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theZEBRA
just spent the weekend at the army barracks
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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
Rugger Muggered
Monday. 8.22.05 6:07 pm
A guy I know just got mugged. Walking back from Finnegan's at 3 am, he got jumped on just as he got to his car. Broken nose, three broken teeth, smashed lips, fingers needing stitches, and a concussion. Serious shite this. Plus he had to drive himself to the police station after it was over. Lost his money, watch, camera, phone, and PDA.

Now what's scary is this guy's a rugby player. Not to overglorify them or anything, but rugger buggers don't generally look like they'd roll over and play dead at the first sign of trouble. These are the kind of guys who look like they have their faces stomped on for fun. The stud marks can be a huge hint. And this fellow's no different.

So if a guy like that can be targeted for a spot of after-pub mugging, what about a girl like me who probably weighs half what he does? And without even a single boot stud imprint on my face to scare the would-be predators away. I've walked along that same road past midnight more than a few times now. Alone. And pissed (just a little). So I probably wouldn't notice anything until I woke up twenty minutes later with my blood more outside than in.

Scary shite. Will it be my turn next time? Should I invest in a can of pepper spray? Knowing myself, I'm more likely to spray myself in the face than the bastard attacking me. Maybe a little switchblade? What if I drop it and it's used against me?

There's nothing foolproof! *WAIL*

Or maybe I'm just getting myself worked up over nothing. Maybe it wasn't even a mugging! We'd just played our rival team earlier that day, and everyone knows that Finnegan's is where the Dogs go to get smashed.

Hmmm, highly suspicious this.

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Bummer
Sunday. 11.23.03 9.12 pm
I met a guy. I went to a sort of gathering not expecting much fun out of it. But then I found myself sitting beside this guy and we hit it off right away. True, he did use a dirty trick – he started talking about rugby. I was hooked. From rugby, we went on to other stuff, hippety-hoppety-ing from one topic to the next, and he was so easy to talk to. And he was witty too! How often do you find a guy you barely know who has you clutching your sides, gasping for laughter? I was so glad I’d gone for the gathering. Throughout the 4 hours or so, I was sort of hitting on him yet trying not to seem too obvious. And whoa, was I mentally grinning from ear to ear when he gave me his contact details and told me to look him up if ever I was in the neighbourhood.

Gathering over, and this zebra was wagging her tail happily all the way back to the car. Until someone I was driving with casually asked what Hippety Hoppety Guy and I had been talking about? So I mumbled a reply, and then he remarked offhand – oh, by the way...did you know that he’s gay?

GAY?!!!!!!!!!!!!! As in not straight?!!! As in my dad would have a better chance with him than I would?!! As in GAY?!!!! AAAAAARGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!! Why why why why why why why dammit why?! I even got his numbeeeeeeeeeeeer. Sob. Sob. Sobsobsobsobsobsobsob.

It’s not fair.

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Eat Your Veggies
Thursday. 8.24.06 4:00 pm
It was a great night at the bar last night.

Until it was pointed out that I was the only one there who gained height sitting on a bar stool.

:(

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Ruby Red
Sunday. 5.2.04 9:42 am
Julian McMahon is yummily hot…and potentially harmful.

Last Sunday, I was on a mission. To slice and dice 60 sheets of paper into itty-bitty pieces. I wielded the Blade with the care and respect such a Tool of Power demanded…and with one eye on the telly following Nip/Tuck.

Onscreen, Dr. Troy (McMahon) sliced his way through a patient’s finger. Offscreen, theZEBRA sliced her way through 5 sheets of paper. Back onscreen, Dr. Troy winced as he sliced off the wrong finger. And offscreen, theZEBRA felt his pain, literally, as she very nearly sliced off her forefinger.

As it turned out, I had myself a lovely deep nick on my fingertip. Not really the best situation to be in for a person with a history of passing out at the sight of blood. Fortunately the Zookeeper was right by my side.

Priorities first. She saved the sliced-and-diced paper and the floor from irreparable damage by cupping her hand underneath my dripping finger. She then dragged me to the bathroom where I calmly informed her that I would be probably face-down in a few minutes. She rolled her eyes and went off in search of a band-aid. Upon her return, she heard a loud thunk. That was the wooden doorframe cushioning my head as I slid down in a dead faint.

Unconsciousness is usually depicted as a peaceful state – eyes shut in a calm, dreamless sleep. Not so. According to the ZooKeeper, my eyes were wide open, pupils dilated and unfocused, my fists clenched, my whole body shaking, and my finger dripping blood onto the parquet. A position quite similar to that of which I was found after witnessing the vanquishing of Cole in Charmed.

To cut a long story short, I was valiantly rescued by the Zookeeper, at the risk of bloodstains on her clothes. She put me to bed and bandaged my finger, thus saving it from gangrene and maggot-infestation.

Thanks to Julian McMahon, I now have a scarred forefinger and a lump on the back of my head. Thanks to the Zookeeper, both the parquet floor and I escaped death that night – I from excessive bloodloss and the floor from excessive bloodstains. Bless the Zookeeper’s courageous heart.

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Of Alcohol and Bums
Wesnesday. 7.21.04 9:34 am
I have a sore bum.

Let me explain. A coupla nights ago, I was at a little drinking session at a friend’s place. I should point out beforehand that I never drink. Not excessively anyway. Apart from that one time I ended up puking twice and nearly passed out in a corridor. But that was a whole year ago.

Anyhoo, back to the drinking session. I knew my limits. So I stuck to little paper cups of vodka-soda mix. One after another, in rapid succession. It was not long before I finally came to realize something. I am absolutely pathetic with alcohol. Suddenly, I was surrounded by best friends. The only thing stopping me from throwing my arms around each and every one of them and laying on them a sloppy wet one was the fear of spilling my drink. Everything said that night made such sense. It was as if the secrets of the universe had been let loose upon our wee minds. I’ve since forgotten what they were, but I hazily remember vague remarks about Raphael Santi, Grantz, and irate neighbours.

And so the night wore on. A group of us sat in a circle on the road, singing along merrily to someone’s guitar. We sat there for a long time, interrupted only by the odd ‘excuse me, I’ve gotta go throw up’. Some people came by – we thought they wanted to join us in our deep discussion of the merits of the road as a bed, but no, they were only morning joggers peering at us with thinly veiled suspicion.

When we finally trooped off to bed, I was worried that I’d oversleep and miss picking my kid sisters up from school at three. Shouldn’t have bothered. I woke up at nine thirty and couldn’t get back to sleep again. Not because I wanted to get an early start on the road, but because I spent the next three hours with my head in the toilet bowl, hurling my guts out at every fifteen-minute interval. I puked till there was nothing left to puke out. And then I puked some more. And yet some more. My stomach felt like a wrung-out dishcloth. I hurled so much, I could feel abs starting to develop.

I finally admitted defeat at noon and had a friend drive me to the doctor’s, where I threw up another two times. He took one look at my tongue and pronounced me dehydrated. Woohoo. That didn’t sound too bad. I told him to give me some pills and I’d be on my merry way. Silly billy, he said. How did I think I’d keep the pills down long enough for them to work? No worries, he had just the thing. One jab and my face would finally have some time off from the inside of the throne. A jab? As in a needle stuck in my fragile flesh? Not on your life, mister. I was up and running in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. But before I could reach the door, I stopped short, the sudden motion upsetting my already rolling stomach. Big mistake, he mistook my abrupt halt for surrender and led (dragged) me over to his sickbed thing.

Fine. If I was gonna go through the ordeal, I’d at least do it with my dignity intact. I held my breath and rolled my sleeve up. At which point he gave me an odd look and shook his head.

Dr Evil: I need you to lie down.
Slightly Terrified Me: Why? Will that help?
Dr Evil: Not really, no. But I’ll be administering the jab on your tushie.
Definitely Terrified Me: *Whimpers*
Fraulein Nurse: Listen to the doctor, dear. *Forces me down*
Very Terrified Me: *Whimpers*
Dr Evil: *Jabs*
In Agony Me: *Howls*
Dr Evil: There you go. Run along now, you lil’ minx.
Still In Agony Me: I’m never drinking again.

Not till the next alcohol session, at any rate.

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Tortoise from Hell
Wednesday. 8.18.04 9:37 pm
The other day, a lecturer of mine gave us a horrible assignment to complete. We were to write about a childhood memory. The horror. I was forced to revisit the darkest corners of my mind where my traumatic experiences are kept locked behind sturdy doors. Where I hide all memories of my childhood.

It was a beautiful cool evening. I was at a park with my parents. But this wasn’t your average park with crummy swingsets and scraggly trees which wouldn’t have offered relief to a scorched squirrel. No, this was a Park. Lovely tall trees with great leafy branches spread protectively over those nearby, squirrels included. A charming pond, with duckies splashing cheerfully in it. Lush green grass – the kind that makes you want to lie on your back and roll around like a dog.

But rolling was the last thing on my mind that evening. I was four years old and bored to tears. The lousy park didn’t have a swingset. I scowled and scuffed my way to the pond where I tossed some rocks moodily at the ducks. Unfortunately, my aim at that age was such that I might as well have been trying to hit the ice cream man at the other end of the park. Who I was also not allowed to approach as it was too close to dinnertime. My mood darkened even further, and I turned away to search for an easier target.

Just then, a movement caught my eye. I walked over to the edge of the pond to investigate. A tortoise! Paddling sedately in the shallow water. It obviously wanted to follow me home. I thought of my previous pet tortoises. Rather entertaining creatures, even if they were absolute rubbish at surviving 7-floor falls. Still, they made pretty patterns on the ground.

I poked the tortoise experimentally. Perhaps I should have introduced myself first, for it seemed instantly peeved and chomped down on the offending finger.

I flew to my feet in shock and indignation, my captive finger yanking the feral creature out of the water. I tried to dislodge it by shaking my hand violently. The hellbeast responded by grinding its slavering jaws even more firmly into my fragile flesh. It evidently wanted my finger as a trophy…if it didn’t drown on my blood leaking steadily down its throat first.

I did the only thing left for me to do in that situation. I howled and ran for Daddy. Wailing, I charged across the park. Blinded by tears of pain and anger, I tripped over some brat’s inflatable ball and crashed to the ground. The impact left me with skinned knees, and wrenched the Favoured Pet of Lucifer off, sending it sailing into some bushes.

I sniffled and clambered slowly to my feet. My finger hurt like blazes. I felt utterly and downright wretched. Would I ever recover from the horrific attack? Even my vengeance had been denied. The Diabolical Shelled Fiend had escaped, leaving only a tortoise-shaped hole in the bushes and a bloody strip of finger flesh.

I sniffled again. Then I spied a sharp-looking stick by my feet and the blasted ball which had got in my way. A loud bang soon ensued. Huh. I felt better already.

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Copper Blues
Monday. 8.23.04 9:34 pm
I’ve just had my first encounter with a cop. And no, it didn’t involve handcuffs and flashing lights.

I’d parked my car in a tight (illegal) spot yesterday. It was at a rugby tourney, so all the proper lots’d been taken up. And I couldn’t not park, as I was a lines(wo)man/touch judge for the same tourney. So technically, I wasn’t at fault. I should have demanded a reserved lot or they could bloody well judge their lines themselves.

When I returned to my parking spot later in the evening, I found a different car waiting for me. This unfamiliar-looking vehicle sported a rather odd-shaped rear, with dents along its side. Its bumper looked a little wonky too, barely hanging on in fact. And there was garish green paint scraped all over the right side of the car, marring its lovely silver finish. Rather distasteful really. Some people really did have the oddest tastes.

I turned around and clicked on the car remote. And heard the funny car beeping behind me. Holyjesusshitwasthatmycar?!!!!! License plate? Check. Honda emblem ripped off the side window? Check. I collapsed to the ground and burst into tears.

After a refreshing cry, I picked up a largish rock and went on a hunt for a green car with silver scrapes down its left. No luck. The bastard must’ve torn off after he murdered my car. I hope he managed to drive himself off a bridge later that night.

I walked desolately back to my car and got in. After closing the door gently (in case it fell off), I drove carefully to a police station to lodge a report, all the while keeping an eye out for a stray bumper lying on the road behind. And it was there that I met the cop who’d give the word ‘daft’ a whole new meaning.

He had a toothpick in his mouth and a gleam in his eye. Not the gleam of shrewdness however, it was the glare of the tv reflecting off the vacant stare from an equally vacant mind. A dimwitted cow would have looked a frillion times more intelligent next to the Daft Cop.

No matter. I had faith in the force. These people were the ones I’d depend on if I were kidnapped and left in the boot of a clunker to die. I took a hopeful breath and described to the DC what had happened and handed him some pictures I’d taken of my poor Honda’s misery. He peered at them and nodded to himself as if this sort of thing occurred all the time. Then he looked at me appraisingly. My heart leapt. Perhaps I’d misjudged him. It wasn’t the empty stare of a halfwit I’d seen, maybe it was the preoccupied stare of a man lost in thought, trying to solve the myriad of cases on his desk. As hope dawned on my face, he cleared his throat. He was about to speak! I waited with bated breath…

“The paint. It’s yellow.”

I blinked. “Umm, no. It’s green actually. The car which got mine was probably green.”

“Why is there yellow paint on your car?”

“Nono, it’s green. And it’s from the car which hit mine”.

“Is your car yellow?”

“Is it wha-? It’s silver! Look at it!”

The DC glared at me. “I meant was it yellow before you painted it silver?”

“No! It was silver! It’s always been silver! And that’s not yellow, it’s green, green! From the other car!”

Somehow, something finally got through to him. “Hang on a tic, that paint’s green! Do you have any green cars at home?”

“Wha-?! No! It’s green because the car – That. Hit. It. Was. GREEN.”

“Maybe your gate’s green. Did you reverse into it?”

“No I didn’t bloody reverse into my gate! I parked my car and it was fine and when I got back, it wasn’t fine anymore! A green car hit it!”

“No, wait!” His brow furrowed as a new theory hit him. “Maybe…maybe another car hit yours. And maybe…it was green!”

He smirked at me in satisfaction. I could only stare back in absolute flummox. I hoped to god I’ll never be tied up in the boot of someone’s car.

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Pudgy Sausages
Wednesday. 10.6.04 10:03 am
Do I have funny fingers? Do I? DO I? Why didn’t anybody tell me I’ve got funny fingers?! I’ve been staring at them for ages and still can’t get my head round their funnyness. They’re all CHUBBY and CROOKED and how could my friends let me go waving them about in people’s faces when anyone in their right mind would be hiding the little monstrosities in their pockets. Holy shit, what if the freshies at coll are calling me the Funny Fingers Girl?

SOB! Now I know why I’ve never been able to play the piano very well, and why I seem to spend bloody forever at the keyboard correcting a frillion typos. It’s cuz the little misshapen freaks are so bent out of place I hit two keys at a time!

What happened to them? Was I born this way? Did my pregnant mom consume so many fish fingers that mine resemble them soggy and squashed? As a toddler, did my fingers get caught in the door? Repeatedly? Did all the fat from my McBurgers receive a P.R. to migrate to the ends of my hands? Did I at some point catch my digits in a blender and have a cross-eyed surgeon reattach them bit by bit like a jigsaw puzzle?

There is something seriously wrong here... Oh god, the freaky things are gonna scare everyone away and I’m gonna die ALL ALONE in a miserable apartment with my pet gerbils chewing on the stumps for dinner.

Life can be so unfair.

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