I just remembered something

To the cab driver who I PAID to drive me home,
If you're gonna be such a smartarse, if you're gonna be a cunt, if you're gonna laugh at me and be a bitch[cunt] to me cause I'm a little drunk, DON"T BE FUCKED OFF WHEN YOU DISCOVER THAT I'M SOBER ENOUGH TO NOT TIP YOU. [I always tip, loser, don't you feel stupid now?]
Hell, you are the reason that cab drivers have the shit kicked out of them.
And, for anyone reading this, alcohol loosens my tongue, if you're gonna shit me do it when I'm TOTALLY SOBER and I might be too nice to say anything. I might even be nice enough to refrain from ripping your fucking throat out.
Without exception, I fucking hate taxi drivers.

Oh

Because I suck and had to leave early I get to blog first about Bourbonbird's birthday. I have only two things to say: 1) I suck for having to leave early 2) anyone who failed to turn up at all sucks even more. It was promising to be really fucking good when I left. I am really shitty that I had to leave.
Oh and

HAPPY FUCKING BIRTHDAY RINNA

hope you have the most awesome night ever.

A new low

I have had a fucking shitty day. Now, to make things just that little bit more yay and fabulous, I can't access my own fucking fucked up fucking crap fucking blog fucking properly. I wonder if you can guess how I feel about that?

Cockheads and HQ

Or: A tale of two rants
Or: There and back again

Rant the first.
I’ve just been to the shops, as you do on days off, to purchase some of the necessaries. [Damn, where’s my toothpaste? Shit. Fuck. Sod.] The usual Sunday afternoon fuckwits were there with their fuckwit brats [if you don’t hit it, I might], the obviously single men [hint: I looked in Men’s Health, those tips on how to treat your bird will get you knackered – especially if she’s also read them. Try asking, twat.], and sadarses like me who’ve just run out of all the important stuff [TOOTHPASTE NOOOOOOOOOOO]. The killer moment in a series of irritating moron [the teenage staff] moments was getting stuck in front of a bunch of cockheads at the checkout. [What is the collective noun for cockheads?] The chief cock was, oh of course, closest to me and my basket of goodies [oh toothpaste why hast though forsaken me]. For a good five minutes I had to endure the absolute bullshit coming out of his mouth, a spiel about some vegan girl [vegans are a whole other rant], his staring at everything I unpacked, his general ughy unwashedness, and the filthily butchered hair of his female companion. Oh and the bored, disinterested, twelve year old checkout chick who has somehow managed to lose my toothpaste. I hate shopping. It leaves me absolutely surly and irritated. I hate the way people look at me [yeah, at least I washed today – with soap and not dogshit…] like fat people aren’t allowed to buy things. I hate the way everyone is so damn selfish and self-important, how they loiter in front of you as you try to escape as quickly as possible, how people dither, I just generally hate supermarkets. I’ve got to start shopping online. Fuck it. I just loathe masses of people. There is no need to sound or behave like a sheep. There is a reason that they’re chopped up and presented hygienically in plastic. There is a reason why we eat them and they don’t eat us [other than teeth of course]. Oh bring back cannibalism. Eat the stupid and save the environment!
Rant the second.
Having gotten through the ordeal that is groceries I stopped off at the newsagents to purchase a newspaper [the Sunday paper is a ritual torture I am much addicted to purchasing and little addicted to actually reading] and, thinking stupidly as is my wont, I lingered looking at the glossies, and not so glossies, and spent some five minutes attempting to find some kind of magazine wherein I might find pleasure in reading. I was much mistaken. [And here comes the rant.] This little rant goes out to the compleat fucking shitwit cockhead who stopped production on my all-time favourite magazine, a magazine, I add, which has never been replaced by anything even vaguely equal to it’s charms or upper-middleclass pseudo intellectualism. From the time I was an innocent wee lass of about 15 [okay, okay, already a pretentious (without anything to be pretentious about other than my ability to differentiate between anything and nothing) little cunt] I had regularly purchased a magazine called HQ. Always something interesting to read, nice and glossy, a level of culture entirely lacking in the hick inbred hole I was [temporarily] stuck in, and an enjoyable rag through and through. The only magazine I’ve ever subscribed to. The one that gave me insights into things that simply did not exist where I was. The magazine that along with JJJ and SBS [all three came into my life and to Hellsville around the same time] seriously broadened my horizons. I am so tragic that I looked forward to the next issue. I’d search for it until it came out. I’d read every damn line of every damn page. Right up until some high powered fuckwit, who already had more money than sense, pulled production. I didn’t buy any kind of magazine for a very long time after this. I was too pissed off. Those bastards weren’t getting my hard-earned. Now, though, hope has crept back and I will, every so often, linger at the newsagent hoping against hope that there will be something decent to buy. Nah. Nope. Not a fucking chance. I am not a globally delayed child. I am not overly fixated on my hair or weddings or fashion or yoga or cars or cocksucking celebrity losers. I don’t want any of that crap. I want a balanced interesting read. A little bit of literature, a little science [dummied down, but not too much], a review here, a review there, an interview with someone interesting, an in-depth story on something I’d previously ignored [or the general media had]. I want a decent magazine that doesn’t have 50 pages of crappily lit fashion [fashion so badly lit that you cannot discern details] that I cannot fit into and have not got the many thousands of dollars needed to purchase – should I want to. I’m chasing chimeras, apparently, magazines, like the rest of us, are increasingly specialised. If you want politics you purchase a politically oriented magazine [left, right, centrist, downright fascist – the choice is yours], if you want science then you purchase science, no chance of cross-over, no holistic world view, no renaissance wo/men, no renaissance magazines. Put us all in specialised boxes and give us our specialised literature so that we may all speak the jargon of our specialisation but not communicate with outsiders.
Rants endith.

Battle cry: to wanda

I have recently been propositioned by a friend [Come fly with me lets fly lets fly away…think about it dahrlink you me london paris berlin rome…] to, in a couple of years, take off and see some carefully selected bits of the world. Oh and live and work elsewhere for a couple of years. I’ll be a little more honest about it. Asia can be fucked, I’m not going anywhere near the middle-east if I can at all help it, India – well, it’s a holiday but not in the plan, there’ll be the tiniest of stops in America [a country I’d happily avoid but San Francisco is an absolute must, apparently, when you travel with a lesbian], and Canada is too vast and too much of an expense for the plan. The plan is Europe, of course, to ogle and to culture and grow. Just like every other over-educated, lower-middle-class, twenty-something Australian kid. There is an inevitability to this that does not just lie in the running joke we’ve had about Paris. There’s this need to escape the familiar, to live by plunging into new [for us] experiences. This reads like some annoyingly adolescent whinging. One should go away to better understand oneself and the world blah blah fucking blah. Then I look back on it and think about the pair of us. Where we’re at, who we are, and why the fuck it isn’t good enough. I have so many theories of how each of us has become or is becoming or will never quite become the people we kinda are now. Some of which work and some of which are made lies by our siblings. [Bloody siblings, if anyone’s gonna fuck something up it’ll be a sibling, then they’ll expect forgiveness and digging them up and reanimating them is always such a hassle.]
Fair enough, travel is travel is travel, right? Only now I’m worried about my motivation, my eternal fleeing, my lack of completion in the tasks I set myself, and the thousand other things that I lack the wits and imagination to puzzle out. Maybe I’m not who I thought I was or who I thought I was going to be. Maybe I’ve overestimated certain things. I certainly overestimated my intellect and certain of the talents I thought I had and have recently realised were merely products of my atrophying imagination. Holy fucking hell what do you do when it turns out everyone was wrong about your potential? Or did they note that from an early age I was a lazy cunt and they motivated me as best as they knew how by lying their tits off about me and my place in the world? Yeah that worked real well.
Now for a little realism. I think that one of my main motivators for this expedition is to run like the devil is breathing down my neck, to run away – again. I still haven’t overcome the absurd theory that one can run away from problems, life, insecurities, every little thing that one wants to run away from. That I can escape myself and my baggage and my cloying bossy family [ah the simultaneous love and wanting to rip people limb from limb if they don’t stop nagging you to fulfil some plan or ambition of theirs.] [And in parentheses the light shall shineth down on ye and ye shall see the light and realise that thou hast been stumbling in the dark…]. I tried it once and obviously didn’t bolt far enough. Hmmmmmmm, the fact that I’m having emotional reactions when trying to sort this out in my head is an old and familiar way for me to know I’m right thinking. There are ties that need cutting before I strangle.

Fuck it, fuck it all, and to wanda. By gods I need to get drunk in the right company.

from girl bits to....

I suspect that this is seriously pervy and wrong but I much prefer the couple upstairs having sex [noise, volume, and duration wise] to the guy downstairs playing his guitar. I think I’d even prefer it if he was wanking – at least he’d finish sooner or later. I am tempted to go downstairs and offer to modify his downstairs [as it happens endless jamming shits me, especially when it’s a solo effort] with blunt scissors [yeah it makes me violent].
Maybe turning the shittiest cd I own [what is the shittiest cd I own? Why don’t I own any death metal for emergencies like this? Or machetes?] at fullish volume will get the point across. Yah. And doing the washing up will make me feel happy and fulfilled in life.
Wonder if I can sneak into his flat and burn all his strings…
Or should I just set his head on fire?
Stomping will make me feel better. Yeah…

My vagina’s hurting

It is a mistake, even when extremely bored, to watch things such as Big Brother Uncut.
“I have to get out of the spa, my vagina’s hurting.”
Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat?
Dammit, why did I never think of using that as an excuse?
To boss: Can’t come into work, my vagina hurts.
To lecturer: Essay will be late, vag probs…
Think, oh just think, of the world of possible excuses this offers one.
I am inarticulate in my amusement.

All wrathed up with nowhere to go

I have made the fatal mistake of watching tv today. Australian spin on the crap shows of other countries and [gods smite me] the cricket. I don’t like sport. It’s having the tv on without the sound off that’s the problem. I’ve just heard a media professional talk about how the lovely two teams were going to have a ‘minute’s silent’ to pay their respects to London. I don’t object to this at all. Very worthy, beats the hell out of live idiot, doesn’t cost anyone anything, and shows a modicum of respect for tragedy and suffering and a solidarity so frequently lacking in this society. What is shitting me is the ‘minute’s silent’. Anyone can have a slip of the tongue. Anyone can mispronounce. It’s the continual mispronunciation of oft used words that bothers me. This, coupled with the appalling and exceedingly slack habit of dropping the beginnings and endings of words, makes our media, and by default the rest of us, look utterly ridiculous. Screw ridiculous, it makes us look stupid. Here’s a news flash worth paying attention to – words have meanings, often very particular meanings, many words are very, very similar. When you start dropping letters some of those words become other words. When the word you intended to use becomes another word your meaning is lost. [And you sound like a prat, just as I sound like a pedant.] I used to have a friend who did this all the time, actually I’m pretty sure she still does – we just aren’t friends anymore. She never could understand why people continually misunderstood her. Mind you, she never quite understood the difference between ‘nothing’ and ‘anything’ and found them interchangeable. She didn’t [and, let’s face it, who does?] like correction even though it led to much confusion and was not, as in never once, self-correcting. There is a certain amount of horror for many of us when we discover that we’ve been unintentionally misusing words [sometimes for years]. She seemed to think the dictionary, the people around her, and the world ought to change and adhere to her understanding of things. But she wasn’t self-centred, oh no. [Note the use irony here.] The real problem is how damn common her mentality is.
I love this language. I love its history. I love its peculiarities. I love how sluttish it is. I love how old words acquire new meanings. I love how words are constantly being added to the language. That’s pretty cool. What I don’t understand is the total contempt so many have for the language they speak and write. It is a primary form of communication. It deserves some kind of respect, some attempt to correctly enunciate [not ‘nunciate’ – is that something nasty one does to nuns?] the words one uses. Wouldn’t it be nice if we were able and chose to say what we meant and actually meant what we’ve said? I guess I’m just sick of having to guess at meanings and to use instinct over logic when it comes to understanding people. Too much bloody effort.
This rant ends here, for now.

Yay me

There’s probably some kind of etiquette to the adding bloggy linky things. Need I say fuck etiquette? I’m rather sick of navigating my reading from someone else’s blog. [Having a godly power trip here. Wow.] Though, of course, if anyone has objections they need only comment and I may well heed their concerns. Then again, I might not. [I am godly, after all.] [Come here, my little pretty ones, let me smite you.]
Meanwhile, I am awed by my own ability to actually change shit around on this oh so technical blog thing. Yes, I realise what this says about me, my technical abilities, my skills [I’m really rather good at picking up chicks.] [Damn.], and just how damn easy it is to impress me. Still, I done good and I’m damn proud of me, fine little filly that I am…

Hey little girl...

The Ramones obsession is growing. Nary a day passes where I do not need, need I say, to listen to this latest of musical obsessions. *sigh* I am so lame.

I was born twenty years too late. I swear. If I’d been born twenty yeas earlier I could’ve been a baby beatnik, then spent part of my childhood in a hippie commune, then I could have gone for a late adolescence/ early adulthood rebellion into punk [gaining, on the way, a free Whitlam era degree], after pursuing half a dozen majors and several degrees I could’ve made a shitload of cash in the eighties as I went through some sort of consumerist money-grubbing stage, arriving at the nineties in time to own the world before it went so totally crap, and, if I did things right, I could now be a smug semi-retiree [though not one of those mother-fucking-morons who voted for The Git]. Of course, I’d now be fairly old, but there’s always botox and plastic for that illusion of the illusion of youth.
See what I could have been? Bloody everything! I've always known I was born to the wrong generation. Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

I am....

...a fucking moron. I spent 10 minutes TEARING my house apart [small house] searching for the disks that may/may not contain my cv and a noice application letter template. I found the disks on the table wherefrom I type this woeful missive. Can you imagine how really really quite FUCKED OFF I am about now?
Immoral as it is it looks like I'll have to do this from work.
Fuck.
Fuck fuck.

*h*tmail

Anyone have any idea why fucking hotmail is refusing to let me download my cv?
Yes, I am technically inept.
I want my cv. I don't know where else it is - electronically, that is.
FUCK.

Starlight, starbright...

This is what I wish for tonight -


Position Vacant - Assistant Adviser to the Australian Greens Senators

Applications are invited for a new position of Adviser to Australian Senators Brown, Nettle, Milne and Siewert. The position will be based in Canberra with travel throughout Australia as required.
http://greens.org.au/jobads/

Wish me luck kiddies...
You know I'm serious when something involves moving to Canberra [ugh].

Seasons in the sun

Having bitched royally yesterday about being trapped by materiality [always assuming that means what I think it does], I felt the need to go out today and purchase some oddments.
Disturbingly, I feel all the better for my spendthrift ways and have exorcised the Ramonal demon of ‘I wanna be sedated’. Courtesy of http://glenfuller.blogspot.com/, and which I’ve had stuck in my head for days and days. I am going to be listening to the Ramones for forever and a day. I can feel it.
Mmmmmmmm, shiny new things.
Also purchased – a glorious new moleskine [oh the scent of fresh picked moleskine!] and coasters, for I am a homeware whore. Damn King Street shops.
Comments on contemptuous consumerism invited.

Sunday afternoons.

I had a comment, the other afternoon, from a blogreader who felt that I was sad. I have to question sad. I’m not sure that I am. Pensive, pending, pissed off I may be, but not sad. It’s that time of life again folks. As the ‘folks’ reading this don’t know me all that well I guess I’d better explain…
Every so often things have to change. Part of my persona, part of my stupidity and laziness, is that I don’t do soft, gradual change. I do climactic, explosive change. It all changes or nothing changes. It’s something to do with the plans and the actualities of my life. I’m not terrifically good at turning the one into the other. I am terribly lazy. I will sweep this aside until the last moment and let it blow up in my face. I’m still fairly young so I can’t be sure but I think this is going to be the recurrent theme of my life. And if, as a friend or family member, you think it sucks for you – try being me. I can feel this coming and it’s overwhelming. I’m torn between terror and anticipation. I’m so tense I could burst. My tension is so palpable it infects other people. [Oh it’s fun to watch them run.] I live a very chaptered life and am very good at shutting shop and moving on. Chapter, time, place closed and over with occasional visits in the form of, sometimes physical, nostalgia. I usually don’t miss what I leave - the situations, I hasten to add, not the people. I do not wish to portray myself as entirely heartless. Not entirely heartless. I guess I’m saying that my life lacks a certain amount of flow. Things do not naturally lead from one to the other. I choose, quite consciously, to end things and start again. If I don’t, ah well, then this happens - the terrific build up, the crash, the rebuild when all is shit before me. I’m so lazy that this is often the best way to motivate me. Unfortunately, this last chapter has been built on shit. It was all I had to hand, you see, and I was tired, sick, and so very emotional. [Whine, whine, whine.] It could just be that I wasn’t really aiming very high and was too ready to compromise. Now I’m bored. Boredom is a dangerous and oddly unmotivated state for me. I can feel my brain atrophy but you don’t see me doing anything about it. Oh but the choices. I could, if I wanted, stay in this rut. It is my life and I don’t really have to do anything with it, despite the continuous nagging certain parties deem essential. I could, if I wanted, stay in the same job, doing the same shit for the next decade or so. That’s the easy option really. I’m pretty bad at the easy option as well. Whenever I cop out, I cop out. Nothing goes right and I have to do over. Somewhere, somehow, I have to come back and make right. Bloody irritating. It’s so definitely time to move on.
The problem, in part I’m sure, is the 27 year itch. Don’t all the greats die at 27, if not sooner? Live hard, die young, beautiful corpse and all that. The 27 is approaching and I have little to show for it. A hell of a lot of debt which does little more than depress me. I certainly haven’t lived the way I’d intended. I’ve done almost nothing that I really want. Even what I have done seems rather shallow, pointless, and uninspired by comparison. One should never compare one’s self to other people. Oh but the need to compare is ever present… I feel entirely and totally trapped – trapped, I might add, by a level of materiality that I find abhorrent and unnecessary and yet is the stuff of day to day living. I am trapped by a banality that I fail to rise above, a banality that I sink deeper into every day. I am sinking ever deeper and am becoming increasingly contemptuous of myself and all that crosses my path. Trapped by contempt bought on by such a banal existence and the horror and dismay of trying to understand how this can be enough for others when it drives me to despair. I am absolutely horrified by the vanity that allows me to expect and demand something extra when this is enough for so many others.
There is more to this, I can feel it coming.

For the record

Never again will I work a job that's a $50 cab ride from my home.
Fuck it.
It's wrong and it sucks.
And kiddies, also for the record, I ain't movin to the wilds for work either.
Fuck it.
Fuck it.
Fuck it.
I just hate work.