Fuck me Friday

My "To-do" list:

1. Henry Rollins

Why hello  big boy.

I don't usually like muscle-y boys. And buzz cuts aren't my thang. But I like your whole "I can fix a motorbike whilst doing spoken word, stream of consciousness poetry" gig. You have an interesting heavy brow. I don't care about the gay rumors. Hold me.

FUCK ME, HENRY ROLLINS.

2. Mike Patton

I saw you at the Big Day Out last year, when you were playing with Fantomas. My cousin and I squeezed our way down the front with all the head banging dudes who wear non-ironic flannels and have impressive frizzy rock hair. We squealed and swooned, and I would have totally thrown my knickers on stage, but I was wearing shorts, and that would have required some serious manoeuvres. You were wearing a cricket uniform and white zinc on your nose, but I still fantasized about being your strumpet for weeks on end.

I love you best circa 1991 with an undercut

I also love you old, even though your hair is a bit greasy sometimes, and you kind of come off as a twat in interviews. But you wear dapper suits and occasionally sport a pencil moustache, and this coupled with you being an UNDENIABLE ROCK GOD makes me get all trembly at the knees.

FUCK ME, MIKE PATTON

3. Viggo Mortensen

Ok, you were in LOTR so that already places you in the front of the field, as far as I am concerned. You have cheekbones I could shave parmesean on. You look like you have dirty hands. I love dirty hands. If Google is to be believed you are a prolific poet and photographer. Your name sounds like something you would name the protagonist of a  nordic metal song.

And you are just plain hot.

 

FUCK ME, KING AR... I MEAN VIGGO MORTENSEN.

4. Ellen 

One thing I always felt rather certain of was my heterosexuality.

But you, you hot blonde man-pixie, you make me question this.

I love that you wear chain wallets, chucks and cashmere sweaters. On a guy, this would look kind of dumb, but on you, it makes me want to play with your hair.

I bet you have a nice kitchen, too.

FUCK ME, ELLEN DEGENERES

Apt

Aparently this is a Canadian band?

I wouldn't know. If it is, they have an awesome name.

Ms. Bad Pants

So I find myself in a little quandary:

Once upon a time a certain Ms. Pants had a much younger lover, a runaway from Melbourne. It all lasted about 6 months, and was rather casual, and Ms. Pants was only occasionally irked when she found herself making him hot chocolate at bedtime.

For one reason or another, Ms. Pants ceased this arrangement, but there were no hard feelings on either party's behalf. Lady has been in occasional contact with him since (he often accidently dials her number), and is (not so) secretly pleased when he tells her she made him a man, and that now he only likes older women.

I was in a somewhat shitty mood last night, as a result of a certain lothario's phone call the evening before. After a few red wines, I decided to send out some fairly *cough* innocent text messages to male acquaintances, in order to satiate my incessant desire for attention.

Long story short - one of the most interesting outcomes of this fishing expedition was that a certain young man (who is now all of nineteen) is returning to Sydney as of TODAY. We've kind of agreed to catch up. I genuinely enjoy his company, so this should be quite nice, but it begs the following question:

Should I?

Is the best way to get over someone getting underneath someone else?

Dinosaurs fucking robots

Things like this give me the will to live

I just want to get this straight

I'm getting sick of being sad
And now I've gotten sick of you
Wanna be friends? Well thats just too bad
Let me tell YOU a thing or two:

I don't want to know that I'm missed
I don't want to hear that you feel alone
So you can tell it to the last girl you kissed
(here you should read 'kissed' as 'boned')

Listen, boy, you've done your dash
I'm over it, I'm done
You are nothing but a piece of trash
Now go have your fucking fun**

**and catch AIDS or get eaten by a shark

Whipping my credit card

I wanted to feel happy, so I just bought these hot little sluts:

 

Dang. Aren't they the most tarty, impractical things you have ever seen?

I LOVE THEM

I'm calling "Foul"

God fucking dammit!

So, you know, since the demise of my mini relationship, I've been avoiding all contact with He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named in the interests of restoring some self-respect and dignity. Not only have I deleted all contact details, but I have been ignoring calls from the number I recognise as his. It's just not helpful for my cause. It's not as if we have anything to talk about "Hey, how are you? Bent any toothless old sluts over the RSL bar counter lately? How many 16 yr olds have you slayed at the caravan park this week? Why yes, I AM enjoying basking in the afterglow of your uncermonious rejection of my suggestion we enjoy a mature, normal relationship..." etc. etc.

Anyhoosies, so I got a call this afternoon from a blocked number - normally I do not answer these, but I thought it was the bank calling re my credit card payment (they seem to have missplaced ~$3000. FUCKTARDS). It was bloody well him! That's not fair! Clearly, I am ignoring you for a reason (heres a hint : MY SANITY). I dont want to hear you that are thinking of me. What is the point of telling me that? Why?

just.

leave.

me.





ALONE. For Gods' sake.

Patisserie porn

Greetings Sports Fans,

So I put on my big girl pants and dragged my ass to work this morning, this shouldn't be an achievement, but for me, lately, it is. I just want to lie in bed drinking beer and wearing a bed jacket, barking commands at some hapless hired help.

So, wanna hear about the rest of my weekend? Ok then... here we GO!!

The lingerie party was really quite a hoot. I did NOT buy a vibrator, but I was nearly swayed to buy a rather cute babydoll and pants set. But I resisted. I ate an inordinate amount of chips 'n' dip and fairy bread, and made myself laugh ever so much with my own witticisms and painfully obvious puns. All in all it was a really really lovely *gag* girly affair.

I then mosy-ed on down to the party located at the warehouse. I was amazed to find, despite a wealth of attractive men, some of whom displayed an interest in yours truly, I didn't flirt with anyone. Not once. Has my heretofore predatory nature been squished for good? I mean, normally I would have made at least ONE play...

Anyway it was good to catch up with Scott, I haven't seen him in ages, and truth be told, I have rather missed him. Scott, his girlfriend and I all bailed fairly early and headed to a friends house where we had a little red and a lot of ganja, with a few choccies thrown in for good measure. I had the most amusing walk home.

And then, upon my return, I had a life-defining moment.

Kicking off my cowboy boots at the front door, I proceeded without hesitation to the refrigerator where I found:

A caramel eclair from a fancy pants patisserie.

Now let me tell you. I am a changed woman. I actually moaned with unbridled pleasure as I scarfed my sweet baked good lover, propped up with beaucoup pillows in my mum's bed (they're in the US, remember, nothing suss here, kiddies). I washed down the whole sordid affair with a nice cold glass of Ribena, and HOLY SHIT THAT WAS MORE SATISFYING THAN ANYTHING I HAVE EVER EXPERIENCED BEFORE. EVER. I shit you not. I lay there quivering afterwards. It was a religious experience.

All I want for Christmas is my two front teef - NOT

Hi Santa!


You've no doubt noticed, since you've been making a list and checking it twice, that Ms. Pants has been a very very good girl this year, and so, to make things easier on you come Christmas time when you will no doubt bestow upon me a veritable avalanche of gifts, I'm going to start making a list of things I'd like to see under my tree come Christmas morning. Aren't I great?!! (as an aside, I reckon I could have slipped a semicolon into the massive compound sentence above, but I have such a rampant fear of their misuse, I abstained)


1. RAINBOW ROLLER SKATES


I may be regressing or something due to stresses of late, but I totally can see my self donning these with some knee socks and kicky little shorts when I zip down the road for a soy flat white:






I live on a hill, though, so I may have to master aerodynamics a la this hot dude

You Guys! I'm gonna look so awesome!!

PS spent last night crying into my brothers plate of left over thai food. Sad sack o' shit. Awoke at 1.30 to discover I had cooked myself a kidney infection. RAD. All good though, been to docs. Vaguely consdiered over emphasising my fragile mental state in order to get some happy gear, but I left with antibiotics only. I'm growing up!

Shit, is it home time yet?

No? Well how about a painfully truthful cartoon? Fun, yes?



Stupid heart.

PS you should go here . It's sci-fi. It's sexy. There is alien-on-human lesbianism.

Cliched behaviour

I have a few rituals I like to observe when I've had a romantic set-back.

I write horrendous poetry.

I have too many baths.

I eat carbs.

I plan holidays.

Oh and I listen to A LOT of Fiona Apple. Seriously, it's a must. Makes me wanna wear berets and cherry red doc martens and kick losers in the teeth. Gosh, hows my violent tendencies of late [I originally wrote violet tendencies, which has a ring of truth - I do wear a lot of purple]. Anyways, you should listen, if only as a show of solidarity.

Friday.... well that's something, at least

So Its Friday! OMG! Can't wait for a few vinos with all my girlz! LOL! Gonna get so dizznunk!!

errr... actually, no. I'm hibernating at home tonight, far too delicate to face the big old world, and I'm in such a foul mood, I'd probably king hit the first dumb Supre slut I saw.



I'll be kicking myself out of Chez Self-Pity on Saturday to attend:

• A birthday party being hosted at a warehouse/art gallery/indoor skate park thing.God, that sounds wanky. But there is usually free piss, and one of my favourite friends Scott has come down from Byron to host said party , and that usually means PORTABLE SMOKE MACHINES and ROCK AND ROLL so attendance is pretty much compulsory. Plus, I might score a root in the car park. Joking. Well 90% joking. This is what I'm gonna look like (note to self: buy high cut black tanga panties):

• A 'lingerie' party, which is basically a euphemism for a bunch tiddly women sitting around tittering over toys they all pretend not to have used before. Saying that I wont be purchasing anything of that nature. Not actually too much of a fan of "buzzy friends". In the words of a friend of mine: you switch the fucker on, its all over in fifteen seconds, then you want to chuck it against the wall 'cause you feel all used. And lets face it, hurling vibrators around the place is a bit of a saftey hazard - they could take out an eye. Nah, i think i'll just buy myself some socks or something.

Anyway so that should be fun, if I can get over my crippling compulsion to hide under my doona and chainsmoke despite the fact I probably have a lung infection brewing. Its good to go out after a minor romantic set back. Sure, you may spend the whole evening compulsively checking your phone and/or sobbing hysterically into a martini glass, but its better than sitting at home like a sad fucker, letting the other twat get one up on you. You gotta play to WIN, dudes.

****

Off topic (cause I can): I'm thinking about ditching everthing and pissing off the go work on the superyachts as a stewardess. My oldies are currently in the US of A enjoying a brief glimspe of freedom from the sticky clutches of their shithouse children, and when they head off to Fort Lauderdale, Dad's gonna put some words in with his boaty mates (Dad is a boat broker). I could dig on sailing through the Carribbean as a job. No so keen on toiet scrubbing, but hey, it's toilet scrubbing in PARADISE. Anyway, lets see how that pans out.

On phlegm and imploding mini relationships

Me again. Talking to myself.

I'm a bit miserable of late as I have (a) stitches in my nipple (long story), (b) a lung rattling cough which sounds not unlike a barking seal with emphysema, (c) cystitis which makes me feel like I'm pissing carbonated chilli sauce, and, finally (d) I have just unceremoniously ejected from my life the only person in two and a half years who I have liked as much as they like me and vice versa.

More on (d) you say? Why I thought you'd never ask! Handsome young country boy with no job and several neuroses and one or two addicitons. Fantastic sex (see (c) above). Terminally romantic. But totally unable to commit. "I love you and want to be with you but I'm not ready to fall in love again". Err, right.

Why of course, I wielded my feminine charms to maximum effect. Mais Oui, I played the role of the mildly disinterested and otherwise engaged one. But after several weeks of this, I finally cracked and told him to take a long fucking hike. I just cant stand by that shit. I am a ridiculously dreamy romantic but happily in times like these my feminist tendencies come to the forefront and kick me up my otherwise co-dependant arse.

Which brings me to my point today: Who in the goddamn hell constructed the notion of staying friends after a romantic rebuttal? I reckon its all a scheme concocted by the wrong-doing person so that they can skip off scott-free "I didn't do anything wrong! In fact, I'm such an awesome person they even want to be friends! Best Friends! Forever! Weeeeeeeeee!"

Hello, newsflash: GET ROOTED. No wait, maybe I'm being a bit harsh. I'll take a few moments of rational thought and...No, seriously, get fucked, I don't want to be friends with you, ever. I don't care that I'm being immature, and that I have the massive blind pimple on my chin at this very moment to prove it. You are dead to me**.

In other news, I had a dream last night that my humble blog was featured as the hot new thing on Triple J's breakfast show, and that I still only had four views.




**unless you change your mind, in which case I love you baby come back <-- you have my permission to shoot me

Revoltingly Self-Aware Narcissist

Well. Geeze. It's come to this. Venting my crap in my own blog which I can't envisage anyone ever reading of their own free will.

I know I'll get bored at one point and start spewing forth graphic details about my sex life in order to shock/amaze/revolt any imagined followers into a state where they are compelled to comment on posts JUST SO I CAN PROVE THAT IM NOT BLOODY WELL TYPING TO MYSELF. Oh. yes, sorry, I should have warned you. I am rather fond of ye olde caps lock. I also overuse commas and "..."s. Hopefully I will not procure any additional stalkers with foot fetishes in this exercise - I got enough of those via myspace, thanks.

I'm two paragraphs in and I'm already losing track of my own structure. Let's just call it modernist or some shit.