Sunday, November 23, 2008

They Tried To Make Me Go To Rehab And I Won't Go, Go - Wait, What?

In lieu of Katelyn's absolutely delirious 18th party, I've taken to residing on my couch, wrapped up in big, thick warm blankets and filing my face full of delicious hot toasted sandwiches.

Saturday night seen me teasing my hair to the shithouse, plastering on the eyeliner and fake eyelashes and slipping on a lot of black. I don't think people realise how hard fake eyelashes are to put on, until you actually have to deal with their shit. They're so difficult - its like trying to put a heavy-duty super-flow tampon in a tiny little Asian girl.
Went to the supermarket with Aunty Jan, bought some super cheap bourbon, a pack of 20s and a lot of coke (the drink, guys, jesus, settle down.) and made our way to katelyns.
After getting lost twice, trying to follow Katelyn's absolutely shocking directional advice, we finaly arrived at her lovely abode, I presented the bithrday girl with her carefully selected present:

A Candy Bra.

A bunch of us girls sat down to some wheel-of-drinking-fortune game, and I got strange looks for the first fifteen minutes for drinking straight from the bottle. Probably not the classiest move I've ever made, but in a house filled with people I didn't know, First impressions count - excluding the time you're dressed as Amy Winehouse.
Spotted someone lovely looking, fitting most of my selected criteria as my "Type" - scruffy, tall, big shoulders.
This concept was discussed briefly with Taylor a few hours before, although he found it hard to completely grasp what I was saying, which is the usual deal.
Ash Guy, Michelle, Stu and I floundered around on the back lawn for fifteen minutes, discussing and screaming, and for Mich and I - sinking - about how to set up my tent. It was windy and cold, and sleeping outside was just not an appealing idea at the time.

Was prodded for hours by Katelyn and Michelle, that I should "totally hook in" and other ego-building blabber with That Ash Guy.
It worked.
I found a lap was a nice change from freezing my arse off, and trying to find a little bit of warmth from the thin, piece of shit blanket I had brought along.

A bit of bourbon, a few stolen drinks from other people, and three large shots of Sambucca later, I watched as about 30 metrofags strolled on through the doors, and instantly seen things start to mudslide downhill in a giant shitstorm.
Within five minutes, all the boys testosterone levels rose from 0.4 to 400.
What seemed to be not long after, arguments and all sorts of things started to go on. I'll go for a fight, as long as Its not at my friend's place, especially on her birthday.
One guy tried to start some girl I'd never met (I think her name was Cass) and thats what initially set the boys off. We soon found out, that 2 Ipods had been stolen, along with Katelyn's phone and digital camera.
Everyone was completely wild, and That Ash Guy, Taylor and some other guys stinking of testosterone went on a goose chase down the street - me and Poika tried to join in for some fun, but got turned away quick fast by Katelyn's mum.
I was saddened.

A guy named Isaak was jumped by the same group of metrofags when he was walking a few girls home. He stumbled back to the party, after being shouted at when he tried to ask for help (given that it was roughly 2am, I'd probably help some bleeding teen on my front lawn, unlike Mega-Cunt that turned Isaak away) and man-power levels doubled again, topping 800.
I was a little shocked at That Ash Guy's total shit-flip and pretty much gave up at trying to calm him and his friend Jaime down.
They had cigars; they'd be fiiiiiinneee.

Britney's boyfriend, Daniel, was possibly the drunk highlight of the entire night. I gave Britney huge points for dealing with him in the loving way she did.
I probably wouldn't have done what she did.
I would have just left him somewhere and picked him up in the morning. But thats me. Slobbering, shitting, vomming drunk men have just never been my thing.
Daniel stood outside with us vommed his guts all over a treefern, and then had Matt and Jaime (both people I had met Saturday night) cart him off like the wounded soldier he was, into the toilet, where they preceeded to sit on the floor while Daniel munted into a bucket and shat at the same time.
I totally gave him kudos for that coordination.
Ten minutes after Daniel had been dragged from the toilet with his pants around his ankles, we found that he was too drunk to wipe his own arse, and had smeared shit across the toilet seat as he got up.
The next morning, there was at least 20 smaller vom spots down on the road, from Britney and Daniel's fantastic expedition home.

Drank some more, sobered up afterwards, deciding that 3.30am was probably a good time to drink some water and eat a sandwich.
Talked to this guy named Rory, claiming that he'd travelled the world.
I laughed.
And tried to understand how the kid actually got laid, like he's a good looking guy and all but fuuuck the guy talks so much shit. I swear. He dribbles shit more than what I do, and I've got a whole fucking blog dedicated to my shit-dribblings.

Shared a tent with Ash.
He worked well as a big, cushy source of warmth. The fantastic thing was, that he didn't snore.
I think that was a highlight - the last few times I've had to share bed, blankets, etc with guys, they've all been snorers.
He had a really funny heartbeat though, It was nuts, it certainly didn't sound normal, thats for sure. but you know. I can deal with that, compared to snoring.
I think we possibly got around 2 hours sleep, due to the tent almost blown across the yard by the gale force winds that we were subjected to.
Woke up aroud 7.30, went back to sleep.
was woken again by Jaime poking his head inside and serenading us with absolute gusto: I WANNA KISS YOU ALL OVERR. AND OVER AGAIN.

And that was basically my messy, dramatic weekend filled with theiving, sambucca, bourbon and boys.

fuck I love sambucca.

Happy 18th Birthday, Katelyn :D

i swear i'm no where near as messy as I look.

Thursday, November 20, 2008

London Callng.

I've had this week off of school.
And so far, I've done nothing but sleep, take Cold & Flu tablets and piss off my friends.
I missed out on my very straight-edge friend Chantelle's birthday lunch in G-town, due to me sleeping most of the day, waking up and then trying to convince mum that if I didn't go, Jo would have my head on a silver platter.
She doesn't know Joanne to be the silent, cannibalistic killer that she is. Mum is still fully under the impression that Joanne is the sweet, tender loving girl that still dances around her room with her hair in pigtails, belting out the lyrics to "Spice Up Your Life" by the Spice Girls.
Joanne is more akin to a lioness, stalking down her Zebra prey (me) and then bolting at top speed across the Savannah, to launch onto my hindquarters and drag me to the ground, before tearing out my esophagus and feasting on me. Sarah, Leah and Chantelle, more similar to the younger lionesses in the pride, have to gingerly beg Joanne to let them have a snack on one of my legs, or maybe, if they're really lucky, part of my rump.

I really do love you Joanne, but you scare the shit out of me. You make me scared to sleep in the same room as you some nights.

In the mean time, Jake and I are talking. And its nice.
I think I can gladly say that he's probably one of the few people who actually put up with my bullshit for any period of time, and still can come out of the other end and continue to make civil human contact with me. It doesn't make me feel so much like an Alien. Geelong does that to people - it either turns you into a Grommet or an Alien, with serious social deformities due to the pollution from Corio Bay. Grommet is totally out of the question for me, simple because I'm a terrible swimmer. I can muster a doggy paddle, and thats it.
At least I can still claim "But I'm from the bush."
Clean air does good things for people, trust me.

He hasn't changed, which is great. He's still a smartarse, and still pretty quick with his wit. He had a bit of a chat with me about how he had given some rude little bitch shit all afternoon, after she had bitched about her boyfriend doing weed.
Weed, i have learnt, is totally harmless.
Unless you smoke it like its your career. Then, you walk around, bent off your tits all fucking day, not really sure of what's happening.
I took my uncle out for lunch the other day, and he was bent as a broken tree. It was pretty fucking hilarious actually. He had no clue, and kept fucking up our order.
"I want 20bits of flake!"
"No, 2."
"No, amy, I want twenty."
"2 bits of flake, please."
Munchies and fish and chips just don't go well together.

My mind has wondered off to London again.
Last night, I had a dream I was living in a squat.
It was one of those totally pointless, useless-to-the-physique dreams that just make you want to do things more. Eg: have sex with that random guy, throw a milkshake on someone, chase your art teacher down the street with a broken vodka bottle...
Anyway, this dream was basically me, in this giant, fuck-off, dirty old squat in London, holding some massive squat party. I asumed it was London, because everyone inside had British accents.
I was totally blind-fucked drunk.
And I was having a great time.
Dirty squat, mass party, blind drunk, with some crazy tripper band playing in the background.
Maybe it was an omen?
Most likely a premonition.

Anyway, for your own viewing pleasure, here's a few videos that I've been watching on YouTube. Fuuuuck, I love youtube as much as I love ebay.

Ab Original - Charlotte/Fuck Eet

Mystery Jets - Hideaway

Not the best sound quality, but this song is probably the best song off their new album.

Mystery Jets - Behind the Bunhouse.

Blaine, I'll take you behind my bunhouse anyday, you sweet voiced, curly haired skinny man.

Devendra Banhart - Carmansita

This guy eclipses multi-cultural cheap-videos and long hair-bearded sexiness.
I don't care if you can't speak spanish (?) this video and the way the whole entire song is put together is just really fucking clever. Its catchy, and I don't even understand what he's singing.
Check Little Yellow Spider for the most amy-like lyrics you'l ever hear.

The Veils - Lavinia

this is possibly a song that changed my entire teenage life. I heard it fucking ages ago, just as I was coming into my teens. its off "The Runaway Found" album, and was released in 2004.
But no matter where I am, what I'm doing, or what's going down around me, it just makes a lot of sense.
And even now, I still have no idea what its about.

The Veils - Advise for Young Mothers to Be

A good example of a singer's voice changes and range. And what 25 infants and a lot of pink can do for a band...
I like it, but still doesn't top my love for Lavinia.


The funniest fucking porno film you'll ever fucking see.
I could watch it over and over, and just giggle my fucking tits off.

Friday, November 14, 2008


Blogging to you from Trash and Blow headquarters, Vietnam.

I finally mustered the effort to cart my modem and shit (why didn't I get wireless?) all the way outside to Vietnam, and I'm now sitting on my bedroom floor, amongst my teenage squalor.
Vietnam spends approximately three days of the fourteen day fortnight, clean enough to walk through. That's only because Mum cleans it on the Friday, I generally sleep on the couch on a Saturday night from work-exhaustion and on the Sunday I'm usually out.
I swear that My mum has telepathic powers.
Since I was at least 4, Mum has threatened that she will "never clean my room again" but yet, every fortnight without fail, my room is tidied.
I'm going to be one of those middle-aged hermit women that hoard terrible, stinking shit and have their dog-box houses demolished by the council because of the stench and mess.
I really hope not, but I can see it happening.
But, I plan to keep Joanne in the picture until I'm past my party-sex-party-sex stage of life, which I have the feeling will continue until I get married, which knowing me, won't be until I'm approximately 84.
And by then, I'll probably be dead or my vagina would have shrivelled up and closed its door for maintainence when I was 65, I just had been passed out for 24 years that I probably hadn't noticed. Knowing me, I'll be dead by the time I'm 70. Kinda hope not though. My nana's 70 and still looks pretty good, putting aside her varicose veins.
Anyways, when I get married, the plan is to either get him or his neat-freak friend to clean the house. I'll go to work everyday and be the bread-winner by all means, if it means I don't have to fucking do the washing or the dishes.
I fucking hate washing machines.

Joanne is like my little motivational poster with arms and legs, and a firm slap. I've received one or two slaps or punches from her, and I take abuse like a bitch, so I whined for thirty minutes about my illusive dead arm.
It might take her some time, but we've got this little telepathic way of communicating with each other through facial expressions and vibes. We're new age hippies.
Blow the crystal balls and divination up your arse, we've formed a new method.
But, don't listen to her when she says "oh, I"ll clean up some of the bottles while you're at work."
Because it won't happen.

Vietnam is filthy.
The rabbit urine smell is wafting through the front part of the shed, through my door and into Vietnam. That stench, combined with the four empty weetbix bowls, a few forks, a brown banana peel and twenty coffee cups, not to mention the flooded ashtray, leads one to think I'm a fucking pig.
Truth is, in other peoples houses I'm a neat freak.
I once cleaned one of my ex-boyfriends rooms: I dusted, vaccumed, made his bed, and even had dinner cooking by the time he got home.
Another ex, I spent half an hour, scraping and scrubbing the disgusting growth inside his microwave. It was a whole nation of bacteria, so large it was more like a continent than a nation. I was sure it had its own tectonic plates and everything.

My shoes, however, are in order. I cherish my shoes, because both my feet and my vag basically run the show.
Think about it.
I need my vag, as its basically me. It needs it's own reality tv program.
and my feet are the only things willing to carry my lazy, fat, broke-ass around town all fucking day everyday.
I'm waiting for the day when my feet go on strike. My toes are going to pop off and jump around Vietnam, screaming at me for a pay rise.
I think it would be kinda cute to see my big toe and my pinky toe, holding big huge signs.

I can't really think of any simularity between feet and vagina's, other than if you don't wash them for a few days, they both start to smell like fish.
Yes girls, vagina's do not smell like soap and freshly picked pansies after 5 days of not having a tub, no matter how much you deny it. Denying it isn't making the smell any better.
Same with guys.
Thats why I refuse to date any man who wears silk boxer shorts. There's nothing worse than the faintest smell of dick on a guy. It's the most disgusting smell I have ever encountered. Its a mixture between sweat, urine and dick, multiplied by the amount of bacteria growing under his foreskin since the last time he showered.
Like, most guys have a smell, but its not so obnoxious that it makes you want to lose your lunch over the side of the bed, into the garden, etc etc.
But it seems to escalate with silk boxers.
They retain too much moisture or something, and just stink.
And anyway, boxers are just generally unattractive.
Trunks are the way to go.
Nothing better than to show off package and arse, boys.
I like a guy with a nice arse.
A booty boy.
If motherfucking Jay-Z can have booty girls, I sure as hell can have Booty Boys.
But no huge booties, guys, thats just fucking weird.

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

Your Clothes Are Just So Passe`.

Australia, in general, needs a universal air-conditioner.

Its 34 degrees outside, and beads of sweet are coming off of everyone, everywhere.
I mean, I live like a block away from the beach, and I'd be there if it weren't so fucking hot. It's gotten to the point where even my hair is making me feel hot.

I went for a little wander down past the boat ramp after I'd fed the horses. I seen a girl walking with her dog.
No, that's her boyfriend rolling around in the sand, making noises.
She was pudgy, and had a bikini that was way too small for her. It pushed her tits up to her chin, and you could see the sides of her boobs jiggling around like fatty overflow.
And her shorts were hideous.
They were canary yellow with two disgusting orange stripes down the side.
No one ever told this girl that Yellow and Brown were never a good combination.
Her bikini was brown.
Brown belongs in one place - the toilet.
Unless its a belt, then its nice. Or shoes.
She looked like a seal in a banana costume.
It was shocking.

I mean, I was on the beach with my school dress hitched up, but this girl just looked ridiculous. And her boyfriend was no better.
I wouldn't have touched him with a ten-foot-pole.
And anyone who takes their partner out and lets him wrestle with sea urchins in the sand, needs to put him on a leash and feed him some kibble.

This guy had really short hair, and too much chest hair. I like chest hair, don't get me wrong, but no so much that if I shaved it off, I could make myself a new carpet.
However, it would stink worse than wet dog and if I dropped my cigarette on it, Vietnam would smel even more putrid than what it already does.
Do keep in mind, My bunnies live in close proximity to my sliding door, so the Bunny smell goes through Vietnam on a hot day.

He was really pale too.
So pale, that I swear I could see his veins getting sunburnt.

On a better note, Mum bought a twenty dollar toddlers pool today.
It came with little blow up sea creatures.
My favourite is the purple octopus. There's a dolphin, but he reminds me of a pedophile.

Tuesday, November 11, 2008


I once had a splinter in the crease where your thigh joins onto your pelvis.
When I tried to pull it out, it stung like a fucker.
I considered leaving it there, but I was pretty confident the body didn't absorb wood.
Twenty minutes of ginger pulling, it freed the 5 millimeter long chunk of wood from my skin, and observed it closely.
I wasn't worried about the species of tree of which it came from, or the grain in the wood. I was more concerned at how in the fuck I got a splinter so close to my box.
I mean, my box - its basically what I am.
Not saying I'm a walking vagina, because, well, frankly society wouldnt be able to accept a vagina with legs. Which hole would be the mouth?
The actual vagina or the wee hole?

I've just detangled my beehive.
My hair has minimal loss.
That makes me happy.

Saturday, November 8, 2008


I fancy the whole "I'm-about-to-die-I-haven't-eaten-in-6-weeks" look.
You know, big tall scruffy looking guys with stubble and legs as thick as my arm.
I don't mind weighing more than them; my excuse is my tits take up most of my body weight.

If I'm not going for the "I'm-about-to-die" look, I'm going for the chunky type.
Big shoulders, big chest, tall.
Tall is just a basic requirement to even be acknowledged by me.
If you're shorter than me, or at my eye level, you've got buckley's and none.
I really like guys with a certain style.
Something that sets them apart from everyone else.
The hair, sunglasses, jackets, jeans - I can't stand to pick up a guy who reminds me of "that guy that I seen three weeks ago" or looks like someone who I seen on a various shopping spree somewhere.

I have rules when I start dating or messing around with people. I think everyone needs to have rules, at least some unspoken ones anyway.
My main rule is not to date someone who you go to school with.
I've learnt this rule over a few years, and on the occasion, I break it.
When things go arse up, you have to deal with these people everyday. It's basically the same as the "don't screw the crew" rule, which is on the list as well.
Another upside to not dating someone who you go to school with, is you don't have to deal with the whole "I'm coming around to your house tonight" thing.
I can't deal with people on a frequent basis: I need space and time away from people.That's probably why I do long-distance so well.
If someone was coming around to my place after school, on any other day than a Friday, I wouldn't know what to do.
I dread the day when I actually have to move out of Vietnam. Living with people, in close vicinity of them, everyday, all day, will send me stark raving mad.

I've devised this theory, that you can tell a lot about someone by what they wear. Especially their shoes.
Whilst, I've recently found this is seen as incredibly creepy by people observing in, it's really quite an effective theory.
You can tell if someone's quirky, sophisticated, sleazy etc.
But I'm generally a pretty good judge of character. I'm pretty good at picking peoples personalities within fifteen minutes of a conversation.
I can't stand it when people say "You don't know me."
Because, I do.
I know your personality.
Do I need to know your favorite colour or how hot you like your shower?
No, because this doesn't fucking matter to what makes you as a person.
Your favorite flavour of donut doesn't matter to me; you ability to hold a conversation does.

Also, I'm over all of this doe-eyed, neat appearance bullshit, too.
I'm so over hearing guys saying "oh, but I'm a nice guy!"
To fucking hell you're a nice guy.
Who said I like nice guys?
I hate nice guys.
They're push-overs; totally fucking pussy-whipped little bastards who wouldn't try to come back at me with one of my snarky little comments I make daily.

I can only take manners so far with guys in general.
I'm cool for the "Here, have my jacket" or "Here, I'll take your huge, gigantic heavy suitcase and put it in my car". My favourite is "Thats ok, I"ll buy lunch."
I'm the cheapest person on this earth, so lunch is always the biggest winner.
But when I actually offer to pay, don't turn it down This doesn't happen very fucking often.

But, if you try to open my bottle, I'm going to tell you, in no uncertain terms, to fuck off.
I can open a fucking bottle.
Even with a broken fucking hand, I can open a bottle.
It's called a metal doorframe.
You pop the cap on that.
I can open car doors, carry things, make my own coffee etc. I'm a big girl - I can tie my own shoes and everything.

The only time I force people to use manners, is when talking to my Mum or my Dad. I hate nothing more, than someone who doesn't thank my mum for cooking, or my dad for driving someone somewhere.
My dad is a self-confessed arsehole, just like me.
He didn't want to drive you somewhere, so the least he's going to want is a "Thanks for driving me home, Ray."
My mum doesn't have to cook for you, but she does because I'm too bone fucking lazy.

Ugh, Vietnam is getting to be a big, empty lonely space lately.
I'm really missing company; someone to spoon in the night, mainly.
And to cook for in the morning.

I suppose I have a few "what-if's".
Every girl has at least two.
You know those people you look at everytime, and sort of go "Gee, what if?"
It's gotten to the point where curiosity is definitely killing the cat.


My patio is now named Bunhouse.
Yes, I have my own patio.
Mum and I have been working on it together; it's filled with plants and ferns and big leafy jungle plants. I'm aiming for an exotic-jungle-fantasy kind of theme. I"m going to get some canvases and whip up some nice paintings to go out there.
I've limited Mum's access to Vietnam and The Bunhouse, because she'll Mum-ify it too much. Next thing you know I'll have doilies on my drinking/smoking table.
Basically, it's called The Bunhouse because my Bunnies live in there when they don't come into the laundry part of Vietnam.
My Buns live inside.
They go out during the day and come inside at night.

Someone told me I'm too eccentric.
BEcause I don't want my buns to get cold at night time?

Am I the only person I know, my age, who happily owns bunnies?
Most likely.

Am I the only person on this planet my age that gave my bunnies names like the ones they have?

I thought BabyDoll and SweetPea were suitable.

BabyDoll comes for a snuggle.

BabyDoll (Grey) and SweetPea (Brown and White)


BabyDoll and SweetPea

BabyDoll: Is Unimpressed.

Thursday, November 6, 2008

Street Cred.

In the name of all that is holy, if another black guy who claims to be from Sydney, supporting a picture of himself half naked somewhere, I'm going to buy him a t-shirt, make him a new email, teach him how to speak fucking english and then tie him to a powerpole on some unknown highway in the middle of bumfuck nowhere and bludgeon him with a wrench.

I'm sorry, mahamoud_69, but until you learn credible English, learn to write using vowels, buy some clothes and not talk to me as if I'm a prostitute fresh off a corner in Saint Kilda, you're never going to re-appear on my contact list.
wanting to "Mke ht sex to my sugar thys bby;" and rub "my rockhrd dck between your tits" does not turn me on; it just reaffirms how much I currently hate men.

For starters, there is only one man on my contact list with 69 in his address, and thats Simon. Simon knows how to speak his native language, along with another. He wears nice clothes, talks to me as if I'm a pleasant human being and is really quite articulate.

69 in email address really pisses me off.
You cannot expect someone to possibly take you seriously with 69 in your address.

As for Street-Cred.
My street-cred is that of a 4 year old girl, standing in the middle of the street with blonde pig-tails and pretty little pink bows, crying her dear little hear out because she dropped her ice-cream.
I don't text in short-hand, I don't speak like a gangster chick and I certainly do not support gang-bangs, huge chunky gold chains and booty girls.

Lil Kim had the fat taken from her arse, and injected into her breasts.
Who in god's fucking name does that?
Would it not be more effective to just get silicone implants?

You can even get this injection now, instead of implants, which lasts 18 months. It makes boobies bigger, and when you go swimming, your tits actually move, rather than going into big, hard, immobile lumps, see Pamela Anderson on the Baywatch set.

At least mine are real.

Cars And Carbon Footprints.

I found one of Dad's mixed tapes today. It's got songs from way-back-when - think Shangri La's, Bette Midler, Diana Ross and The Supremes.

When I was a kid, Dad had hundred of cars. Because I only seen him spasmodically, it was always a different car.
He had this old, bronze Fairlane with a cream roof and cream leather interior. It was one that lasted longer than the other ones, so as the ever seven-year-old daddy's-girl does, I named it.
I dubbed the car Louise.

For the period that dad owned Louise, he had two cassette tapes on constant circulation - Foreigner and Carly Simon.
When Carly Simon was chewed to little brown shreds by the ancient cassette player, Foreigner was our life soundtrack.
Within a month, when Dad was making constant appearances, I had learnt very word to every Foreigner song on the tape - I thought I was insanely cool.
I always wanted to be one of those cool-as Rocker Chicks, who rolled through town in her awesome car, playing awesome loud tunes, whilst everyone in the street stopped and thought "Holy Shit, She's so fucking cool!".
When I was seven, I thought I was the show-stopper, and I absolutely hated people stealing my thunder. And of course, at the age of seven, my musical library did not extend past Creedence Clearwater, Bruce Springsteen, Fleetwood Mac and, then, Foreigner.
Mum took me to an opp-shop once, and I insisted of her buying this faux-leather jacket with disgusting tan leather trim. I tried it on; it came down to my thighs, and the sleeves were huge and did not add to the overall hideousness of the jacket.
It cost $7.50.
It was my car jacket.
I think Mum and Dad sided on the idea that they needed to sabotage the jacket, in order for their daughter to remain a relatively normal child, and not the aspiring rocker chick that I was, at the tender age of seven.
I turned the entire house upside-down and inside out, in search for my car jacket. Mum said I might have left it somewhere with Dad, and of course I believed her.
Looking back now, I realised that Mum has sabotaged many of my outfits and accessories, such as a pair of mutilated pale blue, stone wash jeans that I had taken to with a blunt pocketknife. They didnt even have a real zip or button: they had an elastic waist.
Mum was absolutely mortified when I took them to a family dinner and proudly wore them with a red singlet top with "TRASH CO" printed on the front. The saddest thing about this outfit, was that I was ten, and proudly supporting a singlet that implied I was trash.

Dad also used to have an old red Dodge D5, similar to this one. However, she never looked like this. She was rusted, chipped and dented. It never got a name, but my big sister nic-named it Old Unreliable.
On the way to my cousins funeral, with my sister and my cousin in the car, it broke down in the middle of the busy funeral procession.
Kate and Liz were horrified, and sank very deep into the bench seat, whilst Dad copped road-rage and other anger from passing cars.

Whenever I went driving with dad in the dodge, He would drive and I would be told to change the gears. My first driving lesson took place at age five, in Old Unreliable, along an old gravel road, placed comfortably in Dad's lap. I couldn't see over the steering wheel, so I just peered on through the gaps. I learnt how to steer something that felt like you were trying to turn a brickwall.

But now, I am glad to say Dad drives a much nicer 4x4, and I'm soon to inherit it once I get the little card to say I can "legally" drive. Her name is Matilda, and we're discussing what colour we are to paint her. I want a nice cherry red, or pristine white. Dad, wants a putrid school-bus-yellow.
"Lets paint her yellow!" Dad exclaimed in the driveway.
I surveyed her muddiness, and considered the yellow-brown combination.
"Aboslutely fucking no," I replied. "She's not a fucking school bus. She's a stylish power-house, with a woman driver who plans to use her backseat and tray as a house when road-tripping."
"No," Dad argued. "She's not a shaggin-wagon, Amy. I"m taking the canopy off, and you cn have a convertible ute."
"No, no, no," I snapped, trying to enstile some creditable sense into my dad. "I'm going to look like a red-neck as it is, Dad. I dont need a redneck convertible."

Currently, Matilda is painted Gun Metal grey with a disgusting orange stripe down the driver's side. We're going to peel that off, and my Uncle Shane is going to paint her for me, with special family rates.
I love Matilda more than any car in the universe. She's just a slut to parallel park because she's an abnormally long four-wheel drive.
I'm going to take out the cassette player at first possible notice and replace her with a better sound-system. The bass is terrible. Its "bass-bass-rattle-rattle-treble-bass-rattle-rattle."
And get the seatbelts and back seats fixed. Dad's ripped the seat belts out, to use them as ties and cinches for his saddles when his girths go missing.

My dads a very innovative man.

Monday, November 3, 2008

Dentist Appointment: Over.

My bus trip into the dentist was interesting.
I sat on a near empty bus for 15 minutes, listening away to some Joe Cocker. I never realised how he can sooth pre-dentist nerves.

I waited inside the fucking waiting room, which needs a new name in my opinion, next to a man who stank of hamburgers and a little girl who was crying because she was so scared. I honestly couldn't blame her.
I haven't been to a dentist in over ten years: I refused to go back after my filling fell out and I learnt that to numb my mouth they had to stick needles in my gums.
No thank you: dribbling because of numb nerves and muscles just isn't my deal.
I spent forty five minutes, reading the same two Cosmopolitan magazines, getting strange looks from the Little Girl's mother when she read over my shoulder, the article, with big bold letters,

How To Give Good Head
or something like that.
I liked the little pictures they had used as dot-points; they were little penis heads with legs.
Reading something about flavoured lubricant, I remembered my birthday present last year that Jules and Conran had bought me: A large bottle of cherry flavoured lubricant, that subsequently was used as a breath-freshener, taste-killer, and sometimes a little snack. It was only very rarely used for its purpose.
It was one of those things where your brain is saying "You shouldn't be doing this and enjoying it!" but your taste buds are going "Shut the fuck up, man, she doesn't need you anyway...this is so good."
So, whilst I tried to picture the before featured photograph of George Castanza (see Seinfeld), I had to endure the Little Girl beside me, now wailing her little heart out, for the whole fucking time.
The first twenty seconds, I thought it was cute.
The rest of the forty-four and a half minutes, I spent wanting to beat her with a stick and tear out my own uterus. I swear to fucking god, if and when I have children, I'm going to reach down their little throat and rip their voice box out so they can't make that much noise.
Then, everyone will go "Oh, wow! Cute Little Billy is so well-behaved! He doesn't cry, he doesn't scream, how do you do it!?"
Cute Little Billy had his voice box removed when he turned two. Cute Little Billy is relying on his good looks (of course inherited from his drop-dead-gorgeous mother) to get him through life, and not his fucking tantrums, that would most likely also be inherited from his rather cantankerous mum.
All these thoughts about my hypothetical son was taking my mind away from the otherwise cute little girl, screaming the fucking dental surgery down to the ground. She had pigtails and freckles and everything; she was just obnoxious as all fucking hell.
Was finally called into their little hell-room.
First thing that went through my brain was:
Why in God's good name does it smell like motherfucking strawberries?!
The chair was pretty rad.
It went up, down, sideways and reversed. I could have played with it for ages.
Dentist walks in, and whilst it was not George Castanza, it was a woman. For the first time in my entire dental history, a woman was going to poke shit in my mouth. (<--- What the fuck?) Rattled on for five minutes about my molars, asked my the general questions, with that fucking light in my eyes. It was still enough to fucking annoy me, even with the disgusting sunglasses they give you. She noticed I was attempting to supress giggles: yes, in the dental chair, whilst she's scraping and poking and pulling my cheeks out with big, long fingers. "What's so funny?" She asks me, a little bit bemused. "Nothing, nothing," I shake it off, and open up again. Of course, I was imagining myself pulling a Angelina-Jolie-Tombraider-esque move and flashing the light in her eyes, throwing the instruments all over her little work assistant and bailing, throwing a chair at the little girl on my way out. I decided this woman was alright, as she was yet to stick needles and shit in my gums. She cleaned some gross shit that I'd had behind my two front teeth, and it felt weird. My favourite part though, is when they bring out the little air-sucker and water-sprayer tube things. I remember that being the most enjoyable part of going to the dentist as a kid. She told me that I had one of the nicest sets of teeth she had seen in a long time; something about my 'bite'. I always thought my teeth poked on an inwards slant, towards my tongue. She tells me I need a filling, as I have a hole in one of my molars. Hoorah! Needles! Looks like I'm gonna be that little girl, screaming down the surgery. As I only had $150 on me today, I told her to leave the filling for another day when I was mentally prepared for the fucking needles. She did some crazy shit called a "Teeth Cleanse" or something (I should really take more notice of the words and things I hear and read, so I can make accurate recounts of things.). SHe brought out this weird little tool with a little circular end, and tried to tell me it was a toothbrush. I know what a toothbrush looks like; it was no fucking toothbrush. But it made a cool noise, so i went with it. Expecting some disgusting dettol or mint taste, I got fruit tingles. Yes, fruit tingle flavoured toothpaste.
I swear, if they actually made fruit tingle flavoured toothpaste, I would take my motherfucking toothbrush to school.
"Excuse me miss," I would say.
"Where are you going?"
"To brush my teeth!"
I can just imagine the looks I would get from the people who already suspect me to be mentally unstable after various outbursts, including throwing a table.
That was all over in about half an hour, and my mouth felt nice.
For the first time in my life, I enjoyed a dentist appointment.
The woman was pretty, she was nice and definitely was not smug.

I toddled straight off to the supermarket and searched the toothpaste isle. There was no nice flavoured toothpastes; all "minty-fresh" bullshit.
So instead, I settled with another vibrating toothbrush.
My change only allowed that; I had my hopes set on some new fan-dangled electric toothbrush.
Toddled off to the bus top.
Spotted a hottie, as bus stops are a hot spot for bachelorettes like myself. He would have made potential material, if only he had nicer hair.
His face was nice though.
I realised today, that I get off on peoples flaws. I seen a guy in Melbourne once, and he had one leg and wheeled himself around in a wheelchair. He looked like death warmed up, and had really unkempt hair.
But whilst I was being the shallow-stone-cold-superficial bitch that I am, I realised I was imagining what Mr. One-Leg would look like naked. I walked over to him and started up a conversation: within the first minute, I found he was a dud - he liked techno and rap.
Bup-Bow: No free wheelchair rides for Amy.
He was probably shit in bed anyway.

I'm going to get a wheelchair, so when I get drunk, i don't have to walk places.

I saw a guy today, in his mid-forties, with the most hideous mullet I've ever seen. And trust me, I've seen some absolutely appalling mullets. Old Mate, wearing blue jeans, a Cher t-shirt, blindly white sneakers and a camel toe big enough to scare small children, supported some disgusting leather bag with a strange peroxided blonde growth.
Oh, No.
That's his wife.
She glowed the neon-orange colour of a spray-on tan, and looked something akin to a pair of horse-riding boots I owned when I was eight years old. By the time i was ten, I decided all on my own, that the colour was absolutely putrid.
Her leather pants accentuated the cellulite that dribbled down the backs of her thighs. I'm confident the brothels in Saint Kilda wouldn't have even taken her. However, she obviously did something for Mullet-Man-With-No-Taste.

When I arrived home, I told mum about the child at the dentists. Went about cooking my dinner/breakfast, as I haven't taken the opportunity to eat today. I made myself a huge plate of nibbly-bits left over from Friday night. I cut the dry bits off the Camembert cheese, coated some Sayo biscuits in french Onion dip and stuck some cheese, pickled cocktail onions and cabana on top.
What a healthy dinner!

Hookey and Dentists.

"Fuck Off, get out."
They were the first words i spoke this morning. And to my Uncle no less. I don't call him by his name, its just plain old Uncle. He and his sister used to be Uncle and Aunty, but Jan just gets Jan now. I suppose Aunty sounded weird; I got sick of hearing my own voice in the Bogan accent that came with the word.
I once went through a stage of trying to pronounce her family status in a Southern drawl. It was only applied to that word, but nonetheless, it still didn't work.

I slept through all of my alarms: I set four.
I slept through Uncle trying to wake me up.
I even slept through the offering of a toasted Bacon and Egg sandwich.

I woke up about ten minutes ago; this blog proving that I don't have much of a life outside of my computer screen. I sat down with a coffee and a cigarette, and I'm dreading the reaction from mum when she walks into Vietnam, seeing me not at school, but still wearing the same Motley Crue t-shirt I've worn to bed for the past two days.

Truth is, it was probably really pointless going today anyway.
First two sessions I had, I would have had to endure 100-something minutes of a teacher, slobbing on about bullshit he doesn't know a thing about. He takes my Agriculture class, which is not going to aid me in my search to Internet Fame, Journalism or traveling, but I like animals. I grew up in the country, so I've always had loads of animals.
I once asked this guy what age did ducks reach sexual maturity.
He shrugged and walked off.
For your own information, ducks can't mate until they're at least seven months old. I already knew this, and I wanted to use this as example to how much this guy knows about Farming and Animals.
Seriously, Old Mate is an absolute joke.
There's a bunch of metro-football-popular kids in my class, who only took Ag as a fill-in class. All Old Mate does is try to make friends with them. I mean, this guy is in his fucking Thirties and he's trying to get people half his age on his side. Rather than teaching, he sits in the class with his fucking laptop and watches YouTube videos.
Never mind the select few in the class that might actually need qualifications to get jobs in the industry, no, lets just watching fucking MadTV re-runs on the fucking internet.
Since I was little, I've loved livestock. My sister works on a Cattle Station in Queensland; she loves it.
I worked on a Simmental Stud for a year. I loved it; I wanted to Jouz my favorite Bull and take him to the Melbourne Show. Wilbur would have won. He was the sweetest animal alive. He used to come to me when I walked into the paddocks, and I'd share my lunch with him. I could lean al over him, rub his face, do anything to him and he loved it; he was a downright sook. When we weighed him, he came in at 960kg.
Wilbur looked something like this:

After recess, I would have had my media class. I like my media class. The teacher has become a fashion icon. She's hilarious; she pulls out the trivia book at the end of class and we have a trivia game. The same people usually always win: it's come down to Ingrid, me and my potential-fill in deb partner Scott.
We're meant to be working on documentaries about issues - I'm leaving Captain Jo to sort everyone out.
I'm just hoping she hasn't done the interviews today.
Media is a class I care about; my erratic sleeping patterns however, do not care much for it.

After Media, i would have left to embark down the Yellow Brick Road of Pain - a gigantic hill on which my school is situated. It's not so bad to walk down, but walking up will almost kill any smoker. I've been tempted to hitch-hike up it a few times, although my efforts would be fruitless.
I then would have to take the hour long walk down to the dentist surgery in the heart of town.
I used to get shits and giggles out of Hitch-hiking. I once jumped a ride with a truckie. I can't remember his name, but for the sake of brevity, I'm going to call him Jimbob.
He was listening to Opera.
He told me he couldn't work the radio, because it was new or some lame excuse like that. He was a nice enough guy; he sped along the highway at about 120km/h. He had a huge long, bushy beard, looked grubby and smelt of cigarettes, sweat and beer.
He then proceeded to let me change it.
We spent the hour long trip together, singing to King Crimson, Bachman Turner Overdrive and some other ones.

If you havent noticed yet, I've got an excellent skill at getting off topic.

In short, I have a dentist appointment this afternoon. Ugh.
I hate dentists as much as I hate doctors.
Their surgery's all smell the same: like foul dead people and sterilization. I never knew sterilization had a scent, until I spent two months in hospital when i was 3. I remember it,which is worse.
Even in the children's ward, you could not escape the smell of depression and starkness.
I don't see much point in me going to the dentist either: I know exactly what they're going to say.
"We're going to take this out."
"We're going to fill this in."
"Smoking is bad for your teeth."
"Brush your teeth more often."
"Brush your gums when you brush your teeth."
"Stop drinking so much juice and coffee!"
"Stop smoking."

I hate dentists; every one I've ever visited are so fucking smug. It's almost as if their life mission is to make people feel three inches tall. One day, I'm going to pull some shit on them in the dentist chair, and blind them with that fucking light they shine in my eyes everytime. And then bail like a motherfucker.

If I got a dentist that looked like George Castanza from Seinfeld, I would go to them more often. The reality of this situation, is that it's never ever going to happen.

My friend Chris just told me he lost his virginity Saturday night, to a girl he didn't know. He's 18, a little bit of a late bloomer, but he's a sweet enough guy.
The downside to the situation, was that apparently the girl slept with two other guys before him.
Being a softy, he was a little down on it.

"Don't be down on it," I told him. "It's really not that much of an issue."
"Well," I said sagely. "You only fucked. If you were seeking a deep and meaningful relationship with her, then you could make an issue of it. A meaningless fuck is a meaningless fuck. No issue."
"Good point."
"Yeah, I know these things, Chris. Ok?"

See? George ain't fussed.
As if you wouldn't want this guy as your dentist.

Sunday, November 2, 2008

Good Morning, Vietnam.

HALLOWEEN Pictures, Images and Photos

I'm currently suffering the after effects of two days of drinking.
It's not at all pretty.

Friday seen a halloween drinks at mine.
I currently dwell in my Mum's shed, that has been dubbed Good Morning, Vietnam as I have plants inside and it's constantly a war-zone. Clothes, Arguments, Sexual Negotiations, Artistic and Musical happenings etc etc.
It is also the residency of the majority of friends I have and a small rodent-like creature that I have come to call Alexander the Great.
Previously, i had a pet Huntsman Spider named Kevin, however Kevin crossed the personal space line a few months ago when i woke to find him on my face.
Kevin soon found himself evicted by means of the sole of my slipper.

I spent Friday night with The Girls and Jackson, Joanne's boyfriend. They have officially been promoted to Most Unlikely Couple of 2008.
We drank excessive amounts of Bourbon and Vodka, and even a little bit of Goon, dressed as various fairytale creatures - of course, I dressed as a Pirate's Wench.
We stopped drinking, and continued into the night with a mixed CD, which included Celine Dion. I proceeded to dedicate my 3am rendition of the chorus to Power of Love, to my very absent friend Mike; a delicious little red-head currently residing in Vancouver after various stints in American Fat-Camps with obese, pepped-up, pre-pubescent children.
He is a Tennis Coach, apparently.
Yes, an Australian Tennis Coach.
How unlikely.

After Leah and I were announced Most Alcoholic/Best Shot Taker's on the Bellarine Peninsula, I decided my bed looked a very welcoming place. Forty-five minutes later, Jo is running about the place like a rabid chicken, screaming at me "Leah is dying!"
Code blue in Vietnam.
I wake up, stumble my drunken arse outside to find Leah, face down in a bucket of rancid vom.
With her body temperature decreasing at a rapid pace, and me constantly informing Jo in a slurring manner, about the dangers of hypothermia, Joanne and I tried to get her up I also tried to help.
"Just make her walk; we'll lift her!" Joane was trying to tell me.
"No, fuck that," I replied, grabbing Leah's arm and almost falling in her munt. "Let's just fucking drag her!"
Across the concrete, Leah and I dragged ourselves, with the aid of Joanne, still trying to lift her drunk arse up. We dumped her on a mattress and sausage-rolled her in three blankets and a huge nanna jumper.
Sarah was beside her.
Although we were convinced Sarah was passed out, I was later screamed at by her.
"What?! I'm getting naked!"
"Get me a bucket!"
I tell Jackson to shut his eyes, as I race to the studio to grab a bucket. Quickly emptied my ceramics clay from it, raced it into Sarah.
Pulled my dress down from my belly button and held her hair from the Vom bucket. With some soothing words, I couldn't help but stare at the bile-decayed party-pies and chips, stewing in my favourite bucket. I felt sorry for my bucket.
Emptied the bucket into Mum's flowers.
Just as we thought everyone was ready to be put to beddie-byes, Anishka is outside with 13 glasses of goon and a longneck of beer in her guts, having a mental fucking breakdown. After a half an hour long screaming match with me, she comes to bed.

Just so you know, I have never met a person who can scream and cry as much as Anishka, whilst asleep.
Every hour or so, she would announce a loud "Oh, fuck me!" or "Noo!" or even a "FUCK YOU!"
I was convinced she was chasing a rabbit.
We would all laugh, slur a little, and go back to sleep.

I woke around 10am, to a rank acid smell. I rolled over, and found Anishka with her back to me, laying in a putrid pool of pale vom.
She had totally missed the towel in which i had put down for her to vom all over, and spewed on my best black sheets.
I was not impressed.

Rule Number One, of Getting Drunk in Vietnam: No Vomming inside.
Rule Number Two, of Getting Drunk in Vietnam: No Vomming on my Carpet: Outside is acceptable.
Rule Number Three, of Getting Drunk in Vietnam: If It involves your bodily secretions or liquids, you clean the shit up.

Whilst Anishka swept her vom from the floor and I stripped the bed, I recieved a call from work. Apparenty, i was a hour late.
So off I toddled, quite angrily and still rather drunk, down to work.
Forgot most of the prices.
Got abused by a woggish lady with terrible hair and too much foundation, that her double-shot-extra-milky-skinny-flat-sugary-latte was taing to long, after she only ordered it two minutes before. She was obviously blinded by the disgusting amount of eye makeup she wore, to realise the 40-odd people standing in the shop waiting to shout their orders at us.
I felt like taking her complicated fucking coffee beverage, and injecting its contents into her eye.

Got a lift home with coworker Mark, who does not look legal enough to drive. He was asked his age once; he was informed he looked no older than thirteen.
I lolled.

Saturday night seen me have a brief nanna nap, eat a gross amount of toasted sandwiches and drink the remainder of the alcohol with Dad, who had arrived late that afternoon with a new scrapbooking album for me.
Dad, an ex-cowboy, now travels an hour and a half to get drunk with his underage daughter, and try to discuss how much of an equilibrium we are for each other. I love the fact that my Dad cooks most of his deserts with the aid of white wine or beer, and makes a mean apple and blackberry pie.
He now gets paid large amounts of money to drive a cement agitator: it basically means he gets paid to sit on his arse in a truck and listen to CD's all day. Occasionally, he pushes a button.

Went to work again today.
Waitressed my arse off.
Fucked up an order.
Danced with a teatowel.
Got a lift home with Mark.
Slept for half an hour.
And now, I'm finished writing this blog

I’m going to leave you with some pictures of our Halloween adventure in Vietnam.

Before Drinking: Maturity Levels soaring in the kitchen. See dicks, breasts, balls and bones.

I add a certain sexuality to my cooking.


taking shots with sarah.

Me and Joanne.

"Wench! Bring me my two cigarettes!"
Me with my cigs, with a numerous amounts of shots in my belly.

"Oh, Mr Bourbon, I do declare!
... you make me very moist."

Anishka's Vom: My bed.
Note: my slippers were very close to the warzone.

L-R: Jackson, Joanne and Leah - awake but not feeling great.

xx Amy-Jean.