The Dawn of a New Era

A new blog is in production. If you'd like to be included in the mailing list of this new blog, please email me.

Final Post

The blog is officially dead. It has come to my attention that it causes more problems than it's worth, due to the fact that everybody knows who I am. I can no longer write anything without other people taking it the wrong way. Due to the inherent uncommunicative nature of some of my readers, I have to protect myself by not writing anymore.

I'm thinking I might start another blog, where my more communicative readers can read my rantings etc. If you're interested in being informed of this new blog, let me know and I'll communicate it to you.

Thank you all for reading!

Bazza

Ignorant Fuckwits.

I have a new realisation of just how ignorant people can be. You heard me: IGNORANT. Because I didn't explain why I wasn't going to this fucking charity thing yesterday, some people were ignorant of my reasons and of course, bitched about it. I'd like to tell these people a few things that may enlighten their tiny little brains, somewhat:

I have a belief. My belief means that I don't contribute to charities which prolong the human race. It's a personal belief and I don't enforce it on others. Just as you don't enforce your personal beliefs onto me.

Most importantly: IF YOU HAVE A QUESTION ABOUT MY REASONS AND MY BELIEFS, ASK ME. Don't sit there and bitch about what you don't know about. It isn't my fault that your ignorance has made you incapable of offering a worthy comment to the world.

Seriously - there's nothing I hate more than someone who doesn't have the brains or the balls to ask someone else a direct question, and bitches behind their back. So just grow the fuck up and be a fucking mature minded person for a change.

Connectile Dysfunction

Ok, so I'm sat in the office of one of the largest media organisations in the world (my employer) and can't really do any work. Why? Because the email system is down - the entire company has no email. Apparently it won't be fixed until tomorrow. Brilliant. Thank the lord that this hasn't affected our internet connection.

I'm sat in the email-less office on my own. All phones are diverted to me, and I sit and wait for the phones to ring. Why? Because everybody else has gone to help out at some foodbank where they pack up tins of food for people who can't afford to eat. Why am I not with them? Because I don't agree with disturbing society's process of natural selection; namely, Amnesty International and all the other charities who aid the human race in their never ending plot to save the entire planet, disrupt the natural order of things, and eventually destroy the earth in it's entirety.

But I'm not completely alone. Originally I thought that I'd be able to divert my phone (and hence, the phones of everyone else) to my mobile and just go home. But no - my boss has decided to stay in the office too. So far he's annoyed me just with his presence, as it means I can't go home as planned. And also, he's made me realise that he has no clue what kind of an evil person I am. Or maybe he does now... He said to me 'so why aren't you out at the charity place; that seems like something that's right up your alley' - He clearly knows NOTHING about me. I'm the least charitable person in the world and would much rather see the whole race of humans, including myself, die a painful and explosive death than let the earth perish under the strain of the population, and would therefore never give anything; my time, my money or my attention, to a charity that's sole purpose is to extend the life of humans. Let them starve - that's what I say.

I don't expect anybody to agree with me, and I don't usually enforce my view onto others. (I remained fairly quiet about my intentions to stay in the office and offered no explanation to my colleagues who questioned my motives.) But I just figured that this is MY blog and I can talk about whatever I want to on here. So, if you don't like it, don't read it.

Notes on a Ramble.

The only positive about being sick, (physically ill where no food or water is able to be held within), is that once your stomach has calmed itself down, and accepts foreign bodies of food, you have an almighty excuse to eat anything, for the sake of your health. This afternoon I have consumed numerous frozen treats, purely because they're easy to eat (suck and swallow), they're cooling on the mouth, and they are pretty much just sugar which turns into the much needed energy that you're lacking.

Now, ignoring the almighty innuendo inserted (hah) above, I'm pleased to say that the consumption of various sticks of pleasure (heh) has sorted me out. As always.

What is WRONG with me?? I always get like this when I'm sick. I apologise. My god - my mum reads this... ah well, she knows I'm a complete freak of nature anyway. Nothing shocks her anymore.

So, I have inadvertently and unintentionally resumed my state of hermitage this weekend. I have done a lot of sleeping, and finished Northanger Abbey. This book was somewhat of a disappointment. It was a refreshing change to read something so lighthearted, but I had been given the impression, at a young age, that this book was a little bit scary and some themes of horror in it. The person who gave me this idea was wrong. It was the biggest pile of piss-weak lovey dovey bullshit that I've ever read (aside from Richardson's 'Pamela') and there were no scary bits whatsoever. I don't know why I'm surprised at this misinformation. It was my father, after all, that delivered it to me.

You may have noticed that he doesn't get much of a mention on this blog. There's a very good reason for that, and as I'm feeling rather open to day, and the only member of my family who reads this is my mother and she shares my view of my father with me and doesn't talk to him anymore, I shall tell you.

He's a mean old man.

In your head, somewhere, you've likely formed a stereotypical image of a 'mean old man'. I'm thinking you're thinking of some kind of scrooge like image; a small, weedy man with a perma-scowl, a fist full of money and the remnants of an evil comment on his lips. To get an accurate picture of my father, insert about 50kg and you're there.

So thanks, Dad, for giving me a false impression of a novel. Your input in my life has been, as always, something to remember.

The Filters

My oh my I am SO popular.

But seriously - I'm sure every average looking girl who advertises for a man gets as much attention. The thing is that I've never had quite so much attention and I"m friggin proud as hell! I mentioned in my previous post that I'd had 30 enquiries in the first 24 hours. Since then, the number has risen to approximately 100. It's approximate because I've LOST COUNT.

Now don't get too excited; they're all fairly underwhelming, apart from 3 that I have put through my various filtering processes. I feel it's somewhat important to communicate these filters, in order to make this kind of thing easier for other women of desperation in this world.

Filter 1: What Does He Sound Like?
Possibly the most effective of all the filtering processes, in terms of handling the volume of enquiries, this involves yours truly reading the offending person's profile, and scanning it for, a) spelling mistakes, b) grammatical mistakes, and c) syntactical usage. If he is of an adequate standard, (95% pass rate, allowing for potential typo's), then we move on to Filter 2.

Filter 2: What Does He Look Like?
You may be surprised that is not the first Filter, but you see, I place more importance on their ability to hold a written conversation, than their appearance. (This is the main reason why I'd have to decline any advances from David Beckham.) So, I observe the person's photo. My immediate thought varies, but allows me to judge my true opinion quite accurately. There are 3 levels of thought, as follows; a) 'He's hot: I'd like to tap that', b) 'Is he hot? I can't quite tell... perhaps at a different angle...', and c) 'What in god's name possessed this person to contact me, and who told them that this was a good photo?' Needless to say, anybody in (a) moves on to the next stage, those in (b) are left in my inbox for further thought, and (c) are rightly declined.

Filter 3 is as yet undefined. I have made contact with 3 people who passed Filters 1 and 2 with flying colours. I'll update you as to Filter 3 - the final filter - in due time.

Slightly Shameful

I'm slightly ashamed of what I'm about to say, but I figure that if I don't write about this on my blog, I'm never going to be able to talk about what could potentially be a very news-worthy project.

I went to a wedding on Saturday - it was beautiful, lovely, everything a wedding should be. Prior to going, I had been told that weddings were THE place to meet people. I told myself that, having tried most other avenues, if a wedding didn't produce the man of my dreams, I'd have to resort to the final avenue. That is, dating websites. *shudder*

So, I didn't meet anybody at the wedding, and yesterday I did it; I put my profile on a website. Urgh. I feel slightly sick about the whole thing. But I figured that I don't go out, like, at all, and even if I had the time to go out I still wouldn't. In short, there's absolutely nowhere that I'm going to meet a man, so unless I want to be an old spinster this measure is totally necessary.

In the last 24 hours, I've received about 30 enquiries. Of these, I have made contact with just 2. I narrowed it down to these 2 men, because they were the only ones who made no spelling mistakes and could string a sentence together without abbreviating anything or saying 'lol'. Appalling isn't it. But a pleasant surprise was that these adequate spellers were also relatively good looking. So yes, it's an interesting little project, I'm still ashamed about it, but I'd rather do something that's completely against my nature and totally outside of my comfort zone than end up alone, cursing the world for not delivering me some company when deep down I know it's because I didn't try hard enough.

So there.

Antichrist...mas

I will be celebrating my non holiday at home with Colin, as I have previously mentioned. We will be eating some kind of lunch - chicken may be involved - followed by a rather indulgent dessert - possibly including chocolate. This dessert will be so indulgent that it requires a permanent place on my sofa, surrounded by cushions, sitting directly in the path of my air conditioner which will be on ALL DAY. This is one day where I don't give a shit about the environment, and am intent on making a dirty great big carbon footprint.

So, in order to perform an act of true laziness and indulgence, I need something good to watch on TV. This is where I need your help. I need suggestions on movies or tv series dvd box sets which I can hire/purchase for this anti-special day.

So far, I have the following ideas:

Deadwood (box set)
Indiana Jones Trilogy
Lord of the Rings Trilogy
Nip/Tuck (Seasons 1, 2 & 3)
Lost (Seasons 1 & 2)

Does anyone have any better ideas? The last thing I want to do is have to get up off the sofa to change the dvd, so the longer and more intense, the better.

Thanks.

More than a woman...

It has recently been brought to my attention that my outbursts of late, which I largely attributed to PMT, aren't really that normal.

Other women are known to suffer less than I, and my levels of PMT - my SEVERE PMT - could be due to something else. I went to the doctor because of my frequent black-outs and light-headedness, and it turns out that there might actually be something wrong with me! Yay!

This is a good thing - this means that I can now blame something for my erratic behaviour, mood swings and hot flushes. I don't know what it is yet, but I don't really care. The fact that I can now have my sights set on a day when I am a normal woman is far greater a feeling than any I've experienced before (slight exaggeration, perhaps).

So, my lovely readers, colleagues and friends; the days of 'don't go near Bazza, it's "that time" again' are officially close to being over. And as for you, my terribly out of control hormones; you can just fuck off and die.

I Am Woman

I'm half way through a large bag of maltesers, and am very close to polishing off the giant bag of peanut M&M's. I've just cried watching 'Miss Potter' and have an insatiable need for a man to massage my feet. I had a hissy fit in the garden due to the green ant that bit me as I was trying to frolic through the grass like Julie Andrews in the Sound of Music, and am now nursing a throbbing foot and some serious panda eyes. I'm upset that I have no cheese or savoury goodies because, of course, I've eaten too much sweet stuff and feel very guilty and know that a bite of savoury would remedy that no end. I think I'm getting a headache due to the apparently unlimited hot flushes that keep coursing through my body, and I have uncontrollable aches and pains thrown in, just because I can. My headache is possibly partly caused by the guilt I feel for screaming at a colleague today, shortly before leaving work 3 hours early to prevent myself from crying in the office. I'm stressing out about the fact that I have a very important, life changing decision to make by Monday, and am in no state of mind to make any decisions, proven by the fact that it took me ten minutes to decide if I should have peanut or straight chocolate M&M's. I feel slightly dehydrated, but can't move off the sofa to get water due to the ant bite and the stomach full of chocolate and my life has taken such a tragic turn for the worse that even my cat has abandoned me for the spare bedroom.

In short, I am suffering from an ungodly, unforgiving, inexplicably torturous bout of the dreaded PMT, and all I can do is sit it out. Like a big, soggy mess of a woman, I shall sit and wait for my socially acceptable self to be returned to me.

I am woman... hear me moan.

Giving Up

I'm trying to give up a good thing. It's damn tough - I've previously given up cigarettes, and that was hard, but it wasn't quite so much of a good thing, in that it kills you.

There are other things though, that don't kill you - at least, they don't kill you directly. And when it comes to giving up these things it's much a case of 'just one last time'.

Deciding on when this last time should be is something that is easy to do, but is often retracted when you start to miss it. Then you see a whole new reason why the good thing should be banished from your life, and you schedule a last time again, with the view to sticking to it.

The vicious circle continues when the last time is so good that you can't possibly make it the last time. So, we go back to the start.

So tell me, how do you give up something that doesn't directly kill you, and is very enjoyable, but inherently bad? Just how do you make the last time, the actual last time?

Misinterpretation...?

I refer back to my post entitled 'Xmas', posted on the 17th November. Apparently it was ignored. So, I would be grateful if you could all just scroll down, find this post, and for the purposes of clarity, read it again.

Done reading...?

Good. Now, you notice that I started this post with a statement alluding to the fact that I don't celebrate xmas. I'd like to say that again: I don't celebrate xmas.

So, what does that mean to you? I imagine, somewhere in the recesses of your mind you have interpreted that as 'Bazza does not partake in xmas celebrations.' You are correct in your interpretation. Well done.

What then, will you do with that piece of information? Do you store it? Do you throw it away? Or do you do what I expect you to do, and use this piece of information to interpret further pieces of information that I throw your way? Let me be clearer:

If I were to say that I couldn't see out of my left eye, you would take this information and remember it. In future instances, you would access this information and utilise it - for example, you wouldn't make grand and vital gestures towards my left hand side, knowing full well that I can't see those gestures and there may be a lack of communication that ensues. By remembering the information I gave you, you will therefore prevent this lack of communication from happening. This makes sense, yes? Anyone have any problems with this? ...No? Good. So:

WHAT PART OF "I DON'T CELEBRATE XMAS" DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND?

At precisely which point in the sentence, "I tend to boycott the whole thing; secret santa, tinsel and merry are banished from my vocabulary at roughly this time of the year." do you lose interest and stop listening and not digest the information? How much clearer can I make it?

But - maybe I'm wrong in my musings. Maybe this isn't a matter of your inherent stupidity; perhaps I unfairly judge the capability levels in your process of learning? Maybe, just maybe, you don't take me seriously - and when I say 'I don't celebrate xmas because I am not of the Christian faith and do not wish to spend a shit load of time and money celebrating the birthday of someone who a) I don't know, b) I doubt the existence of, and c) has never celebrated my birthday' you actually think I'm talking shit and it shouldn't be heard.

Somewhat related to the above, I have just been included on the Secret Santa draw at work. I attempted to withdraw my name, forcefully and aggressively, but alas, this was ignored and I am now supposed to buy a present for someone despite the fact that the organisers are fully aware that I don't want to. Originally, in my anger, I had decided that I would again attempt to withdraw and make a big deal of it and get angry and possibly cry and scream and accuse everybody of not taking me seriously and of forcing me to do something that I don't believe in and physically despise. But then, I spoke to my mother, and she told me that what happens at work doesn't matter - I'm still going to be ignoring xmas in my usual fashion, and to prove that I am a good person underneath it all, I am willing to play around in the minefield of stupidity, commercialism and false hope in a person that doesn't exist, and I will participate in Secret Santa.

I want it to be known that I am not happy about this; I understand that not everything that comes out of my mouth will be taken seriously, and that quite possibly I shouldn't bother to express my view on anything ever again because it may just be ignored. I also understand that if, in the future, YOU express a wish not to do something, or partake in something, I can ignore it and include you anyway.

And that is all I have to say. This is the last time that I will mention it. If you have anything you would like to say to me about this (Roy, Chappers, IT Helpdesk), please submit it in writing.

Skinniest

There really, really needs to be some kind of standardisation in the world of coffee making. I'm constantly being told that a routine is not necessarily a good thing if practiced every day, and that some deviation is important to keep the brain interested in living. So, I went to a different coffee shop today, (incidentally, the same chain that fucked up my skinny iced coffee), and ordered a standard skinny latte. I am now half way through this latte, and have surmised that it is, in fact, NOT made on skinny milk.

So deviating from my routine of going to the nice, normal coffee shop over the road, with their nice, normal skinny milk and their nice, normal method of making coffee of all varieties, has proven to be detrimental to my health. Both my mental, and physical health.

While I continue to drink this lip curlingly heavy non-skinny latte, I curse the creation of other forms of milk and other forms of coffee shop, and I pray for the implementation of a standard.

Skinnier

Due to yesterday's skinny coffee shop issues, I chose to go to a more mainstream coffee place this morning - namely, Starbucks. I asked for a very simple drink, which they could not possibly get wrong, and which most certainly doesn't warrant the addition of ice cream or whipped cream. I asked for a Grande Skinny Latte.

After waiting for 30 minutes, and still no sign of my coffee, I began to wonder if I had been fooled into thinking that my coffee choice was standard; perhaps it was, in fact, a 'grande' coffee, of grand proportions, and they'd had to charter a flight to Colombia in order to get the grandest beans, and they'd embarked on a trip to Scotland in order to find the grandest cow to extract the milk from. Surely this is the only logical explanation for a coffee taking such a very long time to make?

Or perhaps I'm cursed. They're just lucky it tastes good.

Skinny

I've just got back from a trip to the coffee place, where I asked for a skinny iced coffee. That is, an iced coffee made with skimmed milk. When I received the iced coffee, it had a scoop of ice cream in it, and was topped with whipped cream. Now, I ask you, what part of 'skinny' did they not understand? How could the word 'skinny' possibly be construed as anything but low fat?

I'm tempted to complain. In fact, I think I will. I'm going to write to the coffee shop in question, and inform them of this terrible mistake. Oh I'm going to make them sorry they ever opened...

Xmas

Not a big fan of xmas, as most of you know. I tend to boycott the whole thing; secret santa, tinsel and merry are banished from my vocabulary at roughly this time of the year. There is a reason for my lack of festive mirth, but I don't know if I should bore you with it. Ordinarily I would bore you with it, and get great pleasure out of enforcing my view onto the ears of you, my helpless listeners. But I have learnt that there isn't much point anymore.

Over the past few years I've tirelessly explained to colleagues, friends and family members just why I won't partake in mince pies / secret santa / decorations etc. Now, I only ever explain this when specifically asked 'why don't you celebrate xmas' - I rightfully give an answer. But I've learnt that nobody, I repeat, NOBODY is ever satisfied with my answer and more often than not thinks that my answer, and my views, are NEGOTIABLE. So for fuck's sake, let me just get this out there now: I don't celebrate xmas because I am not of the Christian faith and do not wish to spend a shit load of time and money celebrating the birthday of someone who a) I don't know, b) I doubt the existence of, and c) has never celebrated my birthday.

I ask you - would you happily turn round and spend lots of money celebrating the birthday of Buddha? No - because you're not of that faith - am I right? Would you gladly take time off, using your own annual leave which you've worked hard for, to celebrate Hanukkah? No - because you're not of that faith - AM I RIGHT??

So, next time someone asks me what I'm doing for xmas, and I reply with "why, I'm not sure... I imagine I'll treat it like any other day that I've been forced to take off work, and NOT go to the gym because it's shut, and NOT go shopping because the shops are shut, and maybe I WON'T do anything that I actually want to do because the whole fucking country is SHUT", I expect this answer to be acknowledged in a minimal way, and accepted as my prerogative.

And before you smart arses even bother asking; no, I won't be having xmas lunch, no I won't be spending time with my family, and no you won't be receiving a xmas card. Is that clear now? Good.

Patriotism

My holiday is almost at an end; thankfully, I'm tanned and relatively relaxed. However, my less than fortunate friend will be returning to England tomorrow, and I can't help but feel very, very sad for him. Don't get me wrong - I see the benefits of living in such a place as London; the shopping, the night life, the restaurants, etc. But, do those things count when it's cold, miserable and wet for 8 months of the year? No, my friends, they do not.

After being back in my mother land for 18 months, I have finally lost most pleasant thoughts for England. The few pleasant thoughts that remain are for my friends who are, unfortunately for them, trapped there against their will (I can only assume). I have the most unbelievable fondness for Australia; I wake up every day and thank this country for it's weather, it's cheapness, and it's loveliness in general. Not once in my eleven years in England did I ever do that.

Furthermore, I believe that I might just stay in Brisbane forever - it's my favourite of all the Australian cities, I've got some very pleasant friends, and some (just a few) of my family live here. For me, this statement of permanent residence is quite amazing; I'm a mover, have lived in about 20 different towns across the world in my lifetime, and just assumed that this was the way it should be. But no - I was wrong.

Lastly, in my little patriotic post, I have now discovered the home of the greatest food in the world. I don't need London's Busaba, Hakkassan and fish & chips; I've got Hog's Breath Cafe - or 'Hoggie's' as my lovely Chappers calls it. It truly doesn't get much better than that: Steak, curly fries, sunshine and Cholesterol. Brilliant... just brilliant.

An anti-social experiment...

As most of you know, I'm not the most social of people and I quite enjoy my own company, as opposed to the company of others. Don't get me wrong, I love my friends, but I also love pottering about my house cleaning, dusting, staring at the walls etc. So, at the risk of becoming more of a hermit, I am going to conduct a social experiment, which may end up being an anti-social exercise.

After my holiday, I am finally going to stop drinking alcohol. The only times that I will drink alcohol are with a meal (limited to one glass of wine) or at a wedding (that's you Toes). As a preamble to my intended experiment, I have been asking my friends the following question:
"Do you have any friends that don't drink?"
The most common answer I've received is "None that jump to mind."

My slowly breeding point is that friends that don't drink are not at the top of one's mind. They are, in fact, acquaintances, with whom a night out is something more to be feared than relished. I intend to try and prevent such a fate for myself, hence proving that a non-drinker can have as much fun as a drinker, and the non-drinker's drinker friends can cope with keeping a non-drinker friend at the top of their mind.

I'll keep you updated with my experiment, if the need arises, and until then I will be embarking on an evening out tonight, where I will drink...all for the sake of being social.

Pitfalls of Love

Ok - I love Colin, BUT where does his insatiable need to attack my bare skin with his claws come from?? Every time I'm sat down, Colin climbs on to my lap, and starts kneading away at my arm, my elbow, my hand; ANY piece of exposed flesh that he can see. To start with, it's cute, but then it starts to hurt, and when he starts to draw blood with his suckling, it's time for him to stop. But it's like a habit - he's like an alcoholic, but he's addicted to my skin. I've provided him with toys, blankets, a whole house of furniture, but still he scratches me. I'd rather he scratch the sofa - and it's more expensive than me!

So now I find myself sat in the heat with a jumper on, because it's the only thing that stops him kneading me.

To add to my slight discomfort, I'm suffering major food cravings. Since learning the delights of Hog's Breath, and learning that there's a 24 hour pancake place in the city, I've not been able to stop thinking about steak and pancakes. If I had a man I'd get him to go out and get me some... actually, if I had a man I doubt I'd be thinking about steak and pancakes. God damn.

Ok Colin, get the fuck off me - I'm hot, flustered, frustrated and hungry. I need something, and that something has nothing to do with being your personal pin cushion.

Cloudy

When the sun is hiding behind a layer of cloud, and life seems just a little too cloudy, there are some things I do to distract myself from the forces of cloud. Not only are these quite effective for me, but I believe that they could potentially replace the prescription of various pharmaceuticals.

Gym: When outer influences create a feeling of anger or frustration, the gym is the best remedy. Find a treadmill that's slightly hidden from the general gym population, and pump it up to the highest setting. Your arms and legs are free to flail in a maniacal way, and your bits are wobbling like there's no tomorrow, but the feeling of complete lack of control, while still maintaining the inherent control of being able to press STOP at any point, is quite satisfying. The same satisfaction can be had from the bike, the rower and the cross trainer.

Food: Namely, Hog's Breath Cafe. I've never been to one of these places before, so could never have known the complete level of awe that I recently experienced (and the apparent beginnings of a heart attack half way through my meal). They have steak that has never been so tender, they have chips that are curly and can be dipped in your choice of sauce, and lastly, they have a mammoth ice cream sundae of such astounding proportions that they recommend not attempting to eat on your own. That, my friends, is exactly what is needed in a time of 'last hope'; feeling like you wanna die? Go and eat yourself to death!

Cat: My little treasure Colin was picked up from the cattery yesterday. After a brief period of miaowing his little head off in the car, there was silence. I assumed he'd finally calmed down and realised that we were on our way home. But I was wrong. A smell started to exude from the cat box, and the miaowing took on a ferocity rarely heard. He had done a shit, (not just any shit - it was runny), in the cat box and was getting covered in it. He managed to get out of the cat box with 1km to go, and spread the shit around the car, and onto me. Ordinarily this would have pissed me off, but it merely acted as a grounding experience. I can thank Colin for allowing me the chance to clean shit off a baser being, and to be thanked for my efforts by a big wet cuddle. I needed nothing more.

And that, my lovely readers, is Bazza's little list of things to do when your world is cloudy, your brain can't cope and it seems like life just isn't so important. (Colin can be rented for $50 an hour. Poo is not guaranteed.)

Colin; mummy's sorry...

I am now on holiday, and as you may remember I had previously advertised for a Catsitter. As nobody seems to take me seriously, not one person replied offering their services. So, yesterday I was forced to put little Colin in a HOME for cats who's mothers have got better things to do.

I feel like I've failed him. I left him, after a little cry which he duly ignored in favour of hissing at the other cats, and explained to the woman, Deb, that he's very special and needs lots of attention. I'm slightly worried that the biscuits she put down for him were NOT of an upper class variety, and that they were, in fact, a 'budget brand' of biscuit. One thing I know for certain is that they weren't 'Kitten' biscuits. I explained that I'd provided her with a high quality Kitten Food of varying flavours in Colin's little backpack, but I don't think she heard me...

So, potentially, Colin is starving, being attacked by other cats, bullied and berated by a bunch of felines whose parents clearly don't give a shit about them, and my poor little cherub's arguments of "but my mummy loves me!" won't matter at all. In fact, I think it might just make it worse.

So, I'm in a situation where my pride for looking after my little baby in such a loving and caring manner has completely disappeared because it's probably just made things worse for him in the hell hole of budget brand cats that I've placed him in. God only knows if he'll ever talk to me again, when I eventually pick him up, or if he'll have turned into some kind of feral, unloved, uncared for kitten and I'll never see my little precious Colin, as I know him, again.

I tried, Colin... I promise you I tried for an alternative method of care... but, alas, my readers did not respond...

Temporary Au Revoir

Thank the lord, I'm finally in the last few hours of work time. As of 5pm, I am officially on holiday! I may not update my blog at all in the next couple of weeks, because I'll have much more important things to do. Like going to the beach, driving down to Sydney, drinking copious amounts of alcohol and eating far too much food.

While I'm very much enjoying gloating about the fact that I've got two weeks off, I'm slowly realising that there will be something very important missing in my life. That is, my routine, and the people that comprise my routine.

I'm going to miss my little routine of gym, work, home. Especially people like Roy who keep me permanently amused and make the day of work a little easier to swallow. And the lovely Chappers who consistently makes me smile and gives me the perspective I need to get by every day.

But... apart from them, I can't wait to get the hell out of this pit of mundane misery and party like it's 1999! Wooo! Goodbye, cruel world of work; hello, life of luxury that I crave.

Water Restrictions

Weigh day is on Monday, so I'm currently on Level 2 water restrictions. Much like the sunny city that I live in, I'm suffering somewhat from a drought. In order for me to shed some last weight, and cheat my way down a further kg, I am now drinking no more than 1 litre of water a day.

On Saturday, I'll go down to half a litre (Level 3 water restrictions), and continue that until Sunday evening. On Sunday evening I will not consume anything (Level 4 water restrictions) until after my weigh-in at 7am on Monday. At this point, I will undergo a veritable flood of liquid, preferably of the alcoholic variety, along with some kind of mammoth breakfast and potentially a cigarette. Just for the fun of it.

On a semi-related note, I have just won an award at my gym! I am this month's BEST MEMBER - winning the award for being an outstanding gym member, and for losing a shit load of weight through pure guts and determination (and water restrictions). I'm the fucking greatest. Anybody wishing to see my winning physique can go down to Goodlife Chermside and see my piccie stuck on the wall, along with the following cheesy missive about my journey:

"I joined Goodlife in January 2007, weighing just over 85kg. I started work with my trainer, Angela, and then decided to sign up for the Twelve Week Challenge in February. I lost a total of 12kg in the challenge, 58.5cms and 6.4% body fat loss, taking me from a size 16 to a size 12.
Maintaining this weight loss was difficult, but I continued to go to the gym 4 or 5 times a week, working with Angela to improve my strength and fitness. I joined up for my second Twelve Week Challenge in August this year, and have lost a further 7kg so far.
I have exceeded my own expectations, and am now fit, healthy and happier than ever. I continue to come to the gym at least 5 times a week, and am hoping to compete in a triathlon next year. With nearly 20kg weight loss in total, I thank the gym and my trainer for helping me to set out on a new, healthier lifestyle."

WARNING: Cheesometer Rating: High (but oh so deserved)

Pre-Holiday

My brain has developed into some kind of quivering mess. It's not functional, it may as well not be there. I can barely string a sentence together without giggling, bursting into song, or yelling at someone. It's uncontrollable - I just yelled at an automated voice detection phone line, only to be told 'Sorry, I didn't quite catch that...' - I said FOR FUCK'S SAKE you fucking annoying computer generated woman...

Why are these things in place? I'm beginning to think that I attract things that make my blood boil - like men who burp openly, and loudly, in the office. And what is with the lack of post boxes in this city?? I walk to the other end of the city for a meeting, clutching the letter I had hoped to post, and do I see a single post box on this epic, 15 minute hike? NO. Not a single fucking post box. Why? WHY I ask you??

So yes, I'm damn pleased that I'm going on holiday next week, because I get the feeling that if I didn't then I might end up upsetting the majority of my colleagues with random bouts of yelling, and perhaps a tearey or two in the corner. And nobody wants to see a grown woman cry.

I think I might have to consume a worrying amount of alcohol on my holiday - I'm just far too sober at the moment. How I wish I had an alcohol problem... things would be so much cloudier...I'm not happy with the clarity...

Towing & Ferals

An interesting evening on Saturday - quite pleasant, in fact. That is, until I discovered that my car had been TOWED away. Now, originally I laid full blame on my own stupidity for parking in a tow zone. But after the ordeal of getting him back, I realised that I was lucky to be alive, and any blame should be placed firmly on the head of the government...

After phoning around various tow companies, speaking to all manner of people from god knows what sections of society, I found little Jayden in a tow yard in Newstead. I made my way there to be greeted by a queue of ferals. The building was more like a tin shack, housing a grotty old sofa with sweat marks on the arm rests, and a small balding man behind what I can only assume was once the door to a prison asking people at the top of his lungs: "Are you a hoon tow, crash tow or parking tow?" I was the ONLY one who was a parking tow, and once this had been made public to the league of ferals sitting on the sofa, I was officially 'prey'.

After being told that I had to pay $300 to get my car out, I thought about complaining. The ferals, however, were eyeing my Gucci handbag greedily, so I paid up and made way for the pregnant woman standing behind me. She managed to spill half of her bottle of jack daniels on the counter before enquiring as to how long she had to find the money. Pleasant...

I was led through to the garage, and Jayden stood out like the jewel that he is, amongst the plethora of rust buckets and tin cans frequenting the tow yard. I inspected him for scratches and any excess dirt, and was about to complain about a dirty hand print on his boot, when the pregnant woman started screaming about the 'fucking pigs'. I thought it best to leave.

After a long hot shower and a cup of tea, I realised just how lucky I was to get out of there alive. Since coming in to work this morning, I have constructed exactly 2 emails of complaint and will be distributing these accordingly. I'm just musing the idea of claiming emotional trauma...

Almost upon us...

A sudden realisation has come to me. I was busy planning Bazza Festivus, (the month immediately surrounding the 8th of January), and I thought, ok so Bazza Festivus ends on the 22nd January. Great.

No - NOT great. The 22nd of January is exactly 22 days away from the worst day of the calendar year - Feb 14th. Yes, you know what I'm talking about - it's V Day.

Some of you share my dread for this day, and my most avid readers will remember the unprecedented event on Feb 14th 2007 where I received a V Day card. But this doesn't change my views on this 'holiday'. It's still a day of hell - a day where single office workers are loathe to leave their buildings for fear of stumbling across a fallen rose on the footpath, or a joyfully weeping teenager crying into the arms of her 'loved one'; a day where all mention of flowers, cards and chocolate should be kept within the social circles of those who are attached.

I was originally (on Feb 15th this year) going to take a different stance on the holiday to end all happiness, but, alas, nothing has changed this year. The mystery card sender of 2007 has fallen off the radar and hasn't owned up, so all hope of receiving anything in 2008 has been washed away. I shall sit here, and mope, and will be sure to express my inner most sadness and anger at happiness on my blog. Looking forward to it :)

Investigatory Exposure.

Once again, my sleep has been disturbed by the ever present yobs that reside in my corner of Brisbane. This morning, at exactly 02:41, I was woken up by the sound of a 'boy-racer' vehicle slowing down from a very speedy trip down my street, right outside my house. This was shortly followed by an extremely loud THUD from above me.

Yes, something had been thrown onto my roof, and the culprits had escaped. After a short period of being frozen with fear, I exited my room, checked on Colin (he was a little frightened), and recovered my trusty friend the butchers knife from the kitchen. Me and the knife went outside to wield ourselves threateningly in the street, before realising that I had no underwear on and was in fact exposing myself.

Knife and I went back inside, and tried to fall asleep. But due to the excitement of not only having a large something sitting on top of my house, but also the fact that I'd just flashed my wears to the neighbourhood, I found it hard getting back to sleep. When I had just started to drift off, at exactly 03:57 the thing on top of my house woke up from it's apparent impact-induced coma, and preceded to scratch around for half an hour directly above me.

By the time I'd started to drift off again, my alarm went off and it was time to investigate the mystery in daylight... with underwear ON. And of course, there was no evidence to be found. I now sit here, having had 4 hours sleep, and I wonder... why does this kind of thing happen to me?? Is it my house? Or is it the fact that I have a tendency to expose myself to my neighbours?

Is blogging dead?

A colleague has raised an issue; is my blog dead? I have expanded this to represent less of a personal attack, to; is blogging dead?

The lack of anonymity, despite the pseudonym put in place, is starting to fuck me off. When you find yourself not able to talk about things, because someone you know knows who you are etc etc, and because you've stupidly linked your blog to a social networking site, you know that things aren't how they were originally meant to be.

That is, this blog was originally an outlet for my inherent nature to complain endlessly about all manner of banal and mundane things. It rapidly became popular, of course, amongst colleagues and friends, and now I find myself unable to mention ANYTHING that's slightly controversial or likely to implicate the anonymity of another person.

So what's the point of this blog, if I can't express my true feelings, or indeed, complain about things that I encounter? Should I be considering hanging up my blogging hat? Or should this particular blog move on, and morph into another blog?

The problem with that is this; I love to be loved. I want people to read my blog, and to personally praise me for the excellent post, my outstanding wit, and my ability to succinctly express my inner feelings. So if I were to start a new blog, with complete anonymity in mind, who would praise me? What satisfaction would I gain from writing? None.

I conclude with a question: Is a blog considered dead when the content is necessarily censored?

Wanted: Catsitter

As I'm going on holiday, I will be leaving my poor little Colin at home for 3 nights consecutively. I am therefore advertising for a Catsitter to love, honour and obey my little treasure, for the period of time aforementioned.

There will be no lawful contract in place for the above services - except the contract of trust between me and the Catsitter in question. Your duties involve waking up, at his request, at precisely 05:15am every morning, playing for half an hour, feeding him his breakfast of cat milk and biscuits, then more play and a cuddle. Colin likes to spend some time alone during the day, at which point he may choose to use your handbag/shoes as a chew toy. This is permissible, as he's currently trying to lose his baby teeth and needs something pliable to help with the process.

Later in the afternoon, more play is required, as well as a degree of praise and love directed at Colin for at least 30 minutes. After the session of 'verbal love', he likes to eat his dinner. This consists of a Whiskas pouch, of the beef, chicken or chicken/tuna variety. (I find that on cloudy days he prefers the beef.) After dinner, Colin will amuse himself until you sit down to eat (please provide your own food and beverages) and at this time he may choose to sample your food. Again, this is permissible, as he's a growing boy and needs a variety of food to fuel his growing taste buds.

Then, a long cuddle session in front of the TV is required. He likes to suckle on any exposed area of skin, so either wear a long sleeved jumper, or prepare to be needed like a pin cushion and dribbled on. Again - permissible.

And they are your duties. As you can see, he's not a very needy cat. He's just got special requirements because he's a very special little boy. Applications for the position of Catsitter can be sent to me via email before COB on Friday 2nd November.

P.S. The toilet seat needs to be left in the 'down' position, as Colin is quite fond of snorkeling in the bottom of the toilet.

In Preparation...

How does one prepare for a holiday? It's been so long since I had one, I've forgotten what I need to do. I have a vague idea that at some point I should turn on my out of office... but it stops there.

In case any of you aren't aware (not very likely), I will be "On Holiday" from the 4th November, through to the 19th. (Note the use of 'th' on the end of those little numbers there...) My good friend is coming to the land of sunshine from the land of doom and gloom (England) for a whole two weeks of fun. For the purposes of anonymity, I shall call him 'Long Man'. He is, after all, very long.

I now realise that this sounds slightly perverse... he's tall - long - in the height sense of the word - I have no idea about anything else that might be long... I'm digging a hole...

So, back to the topic at hand. How do I prepare? I was reading Marie Claire last night, and spotted numerous things that I think are needed; bikini, suncream, waterproof mascara, midori. So, I guess I'll start by purchasing these things and then see where I'm at.

It's all very concerning - what happens if I don't prepare adequately? Or if Marie Claire is wrong? I've got a sneaking suspicion that a holiday needs a hell of a lot more than the above items, and that personally, I need to have a good old think about what it is that I will need, and perhaps not rely solely on Marie Claire. Especially as I don't even like Midori...

I think a spreadsheet is in order. It's the only possible way that I can organise the thoughts and products flying around in my head. In times of need, Excel will provide.

What's the Point?

I have a few issues today - one in particular which is centered around my all too inclusive office environment.

We have a new member of the team. His name, for my intents and purposes, is Pointless Equipment Man. Let me paint a picture: He's gay, he's chirpy, he seems to have a relatively important job which involves walking around the office talking on a headset which is attached to some kind of portable telecommunications device.

Does he have a desk? Yes. Then what, pray tell, is his excuse for being so mobile? Why does he need to walk around the office talking on his phone? Does he have a phone on his desk? Yes. Is it in good working order? Yes. Does he have a comfortable chair? Yes, I checked it myself. So, I can only conclude that Pointless Equipment Man and his portable communications devices are completely FUCKING POINTLESS in our office space, given the bounty of office equipment and furniture that our employer provides all employees.

Now, this kind of person isn't completely unique to my office. They exist elsewhere, and it's my duty to inform you all of the existence of this species. Here, for your reference, is a link to an image of the Pointless Equipment Man Breed.

Triumph

Various triumphs on the agenda today... it's all about me, and my ability to blow my own trumpet. Yay!

I hosted a dinner party last night, and prepared an Italian feast; antipasto, meatballs, Italian roasted chicken, panzanella salad, and all wound up with a tiramisu. The menu was comprised with the assistance of my good friend Nigella (hey chick! gold star for the salad recipe!) and it turned out to be one of the most balanced meals I've ever had. More often than not, a 3 course meal is too much to cope with - too heavy, too rich, too lots of stuff. But this was perfect... I am a domestic goddess.

And as if the perfect meal wasn't enough to cement my triumph, I woke up with no sign of a hangover, and I managed to clean the entire house before 9am, at which point I hauled my arse to the gym and did 1.5 hrs of cardio. I now sit back and relax and muse the perfectness of my personal scheduling, and wonder if this skill can be marketed in some way in order to provide me with a secondary revenue stream...

The final triumph of this weekend, (unless something super happens this afternoon), is the weigh in for the 12 week challenge. Turns out that my body composition has started to really change. I've put on 0.5kg of PURE MUSCLE and my body fat percentage has dropped some more. So, for the first time in my life, a weight gain is a good thing!

In conclusion, my various triumphs officially make me a super organised wonderfully muscular domestic goddess. Sweet...

Is it bad...?

Is it bad that I am thinking about leaving work at 3pm because I've got to do some shopping and can't possibly leave it until after 5pm even though the shops are open til 9pm tonight?

Is it bad that I weighed myself this morning and I've lost another 0.5kg so I've treated myself with a chicken twister from KFC and I don't care?

Is it bad that I'm slightly obsessed with a girl in my office, who've I've nicknamed "Inappropriate Colleague", and her inability to realise that cheap hair extensions are not cool and that very short dresses should not be worn by people with tankles?

Is it bad that when driving, I have a slight problem seeing, and therefore stopping for, pedestrians and motorcycles, and seem to be creating a few 'safety issues' on the roads of Brisbane?

Is it bad that I know I'm an appalling human being, have no values, no morals and no real regard for other members of the human race; that I make no attempt to change, and that I actually applaud my decision to be like that?

Hmmm... No, to all of the above.

RESTRICTED

I have recently found the presence of the Internet, and social networking sites (I shan't name you, facebook) a real hindrance on my ability to complain at will. I've got a shit load of stuff that I would LOVE to rant about - but I can't because this blog is now linked to everywhere, every person and every thing I know. At the risk of losing money for my company and myself, I can no longer speak at will.

I have been restricted by my own willingness to extend my e-hand of friendship.

I... feel like... I can't say anything anymore... my tongue has been tied up by veritable ropes of restriction and my mouth is closed tight at the hands of modern-socialism.

Modern-socialism, for those of you who don't know, is the discipline relating to the effects of being social. For example, Paris Hilton is a modern-socialist and a Hermit is an anti-modern-socialist. I previously felt I was somewhere in the middle. But now - just slap me aside and call me a hermit. Being social is clearly far too restrictive for someone with so little control over what comes out of their mouth.

From now on, if you suddenly find that you can't 'poke' me at will, or access my blog, it's because I've needed to complain about YOU. So shut up and deal with it and be thankful for the time you've had with me.

Death of a Salesman

I've decided that my job is wholly intellectually barren. As an effect of this lack of brain food, my brain is in the first stages of death. The Stages of Brain Death are outlined below, for your reference:

• Stage 1 - Boredom: This stage can be flagged by a general, seemingly unending, bout of boredom. No stimulation from your usual sources provides any relief for this boredom. It seems as though the world is now made of dullness.

• Stage 2 - Anger / Frustration: The boredom has finally reached a stage where it angers you. In fact, everything angers you. Your anger is, in effect, non-discriminatory; it has no boundaries, it knows no limits.

• Stage 3 - Passion: In a last ditched attempt to find something to think about and feed your slowly dehydrating brain, you grab onto everything and make it your ally. The smallest issue gains more importance than anything you've ever known. You rally for a cause, you protest all issues, you express your undying passion for life's trivialities.

• Stage 4 - Brain Death: It's all over. You should have got out at stage 3 with any remnants of your brain you could grab. You are now a lemming, a sheep, an empty shell. The words change, learning and excitement are removed from your vocabulary and you wilt away.

I'm currently at stage 3. So it's now or never. Am I going to continue the endless tirade of personal abuse and suicide that being a salesman necessarily prescribes? No - please, god, no....

Weird

Do you ever have days where everything just seems a little odd? Mine started last night - I drove out to get petrol and a chocolate freddo, and everything seemed strange. The sky was strange, the air, the smell of everything, and even my car was driving funny. I put it down to the onset of summer, and a general seasonal change in the air - but then this morning, it was the same thing. I went to the gym at 5:25am, and it was much lighter than usual, and the roads seemed calmer, and other drivers were being weird, and I felt odd.

I still feel funny - the coffee woman filled my coffee up too far, and whereas usually I'd have taken it back and thrown a tanty at her, I didn't, and it hasn't made me very angry at all. Also, the air is weird again... and everything's just a little bit off centre. Ya know? Ya get me?

Am I on drugs? Has somebody spiked my muesli...? Is the day going to continue being weird or will things get normal again? I don't like it :(

Oh - see!! I NEVER use smiley faces on my blog! And look what I just did...!! I'm telling you - there's something odd going on; whether it's the actual world being weird, or just me, I can't say. Hopefully things will be clearer soon... and in the meantime, I'm going to hide behind my computer screen and glance suspiciously at everything...

Critically Comforting

Being critical of something can provoke a deeper level of comfort than previously known. I dislike my job, because it doesn't appear to be leading anywhere in my grand scheme of things, and it holds little to no importance in my emotional, or mental, life. The only real bearing it has, is on my fiscal life. My wallet.

When I start to criticise things, my brain automatically tries to defend the object. So, I start to think, what's good about my job? Surely I can't have landed myself in a position that is so undeniably atrocious that I can't think of anything I like about it? No no - there are some things that are good about it:

The people. Most days this is the ONLY thing I like about the place.
The wicket. Yep, I'm on a good one and there's potential in the future for it to be an even more fiscally satisfying job.
The comfort. It's cozy, I know my way around, I'm comfortable with the facilities and I now know where to find the key to the store room.

So, when a highly attractive job turns up, out of the blue, that seems to appeal to EVERY other aspect of my life - my ambitions, my dreams, my happiness - I should look at the niceties of what I'm criticising. Perhaps a move would be a mistake. Perhaps I should look at my current situation and be grateful. Perhaps I should apply for the job anyway, and see what happens...

The Renaissance of Food

I'm sitting on my sofa, having just eaten far too much Green & Black's 70% cocoa dark chocolate, and I'm watching Nigella cook chocolate melty pot things on the tv. I love Nigella. She's fat, she eats far too much, but she's as happy as a pig in shit. And my love for her is growing by the second...

Today I realised that I have a slight problem. I've taken this losing weight thing to a whole new level of obsessiveness - very unlike me... I went to the pub for lunch, ordered a pizza, a healthy pizza, which would probably have been completely allowed in my diet plan, but I ate one piece and stopped. Half way through my piece of pizza I had the sudden thought that everybody was watching me eat. I assumed that thoughts of me and my pizza, and the rapidity with which I must surely be gorging on it, were flying through my friend's heads, and every one of them was most definitely thinking, "That Bazza - she is a fucking fat pig. Look at her stuff her fat face with that pizza. Fat cow."

So I stopped eating the pizza; even though I was hungry I'd managed to make myself not hungry by thinking these things. Then I was in a shit mood, depressed, miserable, feeling fat.

That's just not right! Wouldn't you agree? Fucking abnormal.

But to my benefit, I have some good friends who helped me to see what I've accomplished so far. So, with the knowledge that a) I look great, b) I'm not fat, and c) I should be proud of myself, I will sit back and watch Nigella - taking notes to ensure that I too can eat shit loads of amazing food, but still be happy.

And now I'll shut the hell up about food and dieting and challenges, because I feel that I'm becoming slightly obsessed... slightly more obsessed.

The Proverbial Towel

Last night I threw an almighty tanty, shortly before getting in my car, driving to the supermarket, and buying a whole chicken. After eating two legs and two wings, I felt a bit sick, and realised that I can't do it anymore.

I don't particularly want to lose any more weight, so all this food deprivation is just fucking stupid. I'm sick of walking into starbucks, seeing a muffin, wanting the muffin, but having to say no even though I've lost 18kg so far and should be totally proud of myself, and should treat myself.

I told my trainer this morning that I can't cope - that I need to eat like a normal person - that I need to say yes to the drinks invitations and stop being a boring fuckwit. And she told me to go to Hog's Breath, order a massive steak, curly fries, and bacon, and don't stop eating until it feels like my eyes are gonna pop out.

So today, my friends, I am going to eat pie. I don't care what kind of pie - bacon pie would be ideal, but any pie will do. I'm hoping that a feast of pie will help me to complete the rest of the 12 week challenge, maybe lose a little more weight, a bit of body fat, and generally help me to not go insane.

I fear that my colleagues think I've actually lost it. I have already thrown a tanty since being in the office this morning... so yes. Pie is needed. Bring on the pie.

The end...

Does anyone remember my post "Where have rd, th and st gone?" - well, I'm sorry to say that I have to report yet ANOTHER defilement of the great language that we call English.

I sent a document to a client, who shall remain nameless, which included a schedule of dates for a campaign. His job was to sign it and send it back to me. That's all - just sign... and send back. Simple? Apparently not. Apparently he was UNABLE to do just this, and he felt a compulsion to go in and ALTER my spreadsheet.

That's right folks - somebody in this world has the balls to assume that their data entry is superior to mine. FOOLS. What, I hear you ask, did he alter...? The DATE FORMAT.

He changed all of the dates, in MY spreadsheet, to the AMERICAN date format.

(For example: instead of the correct 23/08/07 it was changed to the incorrect 08/23/07)

It's a perfect example of the degradation we are witnessing every day - the decline of our language into the pits of Americanisms. Readers, this is a sad, sad day for the English Language. Made even sadder by the fact that he turned the spreadsheet into a PDF so I can't go in and change it back. Fucker.

Lazy.

I don't know how many of you are aware of this, but I thought I'd just talk a little about my job. Particularly, the severe ease with which I do my job. Now, this isn't me bragging about my superb ability to do my job, it's purely the fact that my job is so frickin easy.

My average day consists of this:
8:30 - 10:00: Check emails, chat to colleagues, get coffee, read news online.
10:00 - 12:00: Read work emails, spend roughly 15 minutes calling clients, analyse possibility of hitting targets.
12:00 - 13:00: Lunch.
13:00 - 15:00: Email friends, discuss evening plans with colleagues, Facebook, Blog.
15:00: Start packing up and thinking about going home, before finally sneaking out of the door.

You see, it's the lamest attempt at a working day I've ever heard of. My question is, am I now destined to stay in this job for the rest of all time, purely because I've become so lazy that this is how I expect a working day to go? Or will my laziness eventually bite me on the arse and find me out of a job altogether?

I've been discussing this with colleagues (between the hours of 8:30 and 10:00) and they run their working day on a similar schedule. So, it's not just me. But who started it? Is this laziness contagious, and have I inadvertently infected my colleagues with this affliction? Technically, the person who's been here the longest (Roy) probably infected the rest of us with his laziness. Can I blame him?

Fuck it - let's blame Roy for our laziness. In fact, let's blame him for ALL the laziness we encounter collectively around the world.

Not Reading List

At the request of an anonymous person, I am re-visiting my reading list to discover just how dedicated and committed I am. The answer is, not very.

I started my reading quest with possibly the most difficult of all books ever written. The Dark Tower series by Stephen King started off beautifully: Books 1, 2 and 3 were easy to read, and quite addictive. Unfortunately, Stephen King appears to have suffered some kind of injection of boring when it came to writing Books 4, 5, 6 and most likely, 7. I have actually been turned off reading all together and fear that my ability to pick up a book anywhere, anytime, has left me.

So, in the spirit of not achieving what I set out to do, I shall now change the subject and talk about my weekend.

I spent my weekend in Bellingen, NSW. This town is small, leafy, quiet, and a little bit backwards. The perfect place to send your retiring father - minimal trouble can be caused, and minimal noise can be heard from my position of safety, 5.5 hours drive north. Now, while I did enjoy the lovely scenery, the cows, the smell of cow shit; I have to say that I feel I might actually be allergic to the countryside.

It only took 24 hours of breathing in the 'fresh country air' before my lungs gave out and I had an asthma attack. Now, that's just not right. I tried to immerse myself in the village community, and went to the pub in search of some people to chat to; I found a group of old men watching the football, which thought it highly amusing to tease me for 'talking slow like a Queenslander' - despite my protestations of actually being brought up in NSW.

So, I ended my weekend with a realisation that once you've lived in QLD for more than 1 year, you can't live anywhere else, or even visit anywhere else - but that also, you don't WANT to go anywhere else. So, I'll be sticking to QLD - I am officially a Queenslander.

New Year's Resolutions - Checking In

At this time of year, when I start to remember that it will soon be over, and I'll shortly be turning a whole year older, I like to look back at what I've not done, and really REALLY drive home the fact that I'm a lazy bastard. So, let's take a look at my Resolutions, as published on this blog, to see if I'm even close to achieving them.

"Resolution 1) Be more positive, and nicer to people. This one relates to not trying to run people over on pedestrian crossings, and not dreaming up ways to destroy Amnesty International and their infernal attempts at increasing the world's population."

Unfortunately, I have not achieved this one - yet. I've actually had more 'accidents' with pedestrian crossings this year, than any year before. As to the Amnesty International hatred, well that's still firmly entrenched I'm afraid. I don't think that's ever going to go away, and why should it? Damn them and their constant attempts to save the human race...

"Resolution 2) Go to the gym. This one WILL work - my personal trainer says so, and I'm paying her to say that so if she's wrong, I'll be sueing her tight little arse."

Well, she wasn't wrong - she was right. So does that mean that technically SHE achieved my resolution? Or was it me? Either way, I can give this one a big fat tick.

"Resolution 3) Stop talking about being a writer, and get on with actually doing it. Ooooh I'm achieving this one already! But no - I will be attempting to sign up on a course. At some kind of evening class institution - very unlike me, but that's the point."

Ummm - no. The most I've done is write my blog. My lord I was an optimistic fool in January. Sign up to an evening class - pah! What a crock of shit.

So, one out of three is ... quite bad. But I don't care. I jumped out of a plane for christ's sake. And oooh! I can use that as an excuse for almost anything! Bazza - have you written that presentation yet? No - I jumped out of a plane. Bazza - are you still in some dodgy Media Sales job? Yes - but I jumped out of a plane.

Brilliant.

Holy Crap!

I JUMPED OUT OF A PLANE!!

No... wait. It's better than that...

I HUNG OFF THE WING OF A PLANE AT 3500 FEET AND THEN LET GO!!!!

Oh yes I did!! I am totally pumped - it's unbelievable. I've got a bruise the size of Singapore on my right wrist, and I feel ever so slightly sick at the thought of what I just did, but it was the most holymotherofgodexciting thing I've ever ever done.

Now, I got it all on film, and I have the DVD in my possession. I've watched it twice already. And I'm going to find someone, somewhere, that can show me how to put the video on the web. I have a feeling it's got something to do with Real Player or something... ANYWAY - my point is that you will soon be able to witness my jump for yourself!!!

I was originally going to do a tandem skydive, but then the man told me that there's more chance of things going wrong with a tandem, and that a Static Line Jump gives you more control and it's way more exhilarating. So, because I'm a glutton for punishment, I went for the Static Line.

I think I might have actually passed out for about 2 seconds, just after I let go of the plane... not sure. Maybe my brain was so overloaded that it just had to shut down for a second or two. I remember climbing out onto the platform under the wing, then hanging onto the wing, and swinging out, and I was just hanging above a 3500 foot drop, and I was thinking, "Holy shit I can't let go but I've got to." Then the only thing that made me let go was gut wrenching loss of my personal preservation instinct. I just thought: "Bazza - let go of the plane. You may die, but at least you'll have done it wearing the coolest white boiler suit and a red stackhat."

I had to do a crash landing cos I lost all the strength in my arms and couldn't pull the brakes on the parachute, but I didn't get hurt cos they trained me how to do it. And then I was just rolling around in a field of little yellow flowers pissing myself laughing! Ha.

I can't believe I've done it. Right now I feel like I could do absolutely anything! So, to avoid doing absolutely anything, I'm having an early night.

Maybe it's me...?

So what determines a person waking up in a shitful mood? Is there really a possibility that at some point in the night I was bitten on the arse by the grumpy fairy...? Could it be that simple? I can find no other way of explaining how I feel right now.

Yesterday I was on top of the world, and finished off my day of joy by watching a very gruesome, angry, violent movie which sent me to sleep in a haze of happiness. So, what happened in between then, my haze of happiness, and now, my cloud of doom...?

Maybe it was Colin miaowing outside my door, wondering why I wasn't up with the sunset as usual, at roughly 5:30 this morning. Are there kitty calendars that I could purchase, so I can point out to him; "Look Colin, it's Saturday tomorrow. So, how about you sleep in, cos mummy will be." How convenient.

Or perhaps it was the dream I had last night - I won't go into details, for fear of exposing the identity of a certain someone, but it wasn't pleasant. Maybe this dream was exposing inherent fears that I haven't discarded yet - perhaps I'm not completely over this guy? Or perhaps it's the realisation that this is going to be a long old process, and I was naive for thinking that it would only take a week to get rid of the hopeful misery that was my life last weekend.

Alternatively, it's possible that my first thought of the morning, after "Colin shut the fuck up miaowing at my door", is indicative of my fowl mood at present. That was, I remembered what I'm doing tomorrow. The Skydive. Yes, I had a flashing image of my own death, plummeting from the sky at god-awful speeds strapped to the front of some incompetent man with his life in my hands. It's not a pleasant thought - especially when followed by a brief flashing of my life before my eyes and a shock realisation that although I'd be physically strapped to another person, I would effectively be dying alone.

Hmmm, have I made my mood worse? Maybe. And yep, I've got exactly 1.5 hours to kill before my weigh-in for the 12 week challenge this morning, and I can't eat anything or drink too much for fear of adding on weight prior to the scales... Oh! There we have it folks! The source of my bad mood appears to be the disruption of my usual Saturday morning routine of muesli and coffee in front of Rage followed by a stint at the gym with my ipod. Damn - I forget how entrenched I am in a routine. I should really make more effort to adhere to it at all costs. And to think I was beginning to blame myself...

Evolution

You may remember my post, titled 'Big Girl', where I was complaining about a recent decision, and the rejection that ensued. Well, I think I've realised what my problem was.

You see, I have never really allowed myself to feel anything but a slight warming to a human of the male variety. That warming was usually displayed in manners of the flesh, and all emotion was void. This time, however, I somehow managed to allow that affection to surface - and it shocked the shit out of me, and sent me into a spiral of crap that has only recently blown over.

So, that much we know - now moving forward, I have learnt that I really should just be congratulating myself on a job well done. I now know that I am capable of feeling something more than the physical side of men, and I will use this power to venture onwards into what will hopefully be a happy, and not completely single, life.

I feel grateful for the person in mind, for allowing me the opportunity to utilise my feelings, and now I'm happy for the relationship to evolve. The decision has been made, the relationship has evolved, and after pushing all things sexual to the side, maybe it will turn into something better than it was - a friendship.

This may seem a bit deep; it doesn't happen too often on this blog; but I feel that I've now become a better person. (In a purely selfish way, of course.)

Where have rd, th and st gone?

I'm thinking I can blame the American's for this one, but I'll have a good think about it first. So, where exactly have the suffixes rd, th and st gone? Shall I put this into context? Ok:

Person A: Hey there, how ya doing? What are you doing on Saturday?
Person B: Hey I'm good thanks! Saturday - hmmm, let me think... What date is that?
Person A: Um, I think it's September 15.
Person B: You mean, September 15th...?
Person A: That's what I said - September 15.

NO - that is NOT what you said, Person A - you clearly neglected to put the 'th' on the end of your '15' - it's unforgivable god damn you!!

Seriously - it's everywhere. My colleagues do it (Roy is the worst offender), my boss does it, people in the street do it, and crucially, people on the NEWS are doing it. Oh yes - this shocking misuse of the english language has infiltrated our airwaves and infected our homes. I'm near certain that it's the American's who started it with their September 11 malarky, and we, the gullible and easily led race that we are, have taken it on board.

But, the thing is, I refuse to believe that we are that easily changed - surely there must have been someone somewhere who said, "Ok people, let's save ourselves a few milliseconds here and there and leave the rd, th and st off our dates. Ok? From....NOW." I missed this announcement, and even if I had have witnessed it, I'd have complained outrageously.

You see, it doesn't sound nice. It doesn't save time in the grand scheme of things. And, most importantly, IT MAKES YOU SOUND AMERICAN. Who in their right mind would want to affiliate themselves with a race of people so fucking lazy that they've taken the u out of colour, and the u out of glamourous (and then go and put it in a song (fergie) where they actually spell it out for all the world to see that they're fucking stupid).

I fear that all is lost. I've tried to carry on with my rd, th and st, but to no avail. People actually look at me funny, as if I'M the one who's fucked about with the suffixes. I don't know what to do about it. Maybe a petition? Maybe a letter to someone?

God damn it - I just need to know that we're not turning into Americans!! Help me... please...

Yes, you protest too much.

I think I've finally reached saturation point with protesters. I'm not limiting my anger to any group in particular - just people who protest in an organised fashion. Let's take, for example, the people who protested against the war in Iraq.

I remember being at Uni in London at the time, and there was a major protest planned, and of course the students were getting riled up and excited about the prospect of appearing to know what they're talking about outside of their chosen discipline. The protest was starting outside my accommodation - opposite the University of London Union were roughly 10 million people, all waving flags and banners about war, oil, bush etc. I chose not to participate - my reasoning was that a bunch of people waving and shouting about things that they don't have an empirical knowledge of, and therefore can't possibly comment on, was going to be a complete waste of time and resources, and most importantly, would not stop the world leaders from going to war, because they'd already decided that they would.

It turns out that I was right. Funny that.

I remember the abuse I got from fellow students, assuming that I was pro war just because I wasn't marching against it. Well I'd like to say something now; fuck you fuckers - who looks like a complete prick now? Hmmm? Who? YOU - THAT'S WHO. All you fucking idiots that protested against it and convinced yourselves that you were 'making a difference' and 'making your voices heard' - you were wasting your time. Nobody listened to you then, and nobody's going to listen to you now.

So, if you're planning a protest, or thinking about joining in on one, have a good, long, hard think about it. Personally, I'd suggest that if you want to 'make a difference' in this world, the only viable way of doing so is to a) grow a brain that's at least 1/4 functionable, b) read up on whatever it is you're looking to protest about so that (and here's a foreign concept for you) you actually know what you're talking about, and c) get a degree in politics, somehow get into politics, and get a job as prime minister and stop wasting the time of the normal people in this world who realise that as a human being who doesn't sit in office, you just have to learn that nobody gives a shit what you think about anything.

Big Girl

Every now and then, as humans, we inevitably do something which fucks everything else up. For example, let's say you have an uncontrollable urge to tell someone that you're thinking a certain thing - the telling of this thing isn't necessarily that bad, or wrong in any way, but for some reason the whole world turns to shit once the words have left your mouth.

I recently let my guts fall out of my mouth - quite literally - to a very important special friend of mine. Yes, I had inadvertently turned into a big fucking girl, and felt the need to tell all. Since this event, the following things have happened:

I felt astoundingly rejected.
I felt decidedly angry.
I realised it was all my fault.
I cried for 24 hours.

Now, it's not all doom and gloom. Although I know it's going to take a while for the tears to completely subside, and for the uttered feelings to go away, (perhaps they'll never go away completely), but at least I am now in the position where there is some positivity on the horizon.

Yes, I will survive. I will eventually stop blaming myself. I will move ..... on .... perhaps. Urgh.

In the meantime, I'll be spending a stupid amount of time in the gym (2 hours of intense cardio this morning. woo.) and spending the rest of the time NOT under my doona weeping quietly to myself.

The Course... concluded.

I have now finished the Course of High Impact Improvement, and I am now a person with high impact.

Yes, those who pass me in the street will now fall back with amazement at my sheer presence. I laud over my passers by, I look down on thee, I allow thee to worship me, I am Improved.

The extent of my improvement has led me to question previous assumptions - such as the relevance and purpose of lollipops. I asked for a lollipop, and I got said lollipop, but did I need the lollipop?? No, my followers, no.

My taste for lollipops has matured with my sense of impact. Now that I am a better person, and can effectively gain whatever I want within a blink of an eye, I feel that I don't need anything. I am possibly, completely fulfilled. And the addition of lollipops to my life, outside of my usual sweets, seems wholly unnecessary. I appear to have lost my sweet tooth, and am happy with my lot. Much like the child who fills their pockets with candy when the shop owner's not looking, runs from the store to eat their bounty, only to find that after a few delicacies they really don't need anything more than the original lolly - it's sugary sweetness and precious perfection is totally acceptable and adequate in its truest, finest and most singular form.

I am fulfilled, in the world of lollipops, I am satisfied with my sugary stash, and I don't need anything more than the knowledge that I have, in fact, found true enlightenment.

Feel my satisfaction - share my fulfillment - bathe in my impact...

The Course... again...

I am proud to present to you, oh avid reader, the wholly improved and perpetually sustained, Bazza.

That's right, I'm on another course. Some of you may remember the epic journey of The Course; when I was sent on a journey of inexplicable proportions to the land of the south and the world of self improvement. Well, apparently I have not been improved enough, and have been sent on another course, with the view to emerging a completely better person.

That's right folks, I am now on a Course of High Impact Improvement. Going one step better than the course of Life Improvement, this course aims to develop your skills so much so that you're constantly finding yourself in a position of authority and control, over every situation of social interactivity. I am half way through the course, and already I'm finding that my skills of persuasion are at an all time high. I merely have to suggest something in a very subtle manner, and my wish is granted.

You see, the majority of this course is all about presenting something to people, and persuading them to do something. So, for example, let's say that you wanted something. Um, maybe, a lollipop. Let's say that you REALLY want the lollipop, you know that it's presently out of your reach, and you need to put something into action in order to obtain said lollipop for your own private purposes. Ordinarily, I'd have scooted around the issue, and maybe alluded to the fact that at some point in my life I would quite like to have that lollipop, but after my course of High Impact Improvement I know exactly what to do. And yes, I asked for that lollipop, and I got that lollipop. Simply put, I can now get whatever the hell I want.

I am enlightened, I feel improved, I feel greedy. I feel like now I will never feel neglected or without again. I am fulfilled... to a point. I wait, with baited breath, to find out what I could possibly learn tomorrow, on the second day of the course...

Tell me a story...

Someone recently told me that... "Everyone has a story, and everyone wants to hear them." I'm not sure if I completely support this statement, and here's why.

Firstly, does everyone have a story that's worth telling? It has been known for some people to live wholly uneventful and dull lives, and in this case, surely their story wouldn't be worth telling? And if so, what constitutes an interesting story? Is a tragedy necessary? Or a mental illness? Or perhaps just one hideously nasty event is required in order to make a story worth telling? Either way, the presence of dull lives in this world goes towards disproving the above statement and should be kept in mind. That is, if you have a dull life which is lacking a personal tragedy, illness or catastrophic event, then just shut it - nobody wants to hear your story.

Secondly, does everyone want to hear other people's stories? Is it possible to say no? If everyone suddenly got wind of the fact that a story is supposed to be told, wouldn't we all just be inundated with stories and eventually get completely sick of not only the sound of other people's voices but also of hearing the same old drama's of parental divorce and teenage angst? Additionally, these seemingly tragic and pertinent events would lose their effect, and would eventually be pushed to the bottom of the 'interesting' pyramid, leaving thousands of adults at a loss to understand their dormant childhood issues?

I think I can safely assume that not everybody has a story. But I'm a little confused as to whether or not everyone wants to hear the stories, interesting or not. Can anyone shed some light?

Birthday Rules

I have a few questions. It's IT Helpdesk's birthday today, and he was mentioning that a) he has received no presents so far, and b) he reckons he's not gonna get lucky at all. This raises the question of rules. Should birthday rules be put in place?

Another annual event that seems to have rules attached to it is Valentine's Day. If you're attached, it's the rule that you pay your other half lots of attention and give them flowers/chocolate/a shag - there's no questioning of these rules, and they are strictly adhered to. So why is it different for birthdays?

When I was younger, there was an unspoken rule that I didn't have to do any housework on my birthday, and I always received a chocolate cake. At this later stage in my life, I expect those rules to be maintained, with the addition of a) receiving presents and b) getting lucky. I imagine that these rules aren't Bazza specific, and can be translated to other people, so I am proposing that they are put in place for all who celebrate a birthday, indefinitely.

Additionally, I'd like to question the main birthday rule; that is, once a year, on the day of your birth, you celebrate your birthday. What's the deal with this anyway? It's completely unfair to people like me who are cursed with a birthday 2 weeks after xmas - I'd like to propose that such unfortunates as me can have a mid-year birthday. Like xmas in July. I don't see a problem with that.

The many pitfalls of food outlets...

Is it my imagination, or are all being duped by food outlets...? Has anyone else ever thought, my-oh-my this salad is rather large - I'll never finish it. What a waste. Well, I have, and I'm sick of it.

My current salad place seems to only offer the one size. I assume this because there appear to be no other containers floating around their outlet, and I've never been asked 'would you like a small or a large?' Additionally, I'm a little perturbed as to the restrictions on salad 'packages'. I will discuss both these issues at length.

Firstly, the package restrictions: I usually opt for a 'make your own' salad, whereby you choose a certain amount of ingredients to be added to your salad. However, after much trial and error, I've discovered that the allotted amount of 8 salad choices leave far too much room for error, and, quite frankly, places a bit too much pressure on your average lunch goer. Every time I choose this option, I'm informed 'you've got 4 left', which is shockingly distressing knowing full well that there's no way artichoke hearts will go with my previously chosen tandoori chicken, and I sure as hell aint putting any beetroot in with my feta.

So, I propose that salad vendors think more carefully about their instructions vs. the number of ingredients available. If you're going to enforce a choice of 8 extra salad options, make sure that there are at least 4 different possible combinations of salad ingredients for the customer, so as to prevent any mishaps, such as capers with anchovies. Now, after I go and drink a gallon of water to wash away the saltiest salad I've ever eaten, I'd like to talk portion sizes...

Some of you may be familiar with my email of complaint to 'Boost Juices'... why do you offer customers a size called 'original' that is the largest size available and by no means adheres to the common preset that 'original' size is in fact 'medium'? ... I'm now wondering what stance I should take with a salad place that only offers one size? Not just that though - this one size is possibly the largest size ever created. In fact, I'd like to challenge anyone to eat a whole salad from this place. I don't think it's possible! Even my gutsiest fans (Mason and Destro) couldn't handle the sheer enormity of this salad - a clear sign that there's something wrong with the world.

I'd appreciate your feedback on these issues. Alternatively, please someone indicate just how far along the overreactionometer this post goes.

Am I Insane?

[Post has been removed due to realisation that it might not be appropriate content. I have left the final sentence, as a parting thought.]

Maybe I should have restricted access to the internet? Maybe I should be kept under lock and key? Or maybe I should just personally ban myself from certain websites and stop taking my work laptop home on the weekends... idea!

Not very verbal...

Do you ever get the feeling that you're censoring yourself? The multitude of thoughts that go through a person's head every day rarely get verbalised. My question is, how much of it should be?

There are currently a few things that have been sitting around in my head for months, and I just refuse to allow them to come out. Verbalising them involves the act of telling them to someone else, and I think it's the reaction of that person that is stopping me. Now, really I have no idea what their reaction is going to be, but I'm afraid that maybe I DO know and because this supposed reaction is not favourable, I'm afraid to verbalise my thoughts.

Why can't I just forget about it, and move on to other thoughts? Good question... I don't know why. I've tried my hardest to forget the shit, and have distracted myself with other Muse's and other trains of thought, but it just doesn't make any difference. I think that if I don't just say it, I will explode. And I'd hate for my colleagues to be covered in a big mess of gooey Bazza all over the place. That's not pleasant, and not very friendly. So, for the good of humanity, I should just talk talk talk away.

After reading this through, I've realised that I am potentially over-reacting. What I have been thinking about isn't really that important; it doesn't affect anybody that much; it is merely a realisation of something. Very boring - not worthy of a blog post - but I had to get it out.

General Moan.

And the torture has begun. I'm officially two days into the Challenge, and my trainer has already caused me to have 3 separate muscle strains. While I'm tempted to tell her to fuck off and leave me alone, I also understand that I signed up for this, I pay her for this service, and therefore I should just shut the fuck up and stop moaning about it.

But what would my life be without a good moan every now and then??

To add to my misery, I think I'm getting sick. The 10 hours of drinking on Saturday seems to have effected my usually solid immune system, and I think a cold has lodged itself in the general area of my nasal cavity and sinuses. I've just purchased some codeine laden pills to try and ward off the germs, but I think I'm too late. It's been over 18 months since I was last sick, (since leaving the UK), so I'm highly pissed off and wondering just who I can blame for this travesty...?

The main culprit is Roy - he sits next to me and was sick last week; he made no attempt to prevent his germs from floating my way. In fact, I think he purposefully moved closer to me, in order to give me the germs.

With this in mind, I will now direct all my moaning at Roy - I give him 2 hours before he cracks and has to move seats.

...can't ... breathe...

I've eaten so much, and drunk so much water, that I am having severe difficulty breathing... My personal trainer just phoned me and told me to go to Cold Rock and purchase a take home tub of cookies and cream ice cream, mixed with turkish delight, and topped with hot chocolate fudge sauce. What she doesn't know is that I don't think I'm even capable of moving from the sofa, let alone getting changed out of my PJ's, getting into the car, and walking from the car to the shop and back again - and then there's the repeated lifting of spoon to mouth... nope. It's too much.

Oh... I just burped and I think some water might have come back up my throat. That's not pleasant.

As I sit and stare at the litre bottle of Evian waiting for me, I wonder if it's going to kill me, or if the slow but steady absorption of the water already consumed will lead ultimately to a slow and painful death, much akin to drowning... will this sofa be my last vessel of comfort? Will my feet ever see the ground again? Is my arse doomed to fuse with the cheap throw rug over my sofa, and will I forever be known as 'The woman who became her sofa, drowned in Evian water, and was eaten by her cat'?

I don't think I can carry on this way. I know I'm supposed to weigh as much as humanly possible for tomorrow morning, but I can't eat anymore - I think I've officially reached the stage of being completely and utterly full. What has shocked me most though, is the fact that my dessert stomach has apparently disappeared - I've been gorging myself on savory items, and yet, my dessert tummy says no. I can only assume that the fight for space between my internal organs reached the point where they had to start consuming each other - savory stomach ate dessert stomach, colon ate ileum, and my liver and kidneys became so cleansed that they just floated out of my arse in the night...

Give me FOOD

I have been instructed to put on weight before the first weigh-in for the Twelve Week Challenge on Saturday. So, for the last week I've been eating chocolate, chips, fried goods, baked goods, cake, creamy stuff, and lots and lots of white bread with butter. I weighed myself this morning and I've only managed to put on 0.5kg - this is an appalling effort.

So, I now have the task of eating MORE than I've ever eaten before. I have learnt that I automatically censor the cravings when I see, for example, an attractive looking cup cake in a shop window. I need to stop the censorship, and I need to just buy it and eat it like the cake that it is.

There's no stopping me - I'm going to eat everything I see. Even if I don't like it, I'll eat it. Even if it's not technically food, I'll eat it. (There's a highly tasty looking piece of paper on my desk - it's sure to have at least 50 kcals in it... couldn't hurt...)

So wish me luck - over the next 1.5 days I will be doing nothing but eating - when I'm not eating I'll be looking for food - when I'm not looking for food I'll be sitting around NOT exercising.

I ask you...

I actually feel like my PMT is controlling me. I keep going to say things, and then just milliseconds before the utterance leaves my mouth, I manage to stop myself. Will it get to the point where I can't stop myself? Tell me, would the following statements be best left unsaid? Or would their verbalisation be merely a small dot on the pile of crap that's spoken every day anyway?

1. Why are you so ugly? Were you born that way, or is this something that happened in an accident?
2. Can you massage my feet? The hormones coursing around my body are giving me a feeling of severe bloatedness and my feet are suffering under my new found weight.
3. I think you're highly attractive - you must have good genes - would you like to donate some sperm that I can freeze and save for a later date when the need to be a mother inevitably arrives?

I'm thinking the latter is just a fair enough question worth posing if applicable. But as to the other two - well, my hormone riddled mind just can't work out their social acceptability. Please advise.

Upset

So I'm feeling a general sense of upset. This upset could be stemming from a slightly premature bout of PMT, or it could be from a number of things which pissed me off this morning.

Firstly, Colin decided that climbing up the inside of my dressing gown while I was straightening my hair was a good idea, until he realised that he couldn't get back down without performing a maneuver that involved twisting around and digging his little claws into my upper thigh. This pissed me off.

Secondly, I made a cup of coffee and ate my bowl of muesli - I enjoyed it wholeheartedly, until I remembered that I start the next 12 Week Challenge in exactly 4 days, and any joy that I previously obtained from the consumption of food and beverages would shortly be taken away from me. Pissed off.

Thirdly, on my drive into work I noticed a new billboard which was advertising 'Pro Life' - it had a picture of an unborn foetus and a speech bubble indicating that the 2 month old foetus was saying 'I can suck my thumb now'. This pissed me off beyond belief - so much so that I embarked on an angry lecture to the cars around me about the disgusting state of affairs in the world that indicate it's ok to force your views on other people on their drive to work. It's pure proselytising, which is illegal on most university campuses, so why is it not illegal everywhere else? Hmmm? Then I decided that I would take a stand, and instead of just saying that I am Pro Choice, I'd go as far as to buy a can of spray paint and graffiti the billboard with an Anti Life slogan of some description. Yes, I am Anti Life, and proud. And pissed off.

And fourthly, the gradual realisation that yes, I am suffering from a premature bout of PMT, has pissed me off.

Back To My Usual Self

One of my most loyal fans came to my house on the weekend to meet Colin. After the familiar "Isn't he cute - you're so lucky to have such an attractive pussy" diatribe, she got on to more serious issues; "What the fuck is going on with your blog?"

I admit, the posts of late have been, at best, contrived. The sporadic nature of their postage is merely a side effect of a deeper problem lying within my head, which I choose to blame this lack of quality on. This module of pain which has caused the lack of literary freedom I have been suffering is called 'Wisdom Tooth'.

Perhaps ironically, the presence of my wisdom tooth has apparently taken away my ability to write for the sake of writing; to speak for the sake of speaking. It's all been too fucking serious lately, and my blog has suffered. So, I'd like to inform you all, oh avid readers, that the old Bazza has returned. The tramadol and other opiates and sedatives that have been necessary during the time of wisdom tooth have gone. My brain is now back to it's previous state - it's state of non-wisdom, if you will.

I would like to make it known that this blog spits in the face of wisdom, and curses the perils of a theme. Such structures are not wanted here - this blog is a free spirit and it will continue to express feelings of woe, hatred and complaint in its most pleasantly unwise voice.

I'm not a big fan of...

... lots of things. Today, I would like to vent some pent up anger and display the things that I currently despise about this world that we live in.

I'm not a big fan of family feuds; being ignored by a family member; people who don't return phone calls; people who don't respond to text messages clearly stating a question; people who make decisions that clearly have an effect on you and don't tell you about it; people who can't see that you're in a bad mood and need to be just left alone and continue to make jokes and play around in your presence and then get even 'funnier' when you get angry; sandwiches that have tomato in them which is frozen; wisdom teeth; toothbrushes that hurt too much to use properly when your wisdom teeth are coming through; banana smoothies that are too icy; wrinkles; people who are far to adept at hiding their feelings so you never ever have any fucking idea what the hell they're feeling; people who cause you to be too afraid to express your feelings in front of them because they don't express theirs; fax machines; cats that scratch everything BUT the scratching pole that you bought them; winter.

I think that's it. Thank you for your time.