Call the wahmbulance

I'm not going to lie, I'm a little bit heartbroken right now.

Yesterday, Mum, S'Dad and I went to the RSPCA to pick up a cat for mum as they're running the SAVE program where, instead of paying $60 for the Adoption Kit and then $160-190 to buy the cat/kitten, you only pay for the Adoption Kit.


Mum's now all new baby gushy because she has a new 9 month old kitty and I'm all wahhhh because I'm not allowed to have pets other then fish or birds in my apartment. Birds freak me out, and you can't hug fish, so that's fucking useless. If I hadn't already asked the real estate agent, I would have just gotten one and played dumb if they ever found out (my lease doesn't say they're not allowed, just that you have to request permission beforehand), but now that I've asked they might be looking out for one when they do inspections. Stupid me.


Not helping the matter is that - I swear to god - one of the cats called me mama while we were in the cages. He was an older cat which is what I wanted, and his name was Mister which is totally my kind of cat name. It was very distinctly mama too, not a mew. Okay, it might have been a twisted mew, but really, sign much? I would totally go into debt for a cat that I believed was calling me mama.


So, now I'm heartbroken and mopey. I knew I was going to be jealous, I wasn't expecting to be actually teary-up upset over it. Such a sap.


So it looks like I'll just have to get pregnant. Or get a boyfriend. Or move to somewhere I can have a cat. I actually think the pregnant part might be the easier option, considering I have zero interest in moving to a house and I'm not interested in the dudes interested in me (and vice versa).


I was semi-joking with mum that I'll show 'em by getting piranhas but the more I read about them, the less interested I am. They would be cool to say "oh yeah, I have pet piranhas, no biggie" but the actual owning of them seems pretty unexciting. They don't do anything when people are watching and they eat live animals more then dead meat, which would freak me out having to handle I think.

I've come to a sort of conclusion. Its not earth-shattering or revolutionary, but here it is:

I don't know how to blog.

This may not seem to make sense - you're claiming to not know how to blog, while blogging? - but it is very true.

I can diarise -  telling you all about the shit I've been up to lately which no one but those involved would really care about, usually in dot point or blunt sentence form.

I can bitch - boy, can I bitch. Apologies to anyone who follows me on Twitter, I have been a massive pile of passive-agressive rage this week, and you've all see the fireworks.

I can share information - oh hey, click on this link. I run this, and 10 people follow it.

But that's not really blogging, is it? That's not what people want to read. People want something entertaining, insightful but real, and if I'm honest, that's what I'd like to do. But I can't. To do that, I'd need to tell you I feel something, or think about something, and in doing that, I reveal myself and if there is one thing a fat person is afraid of, it's being caught exposing themselves.

I also seem very unable to reach a conclusion. I get distracted by the details, or I get distracted by something happening around me in the real world, and I just abort the conversation.

Hm, conversations. I've always said that if someone asks me a question, I'll answer it honestly. This is true, and its something I stick by. But to just sit here in my lounge room and assume someone in the world gives one iota of a shit about what I have to say/think/feel/share unprovoked? Undoable.

So, if you ever have a question, whether it is relevant to anything I'm posting about, something you know about me in the general context, something you've just been thinking about and would like to have a dialogue with someone, anyone over, to work through the pieces for yourself - fire away.

No one will. But you can try. Anon options bring out the people. In the mean time, I'm going to try to be more real. Or at least more interesting and focused with my blogging.

I'm actually becoming quite concerned that I may have a Dorito addiction.

Also, I just got done reading Jane Austen porn, so I have that going for me too.

Why do I live here again?

In the two years I've lived here.


Insects I have discovered in my bathroom as I'm nekkid, just about to step into the shower:

• Little huntsman.
• Giant huntsman.
• Not-as-giant huntsman.
• Those little buzzy black water bug things x a million, at least.
• A grasshopper (how the fuck does a grasshopper end up in a second story apartment?).

Amount of other unwanted things, alive and otherwise:

• Dust storm.
• Big-arse bee.
• Senor Social Mousy.
• Senor Speed Mousy.
• Southern Cross spider x2 in driveway.
• Wasp nest next to neighbour's door (that he for some reason can't be bothered to report, just complains about the wasps?).
• Blowfly.
• Cockroaches. Everywhere.
• Leaky bedroom roof.
• Beeping smoke detector in stairwell.
• Very loud Mariah Cary fan for a downstairs neighbour. Who likes to sing along. Poorly.
• Neighbour who thinks the most suitable time to listen to techno or the same song on repeat is 11pm-2am Sunday to Wednesday nights. Cranked to 11, of course.
• Down-the-streeters who seem to need the cops to visit once a month.

There's also the primary school kid in the unit block across the road who's learning the violin, but he's not so unwanted. He plays pieces from Pride and Prejudice as I'm watching the movie and he's fucking rocking that thing, if I knew which one he was I'd high-five him.


I suppose the old dudes who live directly across the road from me who sit on their balcony so they can watch me walking around in the nudd are a bit unwanted. I guess. Ha ha. My theory is it's not flashing if no one's looking, and I'm in my house and no one said I must have curtains. Plus, they are looking at me. If they choose to watch a fat chick slouching around or cooking, that's their deal.


Oh, most unwanted thing of all? The effing crows at the train station every morning. There's only three or so of them, but they are massive, and birds tend to freak me out anyways. You've seen The Birds, right? The scene where she's in the phone booth and the birds are using their beaks like spears? My. Fucking. Nightmare. I know it's completely unrealistic, they're more likely to try to rip my hair out or go for my eyes if they were in a gougey mood, but still. Did you know crows can hold a grudge, too? Fuck. There's a reason they're called a murder. They are kinda majestic looking thought, these ones are super glossy and proud looking. They tend to fly around the concorse on my side of the station, lucky us. The other day, one was flying right at me and I was trying to not flinch like a knob-end but I did anyways. I always do with birds, regardless of species. It landed ages away from me on the outside of the bridge thing, at least 6 feet away from me. Still freaked me out.


You should see me with the seagulls at Circular Quay on my lunch break. Those ones will steal the food from in your mouth, no hesitations. I've seen it, the tourists just sit their dumbfounded when it happens. I'm a twitchy mess by the time I'm back at the office. Luckily, they have a preference for Maccas, which I never ate even when I was a meateater, so they've left me alone but they still flock at you.



There is no stopping myself from feeling this

And I think it's coming through the air, it torments me.

I try to move that dial and change this frequency

Everywhere that I go misery will follow

It won't let me go, it won't let go.

I keep fading into you, drowning in your darkest blue

Lostprophets - Darkest Blue

Sunday, 2:18pm

I hate waiting for laundry to be done. I know that all I have to do is split into a pile of black and anything else, put it in the machine, wait 45 minutes, then put it out to dry, but laundry annoys me. I think its because 45 minutes is not long enough to do anything, but anything you do do means you're likely to forget that you were actually only doing it to fill in time while you waited for something else.


Or maybe I'm just dumb and get distracted easily. The truth is I hate that my block has a shed out the back with all our machines in it, so I have to actually make myself fit for public viewing to do fucking laundry. I have to shower to put my laundry on. Next place I live in, I'd like to have an internal laundry.


Polymorph still haven't called about my dermal jewellry which I was told a month ago was in transit. Doesn't bother me though, it's been so hot they would have been annoyed all the time due to the constant layer of sweat covering myself and everyone else in the hemisphere.


I read my horoscope forecasts for the month and year last night. In February, Virgos are going to be overspending or cutting it fine, which I've already stumbled into when I realised buying tickets to Soap actually maxed my credit. Oops. Overall 2011 is a year of growth and more romantic atmospheres then you can throw a Colin Firth dvd at. That would explain my sudden pre-occupation with not wanting to be single anymore. That, and it's been like three years, independence has been firmly re-established and post-relationship analytics have been completed, next please.


There were five bras in my laundry. FIVE. How does that happen, it was only two weeks worth of washing?! (Don't look at me like that, every girl I know only changes her bra once a week.)


Anyways, back to my forecasts, it also mentioned that matrimonial and maternal stuff could be brewing, which is a bit oh-ohh. My mum was 24 when she started popping out babies and got married and divorced (in that order), and they say that we all end up as clones of our parents, but that wasn't the most ideal situation, so maybe I'm better off keeping my ute away from males for a few years. I'm totally into babies at the moment too, my friend has a 3-month old girl and she is the most perfect temperament, it's setting up some pretty high expectations. I'm like 70 per cent decided that I want to adopt, not birth too.


The weather has done a complete 360 and I can't remember what I was going to type about. Oh well.

Too.Hot.To.Sleep.