Busy little bee

Disgust/discuss

I don't perform femininity at all well.

A division of joy.

I’m so tired that I think I may be in bed before midnight. Revelation. Alas, it means that the chance of me enjoying one of my all time favourite pastimes – watching the wasted on Rage – is pretty small. See, me tired and making no sense. Watch me degenerate into lolcateze. No, don’t. Sleep now.

zeroth

“You’re a tidy girl,” said the prospective owner of my flat as she wandered about inspecting its points. I smirked as she turned away. No-one has ever described me as ‘tidy’ before. My housekeeping skillz are usually described as ‘chaotic’, ‘maid-needing’, and, once, though this extended to my general persona, as entropy. (I thought the last one was a tad harsh but it is nice to be at one with the universe - please, don’t disillusion me by mentioning anything about thermodynamics.) Housekeeping has never been my forte, I may have mentioned this before, and most people know that I am not one of those people you can just drop in on. I need notice so that I can tidy up and so that no-one will ever know just what a complete slob I am. It’s best not to surprise me – I get a bit weird. Still, Prospective Owner hadn’t surprised me; she’d walked in on the tail end of a two day cleaning spree and my flat was tidier than it had been in weeks, possibly longer. It didn’t really take me two days to tidy up, the place wasn’t that bad. It took so long because I could only clean so much after midnight before noise became an issue and then I had to get up early today to finish it off.

And since I was up early and already cleaning I proceeded to do whole bunch of housekeeperly stuff that would make any prospective mother-in-law proud (this has relevance, bear with me, or bare with me, I’m easy, I don’t mind)(oh wait, it doesn’t, never mind). This means that not only have I vacuumed, mopped, dusted (not in this order!), washed up, and laundered (oh clean sheets - blissikins!), folded linen, made the bed (I didn’t know it was meant to look like that either), but I have also baked and cooked, shopped, bought and arranged flowers, and spent some time prettying myself up for no apparent reason – well, clean sheets are a reason. I really feel that if I had to do all this crap everyday then, quite frankly, I’d require a Mr Darcy just to make (most of it redundant but, you know, servants don’t manage themselves) it worth my while. In other words, I’ll take working – it’s a shiteload easier and less tiring. Seriously.

P.S. Tell me that my eyebrows look super-awesome and I’ll love you for life. Really, they do. Damn, I am looking gooooooooooooood!

Take Me Anywhere

Help.

I have a Tegan and Sara song stuck in my head. For reasons that I'm not even sure about I associate this particular musical act with lesbians. Consequently, I feel like any moment now my aunt is going to welcome the third lesbian of the family into the fold. If my sister fell we'd be four for four. Wouldn't my grandparents be proud? Meh, who'm I kidding, she likes cock enough to balance out the rest of us. My sister, that is, I'm really not that sure about my aunt.
The fact that T & S are sisters make this whole line of thought even more disturbing. I think I'll leave things as they are, though it is nice that my aunt occasionally prompts me with, 'we're very understanding about it...now...' Understand all you want, I'm with my sister on this one. Oh. Ew.

*Shock* Harry Potter Spoiler

There were no Chocolate Frogs. AT ALL. And, I believe, and please contradict me if I'm wrong, only one mention of Chocolate Frogs.

Everyone join me now - shame, JK, shame!

P.S. Feel free to discuss freely.
P.P.S. That's a warning on the comments section.
P.P.P.S. Next year I turn thirty. I am resolved to be a bit less lame after that.

9.01

I am one of the many adults who are quite unashamedly excited that tomorrow is Harry Potter Day. I intend to spend much of my weekend reading that arm breaking tome and most of the people who know me realise this. I really, really want to know what happens. And I really, really don’t care what you think will happen or what you think of me.

I am, however, getting sick of those who aren’t interested baiting those of us who are. You don’t have to be interested. You don’t have to care. I am interested and I care but I don’t really see it as a reflection on my intellect or upon qualities as a human being (or even as a reader). I am quite capable of sorting ‘good’ writing and ‘bad’ writing out for myself, and, also, ‘good’ and ‘bad’ stories. My good and bad may not be to your taste but then, yours may not be to mine. Let me read you a lecture on how nice it is to live in a world where we don’t have to agree on every little thing or, indeed, any little thing…

Er

1. The internet is boring tonight but reading Othello feels too much like work and so I linger.

2. For the love of god would someone please take me to see Harry Potter? I have a tradition with a friend to see the HP movies as they come out but she's got a family thing and I don't think it'll pan out this time. Also, my mummy and daddy are very far away and they won't be able to take me either. Yes, very feeble, but it won't feel right unless I go with someone.

3. Um.

Commune

I am dreaming of the place again, the end place, the escape place. A well appointed cottage placed nowhere and well placed for it. Making my way away and with others of like mind. I’ve had enough today, enough rubbish, enough of the ridiculous modernity. And I want to be well away. Alone but not entirely, apart but with community. A small one, an idealised one, a place in and out of the sun on a cold winter’s day.

I was thinking Tasmania; I fancy that the land is cheap, though I wonder how one reared in the tropics could cope in a southern winter. I have already been offered two elderly Greek ladies to keep home and kiddies and be all manner of useful. Maybe they’d even agree. Apparently they make good jam. It sounds useful to me.

unsurprize

Voice pitched high and accusatory tone; I wonder how your relationship survives. Is it planning or expectation or something hidden that I can’t see in my neighbourly, fragmentary way? The expectation that a woman will nag - so you find one that does and you stay. I’d grasp at an argument but I’ve never heard her voice another way, maybe it’s just her manner. To speak, to whine, to waste your time on pointless whinging words that fall on ears inured to moans and answered by curt, dull monotone. I thought I might but I don’t envy you, either of you.

this is a surprize..

I think I'm in love with this man. Seriously.

Heavy Heart

The return to work created gasps of excitement for no-one, not even me. I did, however, end up gasping rather a lot after my coughing fits. The new height of professionalism is croaking out, ‘one moment please’, smacking the hold button, and proceeding to choke long and loud, before coming back, finishing the call, choking again and spluttering ‘fuuuuuuuuuck’ to all who would listen. My chest and stomach now ache from coughing (i.e. my boobies hurt).

There was, of course, a charming moment when one of my colleagues just had to compare symptoms before deciding that she’d been much sicker than me and my-oh-my wasn’t she just my superior for sucking it up and coming to work. Stupid bint seems to live with blinkers on and expects everyone to do the same. The fact is that having worked there so long and taken so few sick days I felt no qualms about staying at home when I was ill. That is to say that unlike diddums (whose leave, of all kinds, has been used faster than it could accrue) I had it so I used it. Aside from all else, she’s been sick virtually as long as she’s worked there. I suspect that syphilis plays havoc with your immune system.

One final note, and this is as a reminder to me, I really must stop mocking other people for being sexually frustrated. Mine transcends colds and fevers to taunt me which leaves me in really no position to talk, at all, ever. Aside from all else, you never really know who’s shagging who behind the bike sheds until they’re caught or they confess in a drunken moment.

Baby, it's cold outside.

I forced myself to go out today. I’ve only been back five minutes but it was so traumatic that I had to instantly commit it to screen. I wouldn’t have bothered but the milk is running low and I need tea, really, really need tea. Tea with milk. Tea with milk that soothes the savage throat. And so, I put on more clothing items than I’ve worn in days, including some very unwelcome articles of underwear, and forced my feet out of slippers (oh! How close I came to wearing my kitty slippers in public! Oh! How embarrassing that would have been!) and into shoes that redly clashed with my purple socks and made my way across the wasteland of Carp Ark and down a block to the wildly overpriced corner store. Honestly, the fuckers don’t even stock decent chips – which is in no way made up for by the very alluring mini-packets of bananas (the lolly variety). Still, they do stock milk (tucked away in a broken filing system, hidden in a toilet under some dingy under lit stairs in the basement) and I procured some. Forgive me, I’ve lost/forgotten/simply don’t care about what I was going to say next. I’m still sick, you see? I think I may now need to wander off and flake on the couch and maybe read some Georgette Heyer [oh really, fuck off, what else do you read when you’re sick?]. This one way conversation is making me oddly cranky. Damn internet – argue back!!!

Ahem, anyway, I’ll leave you with two things that have cropped up in my day that are, honestly, super interesting. 1) I swear I heard this on an ad: Baby tender kisses just wants to kiss and love you. Well, I’m freakin’ disturbed. I have misheard that. I must. I tried to google but you can imagine what I found. 2) I now have I’m a reindeer herder to the tune of this. Stupid mammoth discoverer.

Would anybody...

...like to be my slave for a while? Just a few weeks or a month or so to start off with, we can work it out from there. Must be good at general housework, tea-making, tissue-handing, being nice (ironic, no?), and have a sense of humour/hide like an elephant (even why I try to be nice the bitchiest things just pop right on out of my mouth - awful). Must not be a prat, or a tit, or have tits - seriously, I cannot deal with women all the time (sorry sisters) and in my living space, and just the right level of subservience. Robots may apply but only if preprogrammed into slave mode. I look forward to hearing from you (ie I expect nil comments on this one, pussies).

In other news, I feel fucking awful. Still, days off work - yay.

Let Us Know if You are Allergy

Shortly before I got out of bed this morning I realised that I was not going to have the most pleasant of days, not even for days. I woke up feeling hungover, which is nasty given that it’s a little under a week since I had any alcohol, and like some jerk of an alien had abducted me in the night and unkindly cleaned out my sinuses with a combination of salt-water and sandpaper and then failed to rinse. I feel, in short, fairly yucky. I also feel very cold, which is probably due to the weather. My brain keeps throwing slightly weird, weirder than normal, things at me so I think I probably have a fever. I might not, that might just be paranoia or hypochondria or almost anything else ending in –ia.

Anyway, realising this, I tried to stay in bed all day. It didn’t work as my head hurt to much and I just couldn’t stay comfortable. So, instead of resting properly, I’ve spent all day pissing about on the internet trying to annoy people. I’m still trying but everyone’s being awfully reasonable. The important thing to not here is not that I’m incapable of writing coherent paragraphs or of getting to the point. The important thing is that it is after five on a Sunday afternoon and I am not at the pub. I feel too sick and too unhungover-hungover to go drink beer. Curses etc.

Instead, I’m sitting here and thinking of which Thai dishes will best suit my awful sinus problem, my fever, and my general weird yuckiness. And the menu doesn’t include laksa which is what I really want. Fuckers. Oh wait, I FOUND THE LAKSA!!!! It was hiding under ‘Noodle Dish’ which, just incidentally, describes how I feel right now. I wonder if they’ll deliver a vat?

It’s times like these, honestly, that make me hate being single – I really need to have someone else think for me for five minutes. And no, sometimes friends just aren’t enough – especially when they all laugh at your stupid things, all the time.

From churlish to...

I think I’m getting a cold. It’s making me feel very sooky. [Maybe I’m turning into a man?] I feel that I ought to have someone here to look after me, and possibly, put me to bed. Maybe if I dither for a while it will go away..?

Reason why I need to find a new job # 86

On my desk this morning I discovered a small tube. Oooh, thought I, gifties! How really very extremely unusual [I work for tightarses, you see]! The tube, when I inspected it, read ‘The ThinPrep PapTest: One vial, More results’. This disturbed me somewhat as I could only come up with one connection between small tubes and pap smears and I was really quite concerned about the kind of gift that was being left on my desk. The back was more revealing. It read ‘Supercare hand lotion: Specially formulated aftercare lotion for glove wearers’.

It was quite good timing, actually, my hands were all cracked and I quite needed some hand cream and so I applied.

Never before have I used a hand cream that made my vagina clench.

Still, I’ve had that experience now.

One of the stupider things I've done this year.

Earlier this year, in a fit of parsimony coupled with frustration at the pursuit of beauty, I rediscovered soap. This does not mean that I have spent any time in the wilderness of grotty. I am, in truth, almost crazy about cleanliness. In a twist that owes much to ridiculous proverbs that involve deities that I don’t believe in, I’ve somehow replaced worship of supreme beings with the worship of feeling clean. I love bathing in all its forms and worship my shower like a corner of heaven. This being so, I’ve been quite the product fiend. My bathroom holds the remnants of all manner of potions and lotions, masks and scrubs, cleansers and toners, and body washes and soap-like things, but, for many years, just plain old soap did not touch my fair skin. Not, I might add, that these products make much difference. Like so many things in life, and something of which I’ve become quite well aware, skin, and its behaviour, is inherited. I had the sense to inherit well. And I know this because, quite frankly, I’ve been told so often and by so many different people that I’ve come to believe it. I have, you see, quite the nice complexion. And I realise that it’s genetic because it runs in the family and because it’s something that I achieve without effort.

And so to soap. Despite the above, the more functional part of my brain, I have bought into a rather geriatric advertising campaign in my pursuit of the perfect soap. Skin, you see, is, on the face at least, complexion and we all know what’s good for the complexion, don’t we? Oh yes, we do. I’ve gone for Pears, despite its rather odd scent, based on some old-fashioned notion of bettering my complexion. And, quite possibly, in the hope that continued use will make me look like the lovely lady with the lilies rather than a 17^th century milkmaid.

Oh yes, soap will improve my complexion and melt away my figure!

I wanted...

...to post something but it turns out that I just don't have anything to say.

Frances Farmer will blah blah blah

I have just rediscovered my greatest gift - it certainly must be a gift as it’s something I don’t have to work at and would prefer not to have. It’s the ability to end up as the biggest bitch in any situation that requires one – no matter how I feel about the subject.

And so, forgive me, I’m off to slash my wrists/eat an enormous amount of chocolate and make myself even more of a social pariah. It’s a choose your own adventure, go for it.

I have nothing left to say that doesn’t include ‘fuck’ and ‘off’ and, quite possibly, ‘zark’, ‘smeg’, ‘farathoom’, ‘thalldrap’, or ‘vixaxn’.

I have a fucking hangover.

Last days.

Tonight was the last night for smoking in NSW’s pubs. In honour of this we drank and we smoked. Consequently, my lungs are about to explode and liver is about to burst. Not a bad night then, yeah?

I also bitched and moaned to a willing ear and made fun of myself and of the world at large. We got poetical and then political and bemused those around us.

The biggest thing was that I wasted, absolutely wasted, a schooner by sharing ¾ of it with the floor. I do apologise to whichever god I offended and hope that they are appeased by my contriteness and the fact that I had to buy another to replace that which was lost.

Storm in a tea cup

Clashing dishes, for the record, does not make me feel better.

Word to the wise, if you're going to be a whiny boring bitch and people call you out for it - don't blame me. In fact, just in general, fuck off entirely.

P.S. I'm taking bets on how long it is before I delete this drivel [by which I mean this post], any takers?

Addendum: I was going to come home and delete this but have left it in the interests of, well, honesty. Plus, you know, temper, temper.