breaking up is hard to do

dear falafel roll from the sandwich shop in the arcade,

its over between us.

i'm not quite sure what happened, but the spark is gone.

don't blame yourself for this, its not you, its me. i'm bored and unsatisfied and i just feel that i need more from my lunch.

remember the first few times we were together? they were nothing short of AMAZING. the way the sauce oozed from your package; the feeling of your (falafel) balls in my mouth. it was so spicy, so HOT!

and so i kept coming back for more. and for several months i was a satisfied woman.

but now it just feels so stagnant, so predictable, so ordinary.

i tried to fight for us, introducing new elements into our lunchtime trysts (like eggplant and capsicum and avocado.) but it just wasn't the same. it felt contrived.

then again, maybe we just need to be apart for a while. perhaps if i see other sandwiches i'll realise that i need you and your moist, spicy goodness.

but i can't make any promises, so don't wait for me because you might end up hurt and alone. and i wouldn't want that.

and you are welcome to be with other women as well. no double standards here. i know that ally in the next office has had her eye on you for a while. i've seen the way she looks at you. go for it! she's a great girl.

please know that i will always love you. its just that i am not in love with you.

goodbye,

la nadine.

x

random holiday highlights

- catching up with (most of) my interstate gaggle of gorgeouses. i heart youse all. wanna date me? anyone? please?

- discussing the "crazy" ways of people who go to sex resorts, while sitting naked in a spa with two (also naked) friends, champagne glass in one hand, matty b moist towlette in the other.

- balsamic vinegar tasting. wine is sooooooooooooooooooo last century.

- the food.

- the food.

- THE FUCKING FOOD!

- the magical country air. the healing powers of which are greatly under-appreciated.

- falling in love with a large, bald, jolly man because he told me he'd give me a "double dissolution" if i let him "pass a bill" through my "lower house".

- bringing (the adorable) mr. i'm-in-a-band down from his high fucking horse. in a mates way. an over-familiar new mate, that is.

- my new size 8 dress. SIZE 8!!! what le fuck? somebody done a boo boo. and for that i thank them.

- did i mention the food?

patrick the wonder boy

so i'm at dinner the other night, full of red wine and good food and surrounded by beautiful brainiacs, when suddenly my phone goes "BEEP BEEP'.

and then, immediately after, it made with the 'BEEP BEEP' again.

"i'm just sooooooooooo popular," i remarked hilariously to my companions as i retrieved the texts.

both texts had come from the same phone number, a number i did not recognise. and both were exactly the same.

this is what they said:

"hi its of patrick do you want to ge out don't tell anyone at cadets"

due to my astounding wit, i was able to deduce that without the atrocious spelling and complete lack of punctuation the sender of these texts actually meant this:

"hi its ME patrick. Do you want to GO out? Don't tell anyone at cadets."

WTF?!?

CADETS?!?

bitch, please!

on the insistence of my dinner companions (did i mention they were all insanely hot and incredibly smart?) i replied to patrick's text.

"who are you?"

i asked.

"who this?"

he replied.

and although his stunning way with words was getting me a bit hot "down there", i decided i couldn't be fucked continuing with the conversation.

and it seemed that patrick had given up as well, as my phone lay textless on the table.

but then, about an hour later, my phone started ringing.

"i'm just sooooooooooo popular," i remarked hilariously again as i answered the call.

well fuck me sideways, i thought.

it was patrick! calling me! on the telemaphone!

this was the gist of our (amazing) exchange:

me: hello?

patty: hallo?

me: you called me mate.

patty: oh, yeah, um, i think i got the wrong number.

me: it would seem so.

patty: okay, bye.

me: goodbye patrick.

can you feel the sexual tension? CAN YOU?

after the hottest phone call ever i continued on my merry way, eating, drinking and ogling my companions, and forgot all about patrick.

until...

'BEEP BEEP'.

"i'm sooooo..."

oh fuck it, this was the text:

"look, you sound hot, but i don't know your name".

you just gotta give the boy props for trying.

at the insistence of my friends and my wine-fuelled brain i played along some more:

"age? location?"

to which he replied:

"18. cairns. you?"

i was very tempted to take the gorgeous genny b's advice and respond to this with "double d. cans." (get it? he said "cairns". i have big cans. ha ha ha ha ha.)

but instead i took the high road:

"too old for you mate. sydney."

and apparently young patty doesn't like older women because he was never to be heard from again.

pity that.

*books ticket to cairns*

bye-ku

i am going bush.
and to dine with some hotties.
miss me while i'm gone.

denton v. latho

"is it better to be intellectually honest or to live in a perpetual state of delusion?"

best. television. ever.

(well, maybe second best after logan greg and lefty tim's big gay pash.)

gonna eat me a lot a peaches...

in a few days i leave for a MUCH NEEDED sojourn in the country.

my main objectives on this mini-break are to relax, to relax some more, and to bond with this fine sheila (as well as any other hotnesses who may drop in while i'm there).

other things i plan to do are to eat a lot of this:

















to drink a lot of this:

















to hug a lot of these:











to have a few of these:










and perhaps one or more of these:


















are you jealous yet?

well, you should be.

overworked and underarticulate

weekend goals:

- eat

- drink

- bond

- flirt

- pash

- ****

- sleep

- repeat

will report back on monday.

maybe.

x

i need a reason to rant today. this'll do.

dear ninemsn,

i am writing to you in regard to one of today's online polls:

'do you think britney spears will make a good mother?'

waste of time much?

how the fuck would anyone know whether or not princess poptart is going to make a good child rearer?

in the (slightly altered) words of all jerry springer guests gone by:

Y'ALL DON'T KNOW HER! Y'ALL DON'T EVEN KNOW!

granted, the poor child is socially doomed to a life of cruisin' and ho-pimpin' as the trailer-spawn of ratboy and zitface.

and sure, if the tabloid reports are anything to go by (WHICH THEY ARE!) the newborn will spend his days eating potato chips and drinking big gulps and his nights gettin' his freak on at the latest hotspot.

and i assume daddy low-pants has already bought bubba spears his first wife-beater and matching trucker cap.

but i am still not convinced that britters won't get her shit together and mother that child like she was born to do it.

i mean for fucks sake, i have known of teenagers and ex-addicts who have nurtured their offspring better than the wisest and most privileged of mothers.

there is absolutely no telling what sort of a mother any woman will make until she has a youngin' pulling at the hem of her skirt.

and besides, what exactly is going to happen if the poll indicates that britney spears won't in fact make a good mother? are we going to stage an intervention? will we send DoCS in to forcibly remove the child? will he be left in the "care" of fuckface vanstone and subsequently deported to south east asia?

or will you just smile and nod, take down the poll, and replace it with tomorrow's pearler: 'do you think nicole kidman has eaten more than twice in the past 5 years?'

yeah, that's what i thought.

so just back the fuck off ninemsn.

not only have you angered me with this bullshit excuse for an opinion poll but, worse still, you have made me defend britney spears. AND THAT HAS JUST RUINED MY FUCKING DAY!

please return to your usual bullshit polls about the liberal party and the cricket and other useless, boring crap like that.

yours,

la nadine

p.s. if you are insistent on running a britney-centric poll today, how bout something like 'do you think britney will ever pump out a decent track again, or was 'toxic' her last hoorah?'

sharing is caring

in the spirit of post secret, i am declaring it 'spill a secret wednesday'.

i'll start.

i often fantasize about making the sex with

actually, i think i'll keep that one to myself for now.

hmmmm...what else can i share?

nope, i got nothing.

maybe this wasn't such a good idea.

as you were.

i know everyone else has blogged it but i just can't let this one go without comment

at a recent fundraiser for hurricane katrina, musician (and damn fine hottie) kanye west made an impromptu speech about how the the crisis has broader implications for race relations in the usa.

west "scandalously" claimed that "George Bush doesn't care about black people".

well fuck me dead and call me cunted!

next he'll be claiming that dubya doesn't care about anyone other than rich, white, freedom-loving christian folk.

pull the other one, kanye, it plays 'mr. bojangles'.

he then went on to slam the consistently racist portrayal of african-americans in the US media, asserting:

"I hate the way they portray us in the media. If you see a black family, it says they're looting. See a white family, it says they're looking for food."

the media have since denied that there is any truth behind west's accusations.

which is funny cause:



















for those of you without super go-go gadget eyesight, the above article, attached to a picture of an african-american male, describes how "a young man walks through chest deep flood water after LOOTING a grocery store in new orleans..."

meanwhile, the bottom article, attached to a picture of two white people, outlines how "two residents wade through chest-deep water after FINDING bread and soda from a local grocery store..."

hmmm...

looky no touchy

is it wrong to dream about boys ogling your baps?

it is?

fuck.

the goddess of wax returns

q) what's beautiful, hungarian and loves to talk about the sex?

a) MY BEAUTICIAN!

that's right bitches, she's back from the mother country and ready to rip.

*impatiently awaits regrowth*

miss nadstown 2005

i watched 'miss teen usa' on sunday.

i could rant and rave about how beauty pageants such as this are part of an archaic tradition of female subordination that perpetuates the notion that women are mere objects of aesthetic desire for the dominant male gaze.

but i won't. because that would be boring. so i'll save it for my thesis.

instead i am going to make like i am a contestant and answer the questions that were asked of the barbies real contestants in the pageant on sunday.

andrew g and james matheson from australian idol will play the roles of the vapid, show-pony pageant hosts. a job they are both more than qualified for.


"who do you consider to be your role model?"













"i'd have to say my role model is my mum, because she is a strong woman who would do anything for her family and who always manages to laugh in the face of personal tragedy."










"if you could be any other person for a day, who would you be? and why?"












"there's nobody else i would rather be. i'm, like, super happy being me. i think i'm great. because i'm pretty and i'm a cheerleader and my boyfriend, chad, is captain of the football team. oh, and i can crack walnuts with my vadge."







hold on, that's what miss alabama actually said. well, something like that anyway. i may have made up the part about the boyfriend named chad.

lets try that again.


"if i could be anybody else for a day i would definitely be marilyn monroe. but when she was alive. not now. that would be awful. i like breathing. and having skin.

anyway, i just want to experience a day in her body. in her head. in her time.

and i could find out if jfk was any good in bed. is that wrong?"





"why do you think they say that your high school years are the best years of your life?"











"i don't know about anyone else, but i know why mine were. two words: the pussycats.

no, andrew g, i did not go to school with super-smart felines. this was the name given to my group of friends by some nasty boys. it was meant to be derogatory, but we took it on as a form of self-empowerment. like minority groups do. you know, like "nigger" and "dyke".

anyway, to the pussycats, if you're watching, i love youse guys. YOU RULE!"



"do you think today's youth are growing up too fast?"













"fuck yes. just look at the two of you. what are you, like eight or something?"













"where do you see yourself in ten years?"













"sandwiched between the two of you. except that you, andrew g, have magically transformed into gael garcia bernal. don't worry, james matheson, you're still you."

*winks at james matheson*







*turns slowly and begins to walk gracefully off stage*

*trips and falls*

*cries*

worst. cab ride. ever.

on saturday night i decided to be mature and responsible and go home before the stroke of midnight.

knowing that i had a lot of work to do yesterday (i am like, sooooooo busy right now), i forced myself into a cab and away from the lurid temptations of boys and booze.

but just as the cab pulled away from the curb there was a knock on the window and two girls were making with the 'roll your window down' hand gestures.

this is not going to turn into a 'taxicab confessions'-style hot lez threesome story. sorry sherriff.

i told the driver to stop and asked the girls what i could do for them.

"where are you going?" asked the more upright of the two.

"**** ***." i replied.

"my friend here lives in ********, can you drop her home on the way?"

"why not?" i said.

and those two small, monosyllabic words were to be the cursed ruining of my planned early night.

10 minutes into the journey a whimpering voice from the backseat struggled to vocalise the words "pull...over...now...i'm...sick".

"STOP, SHE'S GOING TO SPEW!" i yelled, possibly unnecessarily loudly in the cab driver's direction.

"she'll have to pay if she vomits in the car" said the cab driver, in all his scottishness.

and so the girl stumbled out of the car and stood standing over the gutter waiting for the magic to happen and free her stomach of its hostile squatters.

we waited. and waited. and waited some more.

but nothing came. and so we all got back into the cab and went on our not-so-merry way.

apparently the cabbie thought this the perfect time to tell me a tale of a drunk girl he once picked up in the cab who was found dead a few days later. apparently they never caught the guy who did it.

"OH FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!" went my inner voices. all eight of them.

anyway, we managed to travel along uninterrupted for a whole five minutes before the whimpering voice again urged us to pull over again so she could purge herself of the devil's drink.

she purged. and purged. and purged some more.

and just when i thought my night couldn't possibly get any better, along came a policeman demanding to know why i would let my friend get to such a state.

"i've never seen this person before in my life," i protested. "her friends dumped her on me at the pub."

he didn't buy it, but left me alone with the homicidal scottish cabbie to deal with the situation. but not before i had made certain that both mine and psycho-cabbie's faces were imprinted in his memory, lest i turn up dead on sunday.

good times.

anyway, eventually i made it home, alive and unharmed, and vowing to myself never to agree to split a cab with a stranger EVER AGAIN!

what do all these men have in common?

tim robbins:
















david wenham*:














dave "dude, where's my career?" navarro:
















lefty tim brunero:















worked it out yet? no?

well the answer is...

...

...

...

...

...

...

...

...

...

...

...

...

they were all in my crazy-weird-but-not-at-all-sexual-EWW!-as-if-i'd-have-a-sex-dream-about-dave-navarro dream last night.

i have nothing further to add about the dream, as all i can remember about it was that all of the above men featured in it at some point.

and that they were all fully clothed and not making the sex with me. i swear.

but howz about a round of MURDER MARRY FIGHT FUCK with the cast of my dream?

x

*for some reason david wenham was actually robert duvall in disguise. strange.