"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!"
"DONT USE THE BLEACHING TOOTHPASTE!"
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."
"Yeah, I know these things, Chris. Ok?"
See? George ain't fussed.
As if you wouldn't want this guy as your dentist.
Monday, November 3, 2008
"Fuck Off, get out."
Posted by Amy Jean at 10:02 AM