Bang, Bang - You're Dead.

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.

She's coming to fucking eat you.

dream a little dream, of me.

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;

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

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

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

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.

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.

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

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

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...

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.

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.

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!

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!