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.