A debate of sunny proportions.

A bit of a topical subject today - Daylight Savings. Apparently QLD is in turmoil, as people can't decide if having daylight savings is a good, or a bad idea. I too have a few issues with it, outlined below, but I'm slightly discombobulated about the arguments coming out of the general Brisbane populous. These arguments include such anomalies as; 'It means our curtains will fade quicker', and my favourite so far; 'The cows won't know what time to wake up'.

I'm baffled by the stupidity apparent in these arguments, so would like to pose my own, very valid and well thought out arguments.

Firstly, the onset of daylight savings would mean that the temperature in the morning would be cooler in that critical period between the car and the office. This potentially means that I could straighten my hair, and not have it ruined until I leave the office for lunch, or if i eat at my desk, until I leave at the end of the day. 1 point FOR daylight savings.

Secondly, the continuance of the sunshine well into the evening, while it does give one a sense of a 'barmy British summer', it also means that for us people living in countries where it actually gets above 25 degrees, it will be stinking hot and humid well into the evening, and sleep will be more difficult. 1 point AGAINST daylight savings.

And Thirdly, The prolonging of the sunshine in the summer evenings means that for those of us who spend much of the daylight hours in their office, never actually see the sun, and end up at the end of the summer with a 'suntan' resembling a piece of Jarlsberg, the longer evenings means one thing and one thing only: More Tanning Time. Hence, 1 point FOR daylight savings.

In conclusion it seems that, when looking at my allocation of points above, daylight savings is indeed a great idea. I can only assume that the rest of the population, (minus the ignoramus who clearly has some kind of very expensive and volatile curtains on their dairy farm), agrees with me on this topic. Comments and opinions from my readers aren't needed at this point, as I'm clearly correct in my assumptions.

Issues with Caesar

I don't have issues with Julius Caesar - the person - but I do have issues with some items that have taken his name.

Firstly, I'm beginning to wonder if natural births shouldn't be outlawed completely, to be replaced by the much less messy Caesarian Section. After a lunchtime conversation with Roy and IT Helpdesk, I've decided that any woman who decides on a natural birth must be either fucking stupid, or have a fanny like a wizard's sleeve. It's just not right.

Secondly, I think I'm allergic to Caesar Salads. Last time I ate one, (as some of you may remember), I got a bloated eyeball. It was red, puffy, and very painful for a good 24 hours, and I had to go to hospital only to be told that there was nothing they could do. And then yesterday I ate a very nice Caesar Salad for lunch, and today I have a bloated stomach to the extent that all I've eaten is a small bowl of muesli and a pearl iced tea.

You see, I'm thinking that this concurrent theme isn't coincidental, and that maybe I'm doomed to a life of being 'touched' by all things Caesarian. Maybe I'll end up campaigning for the banning of natural births, as well as the banning of Caesar Salads, and I'll meet a man named Julius who'll either a) force feed me salad's until I'm sick, or b) have such a massive appendage that I end up with a bucket-fanny which is fully capable of popping out the sprogs in twenty seconds. Who knows?!

A Great Idea Indeed

You'll all remember a suggestion made earlier this month, by Roy, in 'Great Idea...?' - I've decided that it was a great idea, and I am now implementing a procedure that will enable a Guest Blogger to post on my blog.

I originally suggested to Roy that the first Guest Blogger (GB) should be him, but apparently he lacks creativity. This reminded me that he can't actually read, the poor thing, never learnt the skill, so perhaps his writing skills would be reflective of this slight illiteracy.

Then on the other hand, maybe his misfortune could be entertaining? Let's face it, reading blog posts of near perfect grammar with little to no spelling mistakes can get slightly tiresome. So maybe bringing in a GB with little to no writing or reading skills would be fun - for us, if not for him...?

I ask you Roy - would you mind awfully if we exploited your illiteracy for the purposes of Blogging Entertainment?

Rules

I suppose that rules are made to be broken, but there must be a limit there somewhere. Over the weekend I encountered a few episodes of rule breaking, and I'd like your opinion as to whether or not these are allowed. That is, do the following things fall under the umbrella of 'rules that are made to be broken':

1. I watched a movie called 'A Good Year' on Friday night. It starred Russell Crowe, so i assumed that there would be an element of danger / intrigue / violence / arrogance for my viewing pleasure. To my horror, this movie turned out to be a romantic comedy in which Russell played the leading man. It was soppy, it was cringey, it was totally out of Russell's oeuvre of role and therefore constitutes a broken rule; Russell Crowe always plays manly, violent roles.
2. I went to a Kickboxing Fight on Saturday night, and witnessed a man getting kicked in the bollocks. He collapsed with pain, and had to take time out to recover. The event was highly amusing and satisfied my interest for an enthralling 2.3 minutes. The judges, however, were not so amused, as this breaks a fight rule; Fighters should not touch their opponents groin.
3. While at the Normanby Hotel on Sunday afternoon, I saw a girl wearing a pair of jeans, a black top, and a black satin bra on the outside of her top. This breaks a dress code and a social norm at the same time, and I can assume that it is widely acknowledged that; Bra's are to be worn underneath one's clothes.

I'm thinking, while it's fun and entertaining to break some rules, that some rules are made to be adhered to - It wasn't pleasant to see a slightly overweight and horrifyingly unattractive young girl's bra worn outside her clothes; It was wholly disturbing to witness Russell Crowe attempting to be charming and **shiver** having sex with an attractive leading lady; and It may have been fun for me to see a man hobbling around clutching his balls and wincing at the pain of the recent attack to his private parts, but it was much less satisfying for him.

I would like to conclude that some rules should not be broken, and retract the statement of 'rules are made to be broken' from the English speaking world's repertoire of cliches.

Weekend Plans

I am currently waiting for a very large contract to come through on the fax machine, and I've been told to stop panicking and calm the fuck down, so I'm going to distract myself by writing on my blog about my upcoming weekend plans. To be honest, I don't give a fuck if it's a boring topic for this blog, and I don't care if you don't want to read about my plans because I'M GOING TO TELL YOU ANYWAY.

This evening I have two social events to attend. This will be a test for me, as I am not drinking alcohol. One of them is an industry drinks thing, so I'll buy orange juice and pretend it's vodka and orange, and the other is a friend's leaving drinks, so I'll have to buy tonic with ice and lime and pretend it's a gin and tonic. This whole charade has made me more and more aware of the social pressures to consume alcoholic beverages, and I'm tempted to write to the Prime Minister and complain. I'll leave it a week though, cos he's currently in the mood for banning alcohol, and I don't want that.

After seeing the Top 100 Movies list on a popular local news website, I have decided to rent out Citizen Cane, and another from the Top 10. This will be my Saturday morning occupation, prior to getting ready to go and see a Kickboxing Fight in the evening. Depending on the state of my hormones, and the general appearance of the competitors, I may or may not join in.

On Sunday I will be sleeping in. Of course, I know this won't actually happen because my body likes to wake me up at 5:30am at the moment, so I'll be going for a run at some point in the morning. Then I have drinks to go to at the Normanby Hotel, which is apparently a great place to pick up men. But again, I won't be drinking, so my chances of picking up are roughly halved due to what will be an inherent lack of alcohol induced desperation.

And that is my weekend.
Interesting? No.
Do I care? No.

There's a valium in my pocket...

...and I'm not afraid to use it.

The thing is, I don't think I need to use it. It seems that the PMT was a 24 hour mental-bug of some kind, and it has now disappeared. Maybe it's because I went to bed at 8pm last night because it was literally too cold to stay out of my bed. Maybe it's because I took a valium last night and the effects are still with me. Maybe it's because this morning, for the first time in 2 weeks, I had my usual muesli for breakfast.

Could it be that my muesli has some kind of calming power? Maybe the last two weeks of crapness can be blamed on Woolworths for running out of my pecan and pear natural untoasted muesli? Maybe this is something I should be sharing with the entire female race, and not just the millions who read my blog?!

I think I'm on to something here. I think I've finally discovered the secret to warding off PMT - say goodbye to evening primrose oil, and bye to overloading on chocolate. Muesli is the new cure... My lord, not only will I now be named "the saviour of women", but men around the globe will thank me for nullifying the need for their thankless, half arsed attempts at making us feel better every month. Perhaps I could capitalise on this too, and request favours in return for my muesli based information...? Ooooh I'll be 'the saviour of women' with a harem of gorgeous, thankful men waiting at my feet to "thank me"!

Perhaps I've taken it a step too far...

Feary & Teary

It's that time of month again - the time where I turn away from my usual chirpy self and embrace the life of a banshee from the planet 'Crap'. My day has been fairly fitting for such a state of being, as follows:

5am: went to the gym and had a great workout. Left feeling superb, on top of the world, and looking shit hot.
7am: left for work, almost crashed my car because I was busy looking at the appalling state of my skin i the rear view mirror. Began to cry at the damage that I almost caused my car.
8am: had a nice cup of green tea and launched into a lovely mood of flowers, pink things and balloons. Inadvertently giggled at a joke that I made inside my own head.
9am: Someone mentioned 'booty' and I began to think about my fat arse and how ugly I feel today, so I went outside to have a cry. I yelled at a man who asked me for a cigarette.
10am: Feeling positive, feeling healthy, had a muesli bar, had a pleasant conversation with my colleague.
11am: Someone stole my post-it-notes, i began to cry, colleague's realised I was crying, hot flush, all over. Out for chocolate.

It's been up and down and all over the place, as you can see. And now I have to go and do a presentation for work and I'm wondering if crying in the middle of a video conference is grounds for being sent home ill... Let's hope so.

Am I Cool?

Due to my recent purchase of the new Good Charlotte Album, I was wondering if I've made it into the books of 'cool'? As I sit here and listen to it, with my mum bobbing her head alongside me, I can't help but wonder if this is what life is like for a cool person? Do cool people go to their mum's house to borrow her computer with its CD playing abilities, and listen to the latest Emo Sounds? Do cool people's mothers also like said sounds, and should I be trying harder to enforce this genre of music onto her?

Or is my mum already cool? She is presently sporting a 'bolero' style black cardigan - much in the style of mischa barton or paris hilton. She feels pretty damn cool, and she looks pretty cool - I'd be seen with her on the outside. So, is it the music you listen to, or is it the way that you look? Perhaps it's a combination of the two?

I'm currently wearing black track-pants, a skivvy, a hooded jumper that my mum bought from Target circa 1995, and thongs. BUT I'm listening to Good Charlotte... You see my dilemma?

Colin Barrett

Please put your hands together and join me in welcoming Colin Barrett into the world of me! As you can see from his photo below, he is possibly one of the most beautiful little creatures to ever walk the earth - I'm considering entering him into a cute cats competition where I'm sure he'd win. This would also help me to secure my title as Pushy Mother of the Year, which I'm sure I will be.

He's a blue/white Devon Rex kitten, and he is presently 5 weeks old. I get to take him home on the 25th July. Until then he has the unfortunate task of sharing a house with the ragamuffins pictured below. Let the force be with you, Colin, my lovely, slightly frightened looking little thing. Mummy will be coming to get you soon...

Great Idea...?

My neighbourly colleague Roy has made a suggestion - ordinarily his suggestions are either too pornographic or too down right dumb to even bother listening to, but today he has surprised me. He has suggested, as one of my more loyal readers, that having a Guest Blogger once a month would add a new dimension to I Like To Complain.

My initial thoughts are that this is a truly brilliant idea. However, I am all too aware that the temazepam and two large gin and tonics I consumed last night may be clouding my judgement, so I require your opinion. Please let me know:
a) your view of the validity of this suggestion,
b) your potential interest in being a Guest Blogger yourself, and
c) any ideas on restrictions and/or limitations to the content and subject of a Guest Bloggers 'spot'.

If your comments are wholly positive, Roy will get a pat on the back. If your comments prove that my levels of intoxication are making me sink into Roy's little world of clear stupidity, he will get a slap on the back of the head.

Perspective

Although my 'bad mood' is still lingering, I have received some news that has pushed it to the back of my mind somewhat.

My lovely Lamoo is coming to visit me!!!!!!!!!

Lamoo is my excessively tall friend with an excessively large brain and an abnormally large big toe. He's lovely and wonderful and I'm super dooper excited about him arriving. So, let's see how long the good mood can last! (I'll put a warning out there to all those close to me, [geographically or emotionally], do not take the piss, do not mention my bad mood unless I mention it first, and most importantly, do not neglect my need for chocolate.)

On a final note of happiness and joy, I'd like to send out my warmest greetings to adrienne. She is currently stuck in a land of cold, wet, miserable, work related, purgatorial nonsense, and she needs some love. So, adrienne my good friend, here's a massive hug for you.

The Mother of all Rants

I want angry music. I want to yell and scream and generally get angry with everybody around me. I want to chuck a MASSIVE tanty and roll around on the floor screaming and crying and make a complete fucking arse of myself. And I want people to point at me and say "Oh my god I think she's gone insane" and I'll say YES - I HAVE GONE FUCKING INSANE AND I NEED TO BE LOCKED UP IN THE LOONY BIN FOR THE REST OF MY PATHETIC LIFE. I want to punch my hand through my computer screen. I want to punch somebody in the head so hard that their eyeballs explode with the force of my punch. I want to kick someone in the head so their nose breaks and they'll no longer be able to smell anything. I want to laugh in the face of sadness and pity and never give anything ever again. I want to be a completely selfish person, and never ever think that anybody deserves my attention. I want to believe that I deserve more than I have. I want to kill everyone who has ever made me feel like crap. And last, but certainly not least, I want to rip the balls off every man that ever walked, put them in a soup, and eat them.

Decisions

Something that I have encountered a lot is a fear of making decisions. So many people are in situations that they don't enjoy, or situations that actually make themselves, and those around them, miserable; they can see a way out, but they do nothing. What is it, for example, that makes a person reflect on their life, point out its faults and downsides, and then sit back and carry on living it? Why are we so incapable of just making a decision and following it through?

I speak partly from personal experience - when I was living in London, I was inherently miserable due to the weather and the distance that I was to any of my family members. Yet I stayed there for a total of 11 years. I didn't particularly enjoy my job, but I felt that I should keep going because they told me I was good at it. Then one day, my mum helped me to take the much needed step towards getting out of the situation. She told me that all I needed to do was make a decision and act on it. So the next day I handed in my notice, and booked a flight back to Australia. And that was that.

Don't get me wrong - it wasn't easy. There was much crying and screaming. Leaving my friends was tough etc etc, but I did it because I wanted to.

The empowerment of this decision has stayed with me, and I'm now beginning to utilise this in other aspects of my life: I wanted to leave Brisbane for a few days so I drove to Sydney. It was a dumb idea, but I made the decision and stuck to it. I wanted to run in the Bridge to Brisbane on August 5th, so I have just signed up. I don't know if I'll make it, but I'll give it a go. You see how it works?

What I'd like to communicate to everybody, is that a person is truly independent, and truly a strong individual, when they can change things in their own life. All it takes is a decision, and you've started the ball rolling already. Sometimes, as I have recently felt, a decision is painful and it keeps hurting and feels like it will never stop. But things need to be done in order to protect ourselves from certain future misery - sometimes we need to decide to do things that will necessarily hurt ourselves, and other people. And that's when we need to have an element of foresight instilled in the decision making process. Things will work out, things will get easier; and we need to realise that it's the actual decision that's the hardest bit.

Elements of Dumb

On Friday I made a decision of extreme consequence. For your reading pleasure, I have detailed it, below:

The Idea:
Friday saw me in a mood of amazingly dull proportions, so I decided to do something exciting. I decided to drive to Sydney. (For those of you who live overseas, and think that Sydney is the capital of Australia and is located 'somewhere in the middle', here is a map.) Something that I had neglected to view the importance of was the local weather reports for the Central Coast - I believe the term used by the weather man was 'natural disaster area'. Did this phase me? No. I woke up at 3am, and left Brisbane with a spring in my step. This was the first element of 'dumb'.

The Action:
Having gone out the night before, I left Brisbane on 4 hours sleep. Apparently I'd forgotten the energy that it takes to drive such a long distance, and I'd also forgotten the fact that being awake is vital to the act of driving. By the time I reached the Gold Coast, I'd consumed 4 extra strong lattes, and two cans of red bull, and I was still falling asleep at the wheel. I was desperate - I had to keep driving, but I couldn't. So, as an act of last resort, a total of 3 hours into my journey, I began to sing. These were no ordinary songs - they were self-composed lyrics put to popular nursery rhyme tunes. I believe this was the second element of 'dumb', and also comprised the first stage of lunacy.

The Problem:
The weather was fair and sunny up until 20 kms before Newcastle. Then the shit hit the fan, and the land was strewn with faeces of the precipitous variety. My average speed went from 110kmh to 30kmh. I couldn't see Jayden's bonnet, let alone the road. I was, for the first time in my life, thankful for the dirty great big 4WD that I was following. We passed the hole in the highway that had previously seen the death of a small family, and that was when Jayden started to tell me that he was running out of petrol. I pulled into the petrol station only to be told that they had no electricity on the entire Central Coast so there was no petrol. My only choice was to try and make it to Hornsby on the petrol that I had. Later on, as I was parked on the hard shoulder with Jayden's little hazard lights flashing, I was again thankful for the 4WD, and Mick - the driver - who had a can of petrol in the back of his large boot. Mick, and the 4WD, saved my life.

The Arrival:
After almost falling asleep at the wheel, and running out of petrol on the highway in the middle of a cyclone, I had made it to Sydney. I crossed the harbour Bridge and almost pissed myself with sheer relief. Somehow I made it to Camperdown, found my friend, and all was good. Until I remembered that I had to drive back - here we had the third element of 'dumb' and the second stage of lunacy, that is, prior to this realisation I actually believed that I could magic myself back home.

The End:
Had I known that an excessive amount of driving necessarily causes the loss of one's sanity, I might not have chosen to commit myself to this journey. When I reached the Harbour of Coff on my return to Brisbane, the songs I was composing had reached a new level of shitness. I had unwittingly devised a 'mix' of the Pizza Hut/Kentucky Fried Chicken/McDonalds song, mashed up with Beyonce's Crazy In Love. It was appalling, it was shit, it represented atrocity of such magnitude and I am ashamed that I remember how it goes. However, it was this element of dumb, with the late addition of interchangeable lyrics, that got me through to the Gold Coast, and finally home to Brisbane.

The Afterthought:
As I'm sure you can appreciate, I won't be driving to Sydney again. I fully admit that the idea was a whole world of dumb, and I only have myself to blame. I haven't gained anything from my execution of this plan, except that I now have a deeper appreciation of the creative tendencies at work inside my head. I am, indeed, a veritable song-writing genius.

Bazza Revealed

I Like to Complain has reached its 1000 page impression milestone slightly prematurely, it seems. But, I will not forget my promise. Below is a photo of me. You can guess which one I am, if you like.

The After Effect

I went out last night. I consumed roughly 4 glasses of wine and a small glass of sherry. Yes, I know sherry's a very old woman kind of drink, but I'd like to point out that it has the kick of a bull and the alcohol content to match. Needless to say, I'm feeling slightly under the weather today. There is something that's making me feel better - that is, the memory of things discussed last night.

It was a proper girl's night, which was much needed on my part, and we discussed all things girly. The main topic of conversation, however, was men. It's amazing how much can be learnt about the male of the species when you just put your heads together, patch together stories from here there and everywhere, and when you're through your second bottle of wine, it all begins to make a whole heap of sense.

I feel enlightened. I feel like I've wasted a lot of time believing that men are actually good people, and actually give a shit about women. And now I can finally rest easy at night in the knowledge that they're all fucking bastards who live in their stupid little worlds of pathetic egotistical self-obsessions, thinking every day that women are too stupid to cotton on to their ways, to their lies. Well, I've got news for some of these men: We're not fucking stupid. We're not fucking blind. And most of all, we're not fucking wasting our time with you anymore.

In Anticipation...

In anticipation of the likely event of my blog reaching 1000 page impressions, (as indicated by the counter to the right hand side of this page), I am beginning the lead up to a suitably large event. This event is: BAZZA REVEALED.

The event will consist of the publication of a photograph of yours truly, hence forever distinguishing my anonymity amongst those able to view me. Forever more my image will be accessible in the public domain.

No doubt I'll receive an influx of fan mail and letters of adoration after 'Bazza Revealed' occurs, so I ask you all now to please prepare yourselves. Please don't be too shocked at my appearance - it's often the case that someone who possesses such literary and linguistic talents as I do, is rather inadequate in the looks department. I hope to dispel this myth. Clever people can be less than ugly, and they can be more than average.

So, in anticipation of the aforementioned event, this is what I look like in 2D:

Communicative Overload

I'm beginning to wonder how many communicative devices and methods one person needs. I was recently battling over the stark reality of having two mobile phones. My problem being that I can't use my work mobile for international calls/texts, so I need to have a separate phone for International. I was faced with a few options:

• Ditch the International mobile and lose contact with the majority of my friends and my father.
• Use the work mobile for International as well as Domestic, and face the prospect of getting sacked for overusing staff privileges.
• Search for further methods of communication, utilise them, and analyse the results.

I chose the final option, and went in search of alternative International communication methods. I was directed to Facebook. While the initial thrill of being able to put my photo up, and have a daily 'thought' as well a permanent feed from my oh-so-popular blog was alluring, the thrill was soon overtaken by the realisation that I have no photos of myself, my daily thoughts are not worth publicising, and my blog just doesn't look good as a permanent feed - loses its credibility somehow. (And it's got SO much of that!) So Facebook is out.

I then looked at my home phone - my Landline. After a month of making various International phone calls at all sorts of stupid times of the day and night, I received what's known as a 'phone bill'. I'm currently arguing with the telephone company as to the validity of said bill, and I'll let you know the outcome. Needless to say, I have decided not to pursue this method of communication. So the Landline is out.

Hence, physically talking to my friends and family is out, and so is publicising my every thought and responding to Facebook alerts and messages. It's all too much hard work. So now I have resorted to email. Although after a hefty boxing session with my trainer this morning, even emailing is heading for the 'too hard basket'. What's a girl to do?

And the thought has hit me. How selfish of my friends to live in a miserable, muddy little island on the other side of the world. Did they not think about the logistical nightmare that I'd be facing on this - the proper, warmer side of the world - Did they not stop and THINK that maybe it'd be much nicer and congenial for them to come and join me over here? I mean really, I'm not asking much. Just for them to uproot themselves and park their arses over here for a while, just until I'm sick of them and send them back home. I can even accommodate their families for a nominal fee - there's plenty of room in the old people's home round the corner, and I believe that the Vet has a few empty cages... I'll do some further research into family accom, and get back to you.

In the meantime, please can we all just spare a thought for me - poor little Bazza, friendless, homeless, and lost, with a bunch of friends who are too SELFISH to emigrate. (That's a slight exaggeration. I'm not completely friendless. And I'm not homeless. Oh but I got lost on the way to a meeting this morning. Does that count?)

Dislikes

Having recently asked some friends who I've invited for dinner for any dislikes regarding a possible Indian menu, I received the following responses:

R: I dislike shop assistants who talk down to you, when they are selling you a t-shirt for $70.
B: I dislike shop assistants who tell you that you smell nice, just to make you buy their glucosamine.
R: And when you are in a meeting and your tummy rumbles and it sounds like flatulence and you have to say "gee I'm hungry" each time it happens, so people don't think you are farting. i dislike that.
C: I hate it when you fall asleep in the lobby of your own apartment building and wake up with a blanket on you with a bottle of water in your hand and can't remember how you got home.
R: I hate it when someone moves the toilet on you during the night and once you've done your business, moves it back to where it used to be and blames you for going where they say one never was.
S: I hate it when my fiancée pees on the wall next to my bed.

And I've invited these people to my HOUSE...

Budget Shmudget

In the spirit of my new month and new inward focus, today I completely blew my fortnightly budget. I was very proud of myself for not having touched my credit card, and I thought, fuck it. I'll treat myself. So I did, with the following banal-to-some-but-fantastic-to-me purchases:

1. Indian Cookbook - a proper one, with authentic recipes and a lovely and large glossary of terms in the back.
2. 'The Secret' - some book by some chick who apparently goes on about how you can train your brain to being more positive with the intention of shacking up with your perfect guy. Meh.
3. Fuck-Me-Boots - Woooo! They're hot, they're sexy, they're far too high and excessively painful, and I love them.
4. Skirt - to go with the boots of course. It's pretty average.

So, roughly $350 later, I'm prancing about the house in said boots trying to wear them in, but am now thinking that a better idea would be to save the pain for another day. Today is not a day of pain, oh no, it's a day of me. All about ME.

I'm going to give myself a facial now, then I'm going to cook a pumpkin and Gorgonzola risotto, then I'll paint my nails while watching Dirty Dancing and imagine my perfect man lifting me ballerina-style in the middle of a lake while we practice our award winning dance routine that my parents have no idea about... oooh the excitement...

After-Thought:

This megalomania raises a couple of questions though... Am I allowed to spend an entire day deep in self-indulgence and reflection? Is this socially acceptable? Is such a pastime limited to the female sex? Can men indulge in such a whimsical waste of time? ... Does anybody give a shit?

New Month, New Me

Yet again I have reached a minor turning point in my life. I'm beginning to think that I think far too much about everything, and perhaps I'm slightly self-obsessed, but hey, I'll carry on until my brain explodes.

So, I've witnessed my proactivity with regards to weight loss and fitness. I am a guru of all things health related. Additionally, I'm now completely versed with life in Australia and living an independent existence. I am a guru of all things Australian and Me related. However, there's one thing that I'm not so experienced in, and I'll admit, I tend to be slightly emotionally stunted about. That is, the wonderful world of men.

Is it wonderful? Probably not, but I'm curious as to how things work when a man and a woman live on a level playing field.

I just feel like I'm not allowing them the respect they deserve. I'm thinking that there may even be one out there who has a bit of a brain attached to his penis - you never know, stranger things have happened. So, my plan is to put myself on the market, officially. I'm gonna make a concerted effort to flaunt my goods in the general direction of suitable patrons, while still retaining the little dignity that I've saved over the years.

Of course, I won't let the flaunting get out of hand - Roy and Chappers are on side to slap me if I turn into some desperate old whore flashing her fanny about - and anyway, I'm much more sophisticated than that. Really - I am...