angry so I could justify ending something before it began via a text message. But if he gets to ask me out that way, I get to end it that way.

I just feel so much better now that it's sorted. I know I let myself get way too worked up over it all, but I hate any kind of confrontation or when I think I'm letting someone down. Maybe I'm flattering myself too much anyway, maybe it wasn't that big of a deal to him. Whatever, that doesn't really matter. I had originally planned to see him at least once more before I made up my mind but my gut wouldn't let me. I've been like this since the first non-high school guy when I was eighteen: I went all weird and couldn't figure it out. Not straight away. It's the only time I know 100% what my gut instinct is. God, I appreciate that.

So there you have it. A short-lived textual relationship.

Nice

2010-10-12T20:19:00.004+11:00

A couple of weeks ago, a friend said to me that she wanted me to meet a friend of her husband's. He's nice, she said. Really nice. He's just a nice guy who owns his own business, likes animals, loves music, loves a good time. He's nice. Great, I said. I like nice.

We met on the weekend, at our mutual friend's housewarming party. He was nice. He was nice to talk to. He was nice to his friends. He was nice in bed. He was nice in the morning. He was nice in the text he sent me. He was nice.

Finally, a nice guy who is interested in me. That's nice.

Except. Except, of course, you know what's coming, don't you? Nice isn't always enough, is it?

It's nice to feel butterflies in your tummy when you think of him. It's nice to jump with wound-up excitement whenever your phone's message alert beeps. It's nice to plan what you're going to wear when you see him next. It's nice to lie in bed at night and remember what you did to each other and feel the pit of your stomach turn warm.

We're supposed to be going out this week. I don't want to call it a date.

So, what do you do? What do I do? Am I wrong, is nice enough? Do you need the anticipation of the next text, the next phone call, the next time you kiss? Or do you enjoy the certainty that all of those things will happen because he's nice and that's what nice guys do?

Is chemistry overrated? Is it a good idea to build a relationship on friendship alone? Where does attraction fit into all of that?

I remember being told once that it is always better to have someone be more into you than you are to them. I remember being incredibly shocked that someone could be so calculated in a relationship, but now, I do see the benefits. In a horribly selfish way, it's like having the upper hand. In a way, it's how I imagine most men feeling.

It's never easy though, is it? Finally a nice guy and he's perfect on paper. He's into me. That's nice, it really is. But I don't want a nice paper boyfriend, I want some passion and I want butterflies and I want things to get things to get hot.

I kind of feel like I'm (for want of a better expression) digging my own grave here, turning away a nice guy.

2010-09-26T12:05:00.006+10:00

A year ago today. Can you believe how fast time has gone by? Nothing much has changed in that year except that she's home now. These days I think I don't feel the same about him, it's more of a habit to feel like I do/did.

I did think that with it being a year since I told him how I felt, that it would be somehow meaningful to sign up for internet dating today. You know, like, it's been a year and this is how much I've moved on.I haven't signed up for internet dating, but I don't think I can do it. I've heard several success stories: a girl I go to uni with met her current boyfriend just recently and another is having fun dating some guys. I've checked a few sites out and have seen guys on there that I know. This town is too small. I don't know, I don't think I can do it. The thought of telling people I met someone on the internet plays on my mind. I don't know why I care what other people think, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't care. And why is it that I care so much about what Fletch would think?

So for now, I don't think I can. And that's okay. But seriously - a whole year since that night?! That blows my mind.

Internet Dating?

2010-09-03T11:17:00.002+10:00

I'm considering doing it.

But I'm scared. But I think it's my only option: Lara and Fletch aren't going anywhere; all of my friends are coupled up; no-one has any single friends; I don't go out much; I don't meet new people; and rather than bitch about being single, why not do something proactive? The three girls I go to university with all have internet dating success stories. P from What Possessed Me met her Fauxhawk on the net and had Blogland's best love affair before getting married earlier this year.

Of course, there are plenty of cons: I can't imagine telling people I met someone on the internet. Love isn't supposed to happen like that. You never know what you're getting: at least if you meet someone through mutual friends, they can give you the low-down first. Mostly, a lot of the time, it just doesn't sit right.

So, go ahead. ~~Talk me into it.~~ ~~Talk me out of it.~~

Tell me what you think.

...

2010-08-26T21:04:00.002+10:00

Sometimes I think this blog is dead. I'm having trouble relating to the girl who wrote all those posts. I don't want those posts to be there anymore. But I don't want to delete them either. I guess I don't want them as part of me.

I can't think of anything to write about. I don't feel like I can reinvent Without Rhyme or Reason. I think it's ran its course.

Maybe I'll start a new one. Secret blogs seem to be popping up all over the place. I do want you guys along for the ride (I kind of luff you all), but I don't want the ghosts of Fletch and Lara to come along. I want to be free of them - in blogland anyway, if not in reality.

I don't know. Maybe Without Rhyme or Reason has just derailed. Maybe I can pop it back up on its tracks. Maybe. Maybe not.

Diary Notes

2010-08-10T00:04:00.003+10:00

I was sorting out old diaries the other day, ones from when I was in Ireland. This is what constituted a good night when living in a hostel:

"I sat with Dave the Australian and Robbie Williams - whose real name I never did find out - until 4.20am when I went to bed. When the other two guys came up, there was no snoring and in the morning, we weren't woken by people, asking if we'd shit on the bathroom floor."

That was written on 9 December 2007. My life was so different back then. In ways that I crave (and ways that I don't - living in a hostel was fun but also involved being woken up to ask if anyone had shit on the bathroom floor). And it's sad because I don't think I can ever be that person again.

Ugly

2010-08-01T18:55:00.000+10:00

She sat in front of me, her body twisted in her seat. Her clothes looked to be a size too small, they looked uncomfortably tight. Her t-shirt rode up, exposing a roll of fleshy, pale skin, scarred with faded stretch marks.

Her clothes were black, but they were covered in short, coarse hairs, like a dog's. Her own hair was long and tied back into a low ponytail. It had been bleached, but it wasn't blonde. A thick streak of crimson ran through it, but it too was faded. The hair was so dry, it looked like I could reach out with my hands and snap it off at the hair-tie. I couldn't see one strand that didn't have a split end.

Beyond her hair, I could see large, angry pimples covering her neck. They were red, like they had had the life squeezed out of them. They looked painful.

Don't look at her, I thought to myself. She was making me depressed and a bit sad, like that feeling of homesickness you can get when aren't even away, but you just really need to get back home as quickly as possible to feel okay again. But my eyes kept going back to her. I couldn't stop looking at her. I felt a strange mixture of fascinated repulsion. I couldn't find one appealing quality, one redeeming feature.

When the class ended, I quickly left the room. I had to get out of there, get away from the girl and all of her offensiveness. As I walked back to my car, I scolded myself for thinking so harshly of someone I had never met before, never even spoken to. She's probably a really nice girl, I told myself. It's not as if you're a supermodel yourself, I reminded myself. But I just couldn't shake that feeling.

Safe inside my car, I moved the gears into Reverse and looked over my shoulder, accelerating slowly. I could see someone a few meters away, so I waited. I had considered just taking off anyway, making them wait for me, but stopped myself. Don't be rude, I said.

But the person took their time, meandering along, while I waited, my patience quickly coming to an end. Come on, I muttered under my breath. Fucking hurry up. Can't you see I'm waiting for you? You'd have thought they would be polite and pick up the pace a little. There wasn't any way they could have missed the white, fog-like smoke coming out of the car's exhaust pipe. The person knew I was waiting.

The figure got closer and closer. It was the girl. The ugly girl. I wanted to slam my foot to the accelerator. Maybe not run her over, but at least give her a scare, but I didn't. She took her sweet time walking past, looking into my car as she did.

I floored the accelerator just as she was out of the way. Ugly, I thought. Ugly person. Ugly ugly ugly.

And this is exactly why I haven't been posting for a while. I'm seeing ugliness everywhere. I feel ugly, especially when I think thoughts like the above.

It's not all doom and gloom though. I've reconnected with an old friend, one I used to work with before I left for Ireland in 2007. I thought this girl was... well, a bit of a psychopath back then. But she was pregnant then and going through a really rough time. You know that narky little thing people say about pregnant women: It's not an illness? Well, with her, it really was. She was the sickest (we're talking multiple hospitalisations here. It's as if her body had a chemical reaction to the baby) pregnant woman I've ever know.

But we kept in touch and now that she's had the baby, she's great fun. I'm still a bit wary though, her psychoness used to come out of nowhere, so I'm on guard for the same thing to happen again.

I'm working with some fantastic people who seem to think the sun shines out of several orifices of mine. Which is lovely, of course, to have them think that. I have a crush on one of the guys I work with and that's fun. It's harmless though - he's married (so it's a very strong no-go) and I barely ever see him, but Not-So-Psycho (who I'm working with again, although in another job altogether [we live in what seems to be a tiny, tiny village]) and I have a big girly giggle over our crush.

So I saw Lara and Fletch a few weeks ago. I knew they were going to be where I was that night and I made sure I got drunk before I went. All that was in the house was vodka and Midori, so because I think vodka straight tastes like paint stripper, I mixed the Midori in with it. Turns out I had the equivalent of eight rather large shots before I even left the house. By the time I met them, I felt no fear or anxiety. I haven't seen him, remember, since The Great 'He Ignored Me' Debacle of 2009.

He's put on some weight since I last saw him. Lara hasn't though, she was looking as fabulous as usual. I ignored them both for most of the night, talking to Molly instead. It wasn't on purpose.

And now that it's over, that first time of seeing him since I blurted out my big secret, I feel kind of free. In a similar way to when I realised the Hot Trainer had deleted me as a friend on Facebook (!!!) - with him, I felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders, like I didn't have to check his profile a few times during the day, just to see what he had said, or if Marc with the Massive Muscles had written something. It had become a habit to do so and it was a relief that I couldn't. And it's sort of the same with Fletch. Maybe he had become a habit. Whatever it is, it feels okay. This feeling could be fleeting, though. I'm not getting my hopes up too high.

So, there you go. I haven't been blogging because everything is ugly, but it's not all bad. Clear as mud, right? Actually, just writing about the Ugly Girl has made me feel better. Maybe now I've purged it all, I will get past it and blog like a fiend again.

I miss you guys. Thanks for hanging around.

Eff it.

2010-07-12T23:24:00.002+10:00

I'm really pissed off right now. I bitch that I don't have friends, so I make an effort to catch up with High School Friend. She's the one who lives ten minutes away from me, but we haven't seen each other until she turned drunk and up two hours late for my party back in January.

I suggested we meet up for lunch. I suggested Pub A, on the other side of the city. I offer to pick her up, even though her house is in the opposite direction to Pub A, seeing as she doesn't drive and would have to catch the bus. No thanks, she said. She had some things to do in the city and would just make her own way there. So I suggested we change the venue to Pub B, which is in the city and therefore, would be easier for her to get to.

This is all via text message, by the way.

So she texts back to me, ".... or Pub B, up 2 u."

Alright. You can take my consideration and shove it up your arse.

Why is it up to me? Why do I have to decide? Then if I ask why I have to decide, she gets all aggravating and says Jeez, just make a decision. Why can't you just make a decision? (This didn't happen in this text conversation, but occurred years and years ago) I mean, I was happy with Pub A, I only suggested Pub B because I thought it might have been bloody well more convenient for you.

So I got a bit narky and texted back, "Don't really care, just thought it would be easier if you're walking or catching the bus. See you there at 12pm." She has now replied that she will call me in the morning. Christ. Just call me now. Better yet, text me; I don't want to speak to you.

It's shit like this that makes me stop calling 'friends'. What was with the attitudey '....'' at the start of her message? I can see her sitting there, with her eyebrows raised, typing out the message.

Don't worry, I know exactly how petty this sounds. Really, I do. It's just that you try to be fucking nice and it gets made to sound like you're an indecisive moron. Well, she can suck it. I can't be fucked contacting her again.

Right.

I'll probably delete this post tomorrow because I realise how retarded I'm being. IT JUST SHITS ME.

PS. I watched He's Just Not That Into You tonight (and started playing Solitaire on the computer just before the halfway mark) and I just wish that when I started talking about Fletch, someone had have said to me, "He's just not into you." (I don't mean you guys, I mean every poor bastard I've ever bored to tears, telling them about how the clairvoyant told me it would be so.)

Lost: One Mojo.

2010-06-26T09:58:00.002+10:00

I've lost my blogging mojo. I used to have so much to say, now I can't think of anything. Hopefully, it will come back soon because I don't want this blog to die. I love it too much and I love you guys too much.

So what's been happening with me? Not a lot, I tell you. University, which has finished for three weeks is still going well, I love it. I don't even mind the driving.

Lara is back. She called me to make dinner plans for tonight and then promptly cancelled them yesterday, with no word of an apology. Classic Lara behaviour. Cancelling is fine, I didn't want to see her anyway. Besides, I've let a couple of kilos creep back on so am not in the right frame of mind to see her skinny arse.

I do think Fletch is back from Asia as well. Jake keeps talking about plans in the near future that include Fletch, so it sounds like it. I bite my tongue to stop myself from asking him directly. I think Lara is looking for a house for them to share. Her Facebook status was something about real estate agents being arseholes. I don't know if I will cope, should they move in together. That isn't the way it's supposed to go.

The Hot Trainer appears to be engaged to a plasticated big-boobed, big-lipped Playboy model. So says the Gospel of Facebook. I put him on Hide. I don't have my crush anymore and I couldn't look at all of the grammatically-incorrect comments he and his friends would make.

And now I've just updated you on the lives of three other people. This is my damn blog, not the Lara/Fletch/Hot Trainer Blog.

It's just that I have no news. Nothing is happened. One of the girls from uni broke up with her boyfriend and is trying to convince me to do speed-dating with her. I'm considering it. Speed dating. THAT'S HOW BAD THINGS ARE GETTING AROUND HERE, PEOPLE.

Alright. I've got three weeks off. I will come up with something better. You deserve something better.

Ghosts

2010-06-02T17:52:00.003+10:00

I'm being haunted. Everywhere I go, I think I see people from my past. People who I know I cannot possibly see... because they're dead.

Well, in one case anyway. When I was living in Ireland, I got a phone call from home saying that my ex's father had passed away from cancer. It wasn't unexpected but still a shock. Three months later, I got another phone call to say that his mother had also died. That one was a shock. Apparently, she didn't even tell anyone - including her two sons - that she was sick. The first they knew of it was when she had to be taken to hospital one night. She never went home.

Even though their son wasn't at the top of my Christmas card list and I did my fair share of bitching about the in-laws, their passings made me really sad. Even though, nearly three years later, I still don't really feel like they're gone. I could feel like that because I didn't get to farewell them or see the grief of ArseFace and his brother.

So maybe it's because of not saying goodbye that I feel like I'm seeing my ex-(nearly)father-in-law everywhere lately. The other night, a man stood with his back to me at the ATM. I had to wait until he turned around before I remembered That's not him, he's dead. It's happened a few times now and with each, I get a mild shock that it really isn't him.

And speaking of ArseFace, he's on every Australian news website. Rather, his (better-looking) doppelganger, Lucas Neill:

Lucas is the captain of the Australian soccer team and with the World Cup just about to start in South Africa, his mug is all over the joint - giving me a severe case of whiplash every time I see him.

And for the trifecta - Fletch. On the weekend, I stopped in my tracks at the supermarket until some guy turned around and reassured me by his non-likeness that Fletch was probably most likely still in Asia. I pulled up at my aunty's house yesterday morning, having nearly rear-ended a car identical to one Fletch used to own, parked right outside the house. Even Mum is getting in on the act - a car like the one he used to drive went passed us and she said, "Is that Fletch?" Mum, you're the one who bloody well told me he doesn't live here anymore.

I don't know what's going on. Why these guys are haunting me. It's been so long since I've seen any of them and apart from Fletch, I don't want to see any of them (ArseFace's father in particular, given his present state...).

Life is strange.

Oh hai

2010-05-22T09:56:00.003+10:00

I just got a shock - my last post was on 3 May. It's now 22 May. How did time get away so quickly?

Truth be told, nothing really has been happening lately. I've been paying the price for being so easily distracted and not being disciplined enough when it comes to assignments - I now have three due next week and have I started any of them? No. I haven't. And it shits me, it really does. I have no-one to blame but myself (which is really frustrating, it's much more satisfying to blame someone else, rather than yourself). But I've brought all my university stuff into work today (I loathe working Saturdays) and given that it's usually pretty quiet on my one day a week at work, I plan to get as much done as I can. Yet here I am, writing a blog post...

The tree-hugger has been giving me the shits too. She met this guy a couple of weeks ago and they went on a date a week later. She said they got a bit hot and heavy as he walked her home that night. No judgement there, I've done the exact same thing (oh so long ago...) but when she told me they had sent 'raunchy' photos to each other later that night, my heart sank. Cut to a week later and they've slept together (no surprises there) but when she emails me and says He's not answering my texts, he's blown off my offer of meeting up for drinks during the week and says something vague about catching up next weekend, I'm really disappointed, all I could do was shake my head.

I try so hard not to judge, but honestly. What did she expect? Especially when it happened with another guy late last year. Sometimes I think it's all down to astrology - she is an Aries, they're live in the moment, not think of the consequences-type people (I'm Capricorn and the exact opposite. I find her impulsiveness scary), but then I think No. It's common sense but there's no telling her.

I was so envious when she told me she met up with him again and he turned out (seemingly) normal. No Manchester-type for her. And I'm ashamed to admit I felt a little bit of Ha! when she told me he'd brushed her off. I want everyone to be alone and bitter, just like me.

Lara will be home for good in two weeks. Of course she wouldn't go to China with Fletch (although, in fairness, I don't know how easy it would to just move on in to China. But still.). It will be interesting to see how everything goes when she is back. We used to be so close, but so much has changed. I wonder if I'll let myself be sucked back into being friends with her again? I know I've made her sound pretty awful (and in fairness again, she has done some really dodgy shit in her time), but you're getting a pretty biased view of her. She has the only thing I want. It's hard to see passed that sometimes. Two weeks. We'll see.

It is so fuh-reaking cold right now. When I got into my car this morning to come to work, the little temperature thingy on the dashboard told me it was 2.5 degrees (or 36.5 F for you dudes). It's not even winter, FFS.

So all this is probably why I haven't written for so long - I'm full of whines. I'm sorry I don't have anything positive to say, how boring to read a blog that's just bitching about some guy I haven't seen for eight months and the sex life of a friend. Sorry 'bout that.

Off to do my assignments now - oh hey, I got another Distinction this week. That's something positive, right? Too bad it's not all that exciting, but I think it's wise to take what I can get.

Have a great weekend :)

Literary Snobbery

2010-05-03T11:24:00.002+10:00

Since being at university and being surrounded by like-minded book-ish writer-ish people, I've come across a huge, face-slapping amount of book snobbery. If it's not about murder, rape, injustice, mental illness, blahblahblah, then it is obviously crap and not worth the paper it is printed on.

I like reading a huge variety of books. Biographies, crime, mystery, literary fiction, medical thrillers, classics and the much-ridiculed women's fiction. Or as some like to snootily refer to it as 'chick lit'.

I like that genre a lot. It's comforting. There's a girl, she's probably like you or me, she has career-money-weight-boy issues; there's guy, too, he's probably hot. There are friends; there are drinks. There's humour. There's love. It has a happy ending. What's not to love?

Lots, apparently. According to some people.

But, you know, those books (what shall we call them? I don't like 'chick-lit' because of how it's usually said - in a snooty voice, looking down one's nose - and 'contemporary women's fiction' sounds pooncy) are like sugar: you eat too much sugar, you feel sick. A little bit of sugar is sweet! You don't want to overdose, but at little bit is fine.

The other books, the serious ones, I think they are like carbs. Oh, so good. They fill you up. But they can bring you down too. Make you feel stodgy. Bloated. Slow. You need some sugar to perk you back up again!

It's all about a balanced diet.

Now I've gone and confused reading and eating and made myself hungry.

I've struggled with my writing identity since starting this course. I haven't found it, but I think I'm on my way. I like to read everything, but I think I want to write the dreaded chick-lit-contemporary-women's-fiction. I tried the serious stuff but it didn't flow. I like to make people laugh. When there's a comment left on this blog from one of you lovely, lovely people out there that says I made you laugh, you have no idea how good that makes me feel. If I can bring a moment of cheer to someone's life, just a moment, a smile, a laugh, that would make my day.

Sure, there is a lot of shit out there (hello, Cathy Kelly) but there's some good stuff too. It doesn't have to be all fluff, some of it can be quite dark (hello, Marian Keyes). A good balance of the both can be achieved without being patronising and insulting the reader's intelligence. Hopefully, I can manage just that.

And for all the book snobs out there, I say to you: suck it. Suck it and miss out on the fun of reading something that can make you laugh out loud and put a smile on your face for the rest of the day. Suck it.

Kicking Goals

2010-05-01T10:37:00.004+10:00

The planets must be all aligned this week because within the space of less than 24 hours, I got two ego-boosters.

The first was an assignment I handed in almost two months ago and only just got us our grades yesterday. I wasn't expecting much at all, I wasn't particularly proud of the work and to be honest, thought it was full of cliches. To my surprise, I got a Distinction! Which, with their crappy shitty grading system (whatever happened to A's, B's and C's?), is the highest mark. The equivalent to an A+. I was stoked. When it was handed back, I had to be all nonchalant about it because my friend got a Merit - which is still nothing to be sniffed at. As soon as I left though and was walking along the street to my car, I read what the lecturer had written (oh, just stuff like 'fluid, insightful, a pleasure to read, professional.' You know.) and I couldn't stop myself from grinning and let out a little woop every few steps. I felt on top of the world.

This morning, I came into work (I work on Saturdays now which I pretty much resent with every fibre of my being) and there was an email waiting for me. This is it, with no alterations:

The Management Group met yesterday and have asked that I pass on their compliments and congratulations to you on doing such a great job for us at Reception.

It is wonderful knowing we have someone that represents our company in such a friendly and professional manner.

Check me out, all professional and shit. It kind of made my day.

All joking aside, it is so nice to be complimented and recognised and rewarded. Getting the Distinction (A+, goddammit. As the tree-hugger said, Distinction doesn't have the same impact as saying A+) was validating. Just helps with the knowledge that the choice I made was the right one. It gives me much-needed motivation to keep going, work harder, do better.

P.S. The comments my lecturer made on my assignment are totally stuck up on the fridge in the kitchen for everyone to see and admire. Just like a five-year old, displaying their gold star.

Time To Smile

2010-04-20T23:47:00.001+10:00

This is my new favourite song. I defy you not to be full of happiness when you listen to it. Full of it. I am.

Xavier Rudd is an Australian musician (from my neck of the woods! A friends' claim-to-fame is that he used to play football with him back in the day) and to be honest, I don't really know much about him. But I love this "fusion of African and Australian folk sounds" and if I were in the Northern Hemisphere, I would definitely make this my song of Summer 2010.

PS. How cute is his grin at 3.22?!

2010-04-19T06:22:00.000+10:00

We haven't had any Lara-and-Fletch updates for a while and I know you're all just dying for more (...) so I will oblige.

She was home last week, just for a night, but she didn't contact me. I was pretty much holding my breath that she wouldn't, so it worked out well. Her contract in the desert country runs out next month and even though she swears she's going to come home, that really small bitchy part of me hopes she signs on for another three years. I'm not yet skinny enough, haven't yet magically transformed into a casual-but-cool dresser, nor do I have the required amazing boyfriend to make her return that much less painful.

My mother went to visit my grandmother today and came back with some news: "Hey, did you know that Fletch has been transferred to Asia?"

Hey. No, I didn't.

So, yeah. China, apparently. Not sure when or for how long, but it adds a nice twist to what Lara's plans could be for the end of May. Home, desert or China?

Ah, such anticipation.

And hey, I haven't seen Fletch for seven months. But I've thought about him at least once a day that whole time. Sad, sad, sad.

I've made a decision.

2010-04-18T20:23:00.006+10:00

I'm dropping Novel 1.

I feel a bit defeatist about it. A bit like a quitter. Which I hate hate hate. But I've given it a lot of thought and I'm 99% happy with my decision. By the time the class comes around on a Thursday night at 6pm, I've already been up for twelve hours. I've often gone home at 6pm instead of go to class because I've been so tired, so the class doesn't get my full attention.

I kind of feel like I have to keep justifying my decision. To everyone, including myself.

The class stresses me out. I can't write what he wants. And to be honest, I don't want to force myself to write something creative for someone else. For another class, I have to write the beginnings of what would be classified as a 'popular fiction' novel and that class is so much more enjoyable, I don't think I can concentrate and give my all to two different novels. It's too much.

So, I'm talking to the coordinator this coming week to tell her my decision. I'm happy with that.

I think.

Simplistic-but-good advice

I think you've all heard this one before...

2010-04-18T15:24:00.010+10:00

Incredibly so:

I don't quite cry myself to sleep, but I've got a constant heavy feeling in my chest...

And this one, just because things can't get too heavy:

Here it all is on paper:

I'm 30, single and live at home.

I haven't had anyone interested in my for such a long time that I can't even remember. (These guys don't count.)

And here's the worst bit: I've been single for five years.

What the fucking fuck? How does that happen? I can't even say that I've been playing the field or anything exciting. Sure, I've been on a couple of dates, met a lot of people, but there hasn't been anyone who has set off the butterflies or made my knees go weak. Well, with the exception of one person and we all know how that turned out.

My ex did a number on me, for sure, but really no worse than anyone else's messy break-up. We had built a house together and shared a mortgage. He cheated and I think it affected me a lot more than I let myself believe. But, whatever - THAT WAS FIVE YEARS AGO.

I'm 30, for fuck's sake. People I went to high school with, they're all getting married and having babies. I know I shouldn't care about that kind of thing, but it's as if after every weekend, I log into Facebook, there's news of a new baby or another wedding. It's insane.

And while I'm on the embarrassing confessions, I want that too. Not necessarily marriage, just the guy is fine, but babies. Christ Almighty, I never thought I would admit that, I am not one who really likes kids, but that damn biological clock that I always thought was a myth has definitely started ticking.

But I want the whole package: the guy and the babies. Not one without the other. And I have a deep-seated fear that it's not going to happen for me.

I'm 30, single for five years, living with my parents.

It doesn't look very promising, does it?

Photos from here, here and here.

Staying Classy

2010-04-13T16:47:00.003+10:00

I washed my black gym pants yesterday. I also chucked one of those eco-friendly bags with hessian handles in the wash with the pants.

Stray fibers of the hessian have come off and stuck themselves to my black gym pants. Now it looks like there are heaps of really thick blonde pubes on my pants.

I'm heading off, right now, to a session with the Hot Trainer.

Awesome.

Slithering Whorebag

2010-04-12T00:09:00.003+10:00

Wow. Google Analytics tells me someone googled the words "slithering whorebag" and it brought them to my blog.

That's really gross.

It may be time to bring this blog up a notch or two, class-wise. You know, be more elegant and shit like that.

Arrrrrgh

2010-04-07T10:44:00.000+10:00

Oh, for the love of God.

I cannot tell you how many posts I've started over the past two weeks and then subsequently deleted. I get an idea in my head for a new post, sit down to write it and it's gone. Completely gone. I find I have the attention span of a three-year old lately. I've tried to write about school, about the Hot Trainer and the Youngen and Marc with the Massive Muscles, about chickening out on going to an engagement party and later finding out it was a surprise wedding (still kicking myself for that), about friends (or lack thereof, as the post was going to be) and a whole pile of other crap.

So. Let's just get on with it.

First. School. University, whatever. I'm on term break at the moment and I'm loving it. Staying up really late and getting up at 10am (or even later), reading books and claiming it as homework (legitimately) and eating too much chocolate. But anyway. Uni is going really well, I still love it and am still 110% happy I chucked in a full-time job to spend three and a half years studying and working one day a week. Seriously. Best thing ever.

Okay. The Hot Trainer. The Youngen. Marc with the Massive Muscles. I had to tell the Hot Trainer that I could only do one session every two weeks, rather than the two sessions per week that I was doing. For as long as I tried to get away with it, my savings account baulked at the cost. Devastated. But still. I get to see him occasionally - he saw me tonight and I smiled, he stuck his tongue out and I flipped him the middle finger. Then we chatted and laughed for a few minutes and I felt smug, because I'm so positive I was getting the stink-eye from all the other girls there. Jealousy is a sin, sweaty bitches.

The Youngen. Still got my crush on this boy. He still teases me for giggling. I was doing chin-ups last week (I was doing chin-ups) and out of nowhere, he sidles up right beside me and says, "Where are the giggles?" Having a crush on a 20-year old, someone ten years younger, freaks me out but then I just remember there's an eleven year age difference between Lara and Fletch...

And Marc with the Massive Muscles. Such an appropriate name for someone on steroids. For realz. He was happily telling the Hot Trainer and I how much the needle hurts when he hits a vein and how he just has to push through it. The Hot Trainer had a kind of revolted fascination with it, but all I could think was "I bet he's got a tiny penis." Shame.

So that's those boys taken care of.

Urgh. The engagement party. A guy I used to work with sent me a Facebook message to invite me to his engagement party. (Don't get me started on sending an engagement party invitation via Facebook. Don't. Get. Me. Started.) I said I would go, two weeks later I collapsed on the couch at 8.30pm, tired from my first day at my new job, and then realised I was supposed to be at the party. Truth be told, I chickened out. I wasn't sure who I would know there, if anyone at all and had all these horrible visions of standing by myself and smiling hopefully and desperately at anyone unfortunate enough to make eye contact with me. So I didn't go.

I found out (via Facebook. Grr) that it was a surprise wedding. They got married and I missed it because I was a chicken. It makes me angry (at myself) on so many levels: I've regressed, for one. How did I not only survive on the other side of the world by myself for a year, but also make friends with people from all kinds of countries and become a freaking social butterfly? I whinge and bitch that my friends are few and far between, but then I don't go to parties that I'm invited to (albeit, via fucking Facebook). It makes me so mad.

In Ireland, I had to go out when I was invited somewhere. Otherwise, I spoke to no-one for days on end and that was too scary to contemplate. Back home, that's not the case. I'm totally in my comfort zone and it scares the shit out of me. It makes me angry and it makes me miss the weddings of friends.

Still pisses me off.

So that's really it. Nothing new going on in my life, really. I go to uni three days a week, work one day a week (receptionist at a real estate agency), go to the gym every now and then (I'm running these days! I haven't ran for years, my body is not built for running; these boobs, no. But there you go, I'm running and I like it) and I complain a lot about having no life. That's it.

Sorry I haven't been around much. I have been reading all of your posts but can't concentrate long enough to make a comment. I swear I've been reading them - cats not farting, Px90 workouts, boys who unlock creativity, cute love cards about cycling, Bazinga Babe (I may have spelled that wrong), home-entertaining-blocking dogs and for those who update Twitter more these days, car anniversaries and saffron-forgetting boyfriends.

This has only taken me about two hours to write (no shit) and I can't believe you've read it all. I love you. xx

Oh, hi there.... you weird masked animals.

On the road again...

2010-03-19T08:43:00.003+11:00

Thursdays:

6.00am: Wake up.

7.15am: Leave home. Down a coffee on the way that is never hot enough or sweet enough.

8.40am: Arrive at school.

9.00 - 12.30pm: Editing 1. Great teacher, but this is the class with the raging homosexual (once again, his words, not mine) whose obnoxious shouting out during class is getting worse. I used to snigger at the things he said. Now I want to punch him in the face. In between him and the other students who continue their conversations while the teacher is talking, I sit there with barely-controlled rage.

1.30 - 2.30pm: Narrative & Text lecture. At another campus, a 10 km drive away.

4.30 - 6.00pm: Narrative & Text tutorial.

6.00 - 9.00pm: Novel 1. Back at the other campus, 10 kms in the other direction.

10.15pm: Home. Bed. Stay awake until midnight, checking emails, Blogger, Twitter, Facebook, all the while telling myself to turn out the light and go to sleep.

Midnight: Lights out.

7.00am: Wake up to do another 9 - 5er.

Thursdays are shit.

Is it any wonder it's Friday morning and instead of sitting in a classroom an hour-and-a-bit away, I'm sitting on the couch? I got up this morning, showered, had breakfast and promptly went back to bed.

I knew what we were supposed to be doing in class (watching The Lovely Bones. Huh. I'm doing writing, not film. We've read the book, why would she want us to watch the movie? I have a sneaky suspicion she's trying to fill in time) and I knew I could skip the two classes without missing out on anything important. I thought I would use the time at home to study and get a head start on some assignments. Instead, I've spent two hours on the internet. Doing nothing of any importance. Wasting time.

I need a kick up the arse.

Bad Blogger! Bad, bad Blogger

2010-03-09T16:40:00.007+11:00

I'm a bad blogger. One post in the past week. And even that was just a creepy photo of some hot guy's abs (not that I heard anyone complain). It's been frantic lately. I feel like I'm just going from one thing to another, without anytime in between to even scratch myself. And we all know how important time to scratch one's self is.

University is going well, even though Novel 1 is still giving me seizures. I have all these fantastic sentences so I write them down, but that's not going to be enough to hand in on Thursday. As stand-alone sentences, they're brilliant. Put them together and it sounds like poo.

Oy.

I went away for two days to the Great Ocean Road with Jake and Molly. Jake's mother, my aunty, has a holiday house there so we made the most of the long weekend. I haven't laughed so much for a while. My stomach muscles were so sore from laughing. Or was that from doing the Worm in the early hours of Saturday morning? Have you ever tried that? The Worm? A lot harder than it looks. Give it a go - just make sure you don't wear pants that have buttons down the front. Otherwise you'll end up with two massive dark purple/almost black bruises on your cooter....

I had an interview earlier for a reception position at a real estate agency. Just one day a week, Saturdays. The woman (who has a notorious reputation in our everyone-knows-everyone city) said to me, "I think you are delightful. Absolutely delightful." Sucka. She said she would let me know as soon as possible if I've got the job, so we'll see.

Did I mention I have a new crush at the gym? This place is like a fountain of hotness. The new one turned to me the other day and asked, "Were you just giggling?" and I nodded. The Hot Trainer butts in and says, "Yeah, every time it starts to hurt, she giggles her head off" and proceeded to do a spastic imitation of me getting the giggles. Then later, the two of them ganged up on me to join them in some hardcore intense class. The new one says to me, "Come on, we'll do it together." So I said okay. Turns out the class wasn't on because of the public holiday, so hopefully next week. He's cute - tall and blonde. Cute. We'll call him The Youngen.

Oh, yeah. He's 20.

And oh yeah. Because I'm a sucker for peer pressure, here's the Hot Trainer's abs:

Nice, yah?

Sorry I haven't commented on your posts lately, I promise I'll try to get to them this week. xx

Because You're Good Girls and I Love You

2010-03-02T21:54:00.006+11:00

blah blah blah... blah blah blah... blah blah blah... blah blah blah... blah blah blah... blah blah blah... blah blah blah... blah blah blah... blah blah blah... blah blah blah... blah blah blah... blah blah blah... blah blah blah... blah blah blah... blah blah blah... blah blah blah... blah blah blah... blah blah blah... blah blah blah... blah blah blah...

There did used to be a photo of Marc with the Massive Muscles here. But I took it down. You were too slow to see the hotness.

blah blah blah... blah blah blah... blah blah blah... blah blah blah... blah blah blah... blah blah blah... blah blah blah... blah blah blah... blah blah blah... blah blah blah... blah blah blah... blah blah blah... blah blah blah... blah blah blah...blah blah blah... blah blah blah... blah blah blah... blah blah blah... blah blah blah... blah blah blah...

way over my head

2010-03-01T11:13:00.004+11:00

I don't know who I was kidding - signing up to do a whole year in Novel 1. I can't write a fucking novel, there's no way. I have this whole idea, theme, in my head but every time I try to put pen to paper, it just won't come. Or it just sounds so bland that it makes me angry.

I've tried making a journal, listing the characters and what makes them who they are. I've tried changing the setting, but I think it works even less the other way. I downloaded Freemind and have a whole massive map of the beginning and the middle. Read the map and you've read what the novel is all about. I just can't translate it from point form to sentences.

Now that I'm not working anymore, I slept in today. Only until 9.30am, but still. It's now 10pm and I'm still in my pyjamas, not changed out of them. I brushed my teeth and washed my face, at least. I then sat down to write. Write, write, write.

But I didn't. Instead I went to every website in my history, stalked the Hot Trainer's Facebook profile, read the news, scribbled a few sentences, ate some hot cross buns, drank coffee, trawled through Twitter and added any person related to anything to do with writing, rabidly like they were rock stars. Maybe hoping something would rub off on me?

I'm actually starting to get pretty nervous. I can't write anything. The words aren't coming. I sit there, twiddling the pen in my fingers, tapping it against the blank page, waiting for the characters to start talking to each other, to me. And they won't. They're sitting there, arms folded, looking at me with their eyebrows raised and bored looks on their faces. Smartarses.

I don't know what to do. I'm terrified.

Creepy Creeperson

2010-02-24T23:30:00.006+11:00

On Wednesday night, the Hot Trainer told me he had a date later that evening.

......

Wait.... No devastation, depression, insane jealousy??

Actually, no. All it did was rouse up some curiousity (okay, okay - and a teeny tiny amount of jealousy. I can admit that) about the girl - who is she, does she go to our gym, what does she look like, did she ask him or did he ask her? And seeing as he still doesn't have a licence, was she picking him up to go out?

Anyway, I was more relieved than anything. Hot Trainer mentions he's going on a date and I don't get down in the dumps. That's freaking awesome. That confirms I have a "You're pretty to look at and you make me laugh"-style crush on him. And I am more than happy that that's all it is.

I don't need to be getting all obsessive and losing my shit like I did with Fletch. No, thank you.

But you know.... Marc with the Massive Muscles. I do like him.

The pot-smoking pill-popping tree-hugger wanted to see a photo of him, so being the massive creep that I am, sent her his Facebook photo (No. MMM and I aren't FB friends. He and Hot Trainer are. We are not. I'm a creep). This is the unedited version (with the exception of their names) of her reply:

oh my!

I think my socks blew off! I want that! or something like that! New life mission!!!

Fuck Hot Trainer and Fletch! HELLLLLOOOOOOO Marc with the Massive Muscles!

Uh-huh. My thoughts exactly, tree-hugger.

Picky, Schmicky

2010-02-24T22:35:00.004+11:00

I've been bitching for yonks (yonks. Ha) that no guy is ever interested in me, that I'm a great mate, someone fun to have a laugh with (or at, as the case so often is), but there hasn't been anyone who has shown any kind of romantic interest for a loooong time.

I was thinking about this the other day and it's since occurred to me that, actually, that's bullshit. There have been guys who has shown interest in me, three of them since December, but it's me who has had no interest.

First Guy, I worked with. First guy is engaged with two kids. Instant no-no. Besides, he's gross, personality-wise and appearance-wise. He told a girl at work, "If I wasn't married, I'd have a crack at her." A crack at me. (Obviously when I said "romantic" interest, I was taking a broad approach....)

So, First Guy, go home to your fiancee; stop pawing me at the work Christmas party; don't say things like "crack" and expect to get anywhere, fiancee or no fiancee. And stop being gross.

Okay, so that's understandable, right, that I showed no interest in return? Clearly.

Second guy, he's a nice guy. I don't actually know him that well - at all, really - but we also used to work together. He is pretty shy and asked another girl I worked with if she could put a good word in for him. She let him down easy, without even checking with me first. I'm kind of glad she did that because I would have felt like a big bitch if I had to say no.

The reason why: Second Guy is overweight. Really overweight. And I do feel like a bitch, just for typing it. I mean, how shallow, right? To judge someone just on looks alone? But you're attracted to what you're attracted to, you can't choose that. I don't necessarily like muscly guys - for example, Fletch is no Hot Trainer, body-wise, but he's not overweight either. He's fit and healthy, but doesn't have a rock-hard six-pack. Lovely as they are, muscles are not a requirement. But, on the other hand, not being morbidly obese is.

So, Second Guy, thanks for the interest, it really flattered me, but I'm going to have to say no.

And we all know Third Guy: Manchester. Ah, Manchester. With the obsessive texting habit. He showed too much interest. He seemed nice when I met him, in his texts and then when I spoke to him on the phone that night. But bloody hell, you scared me off. Keep me wanting more, don't bombard me with a constant stream of text messages.

So, Third Guy, thanks but no thanks. You scare me a little.

Where does this leave me? Still single. Still alone. I thought I was justified in my decision-making and while I know First Guy will never be an option, what about Second and Third Guy? Am I being too picky? The lovely lovely girls over at Less Than Three, Sarah and Genevieve, are conducting a little social experiment in the world of dating - signing up for online dating and having a crack (sorry) at anyone who shows interest, regardless of whether the guy fits their 'ideal' or not. Really, really great stories of the dates, S & G!

Maybe I'm doing myself out of a whole crapload of guys because I'm too blinkered - if he doesn't tick all the boxes, I'm not interested? Do I need to go out with the compulsive texter? Should I have gone out with the overweight guy? I don't know, I just can't see myself doing it.

When I think of the kind of guy I want to end up with, I regret to say that it's still Fletch. Or someone just like him. He still has all the qualities I find most attractive. But you'll be pleased to know I don't feel the same way about him anymore. The Hot Trainer crush has completely distracted me. But still. He's still the person I think of. Unfortunately, Second Guy and Manchester just didn't have me thinking there could be anything there. Not much you can do about that, right?

I don't know. I guess I'm just sick of being single and I'm concerned I'm being too picky. I keep saying to myself, "If there's no chemistry, then what's the point? You gotta have the chemistry, the spark, the connection" and I haven't felt it with First (thank God), Second or Third Guy.

That's three guys - how many more am I going to reject?

Pussy cat.

Twitter. Twit. Twat.

2010-02-21T15:39:00.004+11:00

Peeps. I'm now on Twitter. I have no fucking idea what you do on Twitter. No idea. Is it just like a whole heap of status updates, like on Facebook?

Anyway, I'm doing it for networking purposes. And I don't even know what that means.

Anyway. This is me. Add me. Follow me? Or whatever. I don't know if that's what you do on Twitter?

I know some of you are Twits. Is that what you're called? Seriously. I don't know this shit. Am I too old to be a Twitterer? I'll be going through your blogs and finding your Twitter thingies (yes, this is a threat) and adding you. Following you? Fuck it.

Twat.

I want a pony.

Yes

2010-02-20T19:17:00.005+11:00

Sitting in the lecture room the other day, listening to my thrice-published lecturer talk to us about the process of novel-writing, a thought struck me: This is exactly where I am supposed to be right now.

I started school this week and despite a few feelings of anxiety about not knowing where I was going and if my teachers would hate me for missing the first week and if I was going to be surrounded by skinny young things, wearing black jeans so tight they could be sprayed on and too much eyeliner, making me feel my 30 years, everything felt completely normal.

What a relief. I was terrified I would hate it. Or it would hate me. Like we just wouldn't gel. Luckily, it was the opposite. I loved it all.

That's not to say everything is roses. It rarely is. I have made mental lists of all the people not to sit near - like the woman in her 50's who says "Mmm, yeah. Yes" to everything the teacher says; and even though I snigger at nearly everything he says, the raging homosexual (his words) who calls out, with annoying frequency, mildly amusing comments during our lecture which he fails to notice - or just care - that he is pissing off nearly everyone in the room.

I'm completely intimidated by my Novel 1 class. Who am I kidding? I can't write a novel. Feck, I can't even write an opening paragraph. Read it aloud next class? No fucking way, thank you. I must remember the teacher's words, to a class mate who was expressing some consternation about their work, and spoken in his highly-refined Indian-English accent, "Courage, man! Courage."

I finish work next week. I am then an unemployed student. How cliched. But I love it. It's where I'm meant to be.

A Little Bit of Stuff

2010-02-08T21:08:00.009+11:00

The gym is still going swimmingly. The Hot Trainer crush is going along swimmingly. He laughs at my complete lack of co-ordination. He compared me to an intoxicated infant animal. As in, his exact words were "You have the co-ordination of a baby giraffe. A drunk baby giraffe."

I'll take that. It's cute. I wish I had the legs of a baby giraffe.

I have a new crush. Marc with the Massive Muscles. In comparison to the Hot Trainer, who is my height (about 5"7), Marc with the Massive Muscles is well over six feet tall. He always comes over to talk and make really inappropriate - but funny as - jokes. He high-fives me when he leaves. I love him.

On Tuesday night, the Hot Trainer decided my filthy, dirty, bad mood would be best sorted out with an hour of boxing so that took us away from the normal area and into the upstairs room. In between punching, upper cuts, and overly-dramatic vomiting noises, he would make me run down the stairs and back up (personally, I think he's trying for another one of these). Out of the corner of my eye, I could see someone standing downstairs with their hands out in a "WTF?" gesture: Marc with the Massive Muscles. The Hot Trainer yells out from the top of the stairs, "We're up here because she's scared of ya, mate!" She as in me.

Was Marc with the Massive Muscles disappointed?! In reality, he probably had a few dirty jokes he wanted to gross me out with, but it still made me grin.

I haven't answered the text from Manchester from Monday. I'm just going to leave it, I think. No point dragging it out with continued texts. While it was very lovely to have someone interested, he really freaked me out with how full-on and persistent he was. Especially considering we met when we were both drunk. It was too much and scared me off.

I start university next week. I found out yesterday that I was supposed to start this week. Great, so I'm off to a fantastic start already! So I've mentally prepared myself to be starting closer to March, I'm all out of whack now. As of next week, I'll be working Mondays and Tuesdays, then spending the rest of the week being a student. Crazy! But it's great. Life is taking a whole new direction and it's so exciting.

I love 2010 (so far)!

But are they drunk?

Doing the Bolt

2010-02-08T12:31:00.003+11:00

The meeting-up with Manchester turned into a bit of a comedy. Of errors, perhaps. Maybe not a comedy from his point of view, but this blog isn't at all about what happens from Manchester's perspective.

I got to the pot-smoking pill-popping tree-hugger's house (I really do need to give her a real-sounding name one of these days...), we had a couple of bottles of champagne and a bottle of chardonnay which we made into a sort of punch-style beverage, given that neither of us like the chardy at all (ABC = Anything But Chardonnay). We sat outside and got pleasantly stoned. We had garlic bread for dinner. We laughed and talked and when the tree-hugger's housemate pointed out that it was 11pm and we still hadn't made a move to meet Manchester, we laughed some more.

Manchester phoned, so at the urging of the tree-hugger and the housemate, I answered the call. I can't remember what I said to him, but I do vaguely remember telling him I would let him know where we ended up going so we could meet up for drinks.

Suddenly, the tree-hugger's tune changed. She doesn't want to go. I argue that I only kept it going, rather than cancelling during the week, because she wanted to meet him. Eventually, we decided we would go to the bar at the end of her street and because it was so late, they would only be open for a short amount of time before we would have to leave and we could make our escape if things didn't go as well as hoped.

I sent Manchester a text to let him know where we would be and off we went. The bar was crowded and we needed to sit down - the sudden movement from the couches on the porch of the tree-huggers house had caused turmoil in our heads. Suddenly, the Colombian drug lord (or so we thought he looked like) moved from his seat on the couches and we made ourselves comfortable. I was increasingly nervous and twitchy - I'd already knocked a bottle of beer over on someone's jacket.

Onto our second beer and I look up - there's Manchester, striding through the bar, out towards the back. I panicked. I don't know why. During the week, I couldn't even picture him in my mind, but as soon as I saw him, I knew.

"Ohmigod!" I choke on my words, gesticulating frantically. The tree-hugger looks suitably alarmed. "Ohmigod, ohmigod, that's him! He's here! BOLT!"

In a mad scramble of gathering bags and jackets, and getting to our feet and out the door, I accidentally slam into someone and the tree-hugger drops her beer bottle on the floor. I'm still shrieking, "Run! Bolt! Let's get out of here!" like an idiot, the tree-hugger has the giggles and we are pretty much climbing all over each other to get out the door, into the cool night air.

Oblivious to the stares we are getting from other people who are out and about, we run down to the end of the street and we round the corner before coming to a standstill, looking at each other and bursting into laughter. We went home and I sent him a text to say sorry but we had to leave. Not only did he say no worries, he sent a text last night to ask if I had recovered and another one today, asking when I would be in Melbourne next.

You still want to meet up with me after I stand you up?

Fuh-reak.

So I know that doing the bolt on him wasn't the right thing to do, it's pretty shitty actually and I don't really know why I felt the need to run out of the bar, but I do know that I wasn't in any state to be in public - it took me eight attempts to find the word frozen. Unwet, runny, unset, etc. I also know that I don't want to meet him again. I'm completely done.

I will never give my number out to a drunken hook-up again. I hadn't done it since I was 19 and it took ten years to forget the lesson I learned all the way back then.

Oy.

Second Thoughts

2010-02-04T09:16:00.004+11:00

The excitement of meeting up with Manchester again has slowly morphed into a quiet feeling of dread. In the stone-cold sober hours that followed last Saturday night's text, I started to think "Hmm... This could be a bit full-on..."

On the Monday, I got another text from him. This time, he was suggesting he come to my town "and you can show me all the delights ;)". Hmm. I ignored the text for a good four hours before replying, "During the week is no good, I'll be in Melbourne for some drinks with a girlfriend, you guys can come along but I'd prefer to keep it nice and casual." I felt like I was admonishing him. I didn't like it.

Mate. We kissed at a festival. We were drunk. I can't even remember what you looked like. Stop it with the texts.

I'm not keen to meet him anymore. The pot-smoking pill-popping tree-hugger and I have been discussing escape plans: words to say when I'm desperate to leave, other "plans" that we have to take off for. I have a sneaky suspicion that she wants me to meet up with him so she can have a good laugh when it all turns to shit.

Just the thought of being in a pub and seeing him walk in makes my stomach start to churn. The tree-hugger and I have a coping contingency plan for that too: champagne and lots of weed. And I think if they are the two things I need just to meet this sucker, then it's probably not a good idea to go through with it. But I'm going to. I mean, I've got to have something to write about on this blog besides Fletch and the Hot Trainer, right? It's for the good of the blogging world.

Oh, and speaking of the Hot Trainer (see how I did that?), this is yesterday's horoscope:

A Taurus or Virgo individual may feature strongly in your life and have a part to play in the way you approach your relationships. The problem with this is that their hot/cold, yes/no mentality could leave you exasperated, high and dry. Be extremely frank to get clear answers you expect from others during this cycle.

The only Virgo I know (no Tauruses. Tauri?) is the Hot Trainer. In my diary last week, I commented that one night, he's all flirty and touchy-touchy, then the next time I see him, it's as if he thought about how he acted and is pulling himself up on it and is a bit stand-off-ish. This is the cycle almost every week, without fail. Just like the horoscope says. Hot/cold, yes/no. Exasperated. But being extremely frank? I don't think so.

I have a session with him tonight, I hope he's back to his normal flirty self. I like Flirty Hot Trainer much better than Reserved Hot Trainer. Wonder which one I'll get tonight?

Dirty Thirty

2010-02-01T08:58:00.006+11:00

It turns out being 30 suits me. I don't know if recent happenings are a sign of what's to come for the year or just a coincidence, I but like it.

I had another session with the Hot Trainer on Friday night after work, he had set up a circuit of torture, so while I sweated and ran up and down stairs and carried on like I was having an epileptic seizure, he volunteered to sing.... he serenaded me with multiple choruses of "This is the song that never ends." Apologies to you all if that song is now stuck in your heads, but you can blame the Hot Trainer! I was laughing the whole time, he cracks me up.

The next day, I was driving to Melbourne when my phone rings. Completely ignoring the law about talking on your phone while driving, I look at the called ID and see the Hot Trainer's name flashing up! Turns out he was just calling to see how I was after Friday night's session. Aww! What a sweetheart. The phone call last a whole minute and eight seconds, but it was the best 1.08 minutes I've had for a while...

I get to the party and we're all dressed up German style. To start with, I'm bored out of my brain. I text the pot-smoking pill-popping tree-hugger to let her know that Fletch isn't there (and about the Hot Trainer phone call, of course). A bit later, I check for a reply, but instead of one from her, there's one from Manchester. It kind of makes me blush, but this is what he said:

Just got some Muse on. Taking me back to when you were caressing my back. Unreal ;)

There. I'm actually blushing a bit now. He then sent another one to say he couldn't wait to see me. It gave me some beer-induced warm fuzzies for a while.

Finally the party got good. (Either ignore the yellow writing if ignorance is bliss or keep reading...)

One of Jake's friends, Kennedy, was saying he would love a joint and he was waiting for the adults to leave so he could have one, but we decided to head over to the van to share a joint. He had the back of the van all set up with a double bed and had pretty much been living in it. I sat on the floor, resting on the bed, against the back doors. We shared the joint and got busted by my aunty - she opened the side door and a haze of smoke wafted out. Hahah! We had another one later in the night, this time laying side by side, on our backs, looking at the stars and talking absolute bullshit. It was so funny, I couldn't even remember what we were talking about. Tattoos, maybe?

The party started to wind up at about 3.30am when we found Jake passed out on the front lawn, wearing just a shirt and his underwear. We all grabbed a limb each and carried him inside, chucked him on the bed, I got stuck between the bed and his legs. My aunty had taken my bed, starfishing diagonally across it, so I decided the couch would do the job. I sat down and chatted to Kennedy, with whom things were getting a little bit touchy-feely. With Jake passed out, my aunty passed out, my other cousin Steven and another party-goer, Lainey, in the other bedroom and Molly finally retired, suddenly the couch turned into Make-out Central.

What the hell is going on?? Hahah, seriously?! Is it some sort of vibe, aura, that I'm exuding at the moment? I'm not doing anything differently, I'm not socialising any differently, not saying things I wouldn't normally say, not doing my hair and make-up any differently, but something is different. Maybe I have more confidence, now that I'm seeing some physical results? Not to even mention the mental results - I'm so much happier. Is this making a noticeable difference to the people around me?

Saturday night was definitely a highlight of recent times: a phone call from the Hot Trainer, a message from Manchester and a dirty make-out session with a 25-year old!

And I'm so so glad Fletch wasn't there, he totally would have ruined my buzz.

Sing it, monkey

It's all about the Hot Trainer

2010-01-29T09:20:00.005+11:00

Yesterday, I thought the worst place in the world for me to be would be the gym. I was still dead tired, my eyes were red and sore, my legs and feet were aching and I was cranky as a bitch. But I had an appointment with the Hot Trainer and I knew after my few days of falling off the salad wagon, I had to go.

Turns out the Hot Trainer is the perfect remedy for having the shits up. (That saying, "Having the shits up" makes absolutely no sense. It just means one is pissed off.) He was so jealous that I got to go to the Big Day Out and wanted to know all about it. I might have made it sound like I was there with a guy ("We got into bed at 1am; The guy I was with..." kind of thing) and it just seemed to make him flirtier.

I told him about doing the 21-day ~~torture plan~~ eating plan and he asked how it was going, and before I could even think, the words were out of my mouth: "It's fucked up." He bent over, laughing. But then, get this, he said again my body shape had changed, but as he said it, he did that hand thing to describe a woman's body. You know, two hands start out apart, then come in at the waist and go back out for the hips? He did that to describe me. Twice.

I love the Hot Trainer.

He made some comment about how I was so quiet when I first started with him, but now I've turned out to be a Big Day Out-going, pot-smoker, big weekender, turning up to sessions hungover/drunk . He thinks I've got this whole crazy social life (kissing boys at festivals kind of behaviour, I guess....) but if only he knew I was in bed by 8.25pm a couple of Friday nights ago!

Later he asked if we were friends on Facebook - I guess when you have 1,050 friends, it's hard to keep track of them. I said no and he said, "Well, you're not very nice then." So I went home, obsessed over it for a while, then before I could stop myself, added him as a friend. He accepted it at midnight, then this morning on his page where it says "Hot Trainer and Elise are now friends", I wrote: There. Don't say I'm not a nice person. PS. Everything hurts and I hate you.

I see him again tonight which I really can't wait for. I love this guy.

During my Facebook frenzy last night, I got a text message from Manchester. He asked how my day was and what the plans were for the weekend. The pot-smoking pill-popping tree-hugger decided that she needed an alcohol-free weekend and while I know I could still crash at her house and still meet up with Manchester, I'm really not that keen to go meet him alone. So I sent back to him, "Sorry, plans have changed, can't come to Melbourne after all, but will be there next weekend, can catch up for some drinks then if you're free?" He said that sounds good and I know I should be excited, but dudes, the Hot Trainer crush eclipses everything.

I'll still meet up with Manchester next weekend - hey, it's not like I've got much else going on Friday/Saturday nights and the tree-hugger and I are due for a big night out and besides, he was a good kisser - ooh, and I was thinking he looked only about 23 or 24! Ha!

Anyway. That's the news from last night's session. Party tomorrow night for Molly's birthday, potential Fletch encounter. Oh, joy.

Giraffes rule

Australia Day 2010

2010-01-27T21:21:00.006+11:00

Big Day Out music festival, Melbourne.

Sunshine, sunburnt shoulders, painted red toenails covered in dirt.

Relief from the sun coming from marquees and cold beers. Crazy eyes from kids on ecstasy. A man entertaining the crowd by evading capture from two security guards as all three balanced meters above the ground on the marquee roof.

Bands, bands, bands. And DJs. Muse, Powderfinger, Hilltop Hoods, Eskimo Joe, The Temper Trap, Kasabian, Dizzee Rascall, Simian Mobile Disco, Calvin Harris. Groove Armada.

Jim Beam and Coke spilled on feet by cheeky English boy with Manchester accent. Laughing. A new attempt at the pick-up? Laughing. Talking. Kissing.

Oh my God. Kissing. Someone known for not even an hour. Oh, good kiss. Butterflies in stomach. Weak knees. Arm wrapping around neck. He's tall. Hat being knocked off head. Readjust hat. Kissing. Tend to hat. Kissing. Kissing. Kissing. Kissing.

Jake and Molly, lost to the crowd. Or is that me? Muse. Fireworks. Two encores. Beer. Cheer. Move to Groove Armada. Edge of the crowd. Get up on my shoulders, he offers, you'll see better. Oh no no, gravity is my friend. Feet firmly on the ground.

Move into the middle of the crowd. Heaving, sweating, dancing as one, sea of people and flashing lights. Kissing.

End of show. Tired. Sunburnt. Dehydrated. Phone numbers exchanged. Kiss goodbye. Running in the dark to find Jake and Molly. Public transport abandoned, taxi hailed. Midnight. Filthy feet, shower, potato wedges and sour cream. Water. Bed.

Work. Can't get enough coffee. Water. Red eyes. Stinging shoulders. Make the telephones stop ringing. Ooh, is that a text message? Cheeky English boy with Manchester accent. Make him wait a couple of hours before replying. Before the day is out, the question is asked: Want to hook up* again?

Maybe. Maybe not. Busy weekend. We'll see. I'll let you know. If I've got time. What did he look like, again? Meet him Friday night, says the pot-smoking pill-popping tree-hugger, tell him to bring a friend, we'll make a night of it. Maybe.

Friday night. Extremely casual date, maybe. Saturday night, party for Molly's birthday. Fletch, more than likely. Date with Manchester, most definitely.

*Hooking up, in Australia and apparently England, doesn't have the same meaning as it does in North America. Apparently, there it means 'SEX!!' but here it just means 'catching up with the slight possibility of sex'. There was no sex had at the festival. Not by me, anyway.

Peanut Butter in my Crack

2010-01-22T15:25:00.003+11:00

Staying on the sleep-theme, I was emailed the funniest link today by Jake. It was to Sleeptalkin' Man, a blog made by a woman whose husband says the most insanely hilarious things in his sleep.

Some of the ones that made me laugh until my stomach hurt:

"You can't be a pirate if you don't have a beard. I said so. MY boat, MY rules."

"You're pretty. pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty.... [long pause] Now fuck off and be pretty somewhere else. I'm bored."

"Oompa loompas don't sing in heaven. They tidy up the clouds."

"I've got a badger, a dog, a cat, and a sack. Now that I've got 'em you can fuck off. All mine."

There is more gold at their website Sleeptalkin' Man. Don't come back here until you've read it all.

Yawn

2010-01-22T09:27:00.003+11:00

My dreams are taking over my waking life. Not dreams as in aspirations, but dreams as in the subconscious. I feel like they are trying to tell me something important, but when I think about them later in the day, they seem just out of my reach. They are sitting just on the periphery and when I try to focus on them, try to remember, they disappear.

It's making me feel unsettled, disconnected, tired and uninterested in anything that is happening outside of my own head.

The dreams seem to have recurring themes: new friends, the beach, the country, the Hot Trainer and sometimes even his family. And once, somewhat bizarrely, a SWAT team.

My subconscious appears to have turned against me. I spend enough of my waking hours thinking about him, I don't need it in my sleep as well.

Oh. I found out last night he has a snake. A pet snake. You remember my issues with snakes, right? That's that then, I could never be with someone who keeps disgusting, slithering, skin-shedding, tongue-flicking reptiles as pets. Now all we need is to have the snakes thrown into the dream mix and it will be a right old party in my head.

**EDIT

Um. Holy crap. Goose bumps. Seconds after I posted this entry, I looked at my horoscope and I swear to God, I think my heart stopped for a few beats. Check it:

Some of your dreams will come true now and I mean that literally. Pay attention to what is being thrown up from your subconscious as this may offer you some vital clues as to how you should live your life in the coming months. Make a dream diary and note down your feelings and visions during your sleep. There may be some very powerful revelations shortly.

Goose bumps.

The Shit List

2010-01-18T10:39:00.011+11:00

I haven't been feeling quite myself lately. Probably ever since my friends left en masse. I thought I would finally be able to breathe again, the whirlpool in my mind would finally calm and I would once again be able to think straight. That hasn't happened yet and I'm feeling a bit frazzled, tired and a little depressed.

There is a whole mess of crap that is contributing to The Shit List.

1. University. Getting an early offer blew me away, for sure, but now the glow has kind of worn off and I'm not sure I want to go to that particular university. It's an hour away from home (and I don't want to move there, it's too far from the beach and it snows in winter), I don't know anyone else there, going to the hometown university or even the one I applied for in Melbourne would be so much more convenient. However, in yesterday's first round of offers, I did. not. get. anything. WTF? My God, I was stunned - how do I go from getting an early offer to missing out completely in the first round? Holy crap, that brought me back down to Earth with a friggen thud! So, like it or not, I just may be going to the snowy university. Oh and I've just about given myself an ulcer, wondering how the hell I'm going to manage full-time study, work and a social life (not that I have one. But I might. Soon. You don't know). I keep thinking that thousands of other people can do it, so there isn't any good reason why I can't, but it's still stressing me.

Number 2 on The Shit List is the fact that my horrible cousin, who was not-so-affectionately referred to as Whorebag for years (by me. I'm only a little bit proud of myself), now has a boyfriend. Granted, she will be 32 next month and this is the first guy she has ever brought home for her parents to meet (WTF?), but still. We do not get along but I still feed off the updates from Dad every now and then:

"Oh, Whorebag has lost some weight?"

"Oh, Whorebag has a new job?"

"Oh, Whorebag looked good when you saw her last?"

"Oh, Whorebag has a boyfriend?" Shit motherfucker fuck shit.

How did Whorebag get a boyfriend before I got another one? How how how? Stab. Right in the femoral artery.

Number 3. Seeing an updated profile picture of Lara and Fletch. I know I said I didn't care for him much anymore, but seeing his face unexpectedly still feels like a punch in the nuts (If I had nuts, that's what I'd imagine it would feel like. I don't have nuts - obviously. Right? - so I'm just surmising).

NUMBER 4. WHY WON'T THE HOT TRAINER ADD ME AS A FRIEND ON FACEBOOK SO I CAN STALK HIM PROPERLY? Though, it is amazing (and insanely creepy) how much information you can find out by not looking very hard at all.... CREEP.

5. I'm still sleepwalking and having whacked out dreams. Enough, already. Last night I woke up, standing in front of the cabinet next to the bedroom door, having just freaked myself out by running my hand over the old, gnarled wood. I don't know what I expected it to be in my dream, but it did not match up at all with what I felt, resulting in more confusion, disorientation and crankiness in the morning from being tired. This is happening nearly every night of the week. It's driving me crazy. The sleepwalking and talking was always considered a quirk of mine, something everyone would have a laugh at. Now, it's pissing me off. I need an uninterrupted nights' sleep, dammit.

6. I need a massage. Enough said.

Bitching, over and out. (I think)

Bus of creepiness

Friday Frivolity

2010-01-15T13:57:00.005+11:00

Last Friday night, when I wrote this post, I was pretty drunk and tired. I also wrote in my diary and when I read over it yesterday, I laughed. This is why:

"Ultimately, my future happiness at the moment I don't want it to be ruled by the natives because eyevy [sic] interview was so shallow. Honestly though, but that kind in front of the mirror."

What?? Oh my God, I have absolutely no idea what I'm on about! Who the hell are the natives? And why do they get to decide my future? What interviews?? What's going on in front of the mirror??

I'm even laughing now because that is the exact reason why I always try to write in my diary when I'm drunk - it cracks me up. The terrible handwriting, the ramblings, the tangents, the utter crap like that makes so much sense when you're up to your eyeballs in beer and vodka, but in the cold harsh light of a hangover, looks like a bunch of random words thrown together in a sentence. I love it.

Continuing this 21-days of bullshit torture, I went to the gym this afternoon after work. As I'm there on the effing treadclimber (have you guys seen that bastard? It's like a retarded treadmill. When the Hot Trainer asks me what I've been doing at the gym by myself, I'm usually like, "Oh, a bit of the bike, the cross-trainer, the retarded treadmill." WTF? It's all up the shit. Good for the legs though), sweat pouring into my eyes in an attempt to blind me, out of the corner of my eye, I see someone come running over to me.

Trying to squint some of the sweat out of my eyes, I see it's the Hot Trainer. Aww. Hello, Gorgeous. He just came over to say hi. He had come in with some mates (one of whom talked to both of us during yesterday's session and is friggen hilarious. And extremely hot. Love the gym) for his own workout on a Friday afternoon, saw me and decided to go out of his way to say hey. Aww. Aww.

After that sweat session (at least it ended on a high), I got into bed at 8.25pm. On a Friday. Being 30 rocks!

I have the house to myself this weekend which I'm sadly overexcited about. I'm going to go to the gym, take some photos along the coast, read, write, buy some new workout clothes, give myself a manicure and pedicure, and close the curtains so no-one knows I'm home. Quiet. Relax. Calm.

Hope you all have awesome weekends :)

Image from weheartit.com

21 days of clean living...

2010-01-13T13:37:00.003+11:00

... starts now.

No carbs, no alcohol, no pasta, no potatoes. Nothing to drink but water and green tea. Lots of vegies and salads. Protein is good. Sugar is bad.

When I first started at the gym, the Hot Trainer gave me this 21-day eating plan that I did a bit half-arsed for a month because it was coming up to Christmas and I wanted to be realistic about my expectations and all those excuses. But now that my friends have all gone back to their home states and countries, and that I'm back at work, now is the time.

He says it will be tough and for someone whose favourite food is potatoes - is there no way they can't be served - I don't doubt him for a second. I started today with eggs, then a handful of nuts, a small portion of chicken for lunch and goddamn salad for dinner. All washed down with four litres of water. Mmm-hmm.

The sacrifices and the hard work will be worth it though, of this I'm sure... if I can stick it out. One of his other clients lost a jeans size in a week. That's pretty good motivation.

He was saying that he's seeing results, that my body shape has changed. That was enough to spur me on. He is so encouraging and so supportive, whether I have a crush on him or not, the guy is an awesome personal trainer.

On another note, he apologised on Tuesday night for not being able to come to the party. He doesn't have a licence at the moment, so was relying on his cousin to drive him there. Apparently the cousin changed his mind, so that left the Hot Trainer stuck at home. I mean, sure, whatever. He could have caught a taxi, but to be fair, I probably wouldn't have done that either. He also said he had a present for me but forgot to bring it. Sure, whatever.

He really did buy me a present :) He gave it to me tonight. It's just an MP3 thingy for the gym, but whatever, it's the thought that counts. Hell, some of my own family members didn't give me anything and Gorgeous actually bought me a present. Aww.

And on another note, there's the second New Moon for January (very rare for two in one month, extra special!) tomorrow so it's time for the New Moon Wish List. The pot-smoking pill-popping tree-hugger and I have been emailing each other all day about what we're going to wish for, seeing as we're both infatuated with guys we can't have - her's lives on the other side of the country, so is just as unattainable as the Hot Trainer - and I just couldn't decide.

Do I go for something serious? Like financial security for 2010? Or for this vague feeling of depression to lift and have a renewed sense of hope? For health and happiness?

Or.... or do I go for the other one? Do I wish for the Hot Trainer? Um, yes, I think so. For months and months, I would wish for Fletch. For Fletch to find his balls and end his crapola relationship, for Fletch and I, for Lara not to be pissed, for Fletch, for Fletch, for Fletch. Eventually, seeing as there's only so many times you can hit your head against a brick wall before you get a headache, I changed my tune. In November, I asked for whatever. As in, the soulmate (whatever that really even means anyway) or just a fling. Later that month, the Hot Trainer comes lunging into my life. Call it coincidence if you like, I'm not sure where I stand either, but it seems kind of strange.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not insane (honestly), I don't think for the slightest of seconds that the Hot Trainer is The One, nor do I think he and I will be flinging anything anywhere, but still. It's what I'm going to put on my list. He's what I'm going to put on my list.

As well as financial security (it would be silly not to) and to make it to at least Day 5 of the healthy living experiment. At the very least.

Square One

2010-01-12T14:17:00.004+11:00

The hot trainer didn't show up to the party. I'm not at all upset by it (really) because otherwise he would have seen me dancing on benches, heard me singing (or screeching as my mother called it) at the top of my lungs, seen me do a running take-off, followed by a spectacular cartwheel, ended with a leap, twirl and bow, seen me try to scale the back fence and just being a general dickhead.

Really, it's best that only my closest friends witnessed that behaviour.

The good news is that everyone had an awesome time. It was one of those hot nights, perfect for a party, where the stars have all aligned and you could drink for hours without being sick and ~~screech~~ sing until 5am before deciding it's time for bed. In the morning, none of us had hangovers (incredible, especially after seeing the amount of empty bottles strewn across the backyard) and we all went to the beach for a refreshing swim in the ocean.

It was the perfect way to see in the thirties.

Okay, so honestly, I was a little miffed Hot Trainer didn't show up. Just a little bit. And I'm being completely honest when I say I'm so glad he didn't see me in action. I've come back to it just being a garden-variety crush. Of course he doesn't like me: he's five years younger, he's a fitness fuh-reak and I'm the laziest person you've met, he's a model and I am not, I like to read and I'm not sure that he can (sorry, that was really mean. He's not an idiot. He's just like the least likely person I could imagine to sit down with a 400-page book), he has 1,000 friends on Facebook and I have 160. (I am not one of those 1,000 friends either, by the way) We are opposites. I mean, stranger things have happened but not to me.

Actually, a funny thing happened that lifted my spirits after the no-show. On Sunday night, Canada and another mate who had come over from Western Australia for the party and I went out to the pub where Fletch and I were that night for a couple of drinks. It was really quiet, but they had a couple of DJ's playing a few sets and I love watching them, how into it they get. Anyway, one of them came over and started talking to me, even though I was clearly talking to the other two. After a while, I thought, "Hang on. He's trying to pick me up!" It was hilarious, no-one's tried to do that for a long time (or so it feels, anyway). And I tell you, I would have been all for it, I would have let him pick me up all over the place on that Sunday night, except for the only problem - he was drunk and I was not. Bummer.

But whatever, it was perfect. Just what I needed. And what was weird, he asked me how old I was and it was the very first time that I answered with, "Thirty." What a trip.

Anyway. So I took my friends to the airport this morning and have come back home feeling a bit brain dead. Two weeks of people around me constantly, I can't cope with that. I need my space. Unbelievably grateful that they came to visit me, glad they've gone home. It was awesome fun though. I'm supposed to go to work tomorrow but have text one of the girls I work with to see if anyone has a problem with me coming in on Thursday instead. Just waiting to hear back from her. Would really love one day where I don't have to get up at any particular time, don't have to do anything, go anywhere and most importantly, don't have to talk to anyone.

I really, really, really don't want to talk to anyone. Or have anyone talk to me. Just. Be. Quiet.

Way to burst the bubble, Hot Trainer

2010-01-08T02:16:00.004+11:00

At tonight's Hot Trainer sessions, we were onto the second exercise, I had my wine glow on (winery tour on a Thursday afternoon in the sun? I love holidays! And going to the gym slightly buzzed makes it so much more fun. Makes the Hot Trainer laugh too - I really don't know how this has happened, but I've been to these training sessions half-pissed or fully hungover at least three times in just over a month. Seriously. When he found out I was planning to give it a good nudge tonight as soon as I got home from the gym, he laughed, shook his head with his eyes closed and said, "I love it").

Anyway. So at the second exercise torture device and out of the blue, he says "So you need to give me your address for Saturday night" and I seriously nearly fell off the seat - he's asking again about the party???

We laughed and talked for the whole session. I was high off of wine and hope. Do eight hundred sit-ups? Love to! Right at the end of the session, he looks out the window of the upstairs room and points at a tiny, cute blonde and says to me, "I love her. She's my gym crush. I love her."

What.

The.

Fuck.

WTF?

What the fuck?

I made some comment like "Oh, you should tell her" but he laughed and said no.

I felt like I had a balloon and he came along with a pin, stuck the pin in the balloon and then laughed evilly as he watched it deflate.

But then, as I was leaving, he said again about the address and how he might see me on Saturday night but he would probably talk to me in the meantime, while doing the sign for texting.

Seriously, what the fuck?

I'm getting mixed signals all over the fucking joint. I think he's just being friendly. I think he's just being a mate. I think I've let my little crush get out of fucking control.

It's my last day of my twenties. I feel like maybe it should be a big deal, but it's not. It could be because I'm still drunk. I got home from the gym, hit the Corona and now at 2.45am, am just barely keeping my eyes open.

Probably won't get a chance to write more until after the party sometime, so please keep your fingers crossed for me that all goes according to my ~~evil~~ plan. I'll make the time to update if something significant happens though, you know that.

Oy. Boys are such hard work.

Do or Die

2010-01-05T23:22:00.004+11:00

Setting:

House of the Devil

Tuesday, 5 January 2010

5.40pm

Leg Press Torture Device

Hot Trainer: Your birthday is soon.

Me: Yeah. On Saturday. Thirty.

Hot Trainer: Are you having a party?

Me (oh so casually): Yep - hey, you should come.

Hot Trainer: Yeah? That sounds fun.

6.15pm

Near House of the Devil Exit

Hot Trainer: So I'll see you on Thursday at 5.30pm?

Me: Definitely. Hey, yeah, so the party. Saturday. Come.

Hot Trainer: Bring your address in for me on Thursday.

Score? I don't know.

Pros:

He's the one who brought the subject up of the party.

He didn't say no, he couldn't make it.

He asked for my address.

Cons:

He didn't say a definite yes.

I kind of got the vibe he was perhaps too polite to say no and probably just won't show up and have some lame excuse next Tuesday.

This shit is hard. But good God Almighty, it felt awesome to finally do something I've been ~~obsessing over~~ talking about for over a month. I guess I just need to keep thinking, "He didn't say no. He didn't say no."

I guess I'll know by either Thursday (Oh yeah, so I can't actually make it to your party on Saturday, sorry. I have a Hot Shirtless Guy Convention to go to) or by Saturday if he was just being polite. But to be on the safe side, I'll ask you all to keep your fingers crossed for me until Sunday morning, Australian time. Please and thank you.

P.S. We were walking down the stairs and I totally lost my footing and missed the last step altogether. I managed not to fall but I did let out a loud expletive, one that starts with F. He laughed. I was mortified.

Exhaustion - and we're not even halfway through the holidays

2010-01-05T09:53:00.004+11:00

Oh, you guys. You guys.

I want to go through all your posts to read them and make comments and have a good old catch up on your lives, but at the moment, I just don't have the time. I've got a few minutes of solitude, which I don't know how long will last for, so I've got to be quick.

My friend, Canada, arrived on New Year's Eve. By New Year's Day, I was pulling my hair out. I honestly don't know how people deal with having children - someone there constantly. Oh. My. God. It's tough. I'm sick of reminiscing about things that happened two years ago - we laughed about it then, we laughed about it six months later, we've laughed about it via email/Facebook, do we still need to be talking about it?

I picked my other friend, Ireland, up from the train station yesterday, along with her sister. I picked them up at 6.45am and we drove the Great Ocean Road. We got home at 10.45pm. That's 14 hours. I drove, they sightsaw (? sightsaw? Is that a word? I don't know). We walked through sand for miles, we climbed down to beaches by a million stairs, we had to climb back up those million stairs. I am knackered. I'm also sunburnt, which is really unattractive. I know it's really bad and irresponsible of me, but the sunburn will turn to tanned skin which is really convenient for the party on the weekend.

Anyway. I don't want to sound ungrateful. I'm amazed that the girls have come from the other side of the world to see me. That's amazing. It feels like it has been only a couple of months since I last saw them, not a year and a half. It has been great. Really. It's just been really tiring as well.

How was everyone's start to 2010? I am going to read all your posts as soon as I get a chance - maybe the next time I feign tiredness and escape to my room for an afternoon nap. I've done that a couple of times so far, just for some time alone. I need that time, otherwise I'll stab myself - and possibly everyone else - in the femoral artery.

NYE

2009-12-30T23:33:00.004+11:00

2010 is going to be a good one. I can feel it in my bones.

Seriously, I do feel something. Things are shifting and changing. I feel so much more optimistic about the future, I feel like some big things are going to happen over the next 12 months.

I don't think I feel like this because it's New Year's Eve and that's when everyone thinks it is the time to start over or anything like that. It could be that the 30th is rapidly approaching, perhaps. I don't know. I just know that, at the moment, things are good and it feels like they are just going to get better.

I'm starting university next year which simultaneously scares the pants off me and makes me so excited that I'm finallly doing something.

I am absolutely loving the gym too - I've been every day over the Christmas break and have lost 1kg (who loses weight over Christmas?? ME!!). I love it. I love feeling stronger, seeing a difference in my body, feeling fitter, sweating. I love it. I hope the feeling doesn't leave me. I need to remember how fanfuckingtastic I feel right now and hopefully that will keep me going.

Of course, the mega-crush on the Hot Trainer helps a bit with that ;) I could not love this crush more. It's been the best thing to happen to me - at this point, anyway. Anything that could take my mind off Fletch has to be appreciated! This crush has possibility, whereas Fletch never did. I'm happy for Fletch to be in his dysfunctional relationship with Lara, I hope they're ~~miserable~~ happy together. No, really, I do. I think I'm pretty confident in saying that I'm over it. I don't feel much, if anything, for him at the moment. I do know that I'm super-excited for next Tuesday when I get to see the Hot Trainer again. And that's a good thing!

I wrote my letter of gratitude to the universe last night, saying thank you for everything over the last 10 years, as well as my hopes, wishes and plans for 2010. New Year's Eve is a full moon, as well as an eclipse, so some pretty major stuff is afoot, astrologically speaking. Maybe that's why I feel like life is going to get a damn good shake up pretty soon.

Instead of getting ready to go pick my Canadian friend up from the airport, I'm sitting on the edge of the bed in my pyjamas, writing this post. My hair is still full of the salt water from yesterday's swim at the beach (nothing like a dip in the cool-but-refreshing ocean to blow away the cobwebs). I really should get going, but I wanted to wish you all an amazing New Year's Eve and all the best for 2010 - take my word, it's going to be a good one.

I wish I had more time to do this properly, but to all the gorgeous people who make comments on my blog - thank you so much. You guys make my day. I love your support, encouragement, ideas, humour. Just love love love. I wish I could take you all out for margaritas. Instead, I'll have a nice cold beer in your honour tonight.

FFS

2009-12-28T15:32:00.002+11:00

I am going insane. Christmas and the following few days drives me insane.

On Christmas Day, we had 15 family members come and invade the house for lunch and dinner.

The next day, we saw them all again for my grandmother's birthday.

The next day, was Mum's birthday, so we were at it again, plus we gained one - my godmother has come to stay for 10 days.

Fuck, fuckitty, fuckfuckfuck. This woman is the most overbearing woman I've ever met. She wakes at the crack of dawn and thinks nothing of slamming doors, talking - whether it's to herself or another person, and just being a fuckstick. She controls every conversation, organises everyone else's business.

I am struggling to refrain from shrieking, "SHUT THE FUCK UP!!" whilst gripping a knife with a sharp blade.

In three days, my Canadian friend while will be here for 12 days. Two days after that, my Irish friend will be here for 10 days.

What do you think the chances are of me escaping with my sanity?

Epic Fail

2009-12-24T21:49:00.003+11:00

weheartit.com

Peeps, I didn't do it. I didn't ask him.

Epic fail.

To be fair, he made me do cardio (we normally do weights) and I couldn't talk for 45 minutes. I also had a raging hangover (work break-up party yesterday) so was fighting back the nausea. I did threaten to throw up on him though.

Anyway. He told me he had his work Christmas party last night and instead of catching the bus back to town, he stayed back and "woke up in a really nice bedroom." Dude. Why are you telling me this? He didn't say whose house it was he woke up in, but come on.

Anyway. I've got two more chances to ask before the party, I just have to now take my chances that a late notice invitation works out well for him.

Anyway. Yesterday's work break up was a lot of fun. I had my first champagne at 10am and was carted off home at 10.45pm. Apparently, on the way home, we passed a guy walking in the street who was wearing shorts and a santa hat and Mum made a comment about how cute he was. Naturally, I put the window of the car down and scream out at him, "Loser!!" This kind of behaviour could be a factor as to why I'm single...

It probably won't surprise you that when I got home, I went straight to my room, face-planted the bed and woke at 6am in the same position, still wearing my clothes. And then I had to front up to work at 8.30am. To top it off, when I walked into the office, my boss frowns at me and says, "What are you doing here? I thought you had the day off." Feck.

I hope everyone has a happy and safe Christmas.

Fail

2009-12-22T23:31:00.004+11:00

weheartit.com

I didn't do it, I didn't ask him to the party. There's still Thursday afternoon's ~~date~~ session, which means now it's DO OR DIE.

I didn't get any vibes tonight, but he did make me do some kind of weird, retarded, reverse sit-up.

"Lie on your back on the mat," he instructs me. I do and he stands near my head. "Legs straight out and hold on to my ankles."

"..." Wuh?

"Hold onto my ankles and lift your legs up to kick my hands. Do fifteen hundred million of these." (Give or take a few million, I could be exaggerating)

"...."

"Come on, let's go!"

"I can totally see up your shorts."

Alright, so I didn't say that. But I thought it. So I closed my eyes as I gripped his ankles (really, WTF? Does anyone else who goes to a trainer do that particular exercise? It feels weirdly, though not at all surprising, perverse) because I didn't really want a bird's eye view of the goods. That would have been a bit kinky. In a gross way.

Even though I didn't get to ask him to the party, I know he's going to be around town on the party date - I was there tonight as a mate asked him if he wanted to go away with them 1 - 10 January and he said he couldn't because he had to work - my party is on 9 January. Perfect. He had just better not have plans!

And even though I am forced to do weird ankle-holding, up-short gazing, spasticated sit-ups, I am really loving the gym. I'm starting to notice a difference in my body - things are tightening up, I'm standing up straighter, clothes are looser, I have more energy, I've lost three kilos (which is 6.6 pounds) and I just feel so much better.

It's funny, the other night when I was reading my diary entries from August, I sounded so depressed, so sad. I read back on what I've written lately and everything (most things, anyway) is all sunshine and unicorns and butterflies and cupcakes. I am putting all positive changes down to the gym and the Hot Trainer. Going to the gym makes me feel good and the crush on the Hot Trainer makes me feel good - there's a bit of hope and potential with him, whereas Fletch was just one big never-ending pile of shit. Or, as this photo shows, one big pile of candy shit.

Whatever.

I feel great and that's all that matters.

Christmas...

2009-12-21T09:07:00.006+11:00

All morning, I've been writing a post on how Christmas and all the associated hoo-ha makes me homicidal, but I've deleted it all. I won't write about the frantic present shopping, or the people who must want to get in a fight, otherwise why would they stop walking right in front of you, causing you to body-slam them, followed by a heated exchange of swear words? I won't write about the tension caused from having almost 20 people invade our home for lunch, or the arguments caused over just how many roast potatoes you're allowed to have, or how many pre-lunch chocolates/drinks is an acceptable amount.

No, I won't write any of that.

Instead, I will write about how nice it is to have a sleep in, a breakfast drink of Bailey's Irish Cream, putting on the new clothes bought just for the day, all the family coming over in good moods, the kisses, the hugs, the smell of pork roasting in the oven - I hate pork but it smells like Christmas.

It's been busy this month, even though I'm trying to lay low. I've been busy with the gym (yay Hot Trainer!), catching up with friends before Christmas and meeting my new nephew: my brother and his wife had a baby this week :) A gorgeous boy named Liam. That's enough of a Christmas present, right?

On the 29 December, my Irish friend arrives and on New Year's Eve, my Canadian friend lands. They're both here until 12 January, leaving a couple of days after the party. It's going to be a full-on couple of weeks, playing tour-guide and having people around me constantly - I don't normally deal with that so well, I need my space and time alone, so fingers crossed it goes well. I'm really looking forward to seeing them, I've got some fantastic memories of our time together in Ireland. Boozy, hazy, vague memories, but memories all the same.

Just off-course a little bit here, but back in August, the pot-smoking pill-popping tree-hugger and I went to visit a clairvoyant because she's just as obsessed as I am. I didn't ever write about what she predicted, even though thinking about it now, she said some interesting stuff. I was reading through my diary last night from back then and I wrote that she said my life would all come together and be the way I've wanted it next year. Next year is to be the year. She also said I would meet someone in December (bugger, I met the trainer last month! Sure, she could be off a week or so, yeah?), but that I already knew him. She also stressed she didn't think this man would be Fletch.

You know what's weird? Fuckarse. We went to school together, but didn't speak again until a week or so ago. He's a really nice guy, owns his own personal training business - and has a girlfriend (according to the Gospel of Facebook). But whatever, I don't want him anyway. It's all about the trainer. I'm seeing the hottie tomorrow night and I plan to walk into the gym, balls to the wind, and ~~demand~~ ask him to come to the party. I feel good about it. Of course, he could totally have other plans that night or not be able to get there (being licence-less and all) but I still have to ask.

And now, gorgeous ladies, you have made my year. Your comments and advice means the world to me. Your own posts make me laugh, give me the warm fuzzies, make me think and make me smile. I offer you the following contract, which was given to me by the pot-smoking tree-hugging pill-popper:

2010 Contract

After serious & cautious consideration... your contract of friendship has been renewed for 2010! It was a very hard decision to make... So try not to screw it up.

My Wish for You in 2010

May peace break into your home and may thieves come to steal your debts.

May the pockets of your jeans become a magnet for $100 bills.

May love stick to your face like Vaseline and may laughter assault your lips!

May happiness slap you across the face and may your tears be that of joy.

May the problems you had forget your home address!

In simple words ........... May 2010 be the best year of your life!

Merry Christmas & a Happy New Year!!

No shit.

2009-12-18T09:29:00.008+11:00

Well, there was no Venus-Mars sexy-time last night on our ~~date~~ session, but something a bit funny happened anyway.

I get there and everything is good, makes me laugh but is a bit bossier than usual, really pushing me, making me work hard which just annoys me.

Remember Fuckarse? We made eye contact the other day and have chatted a couple of times since. He was training last night and came over to my ~~boyfriend~~ trainer and I while I was taking a break between the torturing.

Fuckarse looked at me, nodded at the hottie and says, "I wouldn't trust him if I were you" and I laughed and said I didn't. They did some chest puffing out and penis-size comparing for a bit and then Fuckarse said to me he had tried to re-enrol for university but was having trouble logging onto their website. Turns out we're going to the same university next year, his face kind of lights up and he says, "Oh cool, I might see you there." We start talking about courses and work and stuff, while the hottie looks on.

In a break in the conversation, the trainer cuts in and says briskly, "Come on, back to it," so I start doing whichever weight-thing again and this time, he puts his hands on my back and shoulders and keeps them there. I was sitting there with a smirk on my face the whole time!

I mean, I could be totally reading into it exactly what I want to read but it just seemed so funny. One guy talks to me and we have a laugh and then the other guy cuts in and proprietorially lays his hands on me!

***I know some of you guys aren't into the whole weed/pot thing at all, so if you don't want to read about, skip all the yellow words***

Then later on, we were the only ones in the upstairs room and he was making me do some core work. As I was laying on my back, trying to keep my legs about a foot off the ground, he comes out with, "I know the best way to get a six-pack" so I ask how and he says, "Get really stoned and watch a funny movie." I was laughing, trying to keep my friggen legs up and saying, "What the fuck....?!" He said that he wasn't sure but he would get his mates to try it out. This led to a discussion on the best way to get stoned - bongs versus joints versus buckets etc. He went on to tell me about the way he used to get stoned when he was 16, something called a Dutch lung. The instructions sounded long and complicated, but he assures me it will blow my head off.

Do you guys ever say "and shit" at the end of sentences? Like if someone asks what you've got to do, you answer, "Just gotta pay some bills and shit"? The "and shit" doesn't actually mean gross shit, it just means "and stuff." You know? It's just a figure of speech, right?

After the session ended, we had to arrange times for next week, being so close to Christmas and everything, so he said to me, "Go get your stuff and come meet me at the chairs so we can organise stuff". Because I had to have a shower at the gym and get ready so I could meet Jake and Molly for dinner, I said to him, "Oh, I'll be a few minutes, I've got to have a shower and shit."

"...."

"I mean, I don't need to shit. I just need to have a shower and get ready. No shit. Just a shower."

"..."

"I'll be back soon."

"..."

For the love of sweet baby Jesus. Anyway, when I get back to the chairs, I've showered, put on jeans and a nice top, done my make-up and shoozed up the hair. We have a chat (no mention of shit or shitting or anything shit-related), organise ~~dates~~ times for next week and then I get ready to leave. He tells me to drive carefully and laughs at me when I try to stand but fall back into the chair.

So I didn't get a chance to ask him to the party, but I'm fired up for it now. The possibly slightly possessive touching when Fuckarse was around, combined with the talking about the getting stoned has given me renewed hope. You don't - I don't, anyway - talk about getting stoned with just anyone. There has to be some kind of trust there.

Next week, I'm going in there and not necessarily waiting for the right time, but just going to say, "Hey, I'm having a party for my 30th, you should come." Simple as that.

I might get him to make a Dutch lung and shit for me.

....

No shit. Just a Dutch lung. No shit.

2009-12-17T09:19:00.003+11:00

The planet of love, Venus, and the planet of sex, Mars, meet tonight in a rather tender moment, promising we mere mortals down on Earth a chance to connect with our soul mates rather in the same way as these two soul-fully aligned planets are connected with each other.

moonology.com

The stars.

They be on my side.

~~Date~~ Session tonight.

Good vibes, please and thank you.

I should be riddled with endorphins right now...

2009-12-16T21:48:00.004+11:00

but I'm not.

I feel kind of flat.

Found out the trainer is a model. Don't ask me how I found out. Don'taskdon'taskdon'task.

I don't have the balls to ask him to the party. I can't imagine him coming to a party where I am the only person he knows.

Guess the opportunity might present itself tomorrow night, but if it doesn't, how do I ask him out of the blue?

Really, how? I'm asking for suggestions. Just pretend the session's been going for half an hour, it's half over and there's been no natural and casual way to ask - how do you bring it up? Oh, and pretend you're a gutless wonder, so you need the easiest way possible to ask.

I feel flat also because after not hearing from him for a couple of months (except that one generic group email), the day after I declare I won't be wasting anymore time or energy on Fletch, he sends me an email.

WTF?

How does he know?

He was letting me know he can't come to the party because he will be in Africa. I suppose that's a good enough excuse.

I already knew this, Lara told me on Saturday. In the email, he writes that he's catching up with some mates, doing a safari and then stopping in Lara's desert country as well. He doesn't mention her name, but he doesn't really need to, does he?

So that's all fine. Nothing unexpected. No surprises.

Until the last line of the email. See you at The Heads upon my return. The Heads is the name of the pub where I told him my dirty little secret on Grand Final Day.

Come on, Fletch.

What the fucking fuck are you playing at?

Why did he need to say that? Couldn't he have just said 'Hey, can't make it, going to Africa, have a great birthday, see ya 'round'? Isn't that all that needs to be said?

Why did he need to mention The Heads? All in one email, why did he mention that he was going to visit his girlfriend, and mention the name of the place where I told him I liked him?

Are guys that dumb? Or is he playing mind-games, intentionally or otherwise?

I don't get it.

I don't want to waste anymore time on Fletch, I really don't. I want to waste all my time on the trainer, but I'm severely lacking in the balls department.

Just for good measure, I did a New Moon wish-list. The new moon was today, 16 December. I wished for the confidence to ask him, plus every thing I want to happen following on from that. Every thing.

Nothing on my Wish List included Fletch's name.

Maybe tomorrow will shock the pants off me. Maybe the trainer will be on fire, maybe I will be on fire, we'll be laughing and joking and flirting like we're both on fire, and then BAM! I will mention the party and BAM! He will say he would love to come along. Maybe. Or maybe not. I'll let you know.

Don't forget any suggestions you can give me for asking him... I need miracles, please.

Some stuff

2009-12-15T10:49:00.004+11:00

I feel a bit bad writing about Lara, given the circumstances of her return home, so all I'll say is that she's on some pretty strong medication, some shit happened, she was suspended from work, and then sent home for two weeks. It's not a very surprising turn of events, given that her whole existence, with regards to her work, is pretty spasticated.

Anyway, so she's back. I saw her, it was okay. She didn't try to plunge any knives into any of my major arteries or anything and she mentioned Fletch more than once, so I think it's safe to say he didn't tell her anything.

Something took me by surprise though: my heart strings weren't pulled when she mentioned Fletch. It didn't feel like I'd been sucker-punched when she told me things he had said. It didn't send me into a downward spiral of depression when she made a joke about if they ever got married, she wouldn't take his surname (because she doesn't like it). I mean, I won't lie and say I felt nothing, but I can honestly say I didn't feel 10% of what I would have done not all that long ago.

It's total transference though, I know this. Straight to the trainer. And I'm okay with that. Fletch doesn't need any more of my time or thoughts. At least with the major crush on the trainer, it's got some possibility. There's hope.

When I think of Fletch right now, I feel bored. Nothing about him is exciting me and that's perfect.

Today I'm having trouble capturing the excitement of maybe-just-maybe that I felt on Friday. I don't know if that's because four days have gone by and I've had time to think and convince myself there's no chance in hell that he would like me? Oh, yay - insecurities.

Adios, Fatty Boombah!

2009-12-14T09:13:00.009+11:00

I have a wardrobe full of clothes. The right end has the work clothes and the stuff I wear regularly. The left side is the stuff that is too tight, too short, can't be buttoned or zipped up. Stuff that does not look so good. Stuff that makes me look like an overstuffed sausage.

When I was in Ireland, I wore the arse and crotch out of my jeans so had to buy a new pair. Everyone knows finding jeans is a form of torture, but I managed to find a pair that was not only slimming and comfortable, but a size smaller than my usual. Magic jeans. I was so happy with them, I went back and bought another pair, in black.

As soon as I landed back in Australia, the magic jeans magically shrunk. Fuckers. It was probably because I wasn't existing on a liquid diet anymore and was instead ingesting plates and plates of Mama's homecooking.

I'd take them out of the wardrobe every couple of months and attempt to pull them on. At one stage, I couldn't even button them up. Other times I could, but holy crap, that was not a good look.

When I started at the gym last month, I wanted to make it a goal that these jeans would fit me by my 30th, in early January. Plenty of time, I thought. A few weeks of salads, I can do it. I tried them on a week or so ago and I felt like Kramer from Seinfeld - you know the episode when he gets the jeans on, but they're so tight, he can't even walk? That's kind of like what I was doing around the bedroom.

On Saturday morning as I was getting ready to go out and meet Lara, I reached for the jeans again. I held my breath as I pulled them on, kept holding my breath as the zipper went up and nearly asphyxiated myself as I buttoned them up. A bit tight, but they were on! A few squats and lunges up and down the hallway to stretch them out a bit and I was good to go!

How great is that feeling? How motivating and inspiring is it? I strutted around all weekend, feeling like a freaking supermodel.

See? The ~~boyfriend~~ trainer/PE teacher is good for my health!

Friday Bullshit

2009-12-11T13:51:00.005+11:00

So. I was thinking ('obsessing' is probably more accurate) about how I found out my ~~boyfriend~~/trainer/PE teacher told me he was single and of what Buffy said in the comments of my last post. To save you from having to go back and read it (because I'm awesome like that), here it is:

"He told you?!?! Oh man, that's fanfreakingtastic!!! He clearly wants you to know, radness!!"

So I started thinking about that. Did he want me to know? When I think about how he told me, it totally sounds like he did. But I could be reading into it too much.

We were looking outside at the rain and he made a face and said he had to walk home because he lost his licence (for speeding, not for drink-driving, like I originally thought, I don't know which is better or worse). He then said, jokingly, "I need to find myself a girlfriend to drive me around" with a significant chunk of eye-contact.

Dudes, I know that was the perfect opportunity for me to say something but, bugger me dead, I still can't think of anything smart, flirty and funny that I could have said. I made some kind of crude and lame joke and then silently berated myself.

Anyway, he went on, planning this girlfriend of his, saying that she needed a ute so that she could drive him and his off-road bike around. I still couldn't think of anything to say. I just laughed when he tried to tee up some guy he knew at the machines beside us to be his "girlfriend."

Maybe he said it so I knew he was single. Maybe he just said it because people say stuff. I don't know. I do know that he was even more touchy-feely than he was last week, kinda unnecessarily touchy-feely (I'm not complaining!). And I do know that he has changed his Facebook profile photo - another topless shot, this time without any bikini-ised skanks beside him.... I really wish I didn't know that. I also wish I didn't know that he was a modelling contest finalist and that he's 24. Or he was in April. Please don't ask me how I know. I'm too ashamed to admit it.

HA! I said I was going to go all 14-year old school girl on this crush's ass! Mission accomplished... loser.

Good News Thursday

2009-12-10T21:29:00.004+11:00

Oh yeah!

My ~~boyfriend~~/trainer/PE teacher is single!

He told me tonight during our ~~date~~ training session.

Fletch, who?

Ah, crap.

2009-12-08T12:03:00.006+11:00

I got a text earlier from an unknown number. I knew it had to be from family though because the person used my nickname that no-one other than family use. They were asking me if I wanted to catch up on Saturday and that they would love to see me.

Process of elimination meant it was Lara texting me.

She ended up calling a few minutes later so I spoke to her. She said she's back in town "unexpectedly" and is spending Saturday with Fletch, but because he's playing sport for a few hours, thought it would be a good idea if we catch up.

I said yes. I guess curiosity won out in the end.

I am absolutely shitting bricks that she's going to play all nice to get me there and then attack me, face-to-face, about me hitting on her boyfriend.

I don't really think that's going to happen, she sounded fine on the phone. I don't think she's that good an actress.

When I asked her why she was home, she kind of did an awkward laugh and said "I'll tell you about it on Saturday," which I think translates to "I stuffed something up and running away was the best option."

Like my friend, the pot-smoking, pill-popping, tree-hugger, said in an email earlier, "It's hard for you to get over the whole sitch if you have to see her."

I was doing well, I was enjoying my trainer crush, having the sexy dreams, not even thinking about Fletch and then Lara sweeps back in, stirring everything back up.

I really hope my ~~boyfriend~~ trainer and I do some boxing tonight, I have a lot of barely-repressed anger that needs to be released.

Oh, and I also need to put an excerpt from my weekly horoscope because it kind of made the hair on the back of my neck stand up:

"Be very careful to avoid bad karma now. Especially be careful if you're thinking about getting involved with someone who is not really available to you. Quell any desires to get involved in any love triangles. Let me put it bluntly: take care before you either have an affair or seduce someone who's attached elsewhere. You have been warned!"

Honestly. Fuh-reaky or what? Go here and check out your own freaky shit.

PS. I really need a new nickname for my ~~boyfriend~~ trainer. At the start, I did call him The Meathead and even though he kinda is one, the name doesn't suit him. Just for the record, I have an actual nickname for him I use in everyday life, it turns out his name conveniently rhymes with the word "Hot." But of course, names on here have been changed to protect the innocent (and completely unaware that they are the object of my affection), so I'd better not use that one.... so - any suggestions for the Hot Trainer new nickname? Or is "my ~~boyfriend~~ trainer" not wearing thin yet?

Oh, WOW!

2009-12-06T09:00:00.004+11:00

The date, it came out of nowhere.

I was sitting on the sand at the beach with my ~~boyfriend~~ trainer, side by side, so close our bodies were touching. We were talking, but I couldn't tell you now what we said. It was late in the day, the sky wasn't yet dark, but the sun was slowly setting. There was still a lot of people around, girls in bikinis sitting on towels, drying off from the water, one squealing out in surprise as a guy shook his wet hair, droplets of water landing all over her body. We laughed and edged our legs away, both taking the opportunity to move closer to each other.

Before I could stop myself or think about what I was doing, I leaned forward and let my lips touch his bare shoulder. He tasted like a mixture of salt water and sweat. I kissed him again. He didn't say anything, but leaned in closer. I worked my way up his neck and a small noise escaped his mouth.

He turned his head and his lips met mine in a soft kiss.

I nearly pinched myself. I was kissing the trainer! The trainer with the hottest body I'd ever seen. The trainer who made me laugh and made me want to work harder to make him proud. The trainer who I was sitting on the beach with. And wow - he could kiss! His muscular arms wrapped around my body and I melted into him. The kiss got deeper and more passionate and then -

And then I woke up.

It was a dream. I was dreaming.

I woke this morning, disorientated and alone. Where had the sand gone? The warm evening sun? The squawking seagulls? The hot boyfriend/trainer?

Sorry, guys, to lead you on with this story. I wanted some other people to feel the disappointment I felt at 6am when the warm glow of the beach changed into an overcast, cold morning.

For the record, I've never had this type of dream about Fletch. Just saying.

Into the Weekend

2009-12-04T09:27:00.003+11:00

My horoscope today says:

Mercury moves into your sign and you're being given official permission from the Universe to talk and think about yourself, yourself and yourself as much as you like.

It goes onto say something about not becoming too self-obsessed as the risk of pushing people away is high, but I don't think it's relevant.

I've got planetary permission to be all ME, ME, ME, MEMEMEMEMEMEMEMEME! and I'm going to take it.

After my sesh with my ~~boyfriend~~ trainer (that's not getting old yet, right?) last night, I feel FANTASTIC. I feel all happy and endorphin-riddled. I have sore muscles, but they love it. I'm going to tell you he was a lot more touchy-feely last night and I'm going to let my imagination go into overdrive with that and I'm not going to think he was just doing that so I didn't knock myself out with a dumbell or fall off the Stairmaster in a tangle of limbs and sweat. Nah-uh.

Hope you have a great weekend!

Some mindless... huh?

2009-12-03T09:09:00.005+11:00

I had this whole long post typed out last night about friendships and how a lot of mine have ended in one big pile of stinking shit, but I got bored with it and did a Facebook search for my ~~boyfriend~~ trainer.

Holy mother of hotness!

There he was in his profile photo, in all his shirtless glory. I had no idea all of that was under the tshirt. I mean, it's not like he struts around the gym with no shirt on (though I really do think he should). Of course, due to the privacy settings, I couldn't do any proper stalking (Facebook, I hate you. Look at what you've enabled me to do), like finding out who the ho in the bikini standing beside him was.

After seeing that, I couldn't concentrate. Anything I wrote sounded mindnumbingly, coma-inducing, boring. I made a few different attempts to start over, but nothing was coming to me so ended up deleting it all, turning off the computer and then the light and fell into another night's fitful slumber.

The post about friendships was how the husband of a former close friend got in touch with me on Monday to let me know they had had a baby the previous week. He wrote "You should get in touch with Sophie. She would like that." I was so tempted to write back and say something along the lines of how we would never have fallen out of touch if it hadn't have been for him and the shit that he caused by saying shit that he had no right to say. But I didn't. Babies take precedence. I got in touch, offered my congratulations and we now have plans for Saturday afternoon.

I'm looking forward to seeing Sophie again but I have absolutely no interest in seeing the husband, Turdburger, again. He can go fuck himself.

In Fletch news, I took onboard what you guys said about inviting him and Lara to my birthday, let it all simmer for a couple of weeks before finally doing something this week.

I sent Lara a short email, just saying I didn't expect her to be able to make it but you know, here's the party, this is the date, if you're there, you're there. If you're not, good. I made it sound as much like "I don't really care if you come, I'm just asking to be polite" as I could, because that's exactly how I was feeling. She emailed back after a couple of days to say she doubted she could make it, but would try. Pfft. Whatever. Don't do me any favours.

So then. That still left Fletch. I wrote out an invitation, scanned it and emailed it to the two of them. I wrote "Lara, I know you probably can't be there but Fletch, I expect you to show." I haven't heard from Lara, but I got a group email last night from Fletch with an article and a link to this site (click on the middle finger and read everything on there, it's fucking hilarious. You will wet your pants, I promise).

So, Fletch, is that a yes or a no? Coming or not?

Good News Monday

2009-11-30T20:10:00.003+11:00

University first round offers are made on 18 January, but early offers are made from 27 November. I was looking forward to December, hoping that's when I would hear if I got an interview with one of the universities I applied to.

I got home this afternoon and had actual mail. Paper mail, not electronic mail. I still get a kick out of seeing my name on an envelope. Anyway, I open it up, noticing it was from the Teritary Admissions Centre. I just expected it to be notification of application or something. Instead, it said this:

You have been provisionally selected for admission to Arts/Professional Writing and Editing.

Congratulations on your offer of a place at the University of Awesomeness*!

Fuck, yeah!

It may not be my first choice university, but I don't really care. I got an early offer! Yay! Regardless of whether I get anything in the first or second round of offers, I'm still going to university next year to do writing.

I'm stoked. I fucking love it.

*It's not really called the University of Awesomeness. Though that would be pretty awesome. I'd definitely apply to that one.

Round-Up

2009-11-27T09:44:00.007+11:00

Yesterday I sent my ~~boyfriend~~ trainer a text:

"Dude, just letting you know I hate you. I am in so much pain."

He took it pretty well like I expected he would. After all, upon seeing my red face all screwed up in agony while trying to do some ridiculous weight-resistance bullshit, he laughed manically and exclaimed gleefully, "You really hate me right now, don't ya! DON'T YA!!! DONCHA!!!"

Yes. I do.

I had my hair done last night - I'm a subscriber of the every-six-weeks theory, though more out of necessity, not choice. Greys: fuck off, I'm not even thirty yet - and when I came into work, one of the guys called me The Queen of Awesome Hair. I think I'm going to make that my official title now. Change my licence, passport, Facebook name. It's a lot of pressure though, the hair's not that awesome, but it was a pretty fantastic way to kick of my morning.

I'm off to see the B-52's with Jake and Molly tomorrow at a winery. You know, Love Shack... baby, love shack. Love shack baby, love shack. You know? I'm not that fussed on seeing them but Jake is mad for them, so I said I'd go along for the ride.

Hope you all have a great weekend!

Ooooohweeeeeeeee

2009-11-25T21:55:00.003+11:00

I've spent now three evenings this week with my new boyfriend.

Uh. I mean, my new trainer. Yeah. My ~~boyfriend~~, dammit I mean trainer.

Our session tonight was meant to be 45 minutes long, but somehow it turned into an hour and a half. The appointment was for 6pm and I left just after 7.30pm. And I got there 30 minutes before the appointment, so really, I was at the gym for just about TWO FREAKING HOURS.

WTF?

I would never do that....

.... except for when I have a crush!

But damn it to hell, seriously, I am in so much pain! You know how you sit down, right? How effortless that is? I'm doing that spastic-looking thing where you grab onto anything near by to help ease yourself down into your chair. I'm like a geriatric. Washing my hair is a biatch because my arms can't reach that high. I rolled out of bed this morning because I couldn't stand. Trying to manage the clutch is making for some interesting driving. Hell, even holding out my arms to steer the friggen car is a drama.

All that and its so totally worth it! :)

Happy Thanksgiving for Thursday (right? I think Thursday) to my State-side peeps!

Meaty As...

2009-11-23T20:08:00.007+11:00

***New Crush Alert!***

Turns out The Meathead is really cute. Really cute. And funny. I was laughing, even when I was doubled over, trying not to spew. Nice eyes. Nice tattoo on his leg. Cute, cute, cute.

I'm so friggen excited to have a new crush, it's been so long since I've had one that doesn't involve Fletch. I'm going to let myself go nuts with this. I'm going to be all 14-year-old school girl about it.

It's not a serious crush. The Meathead's a couple of years younger and seems like a bit of a tool - lost his licence which screams out drink-driving offense, and called one of the guys he worked with 'gay' to his face, in front of me which is a bit odd. But seriously. Funny as fuck. Cute as.

(There's an Australian-ism for you - we'll say "Funny as", "Bored as", "Hungry as," but we never say as what. It's implicit. When I would say it to people when I was overseas, they would be like, "...... Hungry as what?" Makes no sense, but there it is.)

He's no doubt a complete tool and wanker but it seems like he's one of those people who make you feel like the only person they're interested in.

He made me laugh as he taped my hands up and helped me into the boxing gloves. He made me laugh as he made me do sit-ups, him standing above me, my legs between his, his thighs squeezing my knees together. Hawwwwt.... He made me laugh as I sweated like a bitch and my nose ran. And he didn't take me anywhere near a scale and he didn't whip out the measuring tape.

I'm seeing him again tomorrow night. That's provided my muscles don't seize up overnight and I can't get out of bed. I'm going to need to shave my legs tonight while I can.

Fuckarse

2009-11-20T22:20:00.007+11:00

Here

I joined a gym last night. I signed a contract. I hate signing contracts. I have an appointment with a trainer on Monday evening, some meathead. He had better not take me anywhere near a scale or approach me with a measuring tape. Just a warning, Meathead.

While I was at the gym, signing up, feeling over-dressed in my work clothes and surreptitiously perving on the hot guys doing hot stuff with weights, I spied a guy I used to go to school with. According to the tshirt he was wearing, he apparently works at the gym as a trainer. Or he's just a big fan of that gym which would be weird. And confusing for the people who didn't know he didn't work there.... So it's probably safe to assume he works at the gym. (I know, from running into him a couple of years ago that he's a personal trainer now, so with two and two put together..... I'm really tired.)

I didn't speak to him, the timing wasn't appropriate, given that I was busy signing my money and body over to the devil and all, but when the time comes I will say hey. I started thinking about him back in high school. When we were 15 and at a backyard party, drunk off one and a half bottles of beer, he went to jump over a fire (as you do) but tripped and landed in the fire, palms down. He wore his hands in bandages for weeks afterwards.

He had a penchant for graffiti, decorating school property with the word Yoda. I don't know why.

He also called everyone 'Fuckarse' which still makes me snort, even as I type the word. Fuckarse.

It's kind of perfect he's now a personal trainer-slash-fitness freak. I mean, what other choice did he have, given his past record?

Strange Behaviour

2009-11-18T22:50:00.003+11:00

Things are getting weird around here. There's been the night terrors of late and last night, I was so terrified to fall asleep but you can't put that shit off forever so at some stage, I drifted off. I was so sure that my slumber was going to end in racing hearts and the sweats that I wasn't prepared at all for what did happen.

I woke myself up by laughing. As in, guffawing. Rolling around the bed, thumping the mattress with my hand, can't-catch-my-breath-type laughing.

WTF?

I dreamed that someone had gone through the house and taken all the doors off their hinges and lined them up in my room. Apparently, this stops the snakes and the spiders from getting in the rooms at night time, you know. And it is also quite hilarious.

Maybe I should stop smoking crack before I go to bed?*

More weird shit:

When I got out of the shower last night, instead of drying myself off, I laid the towel out on the floor, got on my back, closed my eyes and felt the warmth from the heat-light-thingy drying my body as I snoozed. I was there for about 15 minutes.

Why?

What would possess me to take a nap on the bathroom floor? I mean, it's clean and all that, but the bathroom floor? Really?

Really time to lay off the crack*.

Sleep Tight, Don't Let the Bed Bugs Bite.... mwahahaha, sucker

2009-11-17T21:15:00.004+11:00

Lately I've been having horrible dreams. Truthfully, they're not dreams, they are night terrors. Sure, that sounds a bit melodramatic and I'm not at all, in no way, shape or form, prone to melodramatics. Nah-uh.

But for the fourth time in two weeks, the middle of the night has found me sitting on the edge of the bed, confused and disorientated, with the shakes and my heart racing.

I've been dreaming that there are spiders in my bed. Every night when I turn out the light, I'm scared of falling asleep. I don't like the feeling of pure terror, as I'm trying to find where the bedside light is, wanting to turn it on to make sure there aren't any spiders, but being too scared to in case the sheets are one big swarming mass of eight-legged beasts.

Last night was the worst one. I crashed into a cabinet while stumbling around the room, in a rush to turn on the bedroom light. I took five minutes to calm down and realise it was just a dream. Just a dream.

This isn't the first time this has happened. About five years ago, I used to have night terrors about snakes. Snakes in the bed. In my waking hours, I have a snake phobia. Absolutely terrified. Can't watch them on tv, can't even look at a picture of one. I don't know how this phobia developed, but I know it's out of control. When people say that the best way to get over a phobia is to face it, I shut down. No thanks, I'd rather live like this.

The funny thing about the snake terrors is that I had them almost the whole second half of my relationship with my ex. Snake dreams usually indicate deception. He was cheating on me. I knew it, but I never would admit it to myself. My subconscious wouldn't shut the hell up about it though. About six months after we broke up, he sent me a text message. That night, for the first time in months, I woke up screaming that there was a snake in the bed.

Fuh-reaky.

So spiders? What do they mean?

According to my book with the snake definition, spiders "usually signify a change for the better, a reward after a period of famine (particularly financial)". How can something that terrifies the absolute crapola out of me signify a change for the oh-yay-yippee stuff?

I bought a lottery ticket online today though, just in case.

And honestly, what the fuck's wrong with me? I write about how I'm terrified to turn out the light and go to sleep because of dreams about spiders in the bed, and where do I sit as I write this? In my mofo-ing bed. Good work, genius. Good night.

Elise versus Facebook

2009-11-16T19:51:00.004+11:00

Facebook sucks. It's making people suck. Facebook is making people think it's acceptable to make big announcements via their status. Facebook is turning people into bigger arseholes than they already were.

On the weekend, I logged onto Facebook and saw photos of my friends' baby. Newborn baby. As in a day old baby. I didn't even know the baby had been born. She wasn't due for another four weeks.

This is a friend who I have known since I was 18. We lived an hour apart so we didn't see each other all that often, but when we did it was like we saw each other only yesterday. Even when there was three years in between catch-ups. I even spent Christmas with her and her husband. (Even though he makes me want to stab myself in the face. "Hey, that's black." "No, it's not. It's white." Stab.)

They moved to London about six years ago and then to the States last year, so I don't get to see her very often at all, but we exchanged emails just last week about how she was now on bedrest until the baby was born - which, incidentally, they had found out was going to be a girl and had already named (tempting fate, if you ask me) and had tagged the baby in a photo on Facebook. As in tagged my friends' pregnant belly with the baby's name. CREEPY. Facebook is making people super-creepy.

I gave them all weekend and all of today to let me know about their daughter being born. I waited for a phone call, a text message, an email, a Facebook message or wall post, carrier pigeon, telegram, smoke signal, ESP.

Niente.

(That means fuck-all in Italian.)

I really hate Facebook. I hate that it's become a platform for announcing things that maybe should be told face-to-face - or when circumstances dictate, over the phone. I hate that Facebook has let it become acceptable to do this.

Remember the old days when people telephoned to tell you news? Am I being really uncool about this all? Obviously this is the way the kids do it these days, so I must be uncool. Jeez.

As much as I hate Facebook for all of this shit, I mainly hate the fact that my friends think it's okay for me to find out their big news this way. That shit hurts the most. But really, fuck Facebook for letting them do it.

13th

2009-11-13T15:45:00.004+11:00

Even though today is Friday the 13th, I feel confident it can't be any worse than yesterday:

At 8.10am, I was standing in my underwear in front of a strange Russian doctor who proceeded to scour my body for any suspicious-looking freckles or moles, tugging my pesky knickers out of the way. And then I paid him. Sixty bucks. And then I had to go to work.

Fuck that.

So today, I chucked a sickie. I left a message on my boss's voicemail last night and then slept in until 9.30am.

And now it's the weekend.

Oh yeahhhhhhhhh

2009-11-12T10:42:00.003+11:00

Here's something that both makes me simultaneously mortified and amused to no end:

When you mean to say "pop" but at the last second, your brain decides to change it to "put" but it doesn't get there in time and you accidentally say a mash-up of the two.

As in:

The phone rings. "Hello, welcome to blah blah blah, Elise speaking."

"Oh hi, can I speak to Homie please?"

"Sure, I'll just poop you through."

"...."

"Um... Just a second."

I'm sorry, yes, I did just say I was going to poop you through. Gross.

Opinions From Your Massive Brains

2009-11-09T17:45:00.003+11:00

Dudes, I need your help.

The 30th is coming up. Two months, actually, to the very day.

It's regarding Lara.

Of course it bloody is.

It's all about being polite on my part. I feel that I always have to have the moral high ground in this case. I have to invite her to the 30th, there's no way around it. Even though she didn't contact me when she was home; even though I don't want her there; even though my parents don't really want her there; even though she more than likely won't be able to come, I still have to invite her. Chances are she will be working, chances are she won't be able to make the eight-hour flight here.

So what I'm thinking is a quick little email, just to say "Hey, party. Here, this time. See ya." Nothing over the top, just so no-one can say to me that I'm the bitch, I'm the one who has the problem, I'm the one in the wrong. And believe me, it will be said. Maybe not to my face, but it will be said.

So what I'm wondering is, seeing as Lara and Fletch are a couple, (kills me. Kills me) and if I were sending out normal invitations in the post, the invitation would be addressed to both Lara and Fletch. Does that mean that the email I have to send to Lara, should Fletch be in on that shit too?

Or am I just being bitchy and melodramatic?

Honestly?

The thought of getting in touch with him again sends the butterflies that live in my stomach into hyperactivity. Of course I'd only include him because I want him at the party, whether she is there or not.

I think it comes down to this: I have to send Lara an email to let her know, on the off chance that she wants to come and if I were sending it in any other way, I would address it to Fletch as well. Is this any different?

Your massive brains would be appreciated. Just tell me: yes do it or no melodramatic and bitchy.

Humpf

2009-11-07T19:22:00.004+11:00

Lara was home for over two weeks and never contacted me. I didn't hear a friggen peep out of her. I know that I said I didn't want to see her but I wanted that to be my choice. Not her's.

I've barely heard from Jake for the past two weeks and he normally emails me at a constant pace throughout the week. All I got from his this week was a photo of six or so midget matadors (which was kinda funny). But that's it.

I can't help but wonder if the silent treatment double-whammy is somehow connected to my verbal diarrhea? I really don't think Fletch would tell anyone, but I guess I don't know. For the first time ever, Lara's Facebook profile picture is one of her and Fletch. For me, that does not bode well.

I still can't believe she went home without a word between us, especially when before she left, she said how great it would be to see each other when she was here. I didn't want to see her, but I don't like the fact that she didn't want to see me either. It makes my guilty conscience burn with the intensity of an out of control fire.

another one from weheartit.com

Uh-huh

2009-11-04T12:41:00.007+11:00

Someone tried to float updation passed us today. In an email, one business to another, official correspondance. Updation.

No. Don't do that. Don't use made up words and pretend they're real. Especially when it's not a cool word.

Actually, no. No 'cool' words either. If I hear chillax, it makes me want to grab the pen and jam it into my femoral artery, again.

Instead of working, I started googling made up words and despite my hatred for pretend words, found two that I love and need to start integrating into my vocabulary:

TonyDanzaphobia (n.) The excessive fear of Tony Danza. Example: "Shut off the TV! Tony Danza is on every channel! Bill has TonyDanzaphobia!" A person possessing TonyDanzaphobia will go into extreme convulsions, crying, or gas releasing when he/she spots Tony Danza.

Now we don't want any gas releasing, so keep Tony away.

Evilgasm (n.) To feel great pleasure from performing an evil act.

This one, I love. I do love a good evilgasm. I've been running low on my evil acts of late - karma, and all - but it could be time to start a shit-storm.

I was thinking about doing on another post on the quest for romance and so googled "what rhymes with romance". So I click on the first link and it comes up with a list of words that rhyme with romance.

Sweatpants.

Sorry, this is a really shithouse post, I know. I'm tired. I have no updations for you.

Suck it, Cookie Monster.

She said

2009-11-03T21:19:00.004+11:00

as she watched my temper tantrum with interest, "You need some romance."

I need more than romance, sister.

You need someone really sweet to tell you you're beautiful, to hold your hand, to give you a kiss goodnight, to wake up next to, to make you laugh and to calm you when you're angry. You need some romance.

Oh, romance isn't a drunken shag in basement linen closet? Or a shag with your friend's brother on a blow-up mattress? Or a grope in a dark corner of the nightclub?

Oh.

You're right. I do need some romance.

Here

Summer Mission

2009-11-02T22:17:00.005+11:00

The skies are blue, the sun is shining and the freckles on my arms seemed to have doubled. I spend my 30-minute lunch break in worship to the sun, it warms my skin as I eat my lunch and read my book.

In what seems like overnight, the thick pyjamas need to be put away and the singlets and shorts are brought out. Bed covers are tossed off and windows left open for the night air to cool down a room that the sun has been streaming in through all day. For the first time since being back in this house, the ceiling fan is spinning around, its drone almost hypnotic.

Summer is arriving, coming in with warm days and thunder and lightning shows at night. It's this kind of unstable weather that I love. Thunder that rumbles enough to make the doors shake, lightning that illuminates the night sky.

I love all of summer, you know this already. This summer is going to be different. I have a mission. Not to be mistaken with my Plan. This is a mission.

This summer I'm going to fall in love.

Even if it fucking well kills me.

I found these beautiful photos on weheartit.com: here, here and here.

2010

2009-10-31T15:21:00.007+11:00

I have a new plan. I like this plan a lot and I'm excited for it.

At the moment, I'm basing everything in my near-future on whether or not I am accepted into university.

Should I move out into a place of my own? Should I go on a holiday? Should I look for a new job?

These are the main questions I ask of myself and I feel I can't do any of them until at least January 2010 when first-round offers are made. I'm okay with this, it's only another three months. I will get a place of my own, regardless of uni or not, but where is dependent on university. The holiday plans definitely have to wait. And what's the point of looking for a new job that I could only be at for a few weeks when I can (only just) tolerate the one I'm at?

My new plan can be done if I am accepted and also if I'm not. Just the time of year and the length will be the only factors dependent on this.

This is the plan:

Italy.

My God, I love this place. I've only been to Rome and Venice but when I got there, I finally understood what people meant when they said that their soul belonged somewhere. The ancient ruins of Rome, the alleys and canals of Venice. The pizza, the pasta, the gelato, the men.

Holy crap, the men.

In Rome, I saw the most achingly beautiful men. Everything about the way they presented themselves: clothes, watches, shoes, man-bags (I don't know what they're really called, but man-bag says it all), the Vespas and the helmets, made me just about have a seizure. So effing beautiful. Don't even get me started on Italian women.

The romance of Venice, even in 40 degree heat (104 F) and swarming with fat tourists, was stunning. The gondolas, the alleys barely wide enough for three people shoulder-to-shoulder, the overall beauty of a city built on water made my heart sing.

So I'm going to go back. If I get into uni, it will be around November - February, during the Italian winter months. If I don't get into uni, I have the freedom to go whenever the mood strikes me. I want to go for a minimum of three months and immerse myself in all that is Italian. I want to live there, work there, talk there.... maybe even fall in love there.

Photo of Cinque Terre from weheartit.com, as well as Gelato in Venice; Burano from Ican'tremembersorry! and Bari from here.

Permanent Halloween Fun

2009-10-29T13:42:00.005+11:00

I've only celebrated Halloween once in my life. It was 2007 and I had been living in a hostel in Ireland for about three or four months. The hostel had a bar on the ground floor and it was the kind of place that attracted just as many locals as it did the backpackers who stayed there.

Along with the other long-term residents, or the 'reprobates' as the manager called us, I was looking forward to the Halloween party in the bar. A surprising amount of people dressed up: we had zombies, clowns, witches, dead brides, the obligatory nurse-clad-in-leather (who was a skank, regardless of the red pleather outfit) and vampires. I was a vampire, so unimaginative, I know. Because the putty glue stuff wouldn't bond the fangs to my teeth, I acquired some super-glue and glued those fangs to my eye teeth. I was a little concerned the glue wouldn't lift and I would have to either strut around Cork with fangs or take an embarrassing trip to hospital. In the end, the only drama was having to drink my beer through a straw.

As any good vampire would, I had to leave bite marks on people's necks. I've done some pretty gross things in my time, but biting multiple, drunken strangers on the neck is not something I'm prepared to do, so I got around this by bringing along a red pen. The night would see me accost what seemed like every person in the bar and draw red marks on their necks, against their will or otherwise.

"Don't worry," I casually reassured them, with a wave of my hand,"it will come off with soap and water. No dramas, don't be a baby."

Late in the night, things got silly. We were outside the bar, on one of Cork's busiest streets, with the smokers. One friend dressed as a mummy was oogy-boogying up to cars pulled up at the red lights. Some silly man asked me to draw glasses on his face with my red pen. I obliged. His friend asked me to do the same to him. I obliged. I decided he also needed a moustache and goatee. He laughed and expressed some concern about going to work tomorrow.

"Don't worry," I dismissed him, with a wave of my hand, "it will come off with soap and water. No dramas, don't be a baby."

I woke up late the next day and despite my raging headache, burst into fits of uncontrollable laughter, pissing off all the other hungover reprobates I was sharing a room with. The red pen marks would not come off with just a bit of soap and water - it was permanent.

HahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaHA!

I don't know why I told people it wasn't, I really don't. I don't think I was even conscious of doing it. I just wanted to draw bite marks on people's necks. ~~As well as glasses, beards and goatees.~~ Maybe I actually believed it wasn't a permanent pen. Maybe.

My friend was a cleaner at the hostel and she later told me that as she made her way through the 20 or so rooms, most of each slept 4 - 6 people, nearly every person still passed out in bed had two red marks on their necks. At that stage they were still blissfully unaware.

I still wonder about those poor guys, especially the one with the full makeover. I know I should feel bad, but even now two years later, I'm giggling.

I wonder if he is?

Nothing really... Not really worth reading.... Honestly, it's just dribble....*

2009-10-28T23:07:00.003+11:00

Today was an improvement on yesterday. That is because, today, I was prepared: chocolate.

Blood-thirsty co-worker brought up the subject of femoral artery stabbing again after my slightly concerning statement of yesterday. She went a step further than just encouraging me though - she offered me the aspirin she kept in her bag. Aspirin thins the blood. She thought this would be far more effective. Umm... thanks?

So whatever. Puncturing arteries will be put on the backburner for the moment because today, I sent off my first application for university. Yay! It felt very official. Can you believe that one university didn't want a folio of samples of written pieces to consider? Isn't that insane? I'm applying for a creative writing degree and you don't want to check that I can write first? Nuts.

Even though we had what is clearly the best sign that summer is just around the corner today - blue skies, minimal breeze, shining sun - the highlight of my day was giving my niece a stick-on tattoo of a frog. She's 18 months old. She completely rocked it.

*Told ya.

weheartit.com.

The 100th

2009-10-27T20:35:00.004+11:00

Today at work, I declared I wanted to grab a pair of scissors and stab myself in the femoral artery. One particularly blood-thirsty co-worker encouraged me, while another said he would rather I stab someone else and I'm pretty sure my boss's hand was hovering over the telephone, debating about who he should call first - the temp agency I'm with to let them know I wasn't wanted at work anymore, or the police.

Later when we were talking about another girl's interview tomorrow for a customer service role at a bank, I said I would rather shoot myself in the face than deal with people and their money. Of course this attracted curious and wary stares from the others. I shrugged.

It's been that kind of day.

Image from

weheartit.

Fuck you, Facebook.

2009-10-25T14:36:00.005+11:00

Really.

I signed in earlier today so I could reply to a message a friend had sent me and there it is, right there in front of me: a photo of motherfuckering Lara and motherfuckering Fletch, laughing it up, the two of them looking fucking gorgeous, at a friends' wedding. Her skin amazingly clear, her teeth sparkling white and straight, her make-up just enough to highlight her features, her hair shiny and healthy-looking, her body bang-on. Fletch, leaning back in his seat, beer in hand, laughing, looking right at the fucking camera. Their outfits fucking sutbly colour co-ordinated.

The shock of seeing him grinning out of the computer right at my fucking face was enough to make me physically recoil. I actually made a loud noise like I'd been punched in the stomach.

I got angry at myself for getting carried away with imagining ways they would be fighting and being miserable while she was home. When you let yourself do that, you're letting yourself in for a huge shock when the harsh reality smacks you in the face.

Fuck Facebook and fuck them.

I was complaining to the girls at work (I do a lot of complaining) that I have nothing really to look forward to. One of the girls was counting down the days until she went on two-week's holidays and then when she gets back, she's got her wedding to plan. I don't want to plan a wedding, but it made me realised I have nothing of significance coming up in the near-future. How fucking depressing.

Getting an email two weeks ago from a friend in Ireland changed all that. She said she was coming out to Australia to visit me and her visit would fall at the same time as my birthday, in January. My 30th birthday. For a few months, whenever someone had asked what I was planning on doing for it, I was quite adamant I wasn't doing anything. Maybe a small group, go out for dinner and drinks, nothing too fancy or over the top. But then when she said she was coming, and the bitch about having nothing to look forward to still on the brain, made me change my mind.

Party time, it is.

I sent an email out to all the friends I made during my year in Ireland, people who are scattered around the world - the States, Ireland, Italy, Holland, Canada and three different states of Australia. I demanded that they all make the effort to come help me celebrate my birthday, with the lure of free alcohol and free accomodation. Immediately, I got responses: the girl from the States has booked her tickets, the Dutch girl is talking to her work about getting time off, one of the guys in Australia said yes, another Australian guy said he would if the Italian came, the Irish guy will be in Australia in January so we're hoping his dates work in.

It's fucking insane. I didn't really expect these people to come. After all, I haven't seen them since early to mid-2008. And they're coming from the other side of the globe for my birthday. Fucking mad! It's really given me the warm fuzzies.

I love the warm fuzzies.

So it's time for action: no more banging on about getting into shape and looking like crap. It's time to make a change. I've got roughly 10 weeks until this party and I want to look the best I've ever been. I don't necessarily care about weight or size, I just want people who haven't seen me for ages to be blown away and shout, "Fuck! You look incredible!" when they see me.

That's not vain, right?

Of course, goddamn Lara and Fletch will have to be invited. Can't really get away from that one. I doubt she will be able to be here, seeing as she lives in the desert, but Fletch is a possibility. But I'm not going to think about that. They are not the point of this.

~~The point is that when they see me, they are going to shout, "Fuck! You look incredible!"~~

~~Maybe it is.~~

No, no, no.

The point is I'm turning 30, I'm going to look fabulous and I'm going to have a great time with all my friends and family. I don't care about a girl who cheats on her boyfriend and a guy who lets his girlfriend cheat on him. I don't. I'm going to metaphorically flip them the middle finger with my fabulousness.

The Ocean

2009-10-23T11:03:00.015+11:00

Mum and Me, 1982

I think growing up in a city called the Gateway to the Surf Coast and spending my childhood summers at my great-grandparent's holiday house by the beach has ingrained a deep love for all things sandy. From the first one, my birthday was always spent at the house along the Great Ocean Road.

Every day for a month, we were bundled up with towels, beach umbrellas, buckets and spades and flip-flopped our way along the road with the sandy edges, towards the beach where we would spend all day running in and out of the water and doing things like building sandcastles with moats, chasing each other with long pieces of seaweed and burying Dad in sand so that just his head was sticking out.

Summer rolls around and despite the annual freak-out that comes with baring my pasty body to the world, I can't wait to get back to the beach, a mere ten minutes' drive away. At the end of summer, my car is full of sand, my limbs are sunkissed and freckled and the heady smell of coconut sends me into a dizzy spell for months to come.

The beach has healing powers - I defy anyone to say otherwise. Hours spent sitting on the sand, staring out into the crashing waves is the perfect way to contemplate. A Sunday morning dip in the crisp ocean is a sure-fire hangover cure. Lying in the sand, eyes closed and feeling the suns' warmth on my skin makes my soul sing.

This love affair is such an intrinsic part of who I am that it's only natural the guy I am attracted to feels these strong ties as well. When I think of my 'perfect' guy, something pretty close to this photo of Simon Baker comes to mind:

The whole look makes my heart all a-flutter: the casual pose, the sexy jeans, the bare feet, the surfboard, his face. Sweet baby Jesus, his face. (While my point is more about the beach stuff, is there a more gorgeous face in the land of the TV People? His eyes. Lord.)

The beach. Good for the heart, the soul and not too bad for the eyes either.

And because I'm a dirty perve, here's another Simon Baker shot:

Lots more sexy.

No. 97

2009-10-22T21:19:00.006+11:00

Dudes, this really says it all. Today was such a shithouse day at work: people are being fuckheads and my boss is as well. He keeps loading on all this extra responsibility and I just want to tell him to go fuck himself but who doesn't need a job?

So during these times of self-pity and shittiness, it's amazing how bouyed up you can get by one little comment from someone else. How it can change your whole day. Stop you from using office supplies as weapons on your co-workers.

My hair is naturally curly and a bit schizophrenic - I'm sure most people with curly hair say the exact same thing. It flits between being full of tight ringlets, to cascading wavy curls, to some kind of weird wave with a kink and a flat, heavy piece right on the top of my head. Hardly a day goes by when I don't get a compliment. I just smile and say thanks because it's hard to take credit for something that has a life of its own.

Last week, I went from brunette to blonde. Wednesday, I ran the straightner over it and I was told by a (suprisingly not gay) guy at work that I looked very "Hollywood glamour". Thank you. Another woman at work told me she liked my hair straight, she liked my new colour, but she loved the curls more. Thanks. My 12-year old cousin told me I looked like a movie star. For realz.

All in one day. And just after a couple of really shitful days, it was exactly what I needed to lift me out of my puddle of pity. It's a shame we have to hear a compliment from someone else to make us feel better, it shouldn't take someone else's seal of approval, but fuck man - it just makes you feel so good when someone gives you a compliment when it was just as easy to not say anything at all.