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)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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)

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.

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.

)

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.