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18 March 2007 @ 11:03 pm
So, an actual post about an actual thing that's happening with me. Um.

Well, I went on a date-thing with a boy-type person. He's an actor, but not an Actor, and of generic Continental stock. I drunkenly stole his number off Cah's phone after someone pissed me off (don't ask me how that leap was made - it's just sambuca logic) and we've hung out a few times since then.  BUT it's all up in the air, me being me. I think I'm actually just getting worse and worse at these things as I get old and set in my ways.

Friday was our first official date in Mission Bay, and he tried to see me outside of a pub, drinking. Fool. If it's good enough for Amy Winehouse, you better know it's good enough for me. But I was a lady, and stuck to my single glass of riesling. The conversation was good, and he had the guts to argue his convictions from the very start. Promising, non?Of course, things took a turn for the (ahem) interesting as the night progressed. I had been feeling queasy all night, and put it down to uncharacteristic nerves or a lack of supper. But towards the end of the evening, I started feeling absolutely nauseous. He managed to bundle me onto a bus, and I got home okay.

Turns out I ate jewellery cleaner at work that afternoon. As only I can, to be fair... anyway, poor boy. I think I agreed to a second date.

*le sigh*
Current Mood: cynicalcynical
12 March 2007 @ 10:37 pm
I lost all my cards and my phone on Saturday morning. As yet, I'm not going to get a new phone (the eternal optimist). If you need to contact me, do so through LJ or Myspace, e-mail, or by popping into either one of my jobs.

Cheers Bigears.
Current Mood: annoyedannoyed
05 March 2007 @ 10:56 pm
May: burns cookies, gets pissy.

At least I'll always have House.
01 March 2007 @ 11:02 pm

I am not cut out for Being Supportive. I have an entitlement complex. I have an abandonment complex. I just like making things complex. Ergo, when one of my best friends rings me to say, "I'm going to Thailand", my reaction is not one of excitement, pride and wonderment. Instead, I said to him, "But you can't! You're speaking at my 21st!"

"..." says the other end of the line. "..." say I. Awkward silence ensues, because we both know I have just had the Wrong Reaction.

He went on to speak about how he wanted to discover himself, how he needed to do something like this on his own, how he's been worrying about making money since he was 17 and now wants to focus on something bigger than that. He tells me how much he's going to miss his girlfriend, and how wonderfully that's going, and that when he told her he wanted to leave all she said was that it was good idea.

And all I can say is, "But you're speaking at my 21st!"

STOP IT, WOMAN! screams my inner voice. SUPPORT! SUPPORT! But, you see, I'm not a supportive person. I am compulsively involved, but not supportive. I will, for instance, go watch every single one of Catherine's plays, even the ones where the majority of her lines involve bleating. But I think that's because, so far, all her shows have been in Auckland and I've usually been able to see them for free, courtesy of my compulsive involvement in the quiet machinations of the play and/or theatre scene at large.

In this case, I will admit to being grudgingly supportive. I'll see him off at the airport, and probably won't remind him again that he's missing my 21st when I was kind enough to get drunk and speak in front of 80 people like the total knob that I am for his birthday. I'll be thinking it, and I'll probably try to move the party to accomodate him, but outside of wishing a diseased Thai bride upon him, I won't really try to stand in his way. Or make him see reason. Or point out just why going to a place like Thailand on some crazy hippie whim is a really stupid thing to do. The truth of the matter is, I know he's doing a really smart, valuable thing. I just can't bring myself to support him in that. 

:: ps :: funny is: finding blood splatters from your recurring nosebleeds a week after you thought you'd cleaned it all up. good thing i found that before the man-maid did...

Current Mood: i'll tell you what i ain't...
25 February 2007 @ 07:06 pm
16 comments, boys and girls, ladies and gents. That is my magic number every time. I should ruin it by making unnecessary replies but meh. We all love a little running coincidence.

I had a. lot. of sambuca last night, plus wine, minus dinner. Which led to errors in judgement and the hangover blues.

But on to serious matters. Boys and mullets, to be precise. You see, we all laughed a little when the mu-lay came into fashion. It was tongue-in-cheek, referent, the way all good fashion is meant to be. Good fashion can also be recognised because it is favoured by a select few. As this week's NW saliently noted, Victoria Beckham will never be a true fashion icon because she is unable to create trends; she merely follows them note-perfectly. (Although that boob job is a bit dodge.) So, following this logic, when Good Fashion is slavishly followed by the unwashed masses, it becomes Bad Fashion. (See my entire wardrobe for more on this.)

The Mullet is Bad Fashion. It stopped being funny when all the boys started doing it. Now, it's no longer a quirky trend that you can explain away with words like "penchant" and "irony". Men, the joke is over. Make it funny. Cut your goddamn neckfur and make it funny. 

O, how I miss the Fauxhawk.
Current Mood: gloomydisgruntled
13 February 2007 @ 11:40 pm
Okay, I admit it. I am a jealous person. Gnuh.
07 February 2007 @ 09:44 pm
The "crease" on my forehead is officially turning into a line. This, to me, is one step away from being a fully-fledged wrinkle. It's been bugging me for the last year. I've been using anti-wrinkle cream and concentrated moisturiser on it, covering my face when in sunbeds and actually wearing sunscreen outside. But this stupid bastard won't leave. My forehead looks like a fucking ravine.

There is nothing about this line on my forehead that has "character". Smile lines and crow's feet are really quite glamorous, in that down-to-earth, anti-glamour kind of way. They say, "Look at me! I laugh and cry and have experiences!" All this line on forehead means is that I raise my eyebrows too much and am easily surprised and/or indignant. It is a gay wrinkle.

I wouldn't be surprised if this post were met with an onslaught of "Meh meh meh, you're only 20, what the hell are you complaining about?" Exactly, ladies and gentleman. Exactly. I'm only twenty, and I have this visible line that won't disappear, no matter how awkwardly I apply mascara to avoid raising my eyebrows or how French the anti-wrinkle serum I use is. What the hell is this going to be like when I'm 25? 30? Tits down to my ankles and wrinkles up to the hairline.

I don't care about accepting myself. I am against self-esteem for young women! I am especially against self-esteem for old women, and thus do not want to be old before my time. Someone, stick a Botox needle in me and call me Marcia Cross. (Speaking of whom, what's she going to look like post-twins? I'm pretty sure they're not so keen on sticking botulism in your face when you're preggers.) Men don't even notice when they get wrinkles! And anyway, most men look better with wrinkles! COME ON, UNIVERSE. GIVE US A BREAK.

Frailty, thy name is woman.

(But in other news, I am AWESOME because I got my VCR to work. Yeeeeeeah! Grey's Anatomy on tape!)
Current Mood: anxiousanxious
01 February 2007 @ 11:40 pm

I am horrified at all of you. Not a single AC/DC track suggested for my birthday playlist. FOR SHAME. You better step up your game, kids, cuz otherwise it's going to be all Etta James and Ray Charles. And Bjork. (As an aside, isn't it weird how the songs on my playlist won't really be much a representation of my music? I mean, I like Etta and Ray and Bjork, but there's stuff like Elvis and Warren Zevon on there too. Even lame, predictable stuff like Shania Twain, just because I know that I'm going to have 85 people out on that dancefloor, screeching "MAN! I feel like a woman!")

Two people failed to recognise me today. This is getting good. It might even scratch the itch I have, the one where I want to disappear for a while. I want to go somewhere that's entirely within my means, but is somehow completely out of reach of anyone else. I want to leave my cellphone behind, tell no-one where I'm going, and walk back into an entirely whole life. It won't work that way, I know.

I helped give two presentations to incoming first-year BA students yesterday, and Jesus, I fear for the state of the nation. Easily half the kids in my lecture theatre had their parents with them. WHY? Kid, you're at uni. Hold your own hand when you go to the bathroom. Make your own decisions, then make your own mistakes, then lie to your parents.

I can't think of a design for my 21st dress. I'm too booby for shapeless dresses like pinafores. They make me look maternal. Damn you, boobies.

Christ, I write crap in here these days. Give me a topic, people. Preferably something other than feminism.

Current Mood: blankblank
27 January 2007 @ 09:33 pm

I am having such a sweet night in. Y'all may be out there, having "fun" and being "wild", but I get 9 hours sleep tonight. Suck it, be-atch.
Current Mood: amusedamused
22 January 2007 @ 07:58 pm
I've been reading a lot of Pat Conroy lately, so in that spirit: I want y'all to leave me a comment with suggestions for the 21st playlist. Stupid suggestions are welcomed. This post has no timelock on it. When you think of something good, post a comment.

I just feel like the chipper face should have buckteeth. Dunno why.
Current Mood: chipperchipper