A toast:

"To absent friends, lost loves, old gods, and the seasons of mists; and may each and every one of us always give the devil his due."
(Neil Gaiman, The Sandman: Season of Mists)

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In my long long list of prospective careers, I've been forced to cross a few options off due to sheer lack of talent or the shadowy secret agencies working against me.

Elephant doctor in Africa
Fighter pilot
Pro skateboarder
Brooding poet
Sexy-ass rock star

And now, I have yet another to strike off my list.

Brilliant Psychology lecturer

Never did I realise what trauma lecturers go through daily. That is 'til I suddenly found myself "guest-lecturing" a class of a hundred-plus students yesterday. "Go on," Lecturess-Who-Thought-It-Would-Be-Hilarious said. "You know this stuff -- you're tutoring it! What could possibly go wrong?"

What indeedy. One minute I'm spinning myself dizzy in the tutors' room (and such excellent spin-ny chairs they have there), the next I'm onstage trembling in the frillion-watt glare of 200-odd eyeballs. Students are cruel. I'm one myself, but I'd just never noticed it. Sitting in their little seats, scheming their little schemes. Just waiting for me to stumble. And their smart-arse questions...it was all I could do to deflect them and try to appear somewhat more knowledgable than them. Cuz I knew that at the slightest sign of weakness, they'd rip into me with their evil Corinthian-like eyes and leave me a slightly gooey but extremely messy puddle on the carpet.

Now all I have left are:

Barmaid
Telemarketer

"Your eyeballs are hurting me."

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Was this your infernal reward for creating the Key to Hell, Neil?

I want Satanic Salsa!

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So I'm driving to dinner. The traffic lights turn red just as it gets to my turn and I step on the brakes (I don't wanna end up taking the train to uni again). What do I want to eat? Mmm...Taiwanese sausages slathered in black pepper sauce, crispy fried chicken rice, fried mushrooms, noodles in brown sauce...

The lights glow green and I start to move forward...

And the bastard on the outside lane swerves into my path!

He's trying to make the left turn, and he's on the wrong lane goddammit, but I think that he just about makes it. But as he pulls away, I catch a glimpse of silver paint (MY silver paint) gleaming mockingly on his red fender.

I KEEEL YOU!

I screech the same left turn after him and start blaring my horn and flashing (the lights, not my boobs) at him. And I'm yelling at him to pull over, cuz that's what one does when all the windows are rolled up and the other car's a good ten feet away. Surprisingly enough, he actually does stop. (Which just goes to prove what an idiot he is. I'd have sped off in a squeal of burning rubber - it's dark and there are enough alleys and whatnots to hide in.)

I jump out of the car and stomp menacingly over to his...that is, as menacingly as a 5' 3" girl weighing 46 kg can stomp. And as I'm stomping, it suddenly occurs to me that the driver might be twice my size and break legs (not his own, obviously) for a living. In which case I'd much rather be in my own car heading in the opposite direction.

But it's too late now. The door's opening and the driver steps out...and he's a skinny Little Old Man who's balding. I continue stomping.

I stalk over and jab a finger at him.

"What the hell do you think you're playing at?!!"

"Err...err..." He's stuttering! Incredibly, I think he might actually be a little bit afraid of me! This is a novel feeling - me scaring someone - and it actually feels quite good. I'm thinking I could get used to this. FEAR ME!!! COWER, FOOLISH MORTALS! Phwoarr, maybe I should become a mugger!

But focus.

He's saying something...he wants to settle everything here...please can he just give me some money and we forget the whole thing? HA HA! Now he's asking to give me money? Hot damn, I really should be a mugger!

Then I spoil everything by telling him that I need to call my father first. Immediately he stands taller and tries to hide a grin. "Sure, go ahead," he smirks.

Bastard. And then we hear the sound of people getting out of my car. HA HA HA! I'd forgotten that I had friends in my car! I will redeem myself! FEAR ME AND MY FRIENDS!!!

But I'd also forgotten that while one can most assuredly rely on Jason and Mindy in matters like accompanying one to lunch and signing one's attendance so that one can cut class to go meet rugby guys, one cannot unfortunately rely on them to terrify Little Old Men. Put simply, Jason and Mindy are not scary.
(Edited 28/09/05: Jason's fingernails are scary)

The magic is gone. Before, the LOM may have been persuaded to hand over his wallet and credit cards. Now, he's trying to get rid of me with 50 bucks. 50 bucks wouldn't even get a spot the size of my little toe resprayed.

I resort to my secret weapon. I tell him to give my father a call.

And I suppose my father uses his Capital Letters Voice. Cuz when the LOM hangs up, he glares balefully at me and fishes out 120 bucks. Which I grab before he changes his mind (cuz as little as the LOM is, I'm littler). I jump back into my car and drive off.

And I have my noodles.

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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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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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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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So it's time once again for the obligatory visit to the runaway relatives.

My room's in even more of a mess than usual. Hangars strewn all over the floor, clothes piled everywhere except in the suitcase...my dog refused to enter my room for fear of being buried alive. But I'm absurdly pleased with myself. For once, I'm packing my bag way ahead of schedule. The flight's this evening and I'm almost done deciding exactly what to pack (already!). Yes, I'd probably finish faster if I got off the computer, but I thought I'd take some time out to pat myself on the back.

*Pat*

Oh what the hell, I deserve another.

*Pat*

Mmm...I actually kinda miss Adelaide. Lamb yiros(es?), Boost juices, Vietnamese beef noodles by the grocery store, the bestest yoghurt ever in the market corner...

Err, and the family there.

On the other hand, I am not, repeat not, looking forward at all to Freddy's promise to bring me to a male strip club. In fact, I'll take pictures documenting exactly how much I won't enjoy it.

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