trash and blow.

Homeless People.

2010-06-17T21:30:00.004+10:00

I try to avoid 'The Big Issue' magazines that everyone tries to flog me; they see me a mile away and think that I'll be an easy target.
I mean, I signed up to Greenpeace at one stage, because the Italian guy shouted me down in the main road of Morwell and everybody looked at the "Hey, Pretty lady! Pretty Lady! Yes You!" that he was screaming at (me).

It was a very romantic proposal, and I hope that one day, a real man that knows what a shaver is and does not campaign against Shampoo, will propose to me as romantic and chivalrously as he did.
Hopefully, without asking for my permission to Direct Debit $30.00 every month into the Greenpeace bank account.
Needless to say, the wedding was off when I canceled my monthly payment two weeks later.
I'll save Baby Orangutans on my own, without Alejandro's help.

I like those homeless guys; never homeless women because they're always really obnoxious.
Homeless guys are usually really sweet, and kind of elderly and my natural womanly, nurturing instincts come fighting and I feel really horribly for these guys.

I've met two homeless guys that I really felt sorry for. But the first guy, he really did something to me, that made me think twice about homeless guys.
I met this guy, about a year ago in the City, and he was getting shouted down by some arsehole in a five-hundred-dollar, Italian-imported suit, with a quiff bigger than Amy Winehouse's beehive.
I came up to this ignorant prick, asked him where the fuck had he learned his manners. I gave the homeless guy the ten-dollar note in my wallet and offered him a couple of smokes. Suit-guy looked shocked and walked away with his proverbial fox-tail between his legs and Homeless Guy grinned a big, gummy grin and told me that it wasn't everyday that someone stopped, gave him ten-dollars and talked about the weather with him.
After I left, I realised I'd missed my train, because I'd stopped to help this guy out, have a chat, be a human being for a little while, and had another hour to kill.
So I walked back and went to smile at Homeless guy, when he pulled me up and said:
"After you left, three people stopped and talked to me. You did something!"

People had seen me stop, give a little bit to help out, strike up a conversation from thin air about how Melbourne weather could give you all four-seasons in one day and how uncomfortable the suburban train seats were - and those people followed my lead.

It really, honestly, left me utterly speechless.

Turns out the human race just needs to get real, stop sniffing their arseholes on a regular basis and living life by the title that is given on their degree.

There's hope for us yet.

Blog-ginity and Infinite X's and Oh's.

2010-06-05T19:57:00.006+10:00

I would like you all to welcome my esteemed and scrumptious friend, Miss Page, to the world of blogging and its tremendousness.
She's cute, she's tremendously smart and a former Literature kid (like myself, although she now has to suffer a year longer than I did, through the swamps of knowledge and most often mundane pieces of literature) and we, both, are here to emancipate you from the shackles of monotonous bullshit.

And now, a large round of applause, for the fabulous Miss Page!

_________

Why hello there, dear reader. My, what a smashing blouse you’re wearing.

So, for my first foray into the delicious world of blogging, I had a multitude of topics to choose from: My recent traumatic breakup, my love for vodka, the unending tedium that is VCE, my theories on why people are shit, and suggestions on how they can become more awesome- you know, the usual fare.

But I thought I’d like to lose my blog-ginity in a truly epic fashion, by tackling one of society’s big issues, you know? Something that really affects us all.

People who post massively uninteresting status updates on Facebook.

Honestly people, do you think people actually care when you post something to the effect of "I'm about to eat dinner :D Yum!"

(Please notice I included correct spelling and punctuation here, something the majority of Facebook users don't seem to have heard of).

It is truly a blight on society. I get on Facebook to hear the interesting and hilarious details of my friends' lives. I don't care that you're having "chili con carne for tea mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm".

In fact, nobody does.

So why don't you just go gorge yourself on your precious chili con carne and leave me the hell alone.

ALSO:

Dear people who feel the need to tlk lyk dis nd say kwl sh!t- USE PROPER ENGLISH. PLEASE.

It physically pains me to read your status updates. Especially when you complain about how shit school is. It makes me wonder why you're actually attending school, since you're having such a shit time because elementary level spelling and mathematics is SOOOOOO difficult.

Personally, I think you should drop out- nobody's going to have any respect for you anyway, so you may as well save the teachers some of the hassle and let them teach people who have a future outside flipping burgers and driving a garbage truck (for the really talented among you).

(Amy in here, from T&B Headquarters: Did you know garbage trucks have dual-control steering mechanisms? It sometimes takes two to drive a garbage truck, you know. Difficulty level: Extreme.)

To all those who update their status to read "I'm bored" or "Facebook is boring," my advice to you is to get off your ass, get off Facebook and go DO SOMETHING! There's a whole wide world out there- go sit in front of the TV!

Look at a wall!

Go to sleep!

Do something other than telling me how boring Facebook is.

I don't care.

You're boring me. It's not my fault you're bored, why drag me down with you?

This directly links me to my next point: attention seeking statuses.

If you need to get gratification from the sympathy people give you from a status comment, you have a serious problem. I'd like to point out that these statuses take many forms, like the slutty, "Hot sex" status, which leads people to ask when and where you experienced such temperate lovemaking. So, you can either tell them all about your steamy encounter (probably either experienced in a closet or bathroom and lasting about 6 minutes, if not totally imaginary) in graphic detail, or you can coyly refuse to answer their questions, leading them to demand answers, thus gratifying your need to feel interesting.

You sick attention whore.

Then you have your emo, "I'm so depressed/ world is falling apart/ please don't leave me/ my soul is a black abyss" type, when everyone who truly cares about you (or simply has nothing better to do and wants you to shut the fuck up) will try to cheer you up. Then!

You have your "rate me from 1-10/ I will be TOTALLY honest for 1 hour, ask me anything/ which word best describes me/ like this status if you want to hug me" which, if acknowledged, lull the poster into the delusion that they are desirable and not just a little bit sad. I purposely try to ignore these statusus, as should you, because nobody loves an attention whore.

Another thing that grinds my gears is those individuals who feel the need to profess their love for their significant other at the end of every status update. If it’s their birthday/your birthday/your anniversary/they've done something really sweet, this is understandable. But not when you go, for example, "miss u so much babe, i love you you're my world <3>!"

Then it's just ridiculous and you look needy and insane.

You make me super uncomfortable.

And if I was your boyfriend, I would be extremely uncomfortable, and look for somebody who wasn't so desperately clingy. Yes, it is cute to exchange sweet nothings with your partner. No, nobody else wants to experience it in any way.

That's like making out vigorously on a register belt at a supermarket. And having an announcement put over that there are two people making out vigorously on a register belt.

Now, I like to think I'm a pretty tolerant person...

No, scratch that. I hate everyone for something. I'm sure a lot of people think that the message in this rant does not apply to them. It really, really does. I urge everyone who has taken the time to read this to make their status updates as interesting as possible, with correct grammar, spelling and punctuation. And no mushy-gushy, lovey-dovey, bouncy-bouncy yum-yum time messages.

Save it for the bedroom, sweetie.

Now, if you will all excuse me, I'm bored, but dinner's ready, chili con carne, yummmmm, nd i h8 skwl cuz teh tchrz iz gay nd sh!t nd cnt w8 2 c my boi 2nite, luv u sfm babe foreva, happy 2-day anniversary! <3>

You see what I did there? That was sarcasm. If I see a status like that on your facebook page, I will remove you from my friends list.

Okay. That's a lie. But only because I don't know how to delete a person from my friends list.

But if I ever find out how, so help me God... *shakes fist*

That will be all.

Was it as good for you as it was for me?

- Miss Page.

(Oh, it was, Miss Page, it was.

You may all remove hands from pants...

...now.)

Bang, Bang - You're Dead.

2010-04-08T13:25:00.006+10:00

Pup.

I haven't slept in two days and too many fucking hours and minutes and I've lost count of the seconds ticking by because I have no true sense of time and its importance at all.
I've sat in bed and I've closed my fucking eyes, but nothing.
And by 7.30am this morning, I had come to the conclusion that today, was single-handedly, the absolute worst day I'd ever had.

Sleep and Food are right up there with sex, cigarettes and Jameson's Irish Whiskey on my prioty list.
I can sleep for days when the whim takes me - I could sleep through a nuclear war -but when it doesn't, its like being gnawed at my some fucking harpy, for anywhere up to four or more days, where if I'm lucky, I'll hit up one, maybe two hours of a nap until the slightest fucking thing sets off that nasty, teeth-gnashing inner bitch and I'll tear your fucking head off because of it.

So let me tell you all about my fucker of 48 hours.

Last night, Dad stayed around and he brought The Pup, a sweet faced, bright blue eyed little thing who doesn't have an off-button, which was really cute until 3something a.m this morning, when he was still trying to eat my toes, and I had a cat in one ear, trying to fucking eat him and then he'd squeal and eat my toes some more.
So I stayed awake, listened to The Libertines and Dad took me for a McDonalds breakfast, at 4.30, because I was really fucking hungry and akin to a fucking grizzly bear or something, and I just wanted to eat bacon.

So we ate McDonalds and that was fine, until ten minuets later when the grease and fake egg or whatever that shit is inside those Bacon and Egg fucking McMuffins, curdled in my guts and I hit the Ladies Room with a spewy, bilious vengence.

In the new car, and we're driving and I'm pretty sure I want to die, and by the time we get to the knackery, its a bit past 5am and, yeah, a coma might be nice right about now.
As i'm getting out, dad tells me that Fat Lola's getting friendly with cows in a twenty acre paddock and it's pissing down with icy fucking needles and I really don't want to go catch this fucking horse, knowing full well she'll be a complete bitch about leaving her new found brainless friends.
So off I go, down this fucking hilly bitch of a mudhole, in the pissing rain, with a raw gut and my cigarette, is needless to say, completely fucked.
And the horse gives me the fucking run around for twenty minutes, and the cows got their good morning fucking giggles, those fat hairy bastards.
So the horse is off the handle because me, cold-heartless me, has taken her away from her big fat dumb friends (Remember when having a fat friend was trendy? Everyone had one) and I"m soaked to the bone, hoping I'll slip in the mud and drown and end up in a coma, just so I can have a really good sleep without some fucking thing waking me up.

So I'm in the office, ready to scan 30something cattle eartags for Dad, and the magic NLIS wand that's about the same length as one of my legs, doesn't want to work, so I go about doing it all manually, which is fine until I work out that I've fucked myself in the arse with the books and I'll have to spend the day re-doing the books from the middle of March.
In order to do that, I have to go to the bucket and chronologically re-order all of march's eartags - which are all fucked up in a bucket with tags back from middle-January or something - and write down twelve digit fucking numbers and annoying, tedious bullshit like that.
So I did that, and Dad made me a coffee, which was hugely appreciated, but a stiff drink might have gone down pretty sweet at the time, too.
by now, it was well into 6something-or-other, and I was still cold and wet and had no spare clothes to change into, and all of dad's were dirty, so I took on a whole new meaning to "chilling out" - I was chilling inside and fucking out.

Dad starts shouting and having a great old laugh, and i go out to check it out, as I always fucking do because I"m a nosey little fucker.
Pup's going to fucking down in the blood drain and oozey fucking green carcass juice that's come off the rotten-black cattle that dad picked up... whenever, I didn't care, he fucking stank.
My cute little pup looked like a fucking zombie, and I tell you, I was ready to put him in the Pet fucking Cemetary for it.
Into the shower room and soaped him up and he smelt like strawberries or some other fucking lame fruit, I don't know, i didn't care, it smelt better than fucking offal.
So I got through bathing a dog and sorting March eartags and I'd started on April when Dad had left to go kill some stuff and I wanted to go and kill some stuff too, to be honest.
We're looking at somewhere closer to 7something, now.

Anyway, so I'm there alone and I just want to relax and he's left the keys in the ignition to the new car, and as every teenage daughter does, I took the new car for a joy ride, of which I planned to get really joyous doing so, hence the name from whence it came.

So I've packed Pup in the Passenger side with his new flash lead I got him the other day (it matches his totally pimpin' collar that one of the Chris's got him) and I've even got my thermos full of coffee, because I plan to be a while. Push in my favourite Queen mixed tape, because I love driving with Feddie Mercury or David Bowie on a rainy day.
I've got a cig and coffee, a cute pup seeing as I don't have a cute boyfriend (My dad thinks its a great alternative), a Queen mixed cassette and a new station wagon which isn't the trust red PanelVan that Dad wrecked, but thats ok, it runs sweet on gas and it has roof racks and foldable seats, so I'm set for this adeventure with my dog, even thoguht it'll probably fucking rain on me again, but honestly, I'm fucking cold and wet anyway so what's the fucking diff?

So Pup and I hit the road, for all of about fifteen minutes.
I wasn't even speeding - I think I managed 60 on a relitively straight spot, because I shit my pants whenever it's rainy, and on Dad's roads, with loose gravel (now sloppy mud that looks like it was a fuckign swamp) and curves like my fucking hips, pushing anywhere past 60 is dangerous fucking business.
I hit the corner a little faster than what I should have and the wheels slipped and I ran over soemthing fluffy and then something black smasked into my side window and whatever I ran over was big and it stank and I knew it was stuck to my car or something, so I hit the brakes and everything was fine, but Pup was going apeshit.
So I get out, and find i've got bits and pieces of a roadkill Wombat and Pup wants to fucking eat it; and I've got this disgusting flapping squarking crow.
I mean, crows NEVER get hit, but I - me - managed to fucking hit one.
Nevertheless, ruthless little old me, in my ruthless little old mood, kind of felt sorry for this stupid fucking crow, because I'm pretty sure he was hurt, and Pup just wanted to fucking eat it.
It was a smorgasboard for Pup - smelly dead roadkill (it might have well have been double-crumbed gormet snitzel, if you were to ask his opinion) and a blubbering black bird (of the variety that like to fight Pup for the scraps at the knackery door).
So I'm trying to help this bird and Pup comes over and the bird goes apeshit and the dog goes apeshit and I've well and truely cracked the shits with this bird.
"FUCK YOU! DIE THEN! YOU UGLY LITTLE FUCKER!"
I'm glad no one was around; I was off my chops at this blundering fucking bird and at the dog, in fucking gumboots twenty-sizes too big and ripped up jeans and a soppy fucking bum-jumper but I had bigger problems - I had half a wombat stuck to my new tyres.
So I'm pulled off to the side, hoping a truck isn't going to do what i did and hit the corner and clean me, my apeshit fucking puppy and my new wheels, right up and turn us into the Double-Crumbed decomposing Wombat Snitzel stuck to my tyres like putrid fucking bubblegum.
So here I am, scraping Wombat off my tyres with a stick, cursing that stinky bastard right to hell.
"You stupid fucking Wombat. You deserved to be fucking snitzel. Who the fuck do you think you are, sticking to my fucking BRAND NEW TYRES, YOU MANGY LITTLE MOTHERFUCKER!"

Back in the car and we're off again, this time, really fucking pissed off - I should have performed a perfect three-point turn, right over that motherfucking crow - but I'm jamming out to Bohemian Raphsody and a volley of other stuff, and its raining even more and I think, "Look, stop the car, turn around and go home before you drive off a bank or get stuck in a tar bog like those Mammoths on the discovery channel or something fucking horrific, because if you fuck this car, Dad will lynch you from the fucking closeline."
Yeah, Ok, Sweet Deal; I turn around and life's sweet, I'm out of coffee by now anyway.

My casette player goes into full-frontal cardiac fucking arrest and Freddie's getting gutted by the cassette player and Pup's apeshit again and oh my fucking god, I want to beat my head against the steering wheel until I hemorage and a whacko fucking dairy farmer will find me three days later, looking worse than what he does.
Anway, in the chaos of Freddie getting mauled by this pig of a fucking ancient cassette player and Pup doing his fucking narna about it all, having a swell old time, I've smacked the brakes on, the wheels went fucking sideways and I actually thought I was going to die, so I over-corrected and we skidded about on the grass and I gassed it too hard.
And by some fucking means, I'm fucking sideways, Pup's hit the fucking deck and I'm staring out the windscreen on a weird fucking angle that I've never seen before - not even when I've been booze-blasted into fucing oblivion - and I've been in some weird angles when I've rocketed into booze oblivion.
I'm fucking ropable by now, and I try to get out of the car and I'm fucking jammed in, I can't even get it open because, guess what, we're in a dirty old fucking ditch.
And get this: we're in a dirty fucking ditch, five fucking meters from my front gate.

So what does any woman, deprived of food or sleep or any general comforts such as warmth and dry clothes do?
She lights a cigarette.
And she goes.
Absolutely.
Fucking.
Mental.

I'm cussing this ditch to the shit, Pup's dazed and confused, probably concussed but he's a dog, it's not like I can ask him if he has an aneurysm or something and I kill the engine, just incase we fucking blow up or something like that, because it'd be my luck and Dad would not be very fucking impressed.
So here's me, in all my ingenuity, beating the steering wheel, sideways, and them I'm jumping - more like beaching - myself against the passenger side seat, trying to knock the car back down onto the gravel, because the wheels aren't actually touching the road - I thought one was, but no, not my fucking luck today.
So then, i freak out that if i keep beaching myself on the passenger side, I'm going to break the car in half or bend an axle or fuckign something like that that sounds expensive to fix, so I end up climbing over the backseat and bailing out through the hatch, which as far as style cred goes, it was the lowest move ever, whilst logically in my mind, it was the least dangerous and damaging thing to my life, but if I had fucked the car, I might have well scratched out my last will and testament in the paint job.
And I cut loose, unleashed fucking hell, on the front grid of the car. Kicking and fucking screaming, "FUCK THIS! FUCK YOU! FUCK THAT! HE'S GOING TO KILL ME! I'VE FUCKED HIS CAR! I'M SO FUCKED! FUCK!"
In the tantrum, I've thrown my gumboots at the windscreen and I've ripped Pup out of the car and I'm storming up my fucking driveway, in the motherfucking rain and slushy mud, barefoot and wailing like some pent up three year old, "HE'S GOING TO FUCKING KILL ME! FUCK!"

So I rang my mum.
Having a complete, fully-fledged panic attack complete with self-asphyxiation and bawling fucking tears, wailing down the line at my poor mother telling her the whole story from start to finish, from the fucking foul McDonalds breakfast, right through to the Wombat lodged in my tyre tread, to Pup's possible fucking brain aneurysm and that my feet were all fucking cold and that, fuck me, I'd trompsed fucking mud right through his house because I'd thrown a whole-hearted tantrum at the car (including Gary's gumboots), and if he didn't kill me for putting the car in a ditch, he was going to really go fucking mad about having slooshy fucking gravelly mud through his fucking house.
My mum laughed so fucking hard.
And when Dad came home, he basically pissed his pants, he giggled so fucking hard.
And so did Lefty and Gary, and they all fucking leered about my complete over-fucking-reaction to a little ditch, and that all we'd have to do was bump it out with the truck.
And fuck me, I was so confused.
i was completely off my tits on confusion.

Thankfully, the car made it from the ditch, sans fiery inferno or broken whatsits that sound really fucking expensive to get repaired, with little more than a broken side-mirror.
Apparently, they cost around $20 to get replaced at SuperCheap Auto or some amazing bargain place like that.
And Pup doesn't have an aneurysm.
And I still havent slept, but I'm sitting in bed, retelling you this story, kind of dazed and spaced out of life completely; but Ive got a coffee and a cigarette and Carl Barat singing at me, so I can't be that dazed and spaced out.

...what the fuck happened today?

Snowball.

2010-04-06T00:06:00.002+10:00

She's coming to fucking eat you.

dream a little dream, of me.

2010-04-05T23:25:00.002+10:00

I'm going to write a book.
Don't ask me what about, just yet, because I honestly have no-fucking-idea. I'm thinking of being a witty author and being completely contempary, like all the trendy kids these days, and making it semi-autobiographical; just going to have some situations, loosely based upon real-life events strewn in there like a dogs breakfast, but fuck me, it'll be a good fucking book and you're all going to run out and buy it when and if I ever publish, let alone finish, that bastard.
So far, I'm ten pages down.

I want my characters to swear, a lot, and write it how a character might see it.
For Example, I made up a character today. I sat down, on my bed, and I wrote about my character, and how fucking awesome he's going to be.
Then, I hit delete and just started writing shit the way he sees it:
_____________________________

Women loved Joe.

All fucking women loved Joe.

Fat ones, skinny ones, shy or ballsy ones, dykes and princesses and the Miley fucking Cyrus's of the universe, fitness fucking yoga-freaks, pre-pubescent groupies in miniskirts and their gravity-skewed mothers, alcoholic drug-addled Debbie Harry fucking look-a-likes - you fucking name it – they all loved him.

They loved everything about Joe, right down to the stray hairs on his stubby, daylight-deprived toes.

_____________________________
To say the least, I'm completely in love with Joe.
He's my kind of man.
Personally, I'd marry Joe.
If he were real.
In my mind, He's some drop-dead fucking gorgeous alcoholic who talks a mile a minute with an accent, which is precisely why there's nearly fuck-all grammar whenever he's around.
I'd love to throw in some semi-fucking-colons in there, but it's Joe. He's got no fucking time for semi-fucking-colons and all that bullshit that goes with semi-fucking-colons and commas and full stops. Fuck that, he might say, if he could be fucked saying it.

And that's about as far as I've got.

In other news, I drank a bottle of Jameson for Kaisha's 18th and fucked myself up hardcore with bananas.
My fucking Jesus, Joeseph and doggy style mary - I was messy - and really fucking hungry.
I had booze and protein all in my grill, and neither of them wanted to be friends.
My sister drank a bottle of Johnny Walker this week and up-chucked for the following day. I was pretty proud when she kept the McDonalds down for most of the day, though.

We were laying in bed, as all sisters love to do in a compeltely non-incestrious manner, and we came to realise that she'd actually been locked inside a Mongolian prision or detention camp or something, for eight years, and just telling everyone she was in Queensland because at the time, Queensland was trendy and no one had any idea how to convert our currency to whatever the Mongolian fucking currency is, let alone know what it's value is or was, or whatever.

I'm reading Nick Cave's new book finally, (I'm a terrible worshiper, really) and my god, am I in fucking love?!
I've got recordings of him on my iFail, doing readings and my heart goes insane.
Everytime I read about Bunny Munro, I can't help but just imagine a somewhat younger Nick Cave, sans moustache and with thicker hair, as he is getting a little bald up-top nowadays, and it really does make me sad.

Come to think of it, my fangirl life is practically complete all but for a few things.
I have Nick Cave in my ear, reading me to sleep, the Libertines are reuinting for Leeds festival, in the year that i started planning for England - bastards.
It made me think, however, that when I planned to go to England, they re-unite. Coincidence?
So if, maybe, I plan to get completely off-my-tits-shit-faced with Carl Barat in a bar in London, I'm going to get a job in said bar, serve Carl barat drink all evening and then get completely off-my-tits-shit-faced with Carl Barat?
Coincidence?
Oh, it better fucking be.

hey stranger;

2010-03-12T22:01:00.002+11:00

Recently, I realised my life is flowing along at a steady, yet pretty fabulous pace.
Ten joints of pathetic, terrible leaf, a couple of glasses of warm Jameson and turning noises made by general household kitchen appliances into sexual groans, can really wake someone's mind.
A spray-painted pink cardboard aeroplane, reminiscent of lessons taught by Playschool was mashed in there somewhere, too.

I've started playing guitar again.
Amazingly.
I was ready to give in to the idea of never being that great of a gutiarist, and like everything else, bully myself out of ever doing anything about it. But I put my game face on, struck up some bar-chords and realised that I just needed to buy some new strings.

I've remedied my whining with two new bank accounts; an England Fund and a Slush Fund.
Ironically, the slush fund is dry.

I'm going to England.
Everything happens in England; wars, fame, stabbings - you now, the usual.
And I'm a total sucker for a pompous bastard with a cockney accent and a bottle of Jammers.
My real reason is just to go there and hang out at the Boogaloo, in vain hope I might meet someone famous (see Carl Barat) and get laid.
Or try and find some incredible magneti cforce that will fuck with Big Ben and I'll cause some controversy.
Hijack one of those red buses, ride in a black, funny-doored taxi, blah blah blah.

I am the kind of person that does make things happen, I suppose.

Retrospect

2010-01-18T01:34:00.001+11:00

I got so excited about moving; I've lived in 18 different houses since my birth. By now, it should be second nature. Or so one would suppose.

I spent so much time hating Geelong, that I forgot about how much I loved the People I'd come to call my friends.
I made life friends there; in a hellhole that loved nothing more than to hurl the odd nervous breakdown, fight, or narcissistic excuses for men in my general direction.
I made friends that I want to have for years to come; people who I can laugh and cry with - girls I can gossip and indulge with; boys I can talk about poo and disgusting things, and rock out with our cocks out.

I used to get kicks out of uprooting myself to see what unruly adventure would come about. The difference now, is that I made bonds with people in Geelong; and I'm sitting here, pushing them away.
Because I made myslef lonely - I could go to Geelong, I could be there every weekend if I didn't spend my money, or didn't go and try to save for a zillion things all a once; try to keep mum well and dad under control. Suddenly, i'm living in the longterm. I've never lived in the longterm.

I'm scared to go back to Geelong. I've left my visits I so soundly promised everyone, I've lost a lot of contact, because I've been too chickenshit to admit I might miss the place and the endeavours.
I'm scared that my friends might not want me, or welcome me with open arms like I would welcome them.

I treated people without the slightest care in the world; namely those I loved the most - the ones who were always there to pick up the slack and help me out.

I miss the girls - Jo, Chan, Sarah; I miss equine and making funny quips about Longer's sarcasm. I miss hanging out at Ward Manor, or riding on the beach or on the fat ponies with Jo.

I miss Kay, my little fish. I miss our crushes on Hearnalicious and the Walshingmachine. I miss eating vegan food and watching boosh and bating over Dita; I miss Shazcookie and her chic-chip cookies and awesome bod.

I miss Anishka, smoking joints with her in her bathroom and eating copious amounts of junk food; I miss that girls golden smile.

I miss Baby and his hair, his rank farts, ridiculous jokes and similar complaints about people.
I miss Andy, and how he just put up with whatever missile - verbal or otherwise - I had to throw at him.
I miss James and Sophia. I miss mothering the shit out of James and bringing him left-overs so he had lunch, or listening to his latest self-dare he'd made up whilst tripping on wicked acid. I miss soph, and having someone who wanted Nick Cave as much as I did.

I miss Buttons. There's some nights where I sort of hope he just might show up here and we'll go for coffee or we'll smoke too many cigarettes, and I'll nod off whilst he reads me stuff from metal magazines of bands I know nothing about. He always made such an effort to keep me happy or be there in those dire moments when I was totally neurotic or stranded somewhere. But he never let me cook for him. Never stayed for dinner. He never asked a single thing of me; not once.
I always took him for granted.

Come to think of it, I took everyone for granted. I taught myself my own lesson; turns out all those exboyfriends were 100% correct when they told me I was a self-consumed cunt.

I lost too much in 2009.

I miss my friends; the life and times.

Cry Junkie

2010-01-17T02:32:00.001+11:00

Call the chivalry, I feel another self-hating, hormone-fuelled blog coming on.

Fucking yeeha, hold on to your hats, guys and dolls, for another thrilling drawl about...

Absolutely nothing important at all.

I finally realized how much of a terrible person I am. Hooray for self insight; thanks a lot, reality!

I much prefered being oblivious.

Time to practice what I preach with all this deep, heavy "You make the choices!" and "learn your life lessons" bullshit I've been ramming at people like an angry erection.
I am not Dr Phil; I am not a middle aged, balding Texan. Half the time, I don't even know what I'm on about.

I'm the one to blame; I made myself lonely.

Viagra for the mind

2009-12-30T01:49:00.000+11:00

So I blog to you, the reader, from my comfy bed via my latest piece of undamaged technology, also known as the iFail/iPhone.
I'm at a loss as to how it's survived more than a month with me as it is.

Recently, I blew a stack of cash on a camera that I'll probably take medicore photographs with, lose the filters to, and eventually casually break it into a million pieces one night. The following morning, I'll have no recollection, and blame it on whoever is in close radius of me. It'll be just my luck.

Thanks to said camera, of which cost so much, I still have another $200 to pay on it, I am destitute, broke, living in poverty and about to be the only under 21 person in the entire universe spending new years eve stone cold sober, thanks to dad declaring that he's no longer going to be a bludging alcoholic with minimal liver function - now, he's turning into a camp, orange juice addict. Today, i went with him do his shopping hoping to scab food. We entered supermarket sans shopping trolley. He got to carry his bread, and i had to carry fifteen litres of breakfast juice. Just my fucking luck, thank you, dad.

To add insult to injury, I've put on a kilo after shedding 5 and no longer can squeeze my bloated, sore tits into my favourite dress because birth control likes to fuck with my hormones, and juice litres of blood out of me for anywhere up to three weeks at two or three month intervals. All this - the inability to wear nice clothes, bloating body parts, temporary spasms of bipolar - so I don't have to take a ridiculous pill I know I'll forget, and end up eight and a half months up the duff, the size of an orca whale, dressed in a fucking floral MuMu, wondering why the fuck did I complain in the first place?

Anyone got a Valium?

Puppy Breath.

2009-12-08T17:24:00.007+11:00

I'm addicted to gross things. Avid readers and good friends should know this.
Straight teeth are a turn on, but they sure don't match up to something like Spina Bifida, gigantic crooked noses, bleeding wounds afflicted for obscure reasons, dinky eyes or legs - the list goes on.
The addiction spawns from a love of doing gross things.
And I wonder why I'm still single?

I love the smell of puppy breath. When I'm around puppies, I'm the biggest sucker for the puppy with the worst puppy breath. Forget the cute ears and wet noses, its the puppy breath. I used to be for the ugliest puppy there.
When I was a kid, my dad brought me to look at these cute little jack russell pups. I was so excited.
He wanted me to get the pup that looked like Wishbone - and if you dont know who Wishbone is, Google it right now - but there was this disgusting, dirty looking little throwback pup. He was all wiry and poo-coloured brown, and definately didn't look like a jack russell.
I picked him, and we named him Fugly. Because thats exactly what he was.
He was a total gun of a dog; he played soccer with me when I was a kid, when I thought I was going to be Australia's Next Big Thing. I got so good at playing soccer with Fug, that I joined my primary school Girls Team. I was thrown off because I was such a shit player; the principal was the coach, and he alikened me to an eager puppy that just got in the way.
Thank you, Fugly.
In the end, we had to move to a house that didn't allow dogs, so we gave him to my uncle.
Two years later, he got hit by a car, chasing a bird.

I was reviewing pick up lines with Cody today. I think we discovered why my pick up skills have completely diminished. The conversation began when I complained (as per fucking usual) that everyone has more sex than me.
According to Deez Nuts' "Sex Sells", the ideal woman measures 36", 24", 36".
I measure 46", 28", 47".
Fuck you, Deez Nuts.
Don't be hatin' on my ghetto booty and tits.

Life Lessons.

2009-11-15T21:57:00.003+11:00

Do you know why babies cry the moment they're born?
I don't know the specific scientific reasonings behind it all, but my theory is this:
You've just been ripped from a nice, floaty warm place with no lights, because some fucker issued you an eviction notice you didn't know about. You're being kicked out, dude. What a blowout; your life is over. Where will you live?
So you're being removed by this place, shoved town some tight space that logically, you shouldn't fit through. And then, fucking bam.
Lights in your eyes, and your lungs are fucking stinging.
Why?
Because you've never fucking breathed this toxic fucking shit that dudes are polluting with germs and fumes and other acidic shit that you didn't know about.
Fuck me, Jesus, this must fucking suck.

And that, is your first life lesson. What a shit start to learning and life. Not only were you gargling and thinking you're about to die, you're covered in blood and uterine excrements and other disgusting muck. And to make things worse, you come from your mothers vagina. You'll come to learn, that your parents had to get naked to make you. How fucking gross.

Throughout your, on average, 70-80something years, you go on learning silly, stupid things, important, life-or-death things, and most importantly, learning from your mistakes.
A lot of people I know take this "learn from your mistakes" mantra either too seriously, or totally for granted.
What people need to realise, is that this knowledge and ability is not a gift from the moment you're born. A toddler, for instance, will take off his nappy and shit all over the floor. Quite fucking happily, as well. He'll be told off, he'll cry and scream and kick and fucking wail, say "Sawwreee Muuummmeee", and everyone's happy.
Sometime later, he's pissing and/or shitting near the couch.
And the vicious cycle begins all over again.
Don't laugh; we all pissed on mum's floor at one time or another, and blamed it on the dog.

This is where you need to recognise whether or not you, the reader, possess this quality.
After Mum told you off for eating out of the dog bowl, the kitty litter, pulling your siblings hair or pulling off Barbie's head, or as before mentioned, pissing/shitting on the floor, did you defy Mum and waited until she or the dog wasn't looking, and went off and did it again?
If you did, you do not possess this quality and/or fault, and I feel happy, yet pity for you.
Happy, because you're obviously oblivious to the things you're doing wrong, hence you're living a fabulous life without regrets and doubts because you don't know any better. Good on you, you lucky, dumb bastard.
Pity, because everyone else thinks you're a dumb bastard.

Somehow, by some messed up, disgusting stroke of a Supreme Being/He Who Must Not Be Named (God, Voldemort, whoever was in fashion and most trendy on that day), I, your author, got caught in some parallel dimension, in between not knowing and knowing how to "learn
from mistakes".
It didn't take me long to figure out that my mum was going to lose her shit when I didn't pick up my toys, or ate cat crunchies, or broke other kids toys because they broke mine.
So I didn't do that.
Instead, I just kept finding new ways to push the boundaries between "Amy is such a good girl, I wish my kid was just like her" and "Get that fucking thing out of my house before I kill it."
When I hit puberty, with hormones fueling destruction everywhere I went, I totally threw the "learn from mistakes" theory right out the window for a while.
After I regained consciousness to reality, I gathered some helpful information through life evaluation.
A normal Plain Jane or Average Joe would only need to evaluate his or her life a few times in their entire existance, or at least, check in with themselves once a year to see how things went.
I do it monthly.
"Ok, Amy-Jean, what fuck ups did you create this month?"
I make a list.
I never used to write it down, until recently. Sometimes, I'll skimp through with one or two, and others the list will be as long as my forearm.

I've found, by writing down my mistakes, I have the supreme talent of aknowledging them, analysing them, breaking them down and devising information and developing research on them. Whilst this might seem entirely anal-rententive to most, I don't really care.
I can tally the mistakes up: 2 x Farting on an Innocent Bystander, 5 x using the word "Cunter" without good reason, ect.
I'm seeing that I'm making bigger mistakes more often.
And they're generally things that have to do with emotional bullshit such as feelings, boys, how boys feelings are affected, blah blah blah.
Example; My friend Daniel just got a haircut. As he was describing it to me, I wet my pants laughing. Later in the conversation, he was praising me on how straight forward I am, and how guys should dig that. I further went on to cut him off, saying how his new haircut will make him look like Shrek if he were annorexic.
I think he regrets having me in his life sometimes.
He also come to say that I "harbour too much hate" towards men, specifically those who have scorned me.
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

In which, we come to a totally different tangent, as I am quite famous for chopping-and-changing.
Relationships and Me.
Think Marley and Me, but with bombs, guns and lots of ammo. And no fucking children.
For those who aren't familiar, let me give you a run through on the story:
Starts off cute and cuddly. Is commonly reffered to "Yard Sale Puppy" until name is actually recognised. Eats everything. Shits a lot. Eats some more. Brings in chicks. Eats chicks food. Realises that bringing in chicks is causing unwanted attention from Owner-man. Offends chicks and everyone else. Gets angry at owner-man and wrecks his stuff. Eats some more. Loses a few friends. Bombs go off. Some dude loses his shit and goes all Collumbine on everyone. The earth implodes. Yard Sale Puppy has a cry, floating around in space because there isn't any eath anymore. Feels good because no fucker can annoy Yard Sale Puppy. Feels lonely. Wants to find another earth with possibilities of another owner-man. Eats some more. The end.

I suggest you get the book or get the dvd or something. Its actually nothing like that.

Basically, I'm one of those girls who is all happy and dandy, eating herself stupid on doritos and chicken, masturbating to the Oozevoodoo album and occasionally getting face-blindingly drunk on IGA's entire supply of liqour. Until something goes awry.
You can either catch the icy cold, green eyed, vulnerable bitch, or the "next time your dick finds itself in another girl, please call me. I'd like to watch" side. I haven't really had a chance to bust out the "i'd like to watch" line yet. It's in its final stages of preparation, kind of like Windows Vista - I've got to iron out some glitches and aim it at a particular market.

Anyway. Punch line is, I suck at boyfriends. I wish there was a tutorial or something.

I might just stick to imagining I'm being serenaded every evening over copious amounts of alcohol and cigarettes and having wild sex with Kiss Reid.

Oh, Kissy.

SOS: PLUMBER

2009-11-09T22:30:00.004+11:00

Snowball and I discussing the workings and malfunctionings of our toilet device,
in 30-something degree heat. We also hate the heat and want to move to the snow.

Over the last three years, Mum and I have lived in four difference houses, and four different toilets have died on us.
In the first house, we lived in Cabbage tree Creek, our tiny little paradise in the mountains. Due to living so far away from the the nearest town, our sewerage ran into a septic tank.
For three weeks, I walked around with my head in the clouds, complaining that something had crawled beneath our house and died.
For a following two weeks, Mum insisted that someone had died in the house at some point, and the smell must have gone through the floorboards.
A week later, our landlords nextdoor smelt it, and decided it's a serious problem. When seeking deeper information, Mr. Landlord found that treeroots had penetrated our septic tank and had caused a leak, along with a back-up. It was seriously gross.
When we moved, we managed not to break my Aunty's toilet. When we finally got our own place in Port, we had two toilets - "Number One" and "Number Two's".
I broke the glass seat on Number One, coming home from a drunk expedition to release the alcohol consumed; I cut my arsecheek on the glass stuff, and still have a scar today. All I remember, was running out to Mum squealing, "MY ARSE! MY ARSE IS BLEEEEEDING!"
Not long after, the pipes on both Number One AND Number Two started to leak. We didn't think much of it until it started to smell bad. We called the plumber, and the day that he was mean to arrive, the Number Two toilet backed up completely. I woke up, went into brush my teeth and was standing in ankle deep toilet water. I freaked; I lost my shit, no pun intended.
After the plumber fixed those problems, we never had another issue. Until we shifted again.
The first two weeks of living here, in our cosy new house, our toilet won't flush. At all. There's a blockage, and we can't fix it. We called our Landlord, we called our plumber, and no one wants to fix our toilet. I mean, I have to walk across to the KFC to go take a dump. It's terrible. I'm at the point of being so lazy, I'm thinking of just digging a hole in my backyard. Forget fittness from walking the kilometer it is to the street, I don't care about fitness; fitness doesn't make me feel good and it certainly doesn't give you the magical feeling of "just going".
The toilets been like this for nearly two weeks. I am getting weird looks from the people in KFC, who see me walk past almost everyday to use their toilet. I'm pretty sure they think I'm a home-toilet-aphobe; some kind of freak that hates using her own toilet or something.
In actual fact, I love my toilet.
When you're on the toilet, its basically the only time that no one can bother you. You can sit down, read a book, chill out, have a cry - whatever.

Please, Mr. Plumber-man, I miss my toilet-time.

Lucky7

2009-10-22T00:27:00.000+11:00

I've been planning a "Ten Things" Blog for a while, since I haven't made something akin to it for fucking ages. Get yourselves a coffee and a crumpet, and sit back to read!

THINGS A GIRL NEEDS IN HER HANDBAG:

1 - HER MAKE UP CASE

i buy all of my make-up on sale. I very rarely spend any more than $10-$15 on something, even if it does go on my face. Inside my adorable vintage case (purchased from an opshop) you can find:

Tampons - an absolute necessary
Liquid eyeliner, two different (cheapo) brands
Black, brown and white eyeliner - black for the top lids, brown for the eyebrows and white to go underneath silver glitter, nude toned eyeshadows or on the bottom lids for a little boom.
Scissors, for little hair or costume emergencies
A lighter
Various eyeshadows, ranging from glitters and bright colours, to classy nude tones that suit my skin
RED. LIPSTICK. 2 shades.
3 different mascaras of differnt impacts, and various false eyelashes.
A deoderant that is subtle, spells "I wash daily" and doesn't reak of scent-a'la-slut. I go for Dove. You can put it on straight after a wax or shave without that horrible stinging feeling, it doesn't leave any white marks AND its relitively cheap!
A loose powder and pale foundation - I went for $2 Shop powder, and $10.99 Australis powder creme.
A creme blush. Creme blushers give you uber control of where you want your cheekbones
A good quality moisturiser. Moisturise BEFORE foundation and your skin will love you for life. I personally choose Olay - I love how it makes me feel clean, it smells nice and its good for sensitive AND combination skin.

2) A PORTABLE MUSIC DEVICE:

Since the international boom of New Media devices, music is everywhere. Even starving african kids have iPods and Mobile phones now. Get yourself a good pair of those little pluggy earphones and jam out. best for long bus trips, giving people the hint that you don't want to talk to them, waiting for appointments or moody days. Also fantastic for getting a lovely boy to sit closer to you.
"Hey, you with the hair, come here. I've got a tune for you!"
After all, earphones only stretch so far.

3) A MOD-CON PHONE

Girls need these. Put up with the huge phonebills, constant chatting and sneaky photos when you're not looking your best. eHarmony estimates that 2% of all americans met on eHarmony; myspace and facebook estimates that 72% of all teenagers met through their social networks that are now accessible on telephonic devices.
4) A NICE WALLET / PURSE

I can't stand these new "flat" wallets that are metal and snap together. They're not a wallet. A nice wallet is made of leather or high-quality cloth, often has lovely embossing and lots of pockets for cards, photos, tickets ect. I got mine from a melbourne opshop for 50cents.

5) ADDRESS BOOK / JOURNAL

keep track of dates and numbers. Also gives you somethign to write in when you're bored or catch the number of that lovely boy on the train. seeing as my love life is currently null and void, my 200 different journals are reserved for drawing and scratching down reasons why I hate things.
6) A HOBBY

For me, I take my crochet hook and wool everywhere. I'm not greatly skilled at it, and can only master a scarf, but it takes away the boredom and keeps my hands busy when i'm on a train. If you're craft orientated, take along your scrapbook or notepad or knitting, and look super cute and craft all at the same time.
7) A DIGITAL CAMERA

I know the phone covers it, but a camera is great for parties or coffeedates with friends.

FAMOUS MEN I WANT TO YOKO:

1) KISS REID - THE SCARE

I wake up every morning, asking myself why Kiss Reid and i aren't sharing the same life or bed together.
2) NICK VALENSI - THE STROKES

The starving malnourished look does it for me. And, he likes dogs. He has a french bulldog; I want to hug it.
3) CARL BARAT - THE LIBERTINES

Can you look me in the eyes, and tell me this man doesn't ooze suave? My goodness. Swoon.
4) JESSE HUGHES - EAGLES OF DEATH METAL

Facial hair, tight jeans and tattoos. he can serenade me anyday.
5) NICK CAVE

And we come back to how much I love the "I'm-addicted-to-hard-drugs-and-not-eating-enough" look. Nick only started to lose points for me when the hair started to go. You could find me crying lots because of such events.
6) TOM WAITS

Come to think of it, the age doesn't freak me out with Tom. Fuck it. Tom Waits is still sexy as hell. He scares and grooves the panties off me.
7) TOMMY LEE - MOTLEY CRUE.

When I was thirteen, I was so in love with The bad Boy of GlamRock, I scratched "TOMMY LEE" with a love heart next to it with a penknife, because I was so bored. Such things can be found on my hand, just below my thumb. The heart faded, but the Tommy didn't.
Do I regret it?
Fuck No.

7 THINGS YOUR GIRLFRIEND REALLY DOESN'T WANT YOU TO DO DON'T DO:

1) Other girls.
2) Wear the same underwear or not shower, for more than two days in a row
After the second day, you stink.
You better have a good excuse to have only one pair of underwear.

3) Wear socks during sex
It's gross and really weird.
4) Scratch your balls, turn up on drugs, turn up hung over or beat up, with her parents around
She wants her parents to like you.
Parent's don't like these things. They think they're bad, gross and don't want their babygirl involved with such people.

5) Speeding
she doesn't want to be in a car accident and have horrible life-shanging, face-distorting scars, and she probably really likes having mobility and legs. She really doesn't give a flying fuck if you're a good driver or not. Good drivers crash too.

6) Liken her to one of your exgirlfriends / talk about your exgirlfriend post-sex 7) Make fun of her in front of her friends.

7 REASONS WHY MY LOVE LIFE IS REDUNANT

1) Changes
About a year or so ago, I was an over-possivile, clingly, relationship-obsessed freakgirl. In recent times, I've come to realise that I've gone from that, to being a total commitmentphobe. I don't know why; it sucks.
2) Unladylike
I fart, I pick my nose, I pick wedgies in public, do gross things to people. I talk about poo with Andy, and how much periods and constipation suck. I swear like a trooper in public, and can be often found wearing boys clothes or pajamas, because I can't be faggoted looking good that day.
3) Debatable
I"ll argue a point, even if I know I'm wrong. I'll fight for something that I believe in, and eventually try to convince you that I'm right. I think there is maybe two people who have caught me out on this; Cody can still shut me down. Bastard.
4) Complaining
If the opportunity arises, I'll complain. if I'm not complaining about something that I'm doing, I'm complaining about what others are doing. "What is your fucking problem? Why can't you work properly? Shut up, and do your shit."
You can find me complaining most in the car. "What the fuck? Why can't his guy drive? Where the fuck did he get his license? I drive better than him!"
I don't have my license.
5) Vain
I'm a self-confessessed self-aholic. I think about myself a lot, how I look, how I feel. I spend a lot of time in the mirror, being vain and complaining that I don't look good enough. Apparently, boys don't like girls that are both vain and unladylike.
6) Food
I love food. Don't come between me and chicken kiev, unless you don't value your life. I eat often, and I eat alot. Someone once told me, "Everytime I look at you, you're eating."
Eating is right up there with coffee, bourbon and cigarettes.
7) Intimidating.
A few of my friends have said that I can intimidate the shit out of people. I'm incredibly blunt, and the majority of my friends are boys that are rude, crude and just like me. If I don't like you for whatever reason I have, you'll definately know. I pass on the "Wow, you are sooo pretty! I'm going to kiss your arse and suck your toes until you like me!" bullshit; In my eyes, I'm really quite a nice person.

when it rains, it pours...

2009-10-13T18:12:00.003+11:00

new house.

In latest news, I have finally escaped the primordial wastelands of the Greater Geelong region. And I'm blissful. My Lola is roaming around at Dad's, fashionably owning the place and intimidating Dad's co-worker, Lefty, out of going near her without a peaceoffering such as apples, carrots or a feedbucket.
I'm wandering around Churchill and surrounding areas, taking daytrips into the city and back. However, still jobless, single and did I mention jobless?
I got a little down on myself recently, because I'd left so many fabulous people behind. As much as I hated that place, I think I miss a select few who resided in it.

I trained it back thereyesterday, and caught up with my friend Baby, who has recently discovered he's going to be a babydaddy - for real, this time. His girlfriend wants to keep the baby, he doesn't. It's horrible for me to see, because I love the boy dearly. He's a seriously drop-dead-insane drummer, had plans of an Audio Engineering course at University in the coming future; he even has a tour lined up with his band in the coming months - my baby was going places. As he says, he "can basically kiss this all goodbye".
My baby's off to join the high-ranks of Teenage Fatherdom.

My dear friend Cody came back into my life recently. Its pretty good. We had a huge bust up ages ago, because I did some pretty terrible things that warranted him to probably hate me forever, or burn my house down whilst I slept.
It just shows how incredible my friends are. We're planning coffee sometime in the near future, and rocking out awesome hair and fabulous shoes.

I feel kind of lonely at the moment. Whilst I have my friends, they all live in other towns that aren't 10 minutes away. I've moved to another town where I don't know anyone. I feel really hermitty. All I do all day is dream about Kiss Reid, sew and draw. I eat, and then I go to sleep spooning my cat.
I can't wait until I get a job. I'm so fucking sick of being broke. I'm seeing this job service guy tomorrow for the second time, he's pretty rad. He swears at me, and makes me feel good about myself by calling me intelligent. He's going to help me put a plan together to help me stick to shit, because he already worked out that I'm the worst at sticking to things.
"Amy, do you have a planner?"
"Yes?"
"Can I see it?"
"Sure"
"... this is all just drawing."
"Isn't that what they're for?"
"Do you have a calendar?"
I opened my mouth to say, "I posed for one recently!", but decided not to.
The conversation didn't actually play out like that, but this guys basically going to get me set up with a short-term job, whilst helping me work towards a long-term thing. I've come to realise that I might be pretty good at managing bands, because I don't stop pissing people off until I get what I want. If all else fails, I'll stick with my cushy office job and try and start a studio of some kind. It would be totally rad; Kay and I would be able to be in love with each other, work together, and have sneaky lesbian sex when no one is looking.
My life would be set.

Wow.
I really don't know how to stay on a subject any more. I'm pretty sure I have a mental illness.
Fuck.

A Mess.

2009-09-22T22:05:00.004+10:00

my house is in complete turmoil right now.
boxes fucking everywhere; i found a pair of underwear hanging from the back of the couch this afternoon.

i went to the dentist today; K.Rudd sent me a free dentist appointment.
K.Rudd is a girls best friend - he's Centerlink's SugarDaddy.
A lovely little indian dentist was there today. Whilst not George Costanza, my dreamboat dentist, he was really quite funny, however I doubt he would have understood nor appreciated any of my distasteful jokest. He poked about my mouth, and in the first two minutes, diagnosed me with a terrible condition.
Grinding.

I can't be a grinder!
Do you knwo what that does to people's teeth?!
It wears them down, cracks them - I'll be a gummy! My world is coming to afucking end! My vanity might as well up and leave now - I'll have no straight teeth to pride myself on. Who cares if they're a little coloured from coffee and cigarettes, that won't matter any fucking more BECAUSE I WONT HAVE ANY TEETH!
I might as well get myself a greying mullet, change my name to Sherryl or Therese. Because I'll be the most rank and vile thing on this planet.

Of course, poor Indian-Dentist-Not-George-Costanza copped my slight erratic episode in the dentist chair, about how my sex life will now be COMPLETELY redundant, my good looks null-and-void and that I'll be forced indoors and develop agoraphobia due to this condition.
Apparently, whilst it isn't preventable let alone completely curable, I can get this hideous contraption known as a "Night Guard."
basically, they radiate the shit out of my face with an x-ray, put some clay in my mouth, send it off to some labs to be analysed and make me up a night grill.
I asked the dentist if I could get the "night grillz" customised; pimp-my-grillz.
He blinked at me.
"They're made JUST for your mouth!" He grinned, giggling.

The man just doesn't understand.

In Transit.

2009-09-12T18:04:00.004+10:00

Photo from my Backyard @ Dad's.

Free from it all Im not gonna change till I want to And Im free from it all Im not gonna change till I want to By the way she looked, I shouldve calmed down I went too far Oh, thats all Ive got to say

- In Transit
Albert Hammond Jr.

Albert speaks the truth, you know.

My life is changing; I'm changing.
I've gone from trying to keep myself far away from any kind of love or relationship, or my classic "I'm not looking for anything tomorrow. But right now is perfectly fine" - to wanting someone to just be around, spend time with and do idealistic, romance-in-the-coffee-shop, soppy couples shit with.

I used to be a boys wet-dream fantasy, and I feel like I've exhausted that. Of course, changing from my golden classics -whatever they are - that can hardly be labelled a 'routine', risks me becoming common "girlfriend material".
I'm hardly girlfriend material at the moment: I'm not preened and proper, I'm far too black and white for most people, I smoke like a train, make distasteful dead baby jokes, drink with the boys, smoke weed on the occasional weekend with one of my best friends who's a lesbian with huge tits; I want tattoos, I want granduer and adventure, red hot passion and fun.

Then again, what is "girlfriend material"?
You tell me; I have no fucking clue.

All I know, is that I'm pretty sure I would make a fuck-off great girlfriend. I mean, I'm a fantastic cook, I occasionally clean, I wear nice clothes and when I'm not making horrible dead baby jokes, I'm deadpanning one liners that stick with you.
What's worse, is that I haven't been in an "official" relationship for more than 2 years; I've just had "yes, we're fucking. But nothing else" kind of agreements with people.
And to be frank, they absolutely were the worst ideas I've ever had.
The guys were fantastic people to hang out with - well, one is, the other one is a fucking bipolar headcase that needs to be assessed - but they didn't want the same things as I did.
I wanted a little more than "just fucking" or the girl that is "just there".
I downright sick of being the spare vagina when stocks run low.

Also on the "Trash" list, along with the worn out jokes, is my incessant need to smoke (cigarettes). However, I may or may not continue to smoke until I move and/or meet a boy who doesn't. In the meantime, I'll retain the saying, "Smoking does what to my health?"

I don't really want to change who I am underneath the hair and fabulous good looks, but there are definately a few bad habits I've picked up over the last few years from having absolutely no stability and constantly chasing after various equally unstable men, countless pipe-dreams and drunken rendezvous.
I'm quite happy having the attitude to life that I do; I suppose I'm just sick of the kind of people this attitude attracts.
I need someone who shares the same passions as me; the same need to see things and be places, or relax with a nice coffee in bed for a day of snooze and soppy cuddly couples bullshit; who can sweep me off my feet in a spontaneous act of kindness or passion.
Or is that just a shitty pipe-dream?

i forgot to add my broken riding jeans that no longer have a functioning fly or button, that are tied up with hayband.

Update, Update!

2009-09-10T00:16:00.007+10:00

click thumbnail for larger photo.

1) Anishka and I Are in Love
2) See Above
3) "This Straw Is Not Recommended for Hot Drinks"
4) Jo & Jacko
5) Jo & I (soberface)
6) Baby and I (tiredsoberface)
7) So, I Dyed my hair dark again.
8) Hard @ Work, Trash and Blow HQ (The couch)
9)Moe and I in Bed, sometime in the afternoon.

Trash and Blow has been left dateless.
It seems since my previous whiney post, when I felt as if I was the most repulsive creature God ever shovelled guts into, my life has neither taken a turn for absolute better or for diabolical worst.

See you IRL!

Good Woman.

2009-08-09T13:20:00.004+10:00

I'll stand in front of the mirror again.
My eyes are red and small; puffy and bloodshot.
Maybe my eyebrows could be different; maybe my eyes are set too close together?
There's swollen bags under my eyes from lack of sleep; the dye is starting to fade and regrowth is coming through. The knots in the brassy, disgusting faded red strands hurt when I tug at them.
My skin's sallow and dry, and my lungs are heavy.
Smoked too many cigarettes; drawn too many joints; pulled too many cones; drank too many spirits.
My lips are cracking and dry and my nose is too big for my face.
My teeth are yellowing from too much coffee; coffee doesn't even give me energy anymore - it does nothing, but warm my throat.
My body is broken from too many falls, lack of balance.
Talent's draining fast; the drought is far from breaking.
Where is the rain?

"Why are you always in a constant state of crisis, Amy?"
"Your voice annoys me."
"Do you even think before you speak?"
"Is your ego big enough?"
"Why are you such a cunt?"
"You care too much."
"I liked you better when you were neurotic."
"You freak me out when you're normal."
"I don't think your jokes are that funny."
"Your laugh is so fucking obnoxious."
"You vomited on your shoes last night; you partied way hard."

Why are you always in a constant state of crisis, Amy?

2009-07-11T03:20:00.000+10:00

If you know me, you'd be all-too-aware of my itchy-feet-syndrome. And I'm not talking about tinea.

Recently, I jetsetted off to Sydney, and re-evaluated my life and current decisions, for what could possibly be the threehundred and fifth time. I lived on my sisters couch, adventured, drank some bourbon and visited an old friend.
I went to Paddy's Market, and handfed birds at Central Station, whilst innocent bistander's sent disapproving glares my way. They just don't understand the bond I have with hungry animals, especially rabid, fat city pigeons.
Whilst it wasn't the Sex, Booze and Rock 'n Roll holiday I had first envisioned, I came home with two suitcases, a bruised ego and a pocketful of brand-new-secondhand revelations.

Upon returning to the wet hole that is commonly known as the Bellarine Peninsula and the Greater Geelong Area (what exactly makes it "Greater Geelong"?), complete with its fair-share of Private-Vs.-Public-school-girl-on-school-girl bashings, gang rivalry, sexually transmitted infections, teenage pregnancy, drug addictions, animal slaughter and other crimes against society and such, I was confronted with the ever pending question: do I really want to be here?

Originally, I had plans of granduer, that generally involved completion of my Victorian Certificate of Education, certifying that I had, in fact, gleefully (painstakingly endured) twelve years of my family threatening me with a full-time job, in which the uniform consists of either gumboots, blood-stained trackpants and a full-set of glittering, sharp knives, or a t-shirt with McDONALDS TRAINEE emblazened on a name-tag above the words AMY-JEAN.
As if my name needs to be dragged through the mud even more; No, thank you, McDonalds, I'll save my hamburger skills and general dislike for customers, for the time when I have to cook and clean for my so-called-husband, my children and my in-laws - if that day actually arises.

However, as with all plans of granduer, some hiccups arose. For instance, my writer's block.
If you aren't a writer, or aren't gifted with some form of vocabulary, opinion and a need to express said opinions and use your vocabulary, you probably won't understand just how debilitating it is to stare at a piece of paper for an hour, and the only thing to come out of the end of your pen is "...fuck."
Because "fuck" is one of the few words that come to mind when writer's block sets in. Other words that come to mind are as follows:
- Suicide
- Coffee
- Fuck
- Coffee
- Sex?
- Fuck
- Cigarette. Now.
- Who farted?*
- Fuck.
- Fuuuuuuuck.
- Suicide.
- Fuck.
* "who farted?" can sometimes change to "I wonder what sex would feel like if I were a boy?", "I wonder if I'd make a good stripper?" and/or "fuck".

You get the picture. Doing this in an outcome, and then realising you only have approximately ten minutes to think of something that sounds intelligent, but is complete bullshit, and you know its complete bullshit, but you also know the examiner will look at language such as "disposition" and anything else in between, that somehow either challenges the prompt, novel ect, and generally makes you sound like you've read the text at least four times and have a clear understanding and background on the author, characters, ect.
You can bullshit all about the character, the authors symbolisation and often, how authors recount things through their protagonist, and the examiners will just lap that shit up.
But, for fucks sake, if you're going to bullshit, back that shit with evidence. Even if its bullshitted evidence. Example:
"Such-and-such displayed discontent and outrage towards women. It is clear that such-and-such has issues towards women, as shown in Chapter 12, where such-and-such verbally abuses a helpless waitress. Such discontent clinically begins with the parent(s), in this case The Mother. I believe that the author used his chauvinistic disposition to symbolise abuse suffered."

Not even I had a fucking clue what I'm talking about, but it makes sense, and sounds like I know the character.
They like that.

back on track...

So I had a serious case of writer's block, and had absolutely no fucking direction, let alone idea, on where I was going, what I was doing and so on and so forth.
I'd gone from coming to this god foresaken hell-hole, with a whole volley of plans and aspirations, and general belief that I'd be able to set myself up for a fantastic career in... whatever I wanted to be at that time.
At that time, I also believed that my then-boyfriend and I were going to live happily ever-after, buy an awesome dog, eventually move out to an awesome unit and buy an awesome new car, work awesome jobs and have constant, all-the-time awesome sex.
Oh, in an ideal, awesome world.

The truth is, and I'm putting my integrity and dignity at risk by saying this, I wake up some mornings before school, and I burst into tears. Those mornings, Mum knows how ashamed I'll be if I go to school with a red, puffy face from previously blubbering and wailing like a two-year old, about how I just dread going and doing something that I absolutely loathe.
I hate on myself for the rest of the day, for blubbering over such a ridiculous thing.
By then, Bold and the Beautiful is on and suddenly, I'm at ease.

So, Mum and I had one of those "conversations" this afternoon, in which we would consume over twenty cups of coffee and just as many cigarettes. Dad has recently become a partner in a knackery, which for some obscure reason is just his absolute, all-time dream. After-all, the man has owned two which functioned quite well until they ran out of dead livestock to turn into
25kg bags of dogfood.
And of course, this knackery has a house.
And what is it?
basically, my dream house.
It's built onto the side of a hill, with a back verandah that overlooks valleys and rolling hills, and mountains.
I miss mountains.
There's endless green grass, and no fucking neighbours or relatives that feel the need to "just drop in for a coffee" and proceed to bitch for a following two hours, about some other relative that recently upset them.

Mum basically packed my bags for me, until I told her that there was absolutely no way that I was shifting myself off to my little dream this side of Christmas. Afterall, I've endured the longer part of eleven years of schooling, countless bastards and ridiculing (and ridiculous) teachers. Why would I back out with only four months to go?
At least if I finish year 11, and being dad's On-Call Secretary, Worker, Interior Designer and Designated Driver doesn't end up working out, I have three options:
1 - Go back to a school or tafe, and finish that final year.
2 - Work my arse off, travel, have my break and get back into the mindset, do all the precursor courses for whatever career I might want then, and apply to be a Mature Age Student at university or Tafe ect when I'm over 21.
My sister left at the end of year ten, and worked until she turned twenty-something, in which she applied to be a mature age student. She is now driving a brand new VW Polo, living in a flashy, fully renovated, $300 per week apartment in sydney with her graphic designer boyfriend, earning stacks of cash, writing up safety audits, risk managements, and everything of the like for OH&S.
She came from Wagga Wagga, where your choices after year 10 are Teenage Alcoholism, Teenage Pregnancy or to leave. She tried Alcoholism for a little while, but eventually grew tired of being so broke.

And my third choice?

Well, I can always get knocked up and live off of centerlink in a commission house, contemplating suicide until my child turns 18. **
** obvious sarcasm.

So, I'm leaving. Finally.
In saying that, I'm petrified of what might happen, what could happen, what should happen and what I want to happen.
When I left to come here, I left my best friend, Jess, behind. I almost left our friendship behind too. The hilarity in this situation, is that Jess and I have moved away from each other on a number of occaisions, but always seem to end up, eventually, living within half an hour from each other.
She lives, basically, on the other side of the hills in which i would wake up to every morning.

We already have plans.

"I'm going to build roundyards, and a stable, and an arena, and I'm goign to buy some cows. And I'm going to buy a motorbike, or a fourwheeler! My god, Jess, can you imagine it?! Us, on a fourwheeler! Dangerous!"

"Yeah, man. Like that time at Cabbage Tree, when you were doing 70 around those gravel bends in your dad's old car, and I was crying and screaming at you, and you thought it was fucking hilarious!"

"Oh, man, it's gonna be like the oldtimes!"

"Before we build the roundyard for the horses, we're making a firepit. We can't have the old times without an old car, firepits and boys."

"Who supplies the boys, Jess?"

"Me. Like the old days."

"Fuckin' Rad."

The Strength (in Afghanistan)

2009-06-12T17:42:00.005+10:00

you heard the vag.

When your ex tells you, ten minutes before arriving at their house, that the clean place you once knew, currently looks like a bombsite, you just naturally assume he's being a boy, and whinging that their estrogen levels have lowered and those womanly hormones that guys have, just didn't kick in.
Oh, how I was wrong.

They'd made peyote, and the cactus shit was fucking everywhere. There were even leaves from the fucking cactus, left on the bench. The filthy fucking catus pot was crusty, and burnt.
Burnt mescaline.
Dishes were basically piled on top of each other, with Matt's demon fucking wheatbix lodged on the inside bowls, cigarette butts on top, and some fucking red drink that Rory handed me that had mould growing on it. ("It's a dissolved redskin!")
I threw out enough goon boxes to build an entire homeless shelter with. Cleaned up a whole heap of bottles and other grot, those went out too. I nearly caused domestic outrage, when I went to throw out, what I thought was a Passion Pop bottle, than contained 6-hours of peyote brewing.
Ash and i had to fish through even more rubbish bags to find it, whilst I explained that I'd given up actually looking at what was inside bottles, at risk of some kind of mutant jumping out and disembowling me or something.
Into Ash's room, and popcorn, clothes and goon was everywhere.
So basically, i swept the floors, folded the clean shit in Ash's room and hung up his hoodies (because, you know, boys don't know what clothes hangers are), scrubbed the dishes clean so they had thigns to, you know, eat off of and drank five million coffees.
That's some vagina power. I actually kind of enjoyed cleaning; the guys got a good laugh at my general womanly outrage at how yuck the house was.

Only, the mess got worse.

The guys went to Ash's room, and I observed the giggly downhill decline of basically everyone in there. Ash busted out some chocolate ripple cake, after he'd tried to make whipped cream by adding milk to cream.
("Is this how I do it?"
"NO! STOP MAKING MESS!")

Whilst the Riplle cake was lovely, and largely enjoyed, when you put a large quantity of Goon, Weed, Sausage Rolls and a whole lot of rich cream and chocolate, all in the same stomach - there's bound to be some kind of nuclear explosion.
The munt itself, was absolutely spec-fucking-tacular.
"Ugh... I'm going to munt..."
"That's great, Rory."
Literally ten seconds later, after no-one took him seriously, the poor guy tips his head back and fucking wills himself in that position to not munt all over my nice, clean, vagina-powered floor.
He even got up, wretching, with his head back on a 90degree angle; i was completely fuckign amazed, even as it dribbled out of the sides of his mouth and down his shirt.
Well, amazed until he couldn't hold it any longer, and wretched his insides all over the floor.

In this sort of scenario, isn't it meant to be the girls who run out of the room, squealing and wailing that vomit is the most disgusting thing in the world, and that there is just absolutely no fucking way they're going to be the ones to clean it up.
"Nah, its cool," they guys say, "he'll mop it up."

Yep. Because when I green out, and I think that, you know, I'm going to end up in intensive care if I wretch one more time, the first thing I think about is cleaning up my own vom.

So, four vommy towels, a bucket filled with hot water and detergent later, Rory's vom was gone.
I needed to sleep in that room, as if I was going to leave that shit on the floor for him to wake up to, only to continue to munt his guts up at the general scent of it.
Tucked him into bed on the couch; Rory's night was over.
Chilled on the futon, got my feet rubbed, watched get Smart and critisised it the entire time, drank another five billion coffees and smoked my last cigarette.

The only good thing about cleaning peyote out of pots, cups, funnels and chopping boards - is the fact that your hands go fantastically soft. If the general texture of it was so disgusting and the scent of it even worse, I might even consider rubbing it into my face.

...only a suggestion.

Milk.

2009-05-24T18:37:00.002+10:00

Never smoke a cigarette, and drink milk in the same minute. It's a terrible taste. Come to think of it, I'm frankly amazed I still have tastebuds.

So, I tried to quit smoking, but that didn't really work for me.
I tried the patches, right, and went horse-riding. I got a headache half way through so I ditched that idea. I guessed exercise and a little piece of plastic laced with nicotine, just didn't mix.
I tried the gum, and that was like chewing on a dirty cigarette filter. If i bit down too hard on the gum, this horrid taste come onto my tongue and, to be frank, I'd much rather suck on a rancid dick than chew that gum again.
My doctor won't give me Champix, this rad little tablet that comes in a cute little pill-packet for "Day & Night", because they're giving my mum bad dreams and turning her a little physcotic. My Doctor's awesome though. She called me "Brave and Smart", and not a hypochondriac, because after every boyfriend I have unprotected sex with, I piss in a jar to make sure they haven't passed any unwanted baggage onto me, you know, like The Clap or Chlamydia or something. Because, STI's are about as common as the flu these fucking days.

First of all -
What happened to the old days, when STI's were STD's?
STD doesn't sound as nice as STI. You hear Ess-Tee-Eye and you think "Oh, that's cool, it's only an infection. I can get some antibiotics for that, yeah?"
No, Honey, you can't get antibiotics for AIDS.
And, sure, you can burn warts off your hands, but do you fancy having them burnt off your box?
I certainly don't, hence why I'll happily trot off to let doctors peer into the depths of my meat-hangar, send off little ear-buds with my excraments on them, and come back in three days for them to tell me that no-one and nothing can stop my vagina, let alone my sex life.
Not that that's a raging club these days.

__________________________________

I remembered today, that I'm basically destined for greatness. Or set up for massive failure. Either way, people will remember me.
I'm going to be that girl, who sexed up that guy, and turned his life around when he least expected it.
I'm going to be that girl, who did amazing things for people's reputations.
I'm going to be that girl, that you met one night and forgot to get her number, because you were too busy lost in the fact she's a stage-production on legs.

Already, I am that girl, complete with the stubborn attitude; who's a walking circus, a little bit of a trouble-magnet, and toys with the romantic ideals of... whatever takes her fancy on that day.

I don't want to be defined by my career. I talk to people everyday, in all different age groups, who all seem to be ranked by what job they work, or the score they achieved on their exams.
See, even if I only amount to a simple veterinary nurse, working in the 'burbs to pay for some horrendously shit little flat and some sardines for my already overweight cat, I'm cool with that.

If I only amount to being a musician's girlfriend, and spend the rest of my life - or at least, until he finds another woman who'll cop as much - drinking him under the table, wandering to obscure little places to watch him play to a crowd of fifteen, fifty or five hundred people, and turn a blind eye when he "accidentally" sticks his dick into other girls, I'll be cool with that too.

Or if I end up being a mundane housewife, living the white-pickett-fence fantasy, with my wailing but handsome child or children, I might kick and scream a little, but I'll get used to it.
Because I'll be that mother that drives her wonderkins to school in her pajama's, whilst the other mothers stare on enviously, because my breasts have always been bigger and perkier than theirs.

The world just needs to face the facts here, I'm never going to be repressed.

Neglect.

2009-05-19T22:51:00.001+10:00

Wordpress eventually bored me to tears. I was tired of being serious; my life took a turn for the worst when Wordpress was involved. Suddenly, I threw myself into a whirlwind of maturity and seriousness, and my brain just couldn't cope with that. I decided, it is best to leave my seriousness behind closed doors and reserved for those moments when I'm crying, bitching to various friends and men, or partaking in some serious pillow talk.
And blogger shits all over wordpress, simply because I can get awesome templates to change it, and make it fucking awesome.

I'm renovating Trash and Blow, in lieu of recent changes I've made to myself. Basically, I learnt how to do some victory rolls, colour in my eyebrows properly and kind-of-quit-smoking. I'm down to two/three a day - my lungs feel less-polluted already!
So, expect a new banner, and maybe - even a logo.

Keep a look out; and expect updates here.
Here.
Right here.

City Lights.

2009-03-27T20:09:00.006+11:00

I used to be intimidated by cities; the size of them, my ability to get lost and confused so easily, along with the sheer mass of people, all combined, was just a recipe for disaster. Today was different. Armed with a camera, things aren't so scary. When you stare down a viewfinder at someone you've just asked permission to take a photo of, they're vulnerable; they're one-hundred per cent at risk of being portrayed in any way, shape or light you want them to be in. You can make someone look ugly, beautiful, in love, hateful - all just by the way you shoot them. Having this power is, in general, fantastic.

__________________________________________________________________

Walshy thought it would be a great experience to pile us onto a bus for Top Designs, a show case of the best 2008 VCE technology and design classes (media, graphic design, visual communications, textiles etc) of the state. The idea sounded good; All i wanted was an excuse to cruise around Federation Square, Flinder's and Swanston Street, find a good coffee shop and talk shit with Kaisha and Jo.
The actual showcase made me want to tear up my folio into a million little pieces, and start all over again. They showcased the folios and the works, to give students a super good inspiration boost; I took loads of mental notes.

There were a few generic pieces - the runner-up was a photography piece about Phobias. Kaisha, Walshy and I guessed it must have been a technologically retarded old person who had chosen it, as the piece was so fucking generic - you see the same kinds of photographs plastered across the internet, all over Scene Girl's myspace profiles. I was just sick of seeing those kinds of unoriginal photos - "Watch me spew up black shit. This represents and symbolises my fear of colours!"
I won't deny the fact that the composition of the photo's was pretty spot on - the colours and everything were great, but they'd stuck little sticker's on the work, explaining what the work was about.
In my mind, if you need to put a sticker on your piece, to tell your audience what its about, you're not confident enough that your photograph isn't getting its message across. If you're not confident that it's message isn't getting across, don't fucking pick it.
Do the job properly, and get the message across. Reshoot the entire thing if you have to; I'm tired of people who do things half-arsed.

Anyway.
We left the museam and bussed it back to Federation Square, where Walshy assigned us a little point-and-shoot task, which involved giving 60-something teenagers free range of the area with our piece of shit camera's that we'd brought along. No good ones were allowed, because you know, we'd probably leave them in a toilet or with a homeless guy or something...

I'll leave you with some pictures from today; the ones that I liked, anyway.

This guy's shirt was angry.

Street Charlie, the performer I could watch all day.

Ten minutes after this shot, this guy got up and put an echidna puppet on his hand.

This guy was more than happy to let me take his picture.

Me hand-feeding greedy gulls.

Jo.

Kaisha @ graffiti lane.

Me @ Graffiti Lane.

Me Above Flinder's St Train yards
(i love how my school jumper turns me into a shapeless maroon blimp)

"fuck balloons."

What Guys Thing Chicks Dig pt 2: Genital Mutilation & Tricks.

2009-03-15T22:04:00.002+11:00

My friend Tami brought this point to my attention, as she is one of my avid readers and, well, loves me.
I'm sitting down, having a strong coffee and a cigarette, just relaxing and chilling down, as I do. Tami signs on, and gives me the link to this video, and I'm expecting it to be some crazy porn movie where the guy takes a dump in his girlfriend's mum's mouth and then eats it for her, or some elderly fat guy with a massive penis, dancing around to a BeeGee's song.
Much to my disgust, I found the video in said link, and found myself almost vomming my insides all over my floor - and I'd only watched the first thirteen seconds.

Ok guys, awesome, so you can hack a diamond pattern into your foreskin, piss rainbows, put a safety pin through your gouche with a smile - great.
But, unless you like FreakGirls, you can kiss your sex life goodbye - completely.
Just imagine this situation, you as Mary.

Mary meets a lovely man in a bar, late on a Thursday night. They talk until the Publican tells them that its time to leave because she really wants to get the fuck out of there, take off her heels, wipe off the booze and slobber from the drunks all night long.
mary, not having a good lay from any other boozed-and-confused (and little does she know, this guy is very confused - especially about his genetalia and the thigns he can do with it), decides it will be a spledid idea to agree to Brian paying for a taxi and taking her back to his house for a night of randy fun.
Things are looking up for Mary and Brian in the taxi.
upon entery to Brian's hosue, Mary looks for ther sure-fire reasons to bail: there's no racing car bed, she thinks, no porno posters, or dirty kitchen. Wow, i might come back here again.
Brian cracks some jokes, Mary giggles, makes herself comfortable on his couch. Brian tells her to wait a moment, and disappears into the bathroom. She guesses he's finding condoms or something.
Brian comes out, stark naked and fully erect, and stands in front of her, with a handful of razor blades and a knitting needle.
Mary freaks.
Brian then preceeds to slice his foreskin into several differnt pieces, and gives Mary a play-by-play on how to insert a knitting needle from his gouche, through his scrotum and under one of the several holes he just hacked into his foreskin, to further make his dick harder.

Mary bails like a motherfucker, Brian is left sexless and bleeding near his couch, wondering why she just ran out of his house, screaming and crying.

People who do such things, obviously have a blind and ludacris wife, or no sex at all, let alone feeling in their penis.

And then, we come to dick tricks.

I have first hand witness dick tricks, and yes, they're funny ... for the first five minutes.
Then, you start to feel guilty about looking at your boyfriend's best friend's cock, whilst he bends it into the shape of a fucking pretzel, is pressing it up against a window, or brandashing his scrote around in the wind like it was some kind of toy.
Cool, most guys can make their dicks twitch, thats nothing new.
I had one guy, post-coital, roll onto his back and turn around to me and say "Hey, Amy, I'm waving."
No "jesus, that was great!"
No, no, it was "that was awesome, my dicks waving to you to show your vag how awesome that was!"
Superwickedawesomecool, your dick can dance.

Girls don't think dick tricks are cool, they think theyre kinda funny for the first twenty seconds, then we all sit down and think "I wonder if that's why his dick bends to the left?" or "That completely explains his odd love for karma sutra."
He just loves dick acrobatics! Awesome!

See guys, girls can do vagina tricks too. but when we say that, you guys get your jocks all in a knot, and get all grossed out, because we can queef on command, shoot pingpong balls from our vaginas, fake an orgasm by tightening our muscles in our pelvis, and stash things up there.
And lets face it, clit piercings just aren't that cute. They make a box look like it was part of a thigh once, and God got angry and took to it with an axe, then felt guilty about doing that, and gave it a ring to try and say sorry.

Can we just stop the genital mutilation, please?
Can't we just be awesome with what we've got downstairs and live without the checkerboard foreskins and diamonte vaginas?

Please, and Thank You.

Vietnam Ate My Sewing Machine.

2009-03-06T19:54:00.004+11:00

k
Its a friday.
I'm a teenager.
I've got cigarettes and a whole $39.45 in my wallet.

Someone please tell me why I'm not out and about, hitting the town somewhere, doing something wild and insane, having some crazy sex romp, shooting up in a dark and manky alleyway, snorting cocaine off of a hooker's arse or shaving someone's eyebrows and cutting half of their face away?
Someone please tell me why this is so?

instead, I'm at my laptop after exhausting all my efforts at tryign to find
1) my favourite My Little Pony tshirt.
2) my favourite high-waist skirt.
3) condoms.
4) my heater.
5) parts of my sewing machine.

As for my sewing machine, I've found one half of it. It was stashed under a gigantic crate of pigstye mess junk that mum and I have been hoarding since the turn of the century.
Only, it's missing the pedal.
I can't sew a damn thing without the pedal.
I started handsewing stuff last night, and I got half way through and then realised it's just not going to look as professional handstitched as what it would if I had the godforesaken motherfucking pedal.

In other news, My mum and her cousin (more commonly known to all of my drop-ins as Uncle) are turning into health freaks. Today, I caught them burning their cigarettes.
Not smoking, burning.
I watched in cold horror as they poured petrol over their cigarettes (just to really make sure they couldn't salvage a fucking thing) and put a match to them. In the process, they just about burnt down my backyard. The tree caught fire; I thought that it would be another Black Saturday repeat in my very own backyard.
Don't be fooled; Their tyrade does not end there.
A week ago, Uncle disposed of our chocolate stash, reserved only for when the 3-am-munchies attack with vengance. He threw out the ice creams, the ice magic, the blocks of homebrand cooking chocolate and left only the milo.
What the fuck am I meant to do with Milo?@!
"Oh, shit - I'm so down for chocolate. Gee, none of that in the cupboards. I think I might just go and eat some milo. Mmmm delicious Milo, wow my mouth feels really dry, better wash it down with some milk!"

Mum's stocked my fridge - yes my fridge (we have two) - full of fruits.
Fruits are not, in any way, shape or form, going to help my munchies in the middle of the night. One minute, I'm going to be chowing down on a pear. The next, wake up glued to my pillow by fruit juices, with brown pear smooshed on the side of my face and the core lodged in my ear.
Awesome fun.
Can't wait for that, because I just love having pear all over me. I love it so much, when I bathe, I bathe in fruits. I put them in a big, huge blender and munch that shit up until its watery like, well, water, and then wash myself down in it.

She tried to buy some ultra-expensive cholesterol-free yellow shit in a tub, claiming to be some kind of substance akin to butter.
If its not from a cow, its not butter.
If its not in a blue container, with a cartoon cow on the front frollicking freely in a field of daisies, it's DEFINATELY not butter, let alone Devondale.
Devondale might as well be my God. It goes on everything; in my potatoes, with my toast, with my saladas, with my chicken - even when I cook something, I use butter instead of oil.
Unless cooking for Kaisha, because she's vegan.

Get Naked! (Suburban Dreams)

2009-02-06T22:09:00.003+11:00

My mum has recently become my Sex Bestfriend. We have fantastic conversations, whilst in my paddling pool, drinking Iced Coffees, about guys, sex, parties and other things like that.
Excusing the fact my mum hasn't had sex in over ten years, she fills me in on all her wild sex romps before her last Husband, before my Dad.
My mums had 3 (Dad, being the last failed relationship.)
I'm blaming my terrible relationship skills on my Mum, and that our number of failed relationships are simply, her fault.
Its heriditary, ok?

My aunty has also gotten in on our little Women's Club, and joins us in the pool. Its great to know that my mum, her cousin and myself are both failures of women kind.
The fact that my mum has had three marriages, all resulting in divorce, and that Jan, after two, is undeniably the cause to my constant relationship fails.

Let me just say, to begin with, I have a family of former 24 Hour Party People. They have reformed, and are living the suburban dream.
back in the day, Mum and Jan would party their little hearts out, fucked up on a lot of things, have two horus sleep and work the following morning.
At least I know where I get my party endurance from.

Anyway.
Jan joins Mum and I in the pool, midconversation, about how girls these days are so conscious of getting their kit off.
Jan and I, self-confessed nude sunbathers, endure lots of lols at these kinds of girls.
Whilst every person has issues with their body in some shaape or form, I try to ignore them to the best of my ability. I know I have jiggly bits, but I can't exactly get rid of them unless I want to pay something like $15,000 to rid myself of them.
In my own company, getting naked is hilarious fun.
I can wiggle my boobs around without anyone going "Oh gee, I never knew Amy had wobbly bits there."

The conversation continues.
"I enjoy being naked," I say casually, handing Jan my cigarette. "but somtimes during sex, I just get lazy. I'm just like, Totz cannot be fagged taking off my clothes right now."
Jan agrees with me, slightly distracted by the diminishing of my vocabulary. "I just don't know why girls dont want to get naked more often."
"I know," I reply. "As if a guy doesn't love some girl, sprawled on her bed, arse naked."
Jan stares at me.
"I wish I was still having sex."
Her husband and Her are going through a heavy time.
Shit hit the fan about three, maybe four months ago. They're seeing a marriage councellor: Mum and I are hoping they'll come out of it ok.

The point of this blog, is basically how much I enjoy getting naked, especially around certain people. Whilst I'm still protective of my body, as enough to cover it up sometimes, I still like to praise myself on my skinny waist, and rounded arse.
I love knowing that I didn't inherit my mother's flat behind.

Love your bodys.
If you hate them now, just keep in mind:

That shit sags within the next twenty years.
Live it up.

Rebirth of Vicious Girl.

2009-02-01T17:24:00.002+11:00

Vicious Girl: Able to rip your head off everytime she opens her mouth!

I took myself shopping today, in hope it may make me feel a little better.
Oh, what a misconception that was.

I got stuck in a mash of people - why was a Sunday so fucking busy?! - who were all little pre-pubescent tweens, congesting up the footpath for what seemed like a fucking lifetime: I approximate something closer to ten minutes, which is a lifetime caught between four hundred girls who think the world is going to end when their first pubic hair appears.
I walked behind them, secretly wanted to smack each one of them over the back of the head, or give them a sharp kick in the back of the knees, in hope they'd clear a path for the people who actually had to do shit.
In the end, I shouted at them to "GET OUT OF MY FUCKING WAY!" and bulldozed through them. I furthermore recieved juvenile abuse from them:
"Shut up, you skank!"
"What a fucking whore!"
All of these girls had been beat with the ugly stick far too many times. And god had not gifted them with the ability to think of better comebacks. Ergo, I laughed.

My tirade continued quietly, first with snapping at some poor, unexpecting salesman trying to sell me some kind of nail treatment, everytime I walked past.
"I told you no, like, ten minutes ago! FUCK OFF!"
And I would storm away.
And then!
We come to the escalators....

The Westfield escalators, whilst conveniant for some, they're a waste of time, effort, space and money. I love escalators, when used for their purpose of getting you somewhere faster.
That's the point: you walk up them like stairs, to save time.
Not to stand around, talking to your equally morbid obese boyfriend and blockign the fucking way, while the thinner, hungry, angry people behind you want to slice you up into hamburgers.
At least old people have the sense to stand aside, so AngryGirl can get the fuck through. No fucking chance, when there's five gigantic, thunder-thighed, apparently "Starved" fat people standing in a little Krew, talking about the delicious fatty-foods they can order.
Go buy a sandwich, you fat motherfuckers.
Listen to Jarrod from Subway - He lost 150 pounds eating sandwiches.
I wonder why he lost so much eating salads.

We're living in a time where super-thin models are helping our kids stay thin, instead of self-loathing, obese, pre-pubescent, acne-infested Twi-hards. (twilight groupies).
And Geelong Westfield puts in two escalators, direct to the Take-Out foodcourt.
Way to promote healthy living, Westfield, you incompetant morons.

There should be a rule that only Elderly, or people in a rush, should use escalators. Healthy people, obese people and young children can take the fuckign stairs.

Work off those burgers and fries, you lazy fuckers.

Rehab For The Soul.

2009-01-28T23:09:00.005+11:00

)

This cartoon explains perfectly, how i've been recently.

Today, I saw my friend Sammy on the bus. We had a lengthy conversation about the guys that we're both fanging. And the excuses that they've given us to cover their own arses, ergo avoiding the whole bitch-romance agenda that every girl carries around with them like the latest fashionable handbag.
We discussed their various reasons for not growing a pair, or actually putting their minds to something that doesn't necissarily consist of booze, drugs, cigarettes, food, fapping or anything sexual on a daily basis.

We did not really get to the point of the conversation: are these guys genuinely into us?
Of course, Anxiety Girl has been allowed to run rampant the last few weeks. Drugs, Alcohol, Doctors Appointments and Arguements haven't really aided this.
It's hilarious how both of our situations have been equally the same in the events leading to our On-Bus-Relationship-Discussion.

These are the excuses we collaborated:
(in no particular order)

1) "I'm just not ready for a girlfriend."
Definition: He likes you, but fanging without strings is so much easier;
- you're cute, but you're not his "type";
- "...would I even want to put my dick in that?"

2) "Last time I was in a relationship, I got really hurt."
Definition: See Above;
- Tell him to harden the fuck up and ask at what point will his testes decend?
- He thinks fanging is still good, but just can't be fagged with relationship bullshit
(girls in the room scream: all you have to do is let me call you my boyfriend to put my head at ease, introduce me as "girlfriend" to people, and pleasure me when I ask for it . Also, if you fuck up, we have someone to blame...)*cue pulling hair out*

3) I'm going through serious emotional shit right now.
Definition: Too lazy;
- He's having reservations about you;
- See above;
- He genuinely does have serious emotional shit. This however, must be proven to be believed.

4) I'm still hung up on my exgirlfriend...
Definition: Bail, Bail, Bail.
- See above;
- Bail faster;
- WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU STILL DOING THERE, YOU STUPID WHORE?!

5) "I'm just giving you the warning now...
(that I)..."
- Do Drugs;
- Do Drink;
- Do Have Lots of Sex;
- Do Want Lots of Sex;

- Do Not want a girlfriend.

These excuses make me want to do drugs and die in my bathtub whilst listening to Melissa Etheridge on repeat.

Which therefore, brings me to the point of this blog: Rehab for the Soul.

In order to banish Anxiety Girl, back to the deepest circle of Hell, I have decided to take myself on a journey of life rerevalutation (yes, two re's) back to where I used to live, Cabbage Tree Creek.
Do not be fooled by its middle-of-bumfuck-nowhere title, its a delightful town that boasts a music studio/gallery and a general store that's heritage listed.
After all, they do say that Home is Where the Heart is.
And my heart is forever in Cabbage Tree, hidden somewhere amongst its rolling hills and towering gumtrees, frolicking with fauna and picking the flora to put in its hair...

When I was first kicked out of home by my Mum at the tender age of Thirteen, I was shipped off to my Dad's, nestled just off the highway in Cabbage Tree.
In the beginning, Cabbage Tree, to me, was Hell frozen over with some trees and grass.
Hoo-fucking-rah.
But when you're at a point in your life (yes, at Thirteen, I was already experiencing a midlife crisis) where nothing is beautiful anymore except when you're so boozed-up on Passion-Pop you think everything is beautiful, Cabbage Tree saves you from your impending doom of early alcoholism.

I spent most afternoons, scouring Kangaroo hop-paths on horseback, trying to find Scrub Cattle, lounging around in ever-green paddocks beneath shady trees, feeding our local goanna's, possums, bats and other critters, or down by the creek, paddling about near the sandbar and boulders - and warning my friends about the resident tiger snakes.

Cabbage Tree is one of those places where its so remote, no fucker will bother you. You're forty-five minutes from the nearest supermarket, fifteen minutes from the nearest surf beach, and completely surrounded by the Snowy Mountains.

I met a woman named Wendy, within the first two weeks of moving to Cabbage Tree Creek. At the time, I had - in no incertain terms - disowned my own mother, and was forced to live with a father who left the hosue at 3.30am and returned home around 8.00pm, expecting his dinner cooked and his house spotless.
Wendy and I hit it off straight away: she owned Scotch Collies.
In the beginning, we started going for walks together. With the dogs.
And our friendship blossomed from then on.
It didn't take long for me to realise that Wendy and I were peas-in-a-pod, although we were an odd match. In my opinion, She was, and always has been, a teenager caught in an adults body.

Would I have survived my time with Dad, before Mum and I patched things up, without Wendy and Kev?
Maybe, but I wouldn't have done such a good job at mending myself without them there to turn a bad day into a brilliant one.

So, I'm off to spend two days at Wendy and Kevin's house, basking in the sun, laying about on her back porch and drinking iced coffees all afternoon, walking our usual paths to shed our iced coffees, and doing some mosaics.
Its an odd way to re-revaluate your life, and rehab the soul, but it works for me.

Just being home.

What I Think Boys Use To Make Themselves Look Cool.

2009-01-20T18:32:00.021+11:00

I have many years of observing the opposite sex. The knowledge from observation has grown since I was five, when I thought Dinosaurs would make one one of the cool kids, and I'd be totally in with the boys.
Sure, they guys thought I was pretty cool because I had every Dinosaur toy known to man (except for the Godzilla robot: man, I wanted that), but knowing too much about that scared them off.
Since then, I have spent my time observing various social groups of the male race, and have formed this list on what Boys Think Make Them Look Cool.

1) Tattoos.

I bet this guy got dumped by his girlfriend in highschool...

Tattoos give everyone the power to make themselves feel like a badass - boys get them to showe them off; girls date the boys to parade off how much of a "bad boy" shes fucking.
This fails when your boyfriend looks like the walking dead, a over-muscled-gym-juice-junkie with his prissy little Chinese symbols for "peace, love and unity" inked on his spine, or when he just gets STUPID tattooed on his forehead for fun.

I prefer sleeves on guys, if they've got tatts. There is also this huge "misconception" (thanks, mum, for your undeniably stupid concept) that girls aren't attracted to tatts: on behalf of the female population, I'd like to debate this rumor, or jsut blatantly say is complete bullshit.
I'm trying to find a minority that doesn't like boys with awesome tatts.
Seriously, every girl has fantasiced about that sexy, tattooed guy that just brushed past her.
I wonder if he's really...
Do you think he'll ever want to do...
Oh man, jump me right now...

The only issue I have with tattoos, is stupid fucking japanese ones, along with portrait tatts - its a nice thought, but I'm yet to see a nice one. And ridiculous, badly thought ones ones in general.
Particulary ones on the face. I've seen one person pull face tatts off, and thats Kat Von D.

Here are some tattoo fails.

This just blankpoint scares me.

I just feel sorry for this guy.

2) Leather Jackets vs. Suit Jackets.

Mystery Jets Vs. Vains of Jenna.
Fuck it, I'd do them all.

I prefer leather jackets, but its an aquired look. If a football jock tried to make leather jackets happen, I'd find myself hitting him up for slander.
Suit jackets can cause some girls to prematurely guess how sophisticated and intelligent her newly-spotted catch really is. See, boys are becoming smarter.
Evolution is kicking in, you dig?
They have started to pick up on the super-sonic waves from our brains, and started to sit up and realise what threads make us want to jump them like a wildebeast.
Suit jackets don't do it for me so much; ties on the other hand, get me thinking.
But leather jackets?
Oh baby.

3) Facial Hair.

This guy fell asleep on his back lawn.
Due to being a low-down, good-for-nothing, lazy hippy, he neglected to mow the grass. His wife did it for him.
This is the result of a very fortunate run-in with his wife and her lawnmower. And he still looks smug.

Someone please give Ludacris the memo: spraying your hair on is just not the style no more, dawg.

A subject debated by all women kind.
"Your beard is itchy!"
"But I like the filthy look!"
"Oh, baby, I can taste my pussy on you. Go wash your face."
I'm guessing that would be one advantage of having facial hair: if your boyfriend was tongueing someone else's twat, you'd certainly be able to smell it.

Facial hair is nice, in moderation. I'm not down for the hairy-dog look. Stubble gets me going.
Mutton chops and mostaches, not so.

4) Band Shirts.

these kids got fined for wearing their "Jesus is a Cunt" tees.
I lolled.

Band tees can tell you a lot about a person.
This Cradle of Filth tee tells me that this couple are angsty, pushed-aside-by-the-world, depressed teenagers. And that their Daddy's hate them.
When I see someone wearing a Madonna shirt, I wonder whether or not he has really been touched like a virgin.

I prefer someone, that when I say "Hey, I've heard of that band!" to give me a five minute run down of their favourite tracks, the "best EP the ever released!" and which band member they love the most.
Not, "Oh, dude, this band is rad."
And leave it at that.

5) Piercings.

this is photographic evidence of this guy's attempt to be "badass."
He didn't realise his epic fail.

lipstick for men; check
blue cashemre sweater in ladies size; check
pensive, deep, thoughtful doe-eyes; check
clean shaven; check
totally perfect salon-styled hair; check, check
terribly designed sleeve tattoo; check
perfectly shaped and plucked eyebrows; check, check, check, check.

Piercings can be good, some can be bad.
I've never been a big fan of lip or septum piercings. The photograph of said Princess above is cold, hard proof that piercings are not for everybody.
Sometimes, they just make you look like even more of a fag.

Or winner of this months weirdo trophy. See Right.

6) Hairstyles.

Raffel just hung his head out the window for too long, sending his brain careering from his ear in the process,
note the brain-dead stare and hawwian tshirt.

This is Ash, demonstrating how to still look manly and attractive with a floral doona cover.
He also gives everybody a good view at sex/bedhead should look like.

This is a subject, sometimes better off left to the women to decide on.
David Beckham says it all.
I'm sure he endorses the "Hey guys, lets all look like *S.N.A.G's TOGETHER!"
(*snag = sensitive new age guy.)
I like the "I jsut had the most incredible sex of my life" hair, or just the classic Bedhead.
I refuse to date a man, or be around one for that matter, who spends more time in front of the mirror than I do.

7) Coloured Shirts. Mostly Pink Ones.

Enough said.

8) Flannel Shirts.

Ben Kweller.

Flannel can look great, when worn the right way and on the right person. However, its become over popularised and often the subject of heated discussion between country boys and the city kids. Country Boys, you stopped wearing flannel when people told you it was uncool - don't try to claim it back now that its a global fashion movement.
Its something I don't mind on a guy, as long its not worn day in, day out.

9) The I-Haven't-Showered-In-Two-Weeks-Look vs. I'm-Channeling-Californian-Musicians-Circa-1960.

This guy just likes the scent of his own sweaty hair vs. The Killer's Sophisticated I-Like-Beards look.

Not washing in a week is fucking disgusting.
Trying to make beards look hot isn't really going to happen for you.
But hey, if you can sell it to a broad-spectrum audience, still make money and score girls why the fuck not?
I love The Killers. But Brandon Flower's 'stache is negotiable.

10) Sleaze.

Boys who think sleaziness is a sure-fire way to turn girls on, can dream on.
Making sleazy remarks about the "roundness of your tits" or how well I could "take a dick" doesn't make me think Wow, what a lovely guy - mum would love him!
It seems to often be an Italian or metro thing: the sad relisation here is that both are coming into each others categories.

The end.
This may be updated sometime in the future. But this is just my top ten.

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

2008-11-23T12:40:00.005+11:00

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.

anyways.
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.

London Callng.

2008-11-20T12:55:00.005+11:00

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.
No.
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."
"Ok."
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.

Pirates.

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

Squalor.

2008-11-14T22:20:00.006+11:00

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.

Ugh.
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.

Your Clothes Are Just So Passe`.

2008-11-12T16:13:00.003+11:00

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.

Splinter.

2008-11-11T21:11:00.003+11:00

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.

Bunhouse.

2008-11-08T23:02:00.005+11:00

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.

anyway.

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?
Yes.

I thought BabyDoll and SweetPea were suitable.

BabyDoll comes for a snuggle.

BabyDoll (Grey) and SweetPea (Brown and White)

SweetPea

BabyDoll and SweetPea

BabyDoll: Is Unimpressed.

Street Cred.

2008-11-06T21:04:00.002+11:00

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.

2008-11-06T15:40:00.004+11:00

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.

Dentist Appointment: Over.

2008-11-03T17:28:00.003+11:00

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.

2008-11-03T10:02:00.005+11:00

"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!"
"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."
"What?!"
"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.

Good Morning, Vietnam.

2008-11-02T17:35:00.005+11:00

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.
"Amy!"
"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."
Me.

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.