I did intend to blog about Saturday's lesbian party. But frankly, it was just too frustrating to be relived. So many things that pissed me off, where do I start?

The fact that we arrived almost two hours too early? The general dodginess of the 10 metres between my car and the club, where I half expected to be kidnapped and dragged off to live the rest of my life as the sex slave of a psychotic BDSM dom(me)? The 10 bucks that was extorted from me for parking in a patch of weeds? The two lesbians who grilled me for 15 minutes about the research, leaving me flailing wildly and wishing that I had been kidnapped and leashed in a bedroom far, far away? Or maybe it was the crap beer that cost 18 frigging bucks a bottle. No wonder everyone was so late - they were all busy getting drunk elsewhere first.

Ah, I've got it. The one thing that made me wish I had stayed home and emailed lesbians instead. NO ONE PICKED ME UP! No requests for phone numbers, no leery quirk of an eyebrow, nothing! Sure, I got offered a drink and asked to dance a couple of times, but these were girls I already knew so that didn't count! Argh, am I that unattractive to my own sex? Did I smell funny? Look too arrogant, too awkward, too straight? Did I violate some secret lesbian code? Or was it because I refused to pick up, preferring rather to lounge by the stairs and the bar, and be picked up...bloody waste of time, as it turned out.

It's almost cut-myself depressing. While I did find out for sure that I'm straight, I also found out that I don't really have a choice in that matter. ARGH! It would be nice to be bi - there were so many hot girls there! So many options compared to the elusive hot (and usually not available) guy at your average straight club.

So much for not reliving that night. I shall now focus on something more uplifting instead.

I MADE PANCAKES TODAY! For the first time ever! With Mindy's and Jason's help and I used pancake mix, but it's still an achievement. No burn wounds, no explosions, no screaming fire alarms, no food poisioning (yet). Plus I didn't even use measuring cups or anything, I did a Jamie Oliver instead - "I think it needs more water, do you think it needs more water? Let's add more water...god, that's too much water." I'm a culinary genius! I've found my niche. I'm gonna make oodles of money selling pancakes. Probably open one of them flash pancake houses (like Paddington's) and charge equally flash prices for Pillsbury buttermilk pancake mix.

And after I become a pancake mogul, I'll open a lesbian club where I'll have to hire bodyguards to fend off my frillion admirers (who'll probably just be attracted to my money, but what the hell).

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Rawr! I'm off to a lesbian party tomorrow night! For research purposes. Really.

This is better than the time I got to make my experiment subjects hurt themselves.

Mmm...I love studying psychology. How else could I get marks for going clubbing?

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Yes, as you have probably guessed, I've changed my layout design.

You may well ask, "But why, o' Esteemable Zebra? Does Dave Grohl no longer warm the cockles of your liver?"

Of course he does. Dave Grohl will always hold that special place in my liver.

But my pancreas has been affected by someone(thing) else. How it ached when I watched the heartbroken Shagless Bunny above in Bernard Derriman's Everyone Else Has Had More Sex Than Me. After all, bunnies have only one purpose in life - to screw one another's brains out. So an unshagging bunny is abhorration of nature. It's living an unfulfilled life, the life of a sub-bunny.

It's a lop-eared tragedy.

Thus I've decided to help this bunny. By using my blog as a personal ad for him. So if you know of any willing bunnies, have them contact the Shagless Bunny.

Bunnies need sex.

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I am not one for volunteer work. It brings to mind extended non-showering days, snot-nosed little children, false smiles and falser promises, and too many “holier-than-thou” people with martyr complexes. Sure, I’ll sign up to build houses in Ethiopia or guard-dog turtle eggs on the east coast – but only for the chance to travel, or to watch sexy shirtless volunteers getting all hot and sweaty after working them muscles. Otherwise, I make sure to hide behind pillars whenever volunteer sign-up sheets make their way around uni.

So it was a little odd that I volunteered to starve myself for 30 hours last weekend. Correction, I was volunteered to starve myself. AND I had to cough up 50 bucks for it too. Alright, I was actually meant to collect 50 bucks’ worth of donations. But you know how some people have that Look which says “Give me money please” and your heart just aches to give them everything you’ve got, including the emergency money you’ve got stuffed into your sock in case you bump into a mugger? Or how some people have that other Look which says “Give me all your money, or I’ll break your legs” and your legs ache the same way? Well, I’m neither of them.

Neither am I a suitable candidate for fasting. Meals for me are a hobbity affair. Dinner and second dinner are the highlight of my day. It was clear that I would need to write out a list of pros and cons to get through 30 hours of no-dinners.

Cons first, to get them over and done with:
1. No food.
2. No sexy shirtless volunteers (Note: two did take their shirts off, but they were of the “YOU RAPED MY EYES!” sort).
3. 50 bucks *sob sob*
4. Having to stay the night in uni.
5.No shower facilities.
6. A plague of martyr complexes.
7. Cringe-worthy “fun-filled” activities.
8. Whingers (the kind who think 30 hours go by faster if they’re spent repeating “I’m hungry” over and over and over again).
9. No food.

And on to the good stuff:
1. I’d practically be forced to lose weight.
2. Warm fuzziness for the chance to help the hungry (according to a friend).

I found out soon enough that I had been lied to. I didn’t even catch a whiff of warm fuzz. Hunger brings out the bitch in me. The ones doubling over with gastric pains were soft wimps, while the others still chirpy after 20 hours were smug bastards.

So it was down to the thought of pounds just dropping off by the minute to keep me going. But when I checked the weighing scale after everything was over – nothing! NOTHING!

Probably it’d have worked better if I’d moved around rather than hibernated – I spent most of the 30 hours horizontal (sleeping! SLEEPING, you depraved lot!). Or if I hadn’t eaten my weight at dinner after the event.

What a gyp. I can’t believe I got sucked in. Again.

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GARHHH! I've just been called a guy!

Sexists! SEXISTS! (YES, I MEAN YOU! *Jabs a finger at the Uber Bitch, Fungus, and Penang Boy*)

All because I admitted to preferring a less-strings-attached type of relationship. The type where I shudder at the thought of anything lasting longer than a month. And where the merest hint of romance gives me rashes. And in which I find it almost impossible to pronounce the word "commitment" wihout a sneer.

But how does that make me a guy?!

It's so sexist to presume that one needs a pair of balls to avoid returning phone calls. How very cocky! (Har har, couldn't resist that one.)

In retrospect though, perhaps answering to "James" wasn't such a good idea.

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Cabbage tastes like fart.

This is not to say that I've ever tasted fart. I haven't. And I'd like to keep it that way. But in the unlikely event that I might one day find myself with a mouthful of fart, I imagine that boiled cabbage is what it would taste of.

It simply doesn't taste good. And smells bad too. I can't recall having ever heard someone say, "I could really kill for a cabbage leaf right now." Well, apart from my (late) hamster. But we're talking about people (and zebras) here.

So why do people insist on putting it in my meals then?

No wonder Charlie Bucket had no friends.

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*WAIL* A MOLE!

A molemolemolemolemolemolemolemooooooooole!

I was gazing at my reflection in the mirror (I limit myself to 25 minutes per session - any longer and it just smacks of narcissism) when I realised that I have a mole! It's on the right side of my jaw, which used to be blemish-free! And I'm very sure of my jaw's previous mole-free status because minutes 13-17 are usually allocated to "Jaw (Right)".

What can this possibly mean?

Have my winds of fortune changed? Has my destined Path of Golden Success been diverted into the Path of Holey Socks with this new mole of mine? Is it the beginning of some new skin disease where I'll wake up each morning with a new spot, until my face is finally transformed into a giant mole? WHAT IF IT GROWS BIGGER AND A HAIR STICKS OUT OF IT?!!!

Or maybe...maybe it's *whispers* cancer.

I haven't experienced so many things - I haven't had a statue dedicated to me, an award named after me, ruled over a country with an iron fist... I'm not ready for a life of liquid foods and bedpans!

Sob sob sob. I'm not overreacting. I read that one of the signs of cancer is a change in one's moles. Especially if said mole is a bumpy one.

*Prod*

It IS bumpy!!! I can feel it! It's not just a spotty mole! It's a bumpy, spotty one! I'm gonna die, I'm gonna DIE! Worse, hair is gonna grow out of it! And it hurts! Hang on, that's not right - moles don't hurt.

Oh...it's only a spotty one after all. The bumpy bit's just a zit.

*WAIL* A ZIT!

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Do I really look that clueless? Is there "Patronise Me" painted on my forehead in big, red letters? Cuz people seem to be doing that a lot lately. Petrol station attendants, waiters, my 13-year old sister...

And today my mechanic.

I was on my way home when the speedometer suddenly went berserk. The needle flew all the way to 180, then flopped back to 0 and died. Which was very strange, seeing as I'd been driving behind a blue Beemer at a steady...somethingty. Then the gear light started flashing. And the yellow engineish-looking symbol lit up. And it was all very scary because I had absolutely no idea what my car was trying to tell me. It'd be so much easier if there was a little ticktape slot somewhere (e.g. "You idiot, you forgot to change my battery AGAIN").

So I headed straight for my Mechanic (garage, not to run him down) who stuck his head in the inner recesses of the car for a few minutes, hemmed and hawed a bit, fiddled with a little electronic thing with masses of wires protruding from it, and finally scribbled something down on his notepad.

"It's your VSS sensor."

Ahh. I was about to pop in with "That's exactly what I was thinking" or "Yeah, those VSS's can be tricky little devils, eh?" or something equally knowledgeable-like. But before I could even move my lips, he plowed straight on.

"Don't worry, you won't understand what that is. I'll take care of it, alright?"

And he had a smile so condescending, so superior, so...PATRONISING, it was all I could do not to smack it off with a spanner.

As if I don't know what a VSS sensor is. It's just a fancy name for the sensor that tracks how fast the wheels are spinning. VSS - Vehicular Spinny Spheres.

Or Very State-of-the-art System.

Ventilated Space Shuttle.

Maybe Vernon's Split Second.

Velma's Scooby Snacks?

Alright. So I don't know what VSS stands for. But he didn't know that.

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