This living thing – this breathing, excreting, making-someone-else’s-dinner-thing – I want to play my cards right and have an emotion for every occasion. I want to be good at this game and not just go through the motions; I want to learn all the strokes like it’s synchronised swimming.
I want to be different names to different people. I want to be Madeleine, Ingrid, Kate and Regina. To my mother, I want to be Darling; to the history teacher I won’t admit to lusting after, Dollface. Like I said, I want to be different names to different people because it means a thousand and seven adjectives to grow into, like disarming or steadfast, and I need these ambitions because I don’t ever want to become complacent.
I want to know everything there is to know about physics, so I can hate it with a basis. I don’t want to hate inertia and The Law of Perpetual Transmutation of Energy just because I’m a blind man in sheep’s clothing and every pretty girl in my generation claims to hate physics.
And on the topic of being blind, I want to date a blind man and kiss his eyelids in the park. I want to describe the children’s expressions to him in terms of feeling, like the little girl chasing after the duck has the face you get when you first turn on the shower and the water spews out in a cold fury.
I want to hold my fourteen-year-old-self by the wrists and apologise for ever thinking that self-worth could only be attained through being with someone, as if wearing the suffix of ‘girlfriend’ was the only job title worthy of mention. I want to apologise to her for refusing to know better and for thinking that conviction and the occasional wit weren’t enough to define me.
I want to make eye-contact with a pale red-haired girl at the station to ask for the time just because I want to hear her accent. She’ll say, “It’s five twenty-three forever,” because her watch is actually dead and her grandfather smashed this very watch on a rock the moment he died. I wont ask about the circumstance even though I want to, so instead I might tell her that I was born out of wedlock. And we’ll plough on for the rest of the day, keeping someone else’s secret as if to take a break from our own.
For only a night, I want to be the wife of a man who comes home with someone else’s lipstick stains on his collar and someone else’s scent on his skin because I want to know what being a martyr feels like. I want to know what it’s like to make a perfect roast dinner with buttered potatoes while the world crumbles and the children think that their biggest concern is that Rochelle is having an ice-skating party and they are not invited. I want to learn how to suffer gracefully, only giving myself three minutes in the shower everyday to cry.
I want to cut my hair really short and move to Spain and live in a small apartment in a small town with a name I can’t pronounce. I want to wear dresses for everything, from grocery shopping to watching bulls run around in a ring with a matador. I want to stop in the street and say, “Marry me, guapo,” to all the handsome dark-haired strangers even though I don’t mean it, just because it’s careless. And at least once, I’d have the liberty of knowing what it’s like to be reckless with my youth.
Ultimately, when I read excerpts of my unfinished, auto-biographical manuscript to my grandchildren, I want them to say it sounds like fiction. I want to call myself an artist with no-one else’s consent. I want to be proud of all the loose ends I’ve left untied because yeah, everyone wants to fulfill their prophecy, but who really wants to finish a path laid out by the stars?
I will surpass the stars.
The receptionist who swipes my card every Sunday morning at the gym is an absolute babe. I also usually prefer not to be accused of male objectification, so instead of unleashing adjectives about his jawline, smile, physique & general studliness, I'll hold my tongue now & you can just imagine said babe-ness for yourself.
Last night, I was Min's date to lovely Irene's fairytale themed 21st. After a rigorous toss-up between Little Red Riding Hood and Cinderella, I came to the realisation that I owned no such red-cape & the only resemblance I had to Cinderella was the tendency to lose glass slippers, if by 'glass slippers' we mean my parents' hope in having decent offspring, my car keys & the attention span of my readers. So naturally I came to the conclusion that bestiality isn't so looked down upon these days, & thus I decided to go as Puss in Boots. The beautiful Min & I below:
In the following pictures, you will see me in the presence of my favourite ethnics, Min & I sharedly slow-dancing with Max to Westlife songs, & Queenie's boobies covered by a giant heart. (Why giant heart & not a giant squid, you may ask? Because a giant squid is not nearly as appropriate for the title of 'Queen of Hearts! DUH!')
...& this is my cue to leave!
I hate to start out a blog entry like a whiney, maladjusted teenager complaining about the petty trivialities of life, but as it turns out I HAVE EXACTLY THREE MONTHS LEFT to milk this sentiment, so milk it I will.
I am miserable right about now. If you have assumed larger thigh, gut & arm diameters as the culprits of said misery, then clearly the world makes no humans more astute than you!
According to the official tone of mother's bathroom scales, I am six pounds heavier than I was at this time last month. My clothes fit more snugly than necessary, my face is fuller than Miley Cyrus's ego, & I just feel generally more sluggish. This is not a ploy for sympathy, compliments or offers for your leftover ice-cream; in fact, I will disable comments for this post so as not to receive anything of that nature. This is me being genuinely frustrated at my nutritional complacence this month. I love food, lovers pastpresentfuture will collectively attest to feelings of inadequacy in the presence of my greatest love - anything edible. I never deprive myself, but I do subscribe to the mentality of 'eating in moderation'. Frankly, I am just annoyed at my absolute lack of willpower this month. Around the easter chocolates, oreo McFlurries, Red Rock Deli Chips, & abundance of carbscarbscarbs, I had about as much restraint as Sienna Miller at a married men's charity dinner.
Dear Body, I am sorry for being mean. I solemnly swear not to abuse your trust between me & binge-eating tendencies.
On to finer things,
long-time readers of my erratic ramblings may recall Paneer - the ghost in my house I named after a staple(?) of Indian cuisine. Well, it seems as if he has been lonely. So much so that he is inviting friends of his ethnic variation to stay at our house. Apparently there is someone called Suneeta De Silva now living in my house, seeing as Wedding invitations adressed to her are making their way into my mailbox. This is not a case of previous house owner's mail is being sent to the wrong adress. This is the case of placid ghost, but nonetheless still ghost, in my house. You see, there are no previous owners to this house. We built it.
Also, I peeled an eggplant today with my fingers & I must admit it is a most difficult task! Commeting on its incredibly squishy nature, I told my mother, "Good thing breast implants aren't made out of eggplant, hey!" I don't think she was as impressed by my observation as I was.
Since my newly deceased camera is still under warranty, I took it in to have it sorted like the way I take my rogue suitors to my fist to have them sorted.
The story here dwells not on the necessary actions for my camera, but the guy at the counter assisting me.
His eyes routinely made their way past my eyes, & down to...say, MY MAMMARY GLANDS. Quite frankly, I felt like an unfortunate bowl of super creamy coleslaw... undecided about wanting to be healthy or to be fattening! So I was absolutely undecided about wanting to be offended by his lack of respect to me(/my face!), & wanting to laugh at his misfortune in not having much to look at.
Now that I think about it, I would've wanted to say, "S'okay buddy. You & I both wish there was more to look at."
I am dumping a bucketload of images here, on account of I am being mopey & nostalgic about my non-functioning camera. WE HAD GOODTIMES, LITTLE ONE. Come back to me!
I have put on 2kgs in the past week.
Sneaking suspicion tells me that having a sister who now works at Subway & takes home free cookies might not actually be such a thrilling long-term prospect for my gut & thighs. Add the fact that I am a proud owner of a decent stash of Easter chocolate (on account of I make my mother give me an egg hunt every year) & there may or may not be a delectable box of Max Brenner chocolates hanging out in my pantry.
Did I mention the word 'glutton' didn't come into fruition until 1989 when, incidentally, I was born?
Anyway, last night I attended Djordje's 21st, & I totally met the members of my desired family-to-be, by this I totally mean Parkour kids. Also, since when was it even legal for attractive girls to have decent brain skillz?! Yeah, met some of that variety too, & to say "I FELT INTIMIDATED, YO" might be an understatement. BUT, credit where it's due, so this is the part where I say thanks to mein papa for being an absolute sport & driving me roughly 67billion kms, on account of I am inept at life!
Here, obligatory picture with the birthday swine in which I hide half his face with my large head.
Shaun (in black Australian Parkour shirt) was my myspace friend for about a year. & WE MET IN THE FLESH, zomg small world.
& on the thread of birthdays, a happy dedication also goes out to Evan. To commemorate this special event, I am copy + pasting a screenshot of a recent conversation that made me guffaw like dead baby jokes make me guffaw:
On that note, happy birthday to the rest of you April-offpsring. Facebook tells me I have more friends celebrating their exeunts from the womb at this time. WHY are all the parents procreating in July? & more importantly, WHY are parents even procreating at all?! Tough questions, I say.
I think sleep is in order. Goodnight.
So, Euclidean geometry has to do with points.
Unlike Euclidean geometry, this blog post has no point. I just needed an arena in which to say, "HEY I JUST TOTALLY RE-DID THE MULCH ON OUR FRONT LAWN" because that's just the kind of amazing daughter I am.
Anyway, last night I attended Rose's band's gig with the intention of shooting photographs. As with most of my intentions in life, (like being less embarrassing in public situations, having Kelly Ripa arms, & spawning Hugh Jackman's offspring) this intention fell by the wayside & died. DIED, I tell you. Camera just stopped working & Papa has pronounced it dead or a lemon. So I booed & I hissed, as one does.
So essentially, I am & will be heartbroken until after public holidays & I can take it for a checkup.
But in the meantime, I am being un-sad through infectious pop with words I have internalised & wear on my sleeves or bare elbows! This song is my anthem, you guys!
In today's blog, we will attempt to cover the most pressing of society's questions, such as "What one does when one is at uni hours before when necessary?" & "In the first place, why is one at uni hours before the necessary time?"
These are questions I ask myself on a daily basis, & by 'daily', I might actually mean 'today, Wednesday, the 8th of April'.
You see, when one is car-less, on account of being rear-ended & having to deposit said car at smash repairs, one then relies on scabbing lifts off unsuspecting parental figures who LEAVE ATROCIOUSLY EARLY IN THE MORNING... Okay, so maybe not quite that atrocious, but this here is my blog & I can be as ungratefully-turdy as I please...! :D
Perhaps I will take this opportunity to recount yesterday's epic(ally shameful) public toilet incident.
So, I'm in the cubicle, doing as I do, & I notice that the cubicle door floats slowly towards me. When I remember that ghosts don't actually have concrete edges, I come to the next logical conclusion that it is actually not a ghost, but the cubicle door which I forgot to lock. FAIL
I take the opportunity to "BAHAHA" & tell Min (who is waiting by the toilet sinks) about my recent lapse in toilet privacy. It becomes a cathartic moment in my life, & I proceed to chronicle my 'toilet memoir' as she puts it, exclaiming "GOSH DARN THIS IS THE LONGEST PISS OF MY ENTIRE LIFE" & "WOW, IT IS ALSO THE MOST SILENT".
After which she kindly informs me that we were not alone.
When it comes time to enter the big bad world of facing the consequences of the tongue's betrayals, I was totally cool. You know, not turning as red as ketchup but only slightly so like diluted kecthup! The girls have politeness in tow & don't ridicule me (out loud), so I totally had my dignity intact.
Until it came time to washing my hands.
Unable to get in sync with the automatic sensor, I flail madly, & essentially end up receiving a nice cup of shower. I stood under the hand dryer for the next few minutes, to the sounds of Min's laughter & the crumbling of my self-esteem. Needless to say, I made a fine candidate for how to successfully, & not maliciously, impersonate the elite of this world.
But here, in an attempt to validate myself & appear more sensible than reality actually gives me credit for, a picture from tv journalism coursework:
Kay, I don't know how to end this thing more inspiringly than to say, "Eat my shorts!"