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just spent the weekend at the army barracks
Is Chewing On

Gore Vidal

Listening to:

Everything in Transit
Jack's Mannequin
Lick Those Stripes!
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The Herd
Carresser of Annabelle
Crazy Lone Ranger
Island Sinker
Labert Leopard
Lego Man
Shakin' That Ass
Sloth Min
Uber Bitch Jase
Van Ren


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Songs of the Plains
Family Court

One would be in less danger
From the wiles of a stranger
If one's own kin and kith
Were more fun to be with.

Ogden Nash
I'd Rather Be Nekkid
Friday. 7.7.06 10:16 pm

I'm curled up in a naked ball of misery, sobbing in frustration. Despair overwhelms me. It's not the first time that this has happened, and I'm quite certain that it won't be the last. I want to scream at the unfairness of it all but the neighbours lodged a complaint the last time. I settle for squeezing stress balls instead, but my stress levels stay in the danger-red zone. I'm probably squeezing the wrong balls.

I'm not over-reacting. You would feel the same way if...

*pauses for dramatic effect*


Oh, I don't mean that I've been forced to walk outside in full nekkid glory. I stopped once the neighbours complained about that as well. I'm just so SICK of everything I have. I have to hold back a wave of nausea just imagining wearing the same outfit one more time. While I'm usually one of the first numbers you'd dial for a night out with (and so modest too, notice how I said "one of the first" and not "the first"?), I wouldn't be much fun at the table if I puked a little in my mouth every time I looked down.

It's because I hate buying clothes. No, no, that's not true. I love spending money on clothes (preferably other people's money). What I hate is the actual process of choosing clothes. MNG racks of clothes fill me with dread. Potential mind-numbing boredom of sifting through miles and miles of clothing which (a.) are too daggy for me to wear, or (b.) I'm too daggy to wear. I'd much rather wait in the dressing room while my friends (amounts to the same thing really) throw options over the door. But when I suggest this very simple solution, they bitch and whine at me instead. Hmph. The amount I'm paying them to be my friends, you'd assume that personal shopping would be included in the services.

Sigh. I want to move to a nudist colony.

*Has a sudden mental image of saggy bits*

Maybe not.

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I Have No Balls!
Wednesday. 10.12.05 10:42 pm
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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Richard Scissorhands
Sunday. 6.5.05 7:10 pm
My hair's been butchered. It's murder, I tell you. Disaster. DI-SAS-TUUUUUUUR...

Oh I should have known something was up when I walked into the hairdresser's. The signs were all there. The shop was empty. The floor was devoid of discarded hair. He didn't even look GAY!!! How could I have been so blind? Curse me for an unsuspecting fool!

I saw the way he lit up when I agreed to layers. But I mistook the scissors-happy relief for a burst of creative genius. And the magazines he piled onto my lap! A blatant attempt at misdirection if I ever saw one. And I fell for it! Where was my opera bellower crying "MISTAKE!" when I needed him? When I finally glanced past the pages, I nearly passed out at the sight of the amount of hair blanketing my lap. That couldn't possibly be all mine!

And then I looked up into the mirror. And a knife twisted into my heart. I felt like a wronged muse. Trusting this "artist" with my very soul, only to have it mutilated into a grotesque parody of perfection.

But it's not so much the hacking of my hair that has me in agony. My hair will grow back. It's the betrayal that rips at me. Will I ever heal?

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Lesbians and Pancakes
Friday. 11.4.05 11:052 pm
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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Get It Off Me!
Monday. 10.3.05 8:32 pm

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.


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.


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Hong Kung Foo Fighting
Tuesday. 8.16.05 12:02 am
Yeah, so I'm back from Hong Kong. HK = hot and sweaty. But not "yummy nekkid guy in my bed" hot and sweaty. Rather, it was "blazing hot sun and limp wet rags for clothes" hot and sweaty. Bad enough HK summers are hotter than hell. What's worse is a frillion people squished into an itty-bitty area. And they all shop at the same place at the same time. Which makes for mass tramplage for lost tourists (i.e. me).

And the waiters...

Waiter: Whaddya want? *Insert HKese accent*
Me: Dude, I just got here. Gimme an English menu cuz I don't read no Chinese.
Waiter: You banana hor! I chop socky you with my Magic Slicing Menu! Haiyah!
Magic Slicing Menu: *Chop sockies*
Me: Desist! I know what I want! I'll have me a bowl of beef noodles with extra beef plzthnx.
Waiter: Eedjut! Everyone knows that there's no beef in beef noodles. It's all intestine and tripe and liver and maybe an eyeball or two if you're lucky.
Me: Rihiiggght. Just gimme a pork chop then.
Waiter: Whatever.
Five Minutes: *Go by*
Waiter: 'Ere. I betcha can't finish this salad bowl-sized beef noodles. *Still in HKese accent*
Salad bowl-sized beef noodles: *Sploshes menacingly*
Me: ...
Waiter: Fine. Don't eat. Whatever. It costs four times as much as it would where you come from anyways. Pay up, bitch.
Me: ...
Waiter: WTF! Exact change! Where's the tip, you cheap skanky hor?! I stab you with my Whirling Chopsticks of Death!
Me: ...

Thank god for the apples the hotel left on the bedside table every evening.

Still, I suppose it was all worth it. Cuz it was in a sprawling HK video store that I finally found Queer as Folk UK seasons 1 and 2. After two years of searching and avoiding delivery charges. Absolutely worth it. Nekkid Aidan Gillen and smushy gay sex (you lads have your lesbians, alright?). Mmmmm...that's hot and sweaty.

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Smack Me Around
Wednesday. 8.17.05 9:24 am
A friend remarked yesterday that I'll probably end up with someone who hits me. And that I'll like it.

It isn't the first time I've been told this either. What, do I have "Beat Me" tattooed on my forehead? Do I project myself as someone who measures my partner's affection for me by the number of scars received?

     Total scar tissue surface area       x      100%
     Total skin surface area

Love me because I bruise so prettily for you?

Just cuz I once had a crush smack me one over the eye with a pool cue. Accidentally. So what if I sighed dreamily with every throb of pain that accompanied a raised right eyebrow? All it meant was that I spent the rest of the day loking either very cynical or very surprised. But that was just because it reminded me of my one-on-one (lovely phrase that) pool lesson with him.

But I'll have you know that I happen to find bruises and scars very sexy on my guys. So give me some credit. If I'm ever involved in an abusive relationship, there'll definitely be some giving of me own as well. Egalitarianism and all that. At least I'll never be bored, and that says a lot.

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Sucked In
Tuesday. 10.18.05 7:47 pm
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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