big day blog

so on saturday i arrived in melbourne once again. i headed straight for my holiday house (aka "casa de fits") where i have a towel in the bathroom and a room to call my own. after the initial mandatory hallway romp, the next few hours were spent girlie bonding, plotting future creative joint ventures, working on current creative joint ventures (i.e. stalking the schmitz), and generally basking in the sensual glow of mutual adoration.

we also harassed talked to krankiboy and his lovely wife for more than a few hours on the telephone and then jumped on the sleeping hotness when we had nobody else left to bug.

the night was spent in celebration of mr. fudd's birthday. and was also a chance to toast to she who nabbed number 60 in the hottest 100. oh, and bookie got a hat-trick that day too. woo hoo! go team.

upon waking yesterday morning i was presented with the funniest present eva. it is a keyring with a little toucan figure attached which lights up when you open its beak. it is meant to be a symbol of me. cause i have big boobs. get it? toucan = two cans. gold. pure gold.

and then we went to the big day out. now until yesterday i hadn't been to a big day out since i was 16, having long since decided that i can fight for space with wasted kids in army pants and petticoat dresses on the bus for free everyday. and to be perfectly honest, i'm really not the music festival type. i hate sweat, i hate bogans, and i hate crowds. and i especially detest crowds of sweaty bogans. ergo my absence in the past few years.

but yesterday was glorious. granted i spent the majority of it lying on the grass in the vip tent laughing at andrew g (note ardent hatred of bogans), with a glass of wine in my hand, my head cushioned by a hot rockstar's arse, and my eyes gazing adoringly upon the luscious miss bastow. but i also really and truly dug the tunes. i'm not gonna get all reviewy on you now because like art, i know fuck all about music. i will however say that the hives were orgasmic, the blues explosion rocked my world, i left lady jizz all over the floor during dallas crane, the beastie boys got my booty a-bouncin', and the polyphonic spree took me to a higher place where the booze are free and the boys all easy.

and if gabi and carla don't invite me to join the the town bikes soon i'm going to kill someone. maybe me. maybe you.

at the beginning of the day it was decided that we could not leave the showgrounds without deciding on our official big day out guilt free three. it was a hard decision, as i schmitzed over more than a few sexy talents throughout the day, and also shared a three-way tongue kiss which more than satisfied my lusty urges. but i finally reached a verdict in the end. and i know how much you all care so here's the list:

1) i'd give my right can to make the sex with this swedish rock god:



2) meet me in the hallway at your march sydney show. please:



3) thirty-way. thirty-way. thirty-way:



i guess i should probably find me a boyfriend soon. cause really at the moment, should i ever get the chance to act on these celebrity fantasies, there wouldn't be no guilt to speak of. and where's the fun in that?

there's something about betty

today is my mum's birthday. she is a hell of a woman who deserves the world on a crystal platter with a side of strawberries and cream.

here are some of the many reasons why my mum rules 4 eva:

- she suffered through a long and painful childbirth for the supreme anti-climax of bringing me into this harsh reality;

- she held my head in her hands all three (thats right THREE) times i cracked it open as a youngin;

- she drove me from school to netball to gymnastics to jazz ballet to home. and that was just on mondays;

- she makes a wicked borscht, and an even tastier lasagna;

- she pretended until i was 10 that it was her who made all my birthday cakes, when really she can't bake for shit;

- she still thinks 'shit' is a really rude word;

- she honestly believed me that i "didn't know it was alcohol" the time i got suspended from high school;

- yesterday she confessed to me that she actually doesn't like bette midler as much as i do;

- she once rang my friend to console her about a breakup, even though she had just lost her husband and been diagnosed with cancer;

- she joked with and comforted the nurses when it was time to say good bye to my dad;

- her favourite song is 'informer' by snow;

- when i asked her if i could get her stoned once she told me she had no interest in being a "freak";

- but she still asked me to get her some pot for a sick friend (man is it hard to score these days);

- she used to make her kindergarten class repeat the sentence "mrs c***n is not fat, she's cute and cuddly" over and over again, like an evil cultist;

- she wants my gorgeous pregnant sister to name her first child 'geronimo rodriguez buddha';

- she still believes in me, despite the overwhelming evidence in favour of giving up and adopting someone nicer, smarter and better looking.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MUMMA!

you are truly the wind beneath my damaged wings. even if you don't really like bette that much.

xox

house of horrors

i think i've solved the riddle. i don't know why it took me so long considering the answer has been staring me in the face this whole time. but hey, sometimes we can't see what is right in front of us. like that time i walked into a pole. except that, unlike now, i was on lots of drugs then. and possibly blindfolded. good times.

anyway, the riddle i am referring to is actually just a question. a very simple question but one that noone has been able to answer for me. and that is:

why the fuck has my luck been so appallingly bad for the past few years?

in trying to find answers i have toyed with many young boys explanations in my quest for truth. first i blamed myself. if only i hadn't been such a greedy child i wouldn't have nicked all those chocolate bars and then i wouldn't be being punished now. i'd also probably be a whole lot thinner.

then i blamed my ancestors. my family line can be easily traced back to biblical times. now, i don't think the members of my ancient clan actually built a giant cross, nor nailed anyone to it, but it is possible that they laughed and pointed at a crucial historical moment.

and then i just blamed the entire fucking world. its obviously evil and out to get me. why can't anyone else see that?

but then the other day i had an epiphany. and now, with great clarity, i know exactly where to lay the blame: on my house.

three years ago i moved to 11a b*******t street. and for the past three years i have been cunted over and over again. and not in the good new-term-for-making-hot-sex kinda way, but rather in the kill-me-now-and-burn-my-corpse-just-in-case-i'm-not-dead-yet kinda way.

and do you know what "11a" is code for? that's right, its code for 13. thir-fucking-teen. it is situated between houses 11 and 15 and it is not fooling anyone. well, it fooled me for the past three years. but not anymore. oh no. now i am wise to its evilness and i am making plans to move the hell out of here fast.

i'll see you all at the housewarming for my new place. please come to 69 goshdarngreatluckandhappytimes street on a date to be announced shortly. bring a plate. and lots of vodka.

melbourne's bitch

i am not a spontaneous person. i am an over-analytical control freak bunny who agonises over the smallest of decisions and obsesses over her choices before changing them and then changing them back again.

this is why it surprised noone more than myself that last night i ended up flying to melbourne for a birthday party i had desperately wanted to, but not in all honesty expected to, attend.

actually i think it surprised the birthday boy quite a bit. i could tell this from the fact that he almost fainted when i showed up unannounced and then said little else to me other than "i can't believe you're here" for the next 24 hours.

but after receiving the aforementioned malas noticias on friday i kinda lost my head. having deliberated maniacally all week over whether or not to fly down to melbourne for one night to surprise sherriff for his birthday my decision was made easy. i needed some hardcore debauchery this weekend. and a spa party if possible.

"book the fucking ticket, i'm a-comin' to the party!", i commanded my faithful collaborators. which they obediently did because i trained them well.

and that's how i ended up spending just under 24 hours in melbourne this weekend, only 3 weeks after leaving it last, and one week before i was due to return again, in a completely irrational and out of character act of recklessness and spontaneity.

and fuck was it worth it.

in those 20 or so hours i:

- received a standing ovation from a bunch of strangers;

- was nearly hugged to death by the beautiful boy of the hour;

- felt like a kept woman thanks to my self-appointed sugar mama buying all my drinks;

- found my ultimate dancing partner;

- talked carbs with my comrade;

- met our future prime minister;

- caught up with some other lovely, well-dressed nerds;

- salivated over the hot chick djs;

- had yet another 5 person spa party;

and,

- woke up on a red velvet couch entangled with ms. fits and bob ellis (the canine version).

yay for spontaneity!

i think that this was quite possibly the best decision i've ever made in my entire life. well, except for when i left the cult.

and the best thing is, it wasn't even that hard to say goodbye this time cause guess what kiddies? i'm going to be back there in 5 days. that's right, you heard me. some very generous souls got me a melbourne big day out ticket and it would just be plain rude to turn them down. and i wouldn't want to be rude.

so melbourne's bitch right now.

best. one night. unplanned. surprise trip. to melbourne. for a party. eva.

i heart technology

its been coming for a long time, what with blogging and a digital camera and a burgeoning net porn career, but on friday i wholeheartedly embraced technology. this does not mean that i will now buy an ipod or hack into nuclear weapons programs and create global chaos. it just means that on this friday past i looked deep into the sparkling eyes of the technosphere and confessed my undying love for it. and then i went in for a pash.

"but why on friday?", i know you're thinking (humour me).

well petals, because on friday technology saved a smidgen of my sanity and helped me smile through my sorrow.

you see i got some rather bad news on friday. this is not unusual for me in recent times. bad news seems to have a hard-on for me and just can't fight the urge to force itself upon me. its verbal rape is what it is. or maybe emotional sodomy. whatevs.

but upon receiving this particular spoonful of sour on friday i was able to, as they say "fuck the pain away" (sadly not in a literal sense). at least for brief interludes. and for that i thank technology (or i suppose its arbiters) for making it possible for me to escape into conversation with my friends whenever i so desire, and wherever in the world i or they may happen to be.

you see as luck would have it on friday morning i got a well-timed email from this wonderful man demanding my presence in his hot new chat room. so off i trekked, across verdant online pastures, in order to prove myself loyal and worthy of his love. and who else should i find there? none other than the original spa posse. we chatted, we punned, we made with the really mature sex talk. and then later we were joined by even more bludging nerds.

it was gold. nerdy, nerdy gold. like one would expect to find in a dungeons and dragons championship play-off. or at a trekkie convention. or on a blog. hmmm.

at one point i was chatting on the main message board, talking on the telephone to ms. fits (are you so jealous now?), in a private message room with our ubiquitous host, emailing both of them, and sending text messages to one nerd about my secret interstate journey for another nerd's birthday party. yup, that's right, i was multitasking like a single-mother-of-four, factory-worker-by-day, phone-sex-operator-by-night, phd-holding hero. and i still found the time to hang out the washing and paint my toenails.

so anyway, eventually kranki's chatroom went the way of so many LA hotspots before it and lost all its patrons to reality. and i was left alone at home to wallow in my most recent blackness and actually try to rest away my sickness (for which i had taken the day off work).

but then after dinner with the fam i had a hot threeway chatathon with these fillies. and they again took some of the edge off my gloom with their endless stream of witty funnies and occasional nonsensical ramblings. bless them.

and so to technology i say thank you. oh, and i'd also like to ask it to hurry the fuck up with the whole teleportation thing. how much longer do we have to wait?

and a bird, perched high up in the branches of the silly green tree, looked down. "woof!" it said, and flew off backwards.

this is a quote from my favourite of the mr. men series of books, 'mr. silly'. and it is the most precise way i can think of to express exactly how i feel about the state of federal politics in this silly country.

i feel as if, like mr. silly, i too am living in nonsenseland, where the trees have red leaves, and the chickens wear wellington boots, and the pigs go "moo", and the people put marmalade in their coffee.

isn't that silly?

i am baffled by the fact that the people of this country could reelect to power a man who has blatantly lied over and over again. a man who has failed time and again to live up to his pre-election, vote-getting promises. a man who sent australian soldiers into a ridiculous war to kill innocent people and die for a fabricated cause. a man who takes every opportunity to celebrate the diversity of our multicultural nation, while at the same time locking up the nation's doors and turning away those who come knocking on them.

isn't that silly?

and now i am perplexed by the australian labor party, previously my only hope amidst all the silliness. i am deeply troubled that a long-running political party can reach a point in which their federal leader can go awol for months after losing an election, not utter so much as a peep after a natural disaster of epic proportions in which members of his own country were killed and neighbouring countries destroyed, and then resign from leadership before the party has reached a decision about who is going to replace him.

isn't that the silliest of all?

i realise that mark latham is sick, and quite possibly more so than he cares to let on, but the lack of leadership and party unity over the past few months has been laughable to say the least. quite frankly its been downright silly.

i am now going to make a strong cup of coffee with marmalade, dress my chicken in her wellingtons, and take her and my mooing pig for a stroll through this red, red land of nonsense as it crumbles all around me.

care to join me?

clad only in a coconut bra and a smile

i'm sure most of you savvy little fun-monkeys know about porn names but i'm going to tell you all about them anyway for the sake of the unenlightened.

your porn name is calculated by adding together the name of your first pet with the title of the first street you lived on to form one raunchy moniker.

well, okay sometimes its not raunchy at all and people end up with porn names like 'oscar o'sullivan'. and apart from the double 'o' factor, there ain't nothin' pornographic about that pseudonym.

but sometimes the game works a treat and then its funtime for the whole family. for example, my first pet was a brown canary named cinnamon and i was born and bred on beach st. therefore, my porn name is 'cinnamon beach'.

how hot is that? if i were to give up the 9-5 gig and pursue a career in the adult entertainment industry, i would definitely be the star of such quality tropical fantasies as 'beach blanket bondage' and 'maliboob beach' (both real films).

i have a friend whose porn name is 'princess louisa'. she is destined to play xXxena someday. another friend of mine is 'dirty gomez'. we think he'd just be a voyeur. with velvet pants and a handlebar mo.

and now i ask all of you aspiring smut dolls out there: what's your porn name, baby?

hodka and mertyl go to the movies

twas saturday night this evening past and i found myself at home. and not in a stumbling in the door at 4am after a night of drunken debauchery kinda way. oh no. i was at home on saturday night in a couldn't be bothered leaving the house so hired a movie and got take out on my own kinda way.

are you shocked? is your image of me as a go get 'em hepcat completely ruined? i guess if it wasn't before it is now that i've used the phrase "go get 'em hepcat" huh?

so anyway, it wasn't enough that i stayed home and watched tv and read blogs and skulked in general. no, i had to go and take the loser-o-meter up a notch and spend a few hours chatting to miss lala in japan on msn messenger. the high point of this being the realisation that we were two young chicks in different countries at home on a saturday night talking on the computer about buffy the vampire slayer.

watch out for me in the social pages next week. my desk is sure to be listed as the newest sydney hotspot. in fact i think there's a queue forming outside my house right now. look, there's bec cartwright and lleyton hewitt. and over there, is that millsy in the hideous pink shirt? it so is.

so hotspot right now.

so anyway, during my conversation with lala, she informed me that she had that very night hired a terrible movie and wanted to warn me off making the same mistake. she's very considerate like that. the un have been courting her to be their international ambassaor of bad movies. she's considering their offer, knowing how important it is to make a difference in this world. if she can save just one poor soul the torment of watching 'the cable guy', then she's done her bit for humanity.

the crazy mixed up thing though is that last night i went to the video store and hired EXACTLY THE SAME DVD AS LALA DID. i too watched the terrible movie. i too am slightly embarrassed by hiring it in the first place considering the obvious lack of substance in the title alone. lala and i are so cosmic twins of destiny. apart from looking, acting and thinking completely differently, its like we are the same person.

what are the chances of two best mates living in two different countries hiring exactly the same random dvd on the same night? no really, i want a numerical value here.

you wanna know what the movie is don't you? well, you'll have to ask lala. she's the humanitarian. i don't care if you waste your time and money on it at all. i'm evil like that. deal with it.

i will give you one visual clue though. and purely for selfish reasons. no need to thank me. the movie in question featured this sexy hunk of man:



and he just knocked the coreys out of this week's guilt free three.

schmitzgate

has anyone seen this boy?

he's gone awol from the web and i'm concerned for his online safety.

i know he's still breathing cause i saw him on the street last week. i didn't say anything cause i'm not really looking to be his best friend in real life. and also i'm not that keen on awkward moments (i.e. him laughing maniacally at me an me cowering away in humiliation). or for that matter in being served with a restraining order for stalking.

i think maybe he has realised that myself and my co-conspirator in schmitzing are a pair of foul-mouthed nerds who share a humorous obsession with his surname and a determination to engage him in a spa party (online or otherwise). and thus perhaps he has ceased all blog-related activity based on this knowledge.

so if you have any information, please come forth immediately. you will be rewarded accordingly. most likely in a hallway somewhere. or at least with a polite 'thank you muchly'.

and schmitz, if you're reading this, please phone home/leave a comment and let us know you're okay. and for fuck's sake just get your blog on already.

fuck, i haven't used 'salacious' yet this week

it has been well documented on this blog that i love hip hop dance class. the jizzy feeling i get from popping and locking and bumping and grinding and shakin' my thang in a dance class is equalled only by one other act. an act which also involves a lot of popping and locking and bumping and grinding and thang-shakin'. but in this case not with a room full of other people. and not in time to music. and definitely not for sixteen bucks a pop.

my dance friends and i (that's right, i have dance friends. i am, like, so 'centre stage' right now) were just last night discussing the similarly salacious (!) vibes we get from body rolling and from rolling with another body. both leave us all pumped, sweaty and sometimes just a little bit sore.

i love my dance classes all through the year but the beginning of the year adds an extra level of enjoyment for me. this is due to the approximately 40 extra people in each class who have obviously resolved in the new year to either a) become fit through the art of the dance or b) learn to booty like beyonce.

i can spot them a mile off. they are all fresh faced and doe eyed with shiny new high tops and unsoiled sweatbands. they stand up the front and concentrate with all their adorable might on what the teacher is doing and try so very hard to emulate his/her style. and you know their brains are working overtime, trying to remember the moves while at the same time imagining themselves dancing back-up for justin or missy or even for, oh my god just imagine the glory, GUY SEBASTIAN! they are so darn positive. and that's just in the warm up.

but by the end of the class morale is down. some have left already, sneaking away during a drink break to avoid humiliation. while others have stuck it out, battling through like troopers. they push it til the end, despite the brutal realisation that just because they can work it on the dance floor of their local r'n'b superclub does not necessarily mean they can survive an advanced hip hop class with their mojos intact. poor buggers.

each class for the first few months of the year brings a fresh batch of newbies, and each time i think maybe, just maybe these ones will be back for another class. but they never return, having gone the way of all those before them, packing up their high tops and handing in their booty badges for ever.

its sad really. and quite indicative of modern society. it seems that "if you don't at first succeed..." is a redundant mantra, having given way to "i give up" and "fuck me dead what the hell was i thinking?".

i am definitely not claiming to be the best hip hop dancer ever. cause i'm not. quite the contrary. i'm tall, white and busty which almost immediately rules me out of the superior booty league. i just love it with a passion and am dedicate to improving (however slowly) to the best of my ability. oh, and baby got back. and lots of it.

i just wish that all these aspiring dirty dancers would start with a beginners class before undertaking a bloody hard advanced one and ultimately getting frustrated and giving up. or maybe people should stop making new years resolutions about getting fit and stick to easy, achievable ones like "eat more cheese" and "touch thyself more". maybe then i wouldn't be crying for their quitting souls and wanking waxing philosophical about the contemporary human condition.

i don't even know what the fuck i'm talking about anymore. i just wanted to write a post using the word 'salacious'. and look what's happened now.

rambling much?

is it beer o'clock yet?

anyone?

*looks around for help*

text etiquette

either my phone is trying to teach me some manners, or i am going insane.

i have saved the word 'cunt' to my auto-spell dictionary thingamajigy about a thousand times, and yet every time i go to write it in a text message - probably a lot more often than a lady should - it has disappeared. and 'aunt' just doesn't have the same effect.

what's the deal? why can't i save 'cunt' to my phone? is it a conspiracy? has it been deemed "too offensive" for texts? why is nokia suddenly the arbiter of social etiquette?

i want answers!

as a woman i have no problem with the word 'cunt'. in fact i love it. that's right. i love 'cunt'.

i used to think it was offensive and derogatory and just plain nasty. but not anymore. no, no. times have changed my friend, and i have changed with them.

and i'll say it again, just so we're all clear. i love 'cunt'.

i love it for its literal meaning. i love it for what it represents. i love it for its vulgarity. i love it for the fact that it is still more or less socially taboo. i love it for it's very sound, a sound that resonates from the throat with clicky vim.

once again with the chorus: i love 'cunt'.

there are few other words as versatile as 'cunt'. apart from being vulgar slang for the female genital organs, it is a verb, noun and adjective all in one. its almost as wonderfully adaptable as 'schmitz'. almost.

here are some examples of how you too can incorporate 'cunt' into every day conversation:

1) to imply being 'ripped off':

sally: so, how much did you get the new car for?

bessie: i got cunted!

2) to describe someone you don't like very much:

sally: my ex-boyfriend is a dodgy cunt.

3) to describe someone you do like very much while also appealing to the youth of today just like thorpie does:

fannie: he's a fully sick cunt.

4) when addressing a good friend in an endearing and playful manner:

bessie: hey cunty!

fannie: hey cuntalina!

example number 4 is derived from a girlie holiday in byron bay many years ago in which my girlfriends and i decided that we were going to stand up against oppression. no longer would we be offended by common usage of 'cunt'. as women, we would take on the word and use it to empower ourselves. just like has been done with 'nigga'. and 'schmitz'. girl power.

on behalf of my sistas: we love 'cunt'.

and so i have a message for the makers of my phone. free speech is the right of the people. i will not be silenced. you dictatorial cunts.

i like pasketee

things that should NEVER be discussed with your extended family (especially not over spaghetti and meatballs):

- when and where you were conceived.

- when and where your sister was conceived.

- whether or not your sister was sleeping in the room when and where you were conceived.


- your sex life.

- your cousin's sex life.

- and especially not your mother's sex life.


- urinary tract infections. your own, or anyone else's.


- celebrity death sweepstakes. it seems that some people find this to be in poor taste. go figure.


- daylesford. apparently other people know what goes on there. and now so does my mum.

you now understand why a lot of spaghetti and meatballs went uneaten at my sister's house on sunday night. but don't worry, we sent all the leftovers to africa. you know, for the poor people. i hear that's where they live. i sure do hope they have a microwave.

cab ordered

at about 3 o'clock on sunday morning i found myself at a gig after-party/pretentious wankfest. i had not actually been in attendance of the gig itself - i was too busy getting liquored up with the boys - but was convinced to attend the after-party nonetheless.

it was a good enough shindig i guess. dark, loud, smoky, and inhabited by various creatures with tight jeans and wacky hairdos. but after about an hour i found myself sitting alone, watching my friends dance, keeping a defensive eye out for the strange little man who was trying to "woo" me (his words), and just really fucking bored. it occurred to me that i hadn't had a conversation with anyone (other than myself) in about 20 minutes, and that i had no desire to do so anyway.

so i decided i better get the hell outta there before someone tried to talk to me or the strange little man came back a-courtin'. so i mumbled my goodbyes and stumbled out onto the street in search of a taxi. being kings cross, i endured a few wolf whistles and calls of "hey baby, how much?" before my chariot finally arrived.

you will probably be shocked and appalled to discover that i was rather tipsy when i got in that cab. and when i say "tipsy" i mean "really fucking trashed". i had started drinking at 6, and gone strong until i left the club. i was drinking with the boys and these boys are hardcore boozers with a zero tolerance policy for empty glasses. my occasional pleas of "i can't drink as much as you guys" and "can't i just sit this one out" and "who put the rohypnol in my dri..." are generally either ridiculed or ignored. so it's either booze on or bust out with these fellas. and i choose the booze.

suffice to say i don't remember the entire cab ride home. and i certainly don't recall exactly how the driver and i ended up in a heated discussion about domestic violence in marriage. but what i do remember is being disgusted by what he had to say and a little concerned for my own safety. here are some of the wonderful thoughts he had on the matter:

- "marriage is for better or for worse and if the 'worse' part includes violence well then that's just too bad."

- "the divorce rate is too high because women think it's okay to destroy their families just because their husband hits them."

- "my sister puts up with her husband's violent temper, so why can't other women do the same?"

- (after asking me if i've ever been hit) "you must live in a pretty perfect world, sweetheart."

i sat there silent and rigid, having stopped arguing with him after a few minutes when i realised he was a raging psycho. he babbled on and on about family values and whinging women and the evils of feminism, and i listened to him ranting while simultaneously memorising his id number. and when we reached the beginning of my street i threw $20 at him, told him to have a nice existence, and got the fuck out of that car as fast as i possibly could.

and i must say that by the end of that taxi ride i was one hundred percent, straight-line walking, stone cold sober.

psychobabble

so far 2005 has seen me obsessing over 2 things:

1) making the hot sex;

2) regressing into childhood.

(n.b. i am not implying i want to do these things simultaneously, sicko).

let's break these obsessions down and find out just what's making me tick (tock tick tock) right now. come on, it'll be fun! like playing 'doctors and nurses'. or i suppose in this case 'shrinks and nutjobs'. i'll be the poor, suffering patient lying (naked) on the couch and you can be my strong, wise, naked psychologist eager to listen and drug take advantage of fuck help me.

so here goes...

obsession #1: making the hot sex

after a VERY long drought i recently returned to the world of "oooh" and "aaaah" and "oh yes" and "right there, baby" and "fuck me doctor" and "no, tighter, tie them tighter" and...well, i think you get the idea.

and now, after denying myself the pleasure of unwedded sin for so long - and almost convincing myself that i could live without it forever - it is ALL i want to do. so much so that i have been behaving somewhat out of character. for example, not only did i text the boy for whom i've been jonesing for more years than i can count, but i also got my shameless flirt on last night with a recently single FRIEND.

and i was wearing a MINISKIRT at the time. a miniskirt WITHOUT STOCKINGS! this will be a shock to those who read this that actually know me "in the flesh". cause they ain't never seen that much of my flesh before. i was however wearing underwear because i'm clumsy sometimes and i had horrible premonitions about falling over and showing the world my love curtains.

conclusion: sex = good = hunger for more = uncharacteristic behaviour = possible humiliation = WHO THE FUCK CARES? I'M BACK IN THE GAME, BABY!

diagnosis: tingly

obsession #2: regressing into childhood

while my lustiness has been reawakened, so too has my angstiness (which never really leaves me truth be told). don't worry though, i have neither written any goth poetry nor sacrificed any animals. i've just been playing boomerang with the blues and remembering a time when i didn't know what they were. a time of little lunch and opposites days and elastics and dances to rick astley songs and dreaming of being a rollerskating waitress. in other words, my childhood.

this pining for pre-adolescence began with a monopoly game with some childhood friends, and has been enhanced tenfold since i started reading this again:



i read this book about a thousand times as a youngin' and i can honestly declare that it is my FAVOURITE BOOK OF ALL TIME 4 EVA. apart from 'lolita'. which is my other FAVOURITE BOOK OF ALL TIME 4 EVA. nymphette complex much?

anyhoo, the 'mft' is a beautiful, magical tale bursting with imagination and full of valuable lessons for kinds and grown ups alike (note the chapter entitled "dick gets everyone into trouble"). if you haven't already experienced the adventures of jo, bessie, dick and fanny, with their fickle friends moonface, silky and mr. saucepan, well i suggest you go out and buy a copy right the fuck now. i dare you to hate it.

in any case, it has helped me lessen my superfluous tears for brief interludes throughout the week and i am seriously considering finding me a witchdoctor to transport me into the enchanted forrest where i can live happily ever after eating pop biscuits and sliding down a giant slippery dip.

conclusion: sookiness = going all inner = remembering the "good old days" = wishing i was 12 again = lolita complex = WHAT WAS THE QUESTION AGAIN?

diagnosis: um...

and so doctor, as you can see i'm struggling with some issues here and i desperately need you to drug take advantage of fuck help me.

*lies silently on couch waiting for "guidance"*

three, that's the magic number, yes it is, it's the magic number...

first things first today: HAPPY BIRTHDAY SHERRIFF!!! LOVE YOU, MISS YOU, NEED YOU, WANT YOU. and SEE YOU in a few weeks (i hope)!!!

oh, and also HAPPY BIRTHDAY KRANKIBOY!!! BIG KISS!!!

and now back to our regular broadcast.

last night some friends and i were discussing our 'guilt free three'. these are the three people that you are allowed to make the hot sex with when you are in a relationship and your partner can't get sooky because...well...they're on the list.

now i am neither in a relationship nor likely to meet anyone more famous than a 'home and away' extra any time soon, yet still i think about my list a lot. especially late at night, in bed. some would call it masturbation, i call it preparation.

the rules of engagement for the 'guilt free three' are thus:

- there may be no more than three people on your list at any given time. the 'guilt free seven' just doesn't have a nice ring to it.

- these people must be famous. the cute guy from the video store and/or your best friend's spouse do not qualify for 'guilt free' status just because you want to fuck them stupid.

- you may change your list as often as you like, but your partner must know who your chosen three are at all times. if you meet fabrizzio moretti at a party and he offers you a night of hot monkey love but he's not on your list, well then that's just too bad. however there is nothing to say that you can't sms your partner and change your list just moments before jumping on the magical moretti mystery tour. as with all rules, there are loopholes here.

so here is my gft list for wednesday, january 5, 2005:

the mexican hotness:



the constant (he never leaves the list):



and lastly i'm having a nostalgic pre-adolescent threesome fantasy moment today and counting the coreys (circa 'license to drive') as one choice:



so, who's on your list then?

vonna play a game, leedel girrrrrrl?

my friend marvin wants to play a game with me. and before you get all cheeky and "in the know" with me, no its not monopoly. contrary to what you are all thinking, i don't play monopoly with just anybody. what do you think i am, some kind of monopoly whore? well, you're wrong. i am a firm believer in monopoly monogamy. or 'monopologamy' as we call it in the commune.

anyway, this game is a word game. every so often marvin is going to email me a word and i must incorporate it into a blog post as soon as i can.

i have no idea what my punishment would be were i to default on my side of the bargain, nor do i have any desire to find out. marvin is a brutal taskmaster with a hard-on for discipline and a cellar full of japanese torture instruments.

okay, so really he's a sweet-natured pussycat with no current fixed address (and therefore no cellar), but i am happy to play the game anyway, without the threat of bondage.

and just so you all know, i am also happy to play other games, especially those involving the threat of bondage. you bring the gimp mask, i already gots the whip, baby.

the first word is 'superfluous'.

superfluous: (adj.) being beyond what is required or sufficient.

so look out for it in a post coming shortly to a blog near you. meaning look out for it in a post on this blog. cause this is the blog it'll be on. der.

melancholy and the infinite nadness

last night i was suffering terribly from a case of post-traumatic spa-party blogger-separation anxiety disorder. i was in the bath. naked. wet. alone. crying. wondering what happened to the happies and wishing upon a violent femmes star that they had stayed with me "just a little longer".

i had just returned from my holiday in melbourne, which was a mix tape of mainly happy hardcore with a few tracks of the blues. i met some beautiful souls, caught up with old friends, got my groove back, ate scrumptious food, spent a glorious day on a boat, a heavenly few days in the country, a merry few hours in a bookstore, a wonderful afternoon with a woman and her gorgeous son, had lots of imaginary sex in hallways, and maybe some not so imaginary sex where one (well two) should do so (in bed, der).

i also participated in two very different but both wholly jizz-inducing spa parties. the first a naked, champagne-guzzling romp with 4 gorgeous people and one VERY big toe. the second a more subdued slip-wearing, red-wine sipping spa party with only one other person and a dvd player full-o-buffy.

on the flipside however i spent a lot of time feeling sorry for myself and even more time mourning the poor innocent souls in asia who were suddenly and without warning sacrificed to the sea, their bodies like offerings to the weather gods*.

and so there i sat last night, submerged in water, glass of red in hand, cowboy junkies on repeat in the stereo, crying. filling the bath with my melancholy tears and cursing my mind for not having an 'off' button.

i cried for new friends. i cried for broken bonds. i cried for kindness. i cried for heartache. i cried for earthquakes. i cried for tidal waves. i cried for babies. i cried for newlyweds. i cried for hot pink signs. i cried for hail storms. i cried for head injuries. i cried for boat cruises. i cried for dress-ups. i cried for new books. i cried for bloody maries. i cried for monopoly. i cried for spa parties. i cried for cheese. i cried for wine. i cried for cute dogs. i cried for guns. i cried for book clubs. i cried for your wedding night. i cried for bad jokes. i cried for great puns. i cried for doctors. i cried for nurses. i cried for bolognaise. i cried for 2 year olds. i cried for new dresses. i cried for emails. i cried for text messages. i cried for gourmet country salami. i cried for 30 phonecalls. i cried for blind hope. i cried for me. i cried for you. i cried for them. i cried for crying...

oh for fucks sake i'm crying again now. stupid cancerian pms-ing over-sensitive head.

back to happy snarky posting as soon as i find a new mix tape. and a better metaphor.

until then i'll leave you with a joke from genny b so the endnote to this post is more of the eye-rolling rather than the wrist-slitting kinda sad:

why did the oyster leave the dance party?

because he pulled a mussel.




*it may be a moot point by now, and you're probably sick of hearing it, but please, donate to a tsunami relief fund. even $5 can go further than you think.