Don't stress the small stuff

It is only recently that I have realised how many things that we stress about in this world don't even matter. People are constantly worried about how they look, what materialistic aspects of life they are missing out on and how many eco bags are not being sold. It frustrates me to think that these are the only important things in some people's lives.
Everyday terrible things are happening to people, but most of the time no one bothers to stop and notice because of all of this other junk that is clouding our universe. People are sick, missing exams, supporting families, losing sight of who they are, grieving and dying; only last week a girl at Kingscliff High School gassed herself - The 3rd sibling of 4 to die before the age of 20.
This is the stuff that really matters. Her friends are trying not to feel guilty and to deal with her death without failing the HSC or wanting to join her.
This is what really counts.
I just wish people would see that.

Good Morning All

Yes it's already Friday morning and what a delightful day it will be...
I have two essays due today and I've had probably about two months to do them but sadly they are still sitting in my head waiting to be written.
Okay so they have to be in by 12 noon but do you think that I have the motivation to write about stuff no-one really cares about anyway? Cellular mechanisms of Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease, and The Effects of Lavender Baths on Psychological Well Being. Ew.
So neither of them are finished yet and I'm still sitting here blogging about it to the world?
The art of procrastination my friend.
x

Thoughts

Reading the journals of Sylvia Plath is like listening to my own thoughts - except she says what I can't find the words for...

With me, the present is forever, and forever is always shifting, flowing, melting. This second is life. And when it is gone it is dead. But you can't start over with each new second. You have to judge by what is dead. It's like quicksand... hopeless from the start. A story, a picture, can renew sensation a little, but not enough, not enough. Nothing is real except the present, and already, I feel the weight of centuries smothering me. Some girl a hundred years ago once lived as I do. And she is dead. I am the present, but I know I, too, will pass. The high moment, the burning flash, come and are gone, continuous quicksand. And I don't want to die.

Placebo laughter. Real drug

In one of my classes at Uni the other day, we started to learn about administering drugs to patients and dosages etc. After the initial classroom work we were sent into the labs to take turns at the drug trolleys. All of the drug containers were filled with placebos of course, but the point was to prepare the drug and calculate the dosage.
The girl who I was paired with seemed to be having fun with the exercise and rummaged through the trolley looking for the most original drug she could to give me.
"Here you go love," she said smirking and shoving a medicine cup in my face containing 2 small green capsules.
Our tutor came over then willing to be included in the joke.
"What did you give her?"
"Prozac!" She laughed.
Our tutor laughed.
The class laughed.
My facade laughed too - but inside I was lethally cut.

It seemed that everyone in that classroom found the drug a joke - why? Is it the taboos of what it is associated to? What taking it means?
As everyone in that classroom laughed, all I could think about were the tears that I had shed taking the real deal only the year before. I felt that my pain was being sold out over those sherbet filled capsules.
Perhaps I was over-reacting a touch - but just thinking of that drug hurt as much as taking it did; even without the guffaws from the lab.
Why? That I do not know...
Because I'd taken the drug before?
Or because sometimes I think I still should?
Because it's prescribed, but never un-prescribed?
Or maybe, just maybe, it's because it still haunts me...

I've got your back!

At work we sell these coloured wrist bands with the proceeds from each sale going to Juvenile Diabetes research. I hate them; probably because I hate all charity bands and see many of them as an exploitation of the definition of 'charity'. Anyway, in today's five hour shift the law was laid down that I had to sell at least ten of these things.
Great.
I asked every customer; most declined politely, some made up excuses such as 'I have heaps at home', and there were twelve people that actually caved in and bought them just to shut me up.

There were two customers however, who had the most original yet offensive excuses one could possibly provide:

Me: Would you like to support Juvenile Diabetes and purchase a wrist band for just $2.95?
Customer: No - If the fat kids ran around more then they wouldn't get diabetes and you wouldn't have to raise money.
Me: It's actually Type 1 Diabetes - You don't get it from being fat. You get it from really bad luck in your gene pool.

Me: Would you like to support Juvenile Diabetes and purchase a wrist band for just $2.95?
Customer: No I only donate to Cancer ones - Because I actually have a chance of getting that.
Me: That's a rather cynical way of living life.
Customer: Oh crap - I hope I didn't jinx myself. Touch wood, touch wood!!

I had never thought of that analogy before - just because it can't happen to us personally; does that mean we shouldn't care?
Hmmm
Well, obviously being stupidly misinformed and an asshole gives you license not to.

Cold as Ice

Everyone constantly complains about not being pretty enough, how everyone is hotter than themselves and even to the extreme of 'I hate how cute you are!' But it wasn't until last week that I realised how under-rated unattractiveness is.
At work this sleazy old man came in and required assistance in looking for a jumper. After trying to not only crack onto, but also 'feel' two of the three girls who were working that day, he finally selected an item and approached the third girl to pay for it (yeah - that one's me.)
I was prepared for some polite but disgusted smiling at cheap comments... But they didn't come. Not an inkling - I can't say I was disappointed; but my ego certainly was. As I said, lacking in hotness can come in handy - but it still hurts like hell.
Is that my reasons for lacking in a significant other?
Waiting at the bus stop the other day, I was approached by a Down Syndrome girl who was worried she had missed her bus. She was going in the same direction as me so after I reassured her that it had not yet arrived, she decided I was her new friend and began to tell me her life story.
Sentence number two told me that she had a boyfriend. She then asked if I had one. I told her no and her reply was one with a look of sympathy: "I'm sorry..."
WTF - What just happened?? Cut by retarded kid?! Oh dear.
Oh but don't worry; it was made up for the following day as I walked down George Street and a homeless man asked me if he could "...make you pregnant tomorrow?"
HELP
But then again, I ended up a lot better off than the lady in front of me whom he remarked to: "Your mother must have been ugly!"

Catch twenty-two I suppose - hot or not?

Preserving Life

Today I had the opportunity to be present in a Cadaver Lab. I did not particularly wish to participate but I decided to be open minded and look at it as a once in a lifetime opportunity.
I didn't eat before going in (although I'd been told to in order to up my blood pressure) and I was extremely jittery. Everyone else looked a little nervous so thinking that we were all in the same boat, I calmed down. Actually, I signed in, agreed to the rules, scrubbed up and was ready to go, but as soon as I heard a distant zipper being opened on one of the body bags, I lost it.
I felt all of the blood rush from my head, I felt cold and shaky and suddenly a white haze clouded my vision. My lecturer Dr __ had said to let someone know if we felt uncomfortable, but I could not move with the fear of falling over - let alone asking for help. Thankfully, the feeling passed and I distracted myself from the open bodies about the room with my lecturer and a human brain.
Eventually we moved onto a cadaver, and as it is a great interest of her, Dr __ got a little carried away in her teaching and progressed from demonstrating muscles to sharing experiences of past students and human specimens. She got talking about the facilities at a university in Brisbane and described a natural model of a woman's uterus encasing a 6 week old foetus. All of us being girls (well, women + me) were all a little shocked by the issue but she continued to tell us about one woman's encounter in particular.
Walking a group of students through the labs, the students passed a cabinet containing preserved body parts and in particular this model of the unborn foetus. Dr __ said:

One lady looked around and obviously didn't expect it; the instant she saw this model I just saw her face dissolve and she crumbled. Luckily I caught her before she felt full impact with the floor but her face had trauma written all over it. I let the other lab attendants carry on with the rest of the group and I coaxed her outside for some fresh air.
I told her that it was okay to feel uncomfortable but it was obvious that there was an issue surrounding her reaction and that it was something that needed to be addressed in order to help herself.
This woman then told me that she had in fact lost a child.
Now, I'm no counsellor, but this is something that no-one can deal with on your own. So together we took steps to get some grievance counselling and we found out her child's exact location in the hospital's plot.
This is a drastic example of how these simple things can stir up so much angst inside - If you could have seen her face dissolve! To lose a child is something that you would never wish upon anyone and this poor woman was suffering in silence - and to be confronted with that!

Her voice changed in pitch, her cheeks brightened and Dr __ began to cry.
I must admit, I was taken a-back; she was a Dr of Anatomy. Made of steel, works with the dead and knows no-one's names - she confirmed that deep down, she is just like me.

I shook for the rest of the afternoon and could feel a nervous pulse running through me; I was unable to eat or even think coherently - I forgot to go back to Uni I was so frazzled. So I sat by the beach and watched as people passed by.
I saw an elderly couple hand-in-hand, a mother and son, husband and wife with their new born baby... and as I watched these people pass - them not even realising my presence - I thought about the days experiences and paused on Dr __'s story. I had always believed that she was bullet-proof, but even she, like the best of us, gave way to emotion.
I tried to imagine myself as that woman. What would I think? What would I feel? And I shockingly realised that if it were me; I would not have survived.
Ultimately a child is a part of you; like a hand or a foot or a piece of your heart and soul... and to have that ripped away, trampled and stolen forever? To live everyday knowing that you are not a whole and inside a wound continues to bleed.
I had always thought of lonely as having only your own company - but what happens when not even you can provide that?

Who would have ever thought that a simple thing like a soul's empty house could cause so much emotion?

...or not?

My second cousin once-removed (who for the sake of confusion I call my aunt) and I are like e-mail buddies. I share what's happening in my life, she fills me in on hers, and from time to time we send on appropriate forwards to each other.
This is the most recent one that she sent me:

When I was little, I used to believe in the concept of one best friend,

and then I started to become a woman.
And then I found out that if you allow your heart to open up, God would show you the best in many friends.

One friend is needed when you're going through things with your man.
Another friend is needed when you're going through things with your mum.
Another when you want to shop, share, heal, hurt, joke, or just be.
One friend will say,
"Let's cry together," another,
"Let's fight together," another,
"Let's walk away together."

One friend will meet your spiritual need,
another your shoe fetish,
another your love for movies,
another will be with you in your season of confusion,
another will be your clarifier,
another the wind beneath your wings.

But whatever their assignment in your life,
on whatever the occasion,
on whatever the day,
or wherever you need them to meet you with their gym shoes on and hair pulled back,
or to hold you back from making a complete fool of yourself
... those are your best friends.

It may all be wrapped up in one woman, but for many, it's wrapped up in
several...
one from 7th grade,
one from high school,
several from the college years,
a couple from old jobs,
on some days your mother,
on some days your neighbour,
on others, your sisters,
and on some days, your daughters.

Well, I pondered this proposal and agreed with most of it - the progression of friendships and realisations and the need for different friends for different events. But what if it's all fading - slipping away for no fault of your own?

My friends and I don't have that sort of relationship. Their weekends consist of getting drunk and being hungover. As I have mentioned in a previous post, I hate Twin Towns and that is their, let me quote; "Second Home".
So when I attempt to organise a 'girly' weekend with dinner and a movie, I get stood up or cancelled on at the last minute for alcohol, roulette and sleazy random hook-ups.
I've thought about this so much that my head hurts from the electrical currents - Maybe it's actually me with the problem? I am the minority after all - and I'm 18. Why shouldn't I be getting pissed off my head and doing things that I'm bound to regret?

I think I just answered my own question.

Call of the week - for sure!

I was sitting in an Anatomy and Physiology lecture yesterday feeling very tiresome and un-motivated when I was shocked into concentrating when my lecturer started talking about Peritoneal muscles and the Tena Pad adverts on TV (yes - in the same sentence?).
I was starting to think that she was very passionate about this topic after 5 minutes of her ramblings, and this was confirmed with her admitting it out loud (She is very blunt to say the least).
After another 10 or so minutes as she discussed contractions, exercising and the purpose of these muscles (as well as what happens when a uterus turns inside out - ?!?) she apologised to the few boys in our lecture because, lets face it; she didn't leave a lot about to the imagination.
This guy, Josh, who's a complete hero in my Lab class, and for the sake of this story is openly gay, said:

That's ok. I'm anti-fanny anyway.

Needless to say - I laughed.

Things that go bump in the night

Without being sexist or stereotypical, I believe it is fair to say that as a general rule: Women cannot read road-maps. From this, I may even go as far as saying that they cannot navigate all-together...
Well, maybe that's just me.

Apart from my childhood cats, I have never met anyone who had the ability to see in the dark. Despite the bucket loads of carrots I ate in the hope of un-locking this super power, it never did eventuate. I could however, navigate myself around my own house quite comfortably without running into door frames or poking my eye out with antiques - as I imagine most people could probably do themselves in the comfort of their own home.
More recently though, I have found this seemingly concrete ability is fading. No I have not relocated my furniture, moved house or smoked illegal substances - I just cannot for the life of me move around quietly without breaking anything. I shuffle about, arms flailing, eventually stumbling to my destination with loud clunks that echo throughout the silent house.

Why? I'm asking you - Am I slowly losing my mind as I am my taste buds?* Or is it normal to lose consciousness of your surroundings (even though they've remained unchanged for 18 years?)

*Update on the taste bud situation: I can no longer tell the difference between chocolate and caramel Paddle Pops.

And you're targeting me because...?

• For dinner last night, my brother ate 12 Dim Sims and half a bowl of salad.
• Dad is complaining that he cannot fit into his old racing leathers.
• My mum is frequently asked if she is 'expecting'.

And apparently I'm the one who needs to lose weight?

Losing life in a motionless queue

Next time someone asks me why I don't go out - I swear I'm going to give them a slap in the face and tell them 'Because of you!'

No, I do not drink, gamble or be seen dead in bars; yet I found myself at Conrad Jupiter's for a friend's 18th birthday.

First, I had difficulty selecting a present... What do you give someone for their 18th? I thought back to my birthday and found that was no help - my birthday went un-noticed by most of my friends and I heard a Happy Birthday all of twice.
I decided on a bottle of Midori as I'd heard her once say that she liked it. I spent my whole month's allowance (as I'm living on what I had saved before I realised I had no work) and bought her a huge bottle in a collectors tin that flashes different coloured lights - I did not think that was a shabby present at all!
Oh, but when I gave it to her, you would've thought she could have looked a little more excited... A fake smile and an obviously fake thank you - I wanted to snatch it back and make her beg for it.
When her family arrived we sat in the Atrium Bar (basically the old people's bar of the casino). I watched as Fish ripped at the paper wrapping her family's presents as if she were in fact a dog digging a hole - and when she got through it she threw it on the floor; reminding me exactly of the little girl in the movie Babe who burst into tears when she didn't get what she wanted. Only, Fish didn't cry; she made high pitched squealing noises that I assume were out of excitement. You're 18 - act it!
Progressing to dinner in an entourage of an already tipsy Fish and her weird family members, I sat down one end of the table and communicated with nothing but my baked pumpkin - I was still nursing the offense I felt whilst giving the present.
Throughout dessert, one of Fish's friends - too insignificant to me to name - continued to complain that we should hurry up and get to the PA Bar, before the line got too long. Apparently, it was Uni Night and the bar was very popular.
When we arrived at the Bar's entrance I was astounded at the length of the line - it was at least 20 metres long and 4 people wide. It was 9.15pm, the bar was full and the only way to get in, was for people to leave.
I rolled my eyes. Great. I love going out so really I don't mind standing in a queue to get into a pathetic bar, waiting for people to get drunk enough to pass out. I waited in the line with my face as emotionless as possible.
But Fish had other ideas; she and her two 'favourite' friends began to flirt with the Bouncer - as I waited in line - and begged in high pitched and slurring voices, if he would let us in on account of her birthday.
10 minutes later, the trio had disappeared. I asked the security guard if he'd let my friends in.
He said yes.
I asked if he'd let me in.
He said no.
I told him that I was with them.
He told me that he could only let 3 in. He said he also told them, and they said that was ok; that I was willing to wait.

I left the line after an hour - after wasting an hour of my life on someone other than me.

Driving home in angry tears I vowed that I would no longer do things because it's the right thing to do; instead because it's what I want to do ~

Why not? Everyone else does.

Calendar Years

I was flicking through my day diary this morning and admiring all of the blank spaces during my holiday period, then stumbled across the due dates for a number of University assignments.
I dreaded the thought, but then convinced myself that soon it will be mid-year break... and then with perseverance it would soon be Christmas.
I find solace in turning the page in my diary or flicking to a new month on my wall calendar. Then I thought, but why? Because it's taking me further from the start, and closer to the end. At primary school we counted down the days until holidays and cheered with the final school bell; but as I grew older and became terminal with this disease, my comfort lay in the security of my school. I dreaded weekends and holidays, adored Mondays and was always the first car in the student car park without fail.
So that's where my counting came from - but what for?
I'm now counting down, not in anticipation, but for something to do.

It gets lonely when your friends are alcoholics and will deceive you just for something to do...

Goodbye MySpace - and good riddence!

Yes, there is now a real reason that I have left MySpace blogging for dead.
After posting my farewell blog I received a comment from Miss Priss saying that the reason no-one comments on my blogs is because I offend them all in the process.
Apparently I put so much of my heart into creating a post that I over-step the mark and shy readers away from commenting, as they fear I am writing about them.
This is just so stupid. It is my blog, my opinion and my right! If you get offended my what I have to say, don't read it. It's not my fault that you find truth in what I say.

I think what angers me the most is that it's ok for these people to get drunk, contract STD's and call me at all hours of the morning telling me how pissed they are, but I cannot have an opinion. God knows that they all have one about me.
It was only last week that Miss Priss told me that I was 'Miss Perfect'. I don't know about you, but with the condescending tone I received it in, I felt inferior and humiliated.
I don't drink because I respect my brain cells too much - I'll remind you of that in 10 years time.

Yes, I am sorry for my repetitive venting, but this is what I use my blogs for.
Word of advice - if you don't like it, then don't come crying to me because you won't get any sympathy!

[♥]

Moving House

Yes; I am a new-comer, having migrated from the pits of the MySpace blogs.
I have re-posted my blogs to give you a taste for what makes me tick, and will be re-visiting my blogs frequently in the future...

Sorry, nothing to report today. All of my brain power has been used on trying to get this to work!

x

Walking in Anna's Shoes

Just now, in one of my frequent visits to my cousin's blog, I read about this Anna character. Now, Anna intrigued me so much, that I paid her blog a visit. After reading her most recent post, I was a little confused about where this lay in her whole scheme of things. As I am a hermit and have retired to my room for the evening, I scrolled to the very bottom and began reading up.
Anna drew me in as I read her very first blog: lines of Plath emerged and other poets not yet known to me... I read on... And am I ever so glad that I did.
Anna reveals the deepest of things that no one would ever dare admit. She speaks of broken hearts, formal dresses and tears (and things I do not expect many of you to understand), without ever cliche-ing a thing... Because this is the diary of a girl, fighting herself to find her place and no human being could ever call that a stereotype.
Anna joins me in the army of the confused. The difference? Her network of blogs has in-undated her with comments of praise, encouragement and honesty. Her frequent readers give her advice, dry her tears and force her to write again. Her blog is her soft place to fall; it is home.
Anna need not wonder who is reading, because they give her their two cents, no matter how direct or blunt... She has a family across the globe, and now, I have become a distant cousin.

Ultimately, what my experience in Anna's shoes has forced me to discover, is that my futile attempts at MySpace blogs is not only wasting my time, but degrading myself to consider sharing my inner most thoughts with people who won't even admit to reading them.

I'm sorry MySpace... I believe this will be my last blog -

a new family awaits.

♥

Sylvia - share in one today!

In all the times I'd read, loved and appreciated Sylvia Plath, the time I spent learning, and reciting to the world, I could relate to all but one description. I knew the feeling of seeking solace in words, in hiding and in madness. I felt the eyeing of my scars, the suspended bell jar hovering above my head and the constant fear of its sudden decent: sending me back to

Ash, ash --
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there --

Around and around these lines swirled - blinding to all but me. Ah - but I am not alone... the ghost of Sylvia is with me.
And the lines that I could read but could not feel?

I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich.
I could hardly speak.

Sure, like everyone else I'd been at a loss for words, or forced the en-caging of my tongue, to prevent myself from telling some irritating person off. But have you ever felt as if your mouth is full of wire? Each word you stumble is like a pathetic cough, and each attempt slices your throat? Your chest begins to burn and each heart beat pumps pain?
Yes, I can finally relate... as that life slipped away.
I went to bring some comfort, but as I look back, it was to say my goodbyes. I had intended on breathing strength into her spirit and to tell her she was loved. But the barbed wire demons took my chance and permitted me to only choke, sob and eventually utter only the prayers of the rosary.
Then there was the passing.
I lost my voice and felt as if I were in a communist society. My thoughts remained simply thoughts.

This is yet another element of madness I share with my precious Sylvia, these actions and reactions, for she is living through me...

A living doll, everywhere you look.
It can sew, it can cook,
It can
talk, talk, talk.

Yes my dearest, I am your creation. Share with me, what I share with her - the latest and greatest toy!

It's water-proof, shatterproof, proof
against fire and bombs through the
roof.

Sylvia Plath

I am not a child who has a toy for a mind

When I was a little girl, I had a pack of textas that smelt like different fruits. The pink was strawberry and the brown, coconut. These markers were my pride and joy and made my constant colouring much more rewarding as my experiences were full of such amazing fragrances.
As I used no other markers, naturally the ink in my pens began to run out. I decided that by licking the end of my favourite (strawberry) I would extend the life of the ink. When this action failed, that was when I realised that these pens may, in fact, be toxic.
I had asked my mother, "What happens if you lick a texta?"
She looked at me with an almost excited and amused face, "You die! You'll wake up tomorrow dead."
Well, as any regular six year old, the concept of death scared me and I tried to resist sleep as I feared the other side.
When I did wake up the following morning, I believed that it was a miracle.
And now I see, that in the exact same way that my mother played with my mind as a six year old, an association of mine is manipulating me at eighteen. I have been fed information that I can do nothing else but believe because of the trust that my heart has instilled.
When I woke up to the lie I had been fed at six, I felt hurt that my own mother had convinced me of my death. Now I feel no different as I have come to the realisation of my real relationship I share with someone I would give up my world for.
Maybe I should have learnt last time... After the incident with the markers, I would always scrutinise the information my mother fed me, and instead I would ask my father. Perhaps it is natural progression - I have stepped outside the boundaries of this relationship and woken up to reality...

I have been the victim of mind games: I would like to hereby prohibit any person or persons from using the mind of Kitty for recreational use from this date forward.

Because I have to live with your broken toy.

Does it look like I need a doughnut?!

Well, yesterday I decided to give something back to the community for once and I gave blood. How could I not when it was being shoved in my face by the Red Cross parking their huge blood bus on University grounds?!
After a questionnaire (asking if I'd ever had male to male sex) and an interview (asking how fat I was and comparing it to my not tall enough height) a rather nice lady jabbed me, had a dig in two different veins, then handed me over to her superior who mined around in my other arm - until she finally struck blood.
After chilling for about 10 minutes whilst 470 mLs seeped from my body into a little plastic bag, I got some suicidal looking bandages and moved onto the end of the van.
An old lady, in a slow, tired voice, offered me a drink water and then ran through the entire menu; all of which was in the top of the food pyramid. Very politely, I declined.
Shoving a tray of slimy-looking iced doughnuts in my face, she rasped "Have a doughnut!" in a husky, smoker's-cough sort of voice.
Does it look like I need a doughnut?!
I left after that.

And so, in light of my donation to community, I took advantage of this motivation and agreed when Jard asked me to spot light for the Theatre Company's latest production. So poor weary me went along to the rehearsals and got roped into staying for the entire run of the show to practice my cues - Mind you, I was absolutely famished after turning down that sinful glazed doughnut and suddenly found myself being offered a slice of oily, dripping pizza!
Does it look like I need it?!
And so it caused me to ponder; people are not offering me this enlarging food because I need the calories, but because they believe this fat will fit right into my regular diet...
I can't help that I'm lazy, I comfort eat and that my body mistakes healthy food for fat... It's just not my fault!!!

So will everyone please stop feeding me because I actually have learnt how to do that in my 18 years of digestion?!

Desparate and Dateless - there is a reason...

So Little Miss Conservative skipped along to the Desperate and Dateless Ball... What she found was just not the hum of excitement and joy, but an element of disgust as she observed not just the horrid dress fashions of the 'Shiny Era', but an incredible amount of truly desperate and dateless-ians that, sadly, will continue to live that way til death do they part.

So as I ponder on last night's experience with fellow singletons, I pose the question - Are we single because we choose, or because others choose not?
I could not work out if the presence of these middle-agers was because they have a thing for younger partners or because they've exhausted their supply from their own age-group that they're now preying on the younger generation... I concluded that they were dateless for a reason - and that was after one glance!
As I watched the pathetic pick-up attempts from these forty-something desperates, I began to wonder if my presence was in fact, classing me as pathetic? I had not bought a ticket with the intention to collect a significant other, rather for the likes of the atmosphere and the Rogue Traders. Despite my intentions in the evening, clearly the males (yes - even the young ones) had no intention in any form of non-traditional date... The successful matching that I did see ended in a lot of face-mauling and groping.
I suppose that's what happens when you mix free alcohol with desperately alone people.

So Little Miss Conservative denied any form of contact with the boys and went home to her bed - alone.

And the Oscar goes to...

Has anyone ever considered the possibility that some people just can't live without a drama? The first inkling of trouble and they smack their lips with their lolling tongue and eagerly rub their hands as they await the spectacle to unfold. The only impediment is that this unveiling predicament must not of course, be occurring to them; but then again, I'm sure they'll miraculously entwine themselves somehow.
So as the victim slides deeper into the quicksand of crisis, the sharks feed on the fear by mimicking a kind ear. It is upon this counsel that concocts the ingredients to create the biggest drama on earth. Not only does the suffering of the poor victim become publicised to all, but any minute link this gossip monger may have to the situation immediately becomes the tie to draw pity from those surrounding. It is never considered whether or not this problem is anyone else's business but it automatically becomes public knowledge just because someone is craving a gossip hit.

And no, this is not a tribute to Hollywood in spite of the Academy Awards but for all of you out there who must live off each others misfortunes. Get a life...

La la la

I really don't think anyone ever reads these things so I believe I can write whatever I want with no fear of randoms reading it.
If you read it and get offended - it's your own fault!
Okay, number one: Twin Towns is soooo pathetic and if you consider it a 'cool' place to hang I hereby dub you desperate. I just cannot see through the stinging tears that the smoke brings, the sleazy old guys who'd do anything to get a piece of skank and the pathetic tingles of dropping coins as yet another gambler decreases their debt by a few measly dollars.
Number two: Why does the ability to gain access to alcohol mean that you have to drink it? Does no-one recall the days of being 17? I never really found myself without anything to do - we had movie nights, beach parties, midnight gossips on each others' bedroom floors... not to mention the shopping!!! Somehow though, no-one has time for it anymore. The beckoning on The Balcony appears much greater than a girls night followed by ran-sacking of Pacific Fair. You all complain that you have no money, but have you ever thought that if you drank less and slept more, then keeping up with my expensive taste wouldn't necessarily seem out of reach?
Number three: Being selfish does not give you the excuse to be disloyal to your friends. After all, these are the people that have been there for you for every break-up, bad essay or pimple. If you turn on those you respect more than yourself, can you expect to make New Years? People can only take so much... you can only rip out their heart so many times before your friendship bleeds to death. Don't disrespect those you care about, because sooner or later they'll just stop caring.
Number four: Grow a brain. Lately I have encountered so many dumb people that I believe I have adapted to their levels of intelligence. With my experience, I have also found that 'dumb' cannot be classified into one category, but there are in fact a number of classifications for this lack of intelligence.
Blonde: I will agree that the majority of these unfortunates have in fact had blonde hair but this is the category for those who have absolutely no common sense or logic and often respond to comments with a flirtatious laugh to cover the lack of understanding - particularly noticeable when discussing science or politics.
Naive: People who are oblivious to situations or circumstances occurring and continue on their merry way despite a change in events. This is especially common when screwing over close friends as a result of selfishness... word of advice to the naive of the population - wake up!
Sheep: Many citizens are merely sheep. The shepherd(s) are usually the naive and their little followers are the ones getting hurt. Sheep often become involved in events for 'support' but end up the ones with egg on their face when things backfire and these poor little lambs find themselves at a loss of what to do. This can quite often become a double whammy for dumbness as the participants are stupid to not think for themselves in getting to that situation and for following the leader in the first place. People who fall into this category are often serial-offenders.
Unintelligent: Finally, the unintelligent are a difficult breed and can be the result of two contributing factors: a) ignorance and b) just a bad gene pool. The ignorant are often those who neglect intellectual exercise; i.e reading. By reading it does not simply mean reading a book, but pursuing a number of text types including novels, journals, newspapers, poetry and plays. By reading such things and actually contemplating them you'll quite often find yourself much more worldly, thus increasing your impression of a high IQ.
For those in the bad gene pool, there's not a lot you can do, but to pursue more non-academic activities. Try Speech and Drama, Art, creative writing or fashion design. You won't necessarily increase your IQ but by displaying these talents you'll definitely distract from your lack of.
Anyway, that's all from me for today. Don't worry - I'll have something new to complain about shortly.
Stay posted x