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?"