How did September turn into October 21st???? This is not a good time. Must. Write. Must. Write. Argh. 

Magnetic Pants

These pants attract cat hair. They are the cat hair magnet pants. Rachel has a cat. Her name is Suzi. Suzi is very white. That is to say, Suzi the cat has very white hair. White cat hair. These cat hair magnet pants are black. I am in Rachels room. The force of the cat hair, as it hurtles into and sticks onto my pants, is making it difficult to remain vertical. Soon, horizontalism will win out. I will buried alive. Buried alive in my cat hair magnet pants by the hair of the only cat I have ever activly liked, Suzi.

Blank Harmony

I know that I should be doing something today, but I feel so relaxed, so uncharacteristically relaxed, that all I want to do is sprawl out on the grass in the sun and go to sleep. It is like there is so much going on in my head, such a mix of things exacerbating my anxiety, that I have gone into a kind of lock-down,  unconsciously walling myself off from all of those things and leaving me in a state of blank harmony with the world, my mind. 

Bags of Pants

Right! I have just finished a big wardrobe clean out. You should have seen mum's face - she was loving it. Lined up by my bed I have 5, count them, FIVE bags of various items of clothing I am donating to the Salvo's. Beside my desk I have one (just the one) bag of clothes I think might go well with someone I know, so will be donated directly, skipping Savers: damn the middle-man. 

What sparked this flurry of activity, you might ask? Aside, of course, from the obvious. Well, this morning I needed a black singlet. I dug and dug through the draw I knew it was in, but could I find it? Well, yes, actually, I did find it eventually, but it took ages. Ages, I say. Anyway, this less than unique occurrence highlighted the necessity of a draw clean out. In some ways, despite the massive pile of clothes I am disposing of, I feel like I have gained some new items. For example, a white top, which looks great. I have no idea where it came from, but there it was, inside one of my old jackets (where else?). Also, I had about a dozen pairs of jeans I had forgotten about. Trying those on was fun - like playing The Biggest Loser or something and seeing the gradual change. Some of those pants were huge.

Anyway, when I was done, mum warned me not to let dad see them - he is more of a hoarder than I am, and would go through them and rediscover usefulness in old cardies or something. Hence their new home, in plastic bags by my bed. 

Yay or Nay? A study on the benefits of Thesisising

The tragedy of thesisising is ... 

All food is appetizing, every DVD is irresistible, trashy novels must be read now. 

However ...

Amazingly, thesisising allows for certain breakthroughs that may otherwise not be possible. Specifically, breakthroughs in fields pertaining to and directly involved with procrastination and related practices. These include, but are not limited to:

The locating of long lost items during intensive cleaning sessions, the revival of relationships with people who have been (and perhaps should continue to be) below my social radar, sustenance of valued personal relationships, discovery of previously unexplored venues, both of the coffee and beer variety, and the development of creative spending. 

The result? Poor, drunk, over-caffinated student with collection of childhood toys and no thesis. 

The best laid plans...

I met with Hannah yesterday, which, as always, was great. She is helping me get back on board with my thesis, working through the things that are stopping me from being where I want to be. I decided on a weekly target of writing, entirely within the realms of possibility. However, it involved a dedicated approach today (but not tonight) and tomorrow, Tuesday and Wednesday. Intentions, I am quickly discovering, are worth nothing. Due to a series of unfortunate events,* I left the house late last night, and returned only in this last hour. I am lacking in sleep and my regular teeth-brushing practices have been disturbed. Further, though I will be leaving the house much earlier tonight, I will, once again be away until later tomorrow. So, that leaves me with Tuesday and Wednesday to cram in what I was expecting to do in four days. Can someone please clarify - what is the point of trying?

*Regards to Mr Snicket.

Thesis Fairy vs. Dr Phil

Today has, thus far, been a success. It started early. Though I was unaware of her true identity at the time of meeting, I had breakfast with my Thesis Fairy. I had been hoping for such a meeting for some time. Or perhaps I was using this desire as an excuse to further postpone actually writing my thesis. In any case, I did meet her. This morning, as I said, over breakfast. I didn't recognize her at first - she appeared to be a good friend of mine that had been waffling about outside of my scope these last weeks. We drank coffee and spoke of such thing as metaphysics and the environment and the benefits of meditation. It was an unexpectedly intellectual breakfast. I arrived home stimulated, unusually so, particularly for so early in the day, when I am usual catatonic. I sat in the sun shine and brought Ms Judith Butler along for the ride. We got along fine, for a change. In fact, I tackled her in record time. When I was done, I sat myself in front of this wee Mac and spewed forth my understandings and such. Later, I had some lunch, and tried the 'Walking Meditation,' taking a leisurely stroll around the block. Upon my return, though sorely tempted by such things as Dr Phil and the Ridiculous Americans and Eaves Dropping on the Neighbors, I returned instead to my new friend, Judith. I wrote and wrote, with regular sunshine breaks, of course, and when I stopped, conclusion written, I did a word count, and would you believe, I had written 3000 words! Now, much later, I am sitting on my Thesis Fairy's couch. We are going to, in short order, begin studying together. Julia, my Thesis Fairy, I love you!

Quote of the Day: "I'm going to start reading ... Yes! My De-Col-I-Nis-Ation Book!"

Magically Taboo

I am so over being sick! And doctors suck. Raa. I waited for 40 min at the La Trobe Medical Center today to see a doctor I had made an appointment to see. I went in and she was like "how are you today?" and I said "I have tonsillitis, I would like a script for Amoxycillin please." And she just gave it to me. No checking or anything. What is the point of that? It is so frustrating, having to wait for a doctor so you can spend 30 seconds waiting for a script to print. 

Deep breaths. Right, now I have that out of my system...

I guess I don't have much else to say. I was running a fever at work and it all went by in a bit of a blur. The 'T' word has become taboo (not literally, obviously, that would be odd), again. I can't even think about it without getting nauseous, and when I try to work on it I freeze up. But I have the next couple of days off, so hopefully it will magically write itself during that time. In the mean time, I need to figure out what (and if ...) I am going to read at the Gallery Readings on thursday. 

Post-Rapture Pets

For all those concerned about what will happen to their pets in case of The Rapture, just refer to  these guys. They will alleviate any concerns. 

Dream Bazar

With the frequent and increasingly bizarre dreams my mind has been pumping out recently, I could open a Dream Bazar. And it is not just how bizarre they are, either. They are so real. Sometimes it takes me a day or two, or someone saying something related, that allows me to realise that the memory of the dream is a memory of a dream, not an actual memory. It started off simple. I dreamt that my local Safeway had closed its doors. It took two days, and a visit to said Safeway, for me to realise that I had dreamt this and that Safeway was, in fact, business as usual. However, the dreams have become increasingly bizarre. A few nights ago I dreamt that, while stopped at a set of traffic lights, a hover-car drove past. I was interested, in the dream, and distinctly remember thinking 'I didn't realise they had been released yet. I should tell dad, that's cool.' I fully intended to tell dad, too, just as soon as I saw him. Fortunately, I saw Alex first, who inadvertently revealed the false-ness of this memory. So, dear reader, stay tuned; who knows what tonight's adventures will be?

Oopsy...

What did I do? Why would I do that? Friggen ijiot. I can't believe everyone in my class is going to read that, how humiliating. Shit, whoops. 

Bouncer, bouncer, where for art thou, dear bouncer?

I have a friend called Alex. At this moment, Alex is sitting behind me, on my bed, nobly reading a draft of an essay for me. He is a great friend. Alex also has a theory. It is a good theory, and one that may explain away certain behaviors that have been rampant of late. His theory states that each individual mind is home to a bouncer. The job of this bouncer is to control the flow of traffic between an individuals mouth and an individuals mind. This bouncer, then, is a kind of filter, acting to prevent such social miss-haps as spilling random personal facts about ones self to ones teacher, and so on. Alex further argues that the reason riff-raff such as this are permitted, by said bouncer, to pass from mind to mouth on the odd (or not so odd) occasion, is due to unexpected or undesirable behavior on the part of the bouncer. These behaviors include, but are not limited to: sleeping on the job, being drunk, stoned or otherwise inhibited, being lazy, or being arseholes (as many bouncers have been shown to be). Today, I think my bouncer was vacationing. Fortunately, I met with Alex, who explained this theory to me, thereby relieving me of fault in my actions today.

And now I am off to the Voiceworks launch (with Alex).

I did it!

That's right! I wrote a story. Well, I borrowed a bit from here, a bit from there, and wrote the rest. I can't tell if it is any good, and it is wildly inappropriate, but there you are. A story for my workshop. 

Alas, my throat still hurts. 

'But I didn't do anything!' she whined

Wow. Last week, I understood. A fair punishment for a naughty friday night, sure. But I didn't do anything this week, and I wake up with tonsillitis, again. My workshop assignment is due in tomorrow, and I haven't got anything to submit. I was going to work on it last night, but I was exhausted and by 9.30 I was dead to the world. Now I have this afternoon to write something to unleash on the scrutiny of my classmates. An afternoon. This is not good at all. I just want to go to sleep. I looked at some older stories, but they are total shit. I'm going to have to write something. Now. 

DraftDraftDraftdraftdraft...

I can't believe it. After drafting and re-drafting four and a half million times, I finally send off my entry, then I read it again, today, just now, and there is a TYPO. Grrrrr (that is me, growling). 

On a happier note, I just found a CD I forgot existed, and it is great! The 'City of Angels' soundtrack. 

FOOD

What is it with wogs and food? If there is a celebration, food has to be at the centre of everything. After a three course lunch, followed by a three course dinner, I feel seriously ill. Just when I was starting to lose a bit of weight, and I eat more than I have in the last week in a day. I really don't get the obsession, but simultaneously I am (sadly) aware that I have unintentionally subscribed to the same way of thinking. I try to feed everyone; it's like, in the genes or something. 

The food was good though, haha. Went to the Nonni's for lunch - salami, olives, cheese, bread, etc. to start, then pasta, then roast, then cakes and coffee's. That was a really great lunch, actually. But, Joisus, then we had Ange's 21st, at a reception, with fish, lasagna, chicken, ice cream, cake and coffee. And, lets not forget, maybe three or so long necks of (gah!) VB. I had a bit of a dance as well, but the music was pretty terrible. All in all, a fun and gastric-ly fulfilling Fathers Day. 

Puppy Love

I've just had my heart broken, again. By a dog, again. Sam bought a puppy for Ange for her Birthday, and we had it here for a couple of days. I fell in love! He was just the sweetest thing. I'm going to have to post photos. Then Sam took him to Ange's today, and that is the end of that. I wanted to keep him. He was a mini-poodle cross cavalier. Black curly hair like a teddy and white beard, super cute. And he just loved being cuddled. I really am sad, he was lovely, my lovely puppy for a day and a half. 

This is what he looks like:

How adorable is he? I'm gonna miss you, puppy.

Inconsequential Load

I did it! I sent it off - my submission for The Age Short Story Competition. And I learnt how to spell 'competition' AND 'below' (as apposed to 'bellow', and 'wander,' rather than 'wonder.' How did I not know these things before? Well, I know them now). So now I can just wait for a bit, until I forget about it. How exciting! 

Judith Butler and I tussled today and, for a while there, I was winning. There is just so much material, but then again, my thesis has to be pretty long, so I guess it works well. I'm pleased to have something to show Alison when she gets back.

Wow, what an inconsequential load of old rubbish. 

Your Fairy Tale

I feel it up to here, brimming, thick, hot. I inhale, the air, it moves past dry lips, cold over my tongue. My chest expands, I see it, but. Air isn't carrying oxygen, I inhale faster, faster, but I am constricted, my throat, it's tight, clogged, I can feel it, up to here, brimming. And there is nothing I can do.*

*Beth Gibbons said that, not me. I am but a medium, or, Anxiety Riddled Childe of Thesis. I did some of it today, a bit. 

Spring Fever

I wonder if there is ever any end to a story. Not just the plot, or the lives of the characters, but the writing of the story. I draft and draft, and each time I print, I find something to change. I am beginning to think the best thing to do is set a draft limit, and when I reach it, print it off and hand it in, no peaking. Argh. I wonder if real writers, when they return to old stories, published and distributed and out of their hands, they find things they would like to change, ways to make the story better? I bet they do. Maybe it is best not to return, at that stage. 

I think my latest story is finally done. I think. I just hit 'print' and have yet to check, but that is draft 4, and, lets not get ridiculous, Judith Butler awaits. 

Having 'finished' one story, I find myself returning to others, and I am unimpressed. What is this? I ask myself. I was going to hand that story in tomorrow, but what have I done? The tense are convulsing, we can't have that. But do I want just one tense in the whole story? Present tense? Will the reader pass out? Tension like that can be unbearable, though I am no master, so more likely it will be boredom over tension that retires my readers. I think I can swing, past and present, but will they get it? And how, how, did I only just notice this, draft 2? 

Meanwhile, I am avoiding draft 3, and as they say, or I, or no-one, 'Tomorrow awaits no [wo]man,' so here I go...

PS Spring is here. Three cheers for the sun.

Dumb

You know that feeling, when you're about to do something, and you know it is really dumb, but at the same time, you know you are going to do it anyway? Yes? Good. Well that is me, right now. 

*Gulp* Ow!

"You take dis one!" the doctor told me. "Four time day, start now!"

"Ok." I was a bit scared, actually. Amoxycillin, save me, it hurts to smoke! (It also hurts to eat, talk and swallow, but I NEED to smoke). In fact, that is where I am going now. Gah, work already! Excuse me a moment while I indulge - ow it hurt hurt hurts! mummy, it hurts! - okay, thanks. 

Odd odd.

I could have brain damage or today could be one of the oddest in quite a while. Happy odd. I think. I'm confused, actually. Good odd? 

And, damn it, it is the first of sep, not the 31st, stupid blog...

Snail Mail

I just got the best mail ever! Two letters. Stef, my beautiful, lovely, awesome Stef, in Canada, sent me a snail mail with dimes! I miss you doodlebum!! You made my day. And the other, not quite as good, but still kinda cool: another 'Dean's Honours List' letter, for being just great haha. Come home Stef, I miss you!!

She was different. I though she was different. But in the immortal words of Sia: "I'm not important to you." And that is fine. I mean, it'll just have to be, wont it? I lay in bed and try to meditate. I fail. So I try to sleep. Fail. I get up, and write. I write and write, but why? I'm tired and sick. Punishment, I assume, for a rather wicked friday night. Delayed, but these things happen. Often. I burnt my hand on the coffee machine at work today. I love this song. 

The Perfect Sunday...

After a weekend of debauchery, I was in dire need of a Perfect Sunday. I slept until mid-afternoon, leaving me with a good 16 hours of snooze time under my belt and a head full of fog. After a cup of coffee or three I showered and considered dressing. Eventually, I did that too. No one was home. Bliss. I slowly sorted my room, organized my notes, finished off some stories. I smoked cigarettes and watched the sky pump long, plump drops of rain onto the grass. It smelt wonderful. Now I am listening to Sia and drinking cups of satisfyingly hot peppermint tea. 

I have officially given up on Taekwondo, after two classes. Go me. I miss the days when good ol' ma n' pa payed for everything. It felt really good getting back into it; being back in uniform and running about, kicking things, fantastic! Maybe, when I finish uni and earn more than the classes cost, I'll give it another go. 

I really don't have anything even mildly interesting to say. I didn't speak to another living soul all day. It isn't even 9 yet, and I'm ready for bed. What an animal. 

Cavernous Cavities and Mandarins

Apparently, I would also make an excellent editor. Great. Erotica or editing, just what I always wanted. Meanwhile, I woke up with a pile of mash for brains this morning, and typing is really hard. However, it is warm here, at my desk, with my heater and my computer, and I don't have anything better to do, so be warned, I am going to sit here and write whatever my sorry excuse for a brain spews forth. 

Argh, how frustrating. I'm trying to sell a couch on Trading Post.com, but the site is taking its sweet time with every section. What about my blog? It is being neglected. 

Has anyone read Zadie Smith's book On Beauty? I bought it ages ago, mostly because I liked the cover, but I have heard mixed reports. 

Oh! Did I tell you that I am entering The Age short story competition? I have a story and everything! It's called 'Like the room had died.' It might actually be my best work, if I can judge. Anyway, high excitement all around. Or, at least, that is how it sounds at the moment. It may just be the echo of my own excitement bouncing off the cavernous walls of my hollowed out brain cavity. Either way, yay. Only, I think I'd like to use a pseudonym, just in case I do win... Any ideas? 

Wow, I'm actually starting to bore myself now. Also, I have a mandarin. So, I'm just go over here, and you, you're excused... 

whoops:

That is all.

Hard at it.

Humph...

Discursively indissociable demarcations of sexual difference demarcate, circulate and differentiate the bodies it controls. Or something. 

I have done little, which is more than none. 

The 'T' Word

Right. I am showered, dressed and over-slept. My room is tidy, my notes are stacked, Facebook is checked and re-checked. One more smoke and I am going to consider thinking about the 'T' word. 

'Britney Saves Murdered Cows'

Once upon a happier, more financially secure time, Rosie and Elisha frequented K-mart in Camberfield every thursday night, in search of dvd's, underpants and iced-up blonds in the latest Kappa fashion. This last was a rare and special find, often screaming obscenities in the cue, stuck between an elderly woman buying her winter tights and a family with seven screaming kids shoved into and around their trolly. Security would be called, a crowed would gather, we would giggle, clutching our briefs to our chests and store the moment for retelling during future silences at the pub. 

As I'd pumped an exuberant amount of this weeks meager earnings into my little purple car, I hadn't planned on a late night trip to K-mart. Also, it isn't thursday, and I am currently well stocked with knickers. However, while I spent the evening researching such mysteries as Mulholland Drive and avoiding the 'T' word, Rosie was discovering certain excesses in her own cash flow for the week. She called me. 

"I need hooks for my door," she said. "I'm going to K-mart."

"Okay." A pause.

"You gonna come with me?" 

And so I did. While I was there I discovered that I quite needed certain things, too. I needed some stationary, namely pens, staples and a notebook. I also discovered that I needed some chocolate and a certain t-shirt which, unfortunately, fell outside my means at this moment. I would have been happy with a photo of said t-shirt, but, alas, my camera was at home on the charger. The t-shirt (brilliant item, really. 'Cool' by K-mart, would be perfect marketing) was red and featured, in bold white writing across the breasts, the words 'SAVE BRITNEY.' Bah! I twittered over that one for a while. 

On the way home, we stopped at Hungry Jacks to murder a cow. It was delicious. (Maybe that was the 'Britney' the t-shirt was referring to?)

Illegible Erotica

Last night a friend told me that if all else failed, I would make an excellent lesbian erotica writer. I am not sure how encouraging this news is. 

On a brighter note, I finished my first draft of my First Fiction Piece over coffee today. Now I am going to type it up before its essence is lost to the illegibility of my hand writing. 

Super Hero's at the Sandwich Bar

Impossible as this may be to believe, but, wait for it, I got a new story idea today! I know, I know, I can hear you now, 'procrastinator, write your damn thesis already!' But I don't want to, not right now, so there. There is something special about this story. It is fiction. FICTION, I tells ya. I haven't done that before. It is a good idea, too, I think. The idea followed a request by my co-worker and cousin today. He said, "Do you write stuff?" and I said, "Why, yes, I do," to which he replied, "Can you write a story with me in it? Like super hero's or cartoon stuff or stuff or something?" He was quite excited, and I remembered a little story I wrote back when I was a wee lass. There was an element of super hero in it. There was also an element of Michael (that's my cousin). I ran the idea past him. I thought his eyes were going to fall out, he was so enthralled. Good audience. I wrote a page. I mean, I hid behind the sandwich counter and scribbled some dialogue on a bit of paper. Then I accosted him in the car park on a smoke-o and read it to him. He "ooo-ed" and "ah-ed" in all the right places. Great audience. I am compelled, with such an audience, to write a super hero story, a fictional, magical, super hero story starring the one and only, Mike! 

Ah, so yeah, here I go...

Giraffes in the Grass

Last night, after hours of wallowing in the caged boredom of my bedroom, I received a phone call. 

  "The Zoo?" I said.

"Free?" I said. 

"Why, yes," I said. 

We took the train. Children were rampant; they are cute, but spread quickly. The government should look into that. We announced ourselves at the gate and were immediately admitted. After several minutes staring at some sleeping lions, we found a patch of wet grass suitably beyond the schools of children, and had a smoke. The rest of the day was highly amusing. There is footage. The Giraffes were my special favourite. I purchased a plastic monkey head on a stick and a cube with water and plastic penguins inside. Both held me inthralled for long minutes in the store, and I couldn't bare to leave without them. 

I have some cake in my bag, so I must go an indulge, before I pass out at the key-board. I understand why children are so shrill after a day at the Zoo. I'm exhausted. I'm going play with  my plastic monkey head while I eat. 

Quote of the Day:

Rosie: "The girl that used to live here, she said, 'do you wanna move into the laundry'..."

Richie: "The laundry?"

Rosie: "Nah, she said 'do you want the washing machine, thirty bucks..."

Brain Farts

Right, back again. I could, at this moment, hand in everything for my one class and focus on my thesis. I am ON TOP OF THINGS for the first time ever. Every reading, assignment and essay is written. The advent of my thesis has turned course-work into procrastination. I have written five, count them, FIVE essays for my class. I only need to submit two. I told you my brain was broken. 

huff BAM flow...

I will not huff. Damn people. I wish I had my own place.

 I wrote a new story today. I don't know if I like it. I do know that if I don't stop writing stories and start writing thesis stuff, I'll implode. The word 'thesis', spoken aloud, read, thought, is a parasite. It lives just under my diaphragm, and when it is called, it slithers upward, growing, becoming warm, hot. It ascends my esophagus, enters my brain, takes its nanna-nap behind my eye balls, and its snores are like a mantra. Thesis. Thesis. Thesis, thesis, thesis, thesisthesisthesis. Then I spontaneously combust. BAM! If my brain was not broken before (there are several people who will argue the affirmative, I believe), then it is broken now. Broken, I say. 

Oh, look at me go. I have another idea for a story. Nothing like a good thesis to get the procrastination juices flowing. Ra. 

An Evening Wasted

I am embarrassed that these blogs are time stamped. However, being the first day of a new blog, I feel I deserve the privilege of being indulged. I want to play with with my new toy. 

And I have some very exciting news! I recently (approx 3mins ago) discovered the Most Undesirable, Repulsing Pungent, Yet Nutritiously Wholesome Sandwich In The Universe, Ever. You'll see it in next years Guinness World Records Book. Swear. 

I just wanted a bowl of soup. I was hungry. Famished. So starved, in fact, that it could only be the Munchies. I put too much soup in the bowl. I nuked it for 4 minutes. Still cool. Another 2. Gazed into the fridge, past jars and bowls and a bit of roast beef. Noticed some cheese, a roll of it. I pulled it out and nibbled the corner. It tasted like apricot infused blue vein. I don't like blue vein. However, although at the initial taste the flavour appalled me, by the time I swallowed, I was quite enjoying the experience. My stomach rumbled. The microwave beeped and I checked the soup. Warm, but give it another 2, there is chicken in it. I put the roll of cheese on the bench and a loaf of cheap white bread beside it. I stared at these two ingredients for a time, perhaps considering if a third was needed, perhaps slipping into a vertical coma for a few moments. Again, the microwaved beeped. I popped open the door and touched the side of the bowl. Too hot. I left it to cool a moment and gazed back into the fridge. Sun-dried tomatoes. Why not? I placed the oil-slicked jar on the bench beside the bread, laid out two slices, and crumbled the orange-flecked white cheese onto them. Then, careful to drain most the oil with a fork, I placed slices of tomato on top of the cheese. 

Remembering my soup, I used a tea-towel to carry it from the microwave. I lifted my sandwich plate with my other hand and tip-toed to my bedroom. I started on the soup first, but soon got board, imagining the intense flavours on the bread exploding onto my tongue. I pushed the bowl away and pulled the sandwich closer. Before taking a bite, though, it occurred to me that the sandwich would be cold, what with the ingredients coming straight from the fridge and all. I decided that some zucchini and rice from my luke-warm left-over soup would do the trick. Careful not to scoop up any broth, I layered the veggies and the rice on top of the sun-dried tomatoes. Leaning over my plate to avoid dripping oil onto my pajamas, I took a bite. Still famished, I barely chewed before swallowing and taking another into my mouth. By the fourth or fifth bite, however, already with a healthy puddle of herb-infused oil expanding on my plate, the sensation of the food in my mouth expanded. No longer just sustenance, or a hygienically chewable object, the sandwich was erupting along my taste-buds, sweet, salty, sour, too cold, hot. I considered what I was holding. A thin strip of zucchini skin hung between thin, saturated slices of slightly stale bread and beside a chunk of semi-melted cheese with a cube-of-dried-apricot centerpiece. I hesitated, then took another bite. The textures meshed against my tongue, slick, slimy, granular goop. Another bite. Another. With two bites left I pause. I glance around for my water bottle. It is by my bed. I consider getting it. I would need to move from my chair, from my heater, take at least five steps, each way. Too hard. I returned to the sandwich. Almost there. I never considered not eating it. Two mouthfuls, chewed quickly, and it was gone. Opening my window wide, I lit a stick of incense and a cigarette. Mum would kill me, if she knew. 

The impact of my discovery hit me, as I sat before my empty, dirty plate, smoking. I realised that I had stumbled upon The Most Undesirable, Repulsing Pungent, Yet Nutritiously Wholesome Sandwich In The Universe, Ever. I rushed to inform the good people at Guinness World Records. I expect to hear back from them by the end of business hours tomorrow. Then I rushed to inform you, dear Blog, of the Most Important Development In An Evening Wasted. 

Printers and Pot Plants

It is now nearing ten o'clock, and still Facebook offers little entertainment. I care not that the girl I added from primary school is 'no longer single'. I am awaiting the departure of my little brother, who earlier declared that he would be going out 'later', so that I can have a private moment on the damp grass with some rather dryer grass Kristie acquired yesterday. This state of sustained soberness will damage my reputation, if I am not careful. 

On a happier note, my printer. It is here, right now, beside my computer. A little green light is flashing happily; I forgot to turn it off. It isn't very dusty - mum made me clean in preparation for previously mentioned little brothers 21st last weekend. It is silver and black and has the exciting ability to scan. Most of all, it works. The old printer (and I'll have to whisper here, she is sitting on the floor by my chair), though white, and small, the superficial match for my lovely white Mac, was not, when the time came around, able to perform. Incompatible, she was, with my lovely white Mac. I retired her; she is for sale, if you care?

Buckets of Salami in a very fast car.

Nine of the clock has come and gone, and the limited possibilities for procrastination on Facebook have expired. So, ta da, I have created a blog. Also, if I may further justify this dubiously constructive whim, my head is full of the sound of engines revving. Many thanks to my father for his desire for an in-home noise room, and my brothers consistency in movie taste. Vrrm, vrrm. Sounds fast. 

Today I submitted my hopes and dreams to the (relatively/disconcertingly) recently asbestos freed Coburg Library, in the form of 393 words circling the inspired topic of choice: "Describe the book that got you hooked on reading!" I lied. The true answer, I'm sure, is a picture book, possibly a Golden Book. The exact title is difficult to pin-point, but possibly involved a trip to the supermarket. I felt, justifiably, I hope you agree, that the stretching of the truth to a period of my life where my age contained two numbers rather than one, would improve both the quality of the story, and the possibility of a semblance of truth to said story. And, let's not be coy, the possibility of a win. So, there. 

Quote of the day:

"Could you put the Salami in my bucket. Please?"