I Wish I Was A Time Lord: I'd Have The Chance to Leave Earth Until the Music Got Better

My sparkles bring all the vampires to the yard, and I'm like, You're a fag

Dear Diary, Nobody Understands Me But You!

My goodness, when did it become so hard to be a teenager?! I remember that my teenage years, when coupled with the travails of high school, did occasionally move me to tears and fits of great stabbiness. However, the ways of the tortured artiste were unknown to me. I was never on medication. I was never admitted into psychiatric care. I got over it.

This ability to get over it, which I maintain is the base-level resilience needed to survive 80+ years of existence on the planet, seems harder and harder to find. Instead of realising that sometimes, life does indeed suck dogs' balls, and all any of us can do is keep breathing and wait for it to pass, such moments become an opportunity to tie oneself in knots of self-reflexive upset, demonstrated by a deep personal depression.

Excuse me? When the f*ck did it become The Done Thing to self-harm? Or up the anti-depressant dosage? Or, even more dangerously, sing songs about self-harming? Before y'all become shouty, I do believe medication has a place. I do believe that it is one option for treating psychiatric conditions which would otherwise be unbearable. But also, I wonder if you'd feel better if you simply stopped listening to songs about dead goldfish, and how nobody understands us, and why it's all for nought, and hardened the f*ck up. For God's sake, please stop pretending it's cool to be so unhappy. It's horrible for the rest of us to be around - mainly because we get bored of listening to your whinging - and I'm pretty sure ain't the best way to care for your own neurochemical balance.

Let's all try something new, shall we? The Bloggess has coined the Furiously Happy Movement, and motherf*cker, I'm ALL for it. Let's be 'FURIOUSLY HAPPY, OUT OF SHEER SPITE'. It certainly can't be more painful than dead goldfish.

P.S. It's NOT cool to be emo, depressed, and rock an air of ennui when a) you've never seen what the rest of the world has to offer (yeah, chick whose happiest years where in high school, I'm looking at you), and b) you don't know what 'ennui' means. It's self-indulgent, self conscious, too cool for school POSING. Kisschasy and I are on to you:

They both go to all of the same clubs
Where everyone takes all the same drugs
And talks about how they're 'so fucked up'

Note: This was not written in a nice way. We're laughing our guts up at you

A Hung Parliament

Bob Katter. Running the country.

It's so stupid it's awesome

I've already discussed the fact that smokers are more likely to be punched in the wang than kiddie fiddlers here, but today, the debate went up a notch.

My friend is lovely. She's beautiful, clever, funny as hell, and a terrific mother. Her three children are mature, well-balanced, clever, amazing ppl. I like going 'round to her place to hang out with all of them. That's how lovely this family is.

And sometimes when I'm round at hers, we'll have a glass of wine, and a cigarette. I will point out that I don't share (I have issues), but that she has her packet, and I have mine. We smoke and drink and slander common enemies who aren't present, and wiggle our toes in delight. There goes a good time that was had by all!

However, today her children found out that she smokes. She decided that it wasn't worth lying about anymore - a decision that, I think, takes courage. And the bubbies went nuclear. Shouts about choosing cigarettes or her family, about the absolute ruination she was bringing to their lives, the fact that she'll die from this habit were heard ringing out (the nieghbours must have enjoyed it). And, as I sooo obviously wasn't going to be invited to speak, I started thinking.

While I can understand their point of view - yes, even we smokers understand it's not the smartest decision ever made - I wondered what's the best way to go about it. If you love someone, and you're trying to help them make a choice about good health, is it okay to shout, bully and manipulate? Can you blame the ppl around them? Is it always this unsettling to realise that your parent, who you've known as Mum since the day you first thought about, actually turns out to be an individual who'll make her own choices and decisions, as an individual?

I can understand their worry - the underlying fear being that of health repercussions, and the severity of them - but, and this is my opinion, the answer still doesn't become, And bully and abuse her into a new course action. For all that I concur smoking is a dreadful habit, she's a grown up who'll make her own choices. If she quits, I'll support that, and not smoke around her, and tell her how fab she is for doing something so f*cking awesome. If she keeps smoking, I'll support that, and love her anyway. None of us are perfect - we're just trying to get through.

What am I missing?

Tik Tok

Safety First

I correspond regularly with a charming individual who uses their government e-mail address. As a result, we're bound by the rules of their server BlackList, which scans all missives before allowing them in or out. On several occasions, we have broken this server, and received strongly worded notes, suggesting we might like to pull our heads in, or face the possibility of having them kicked off our shoulders.

HOWEVER, in the last 24 hours, I have been doing a little research, and can tell you that references to 'crack' and 'smoking pot' are just fine.

Well sh*t, y'all. It's like these people WANT me to use drugs.

Lions And Tigers And Bears, Oh My!

Do you know what really used to scare me? I mean apart from Tony Abbott BEING ALLOWED TO BECOME THE LEADER OF ANYTHING (NB. Abbott, keep your roasaries off my ovaries, or I may fail to keep my fist off your face, you sanctimonious, big-earred tw*t), and those urban legend horror stories you used to tell at sleepovers...

Waitresses with attitude. I actually felt like I was in the wrong for asking them to faithfully copy my order to the kitchen, and then carry the plate out to me. When invited to do so, I became an apologetic patron. Excuse me, if you have a minute, if it's no trouble, please don't stress...

And then, with absolute horror, I realised that my piglet sister is that waitress. Mainly because she lives with me, and it seems that the attitude isn't left at work. Part of the attitude is the, I'll do it because I'm awesome air of weariness in the face of the petty demands of wider humanity. Demands such as, if you've finished in the kitchen, please tidy up after yourself. Such demands are met with an invitation for me to go f*ck myself for such brutality. And I find myself falling for it. Excuse me, if you have a minute, if it's no trouble, please don't stress...

And then I realised that I really shouldn't be scared. You. Are. A. Waitress. It. Is. Your. Job. It isn't rocket science, it's carrying plates so that my carbonara doesn't end up on the floor. And really, if you're so awesome, how come you're doing the fetching while I sit with friends, drinking NZ whites and having a fine time?

Waitresses, you're not scary. You're staff.

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Heil, Mein Fuhrer!

One day soon, I'll stop stealing your ideas, LD. In the meantime, I'm gonna surf your brilliance. (What am I saying? I'm gonna pursue it down a dark alleyway, knock it unconscious, rifle its pockets and steal the good stuff, rite before I kick it in the kidneys and run away giggling).

SO. According to LD, there are only 5 acceptable reasons for invoking Hitler's name in a discussion (what am I, your mother? No I'm not gonna outline them - see them in their original location here).

However, and God help me 'cause I'm going to hell for this one, I believe there is a little known but immensely satisfying 6th appropriate use: when arguing the toss with a attendant at a war museum. It must be used appropriate piss and vinegar, and hopefully with the kind of person who has a warped sense of humour. Otherwise, it's just a hate crime.

MelWuv

• Excuse me, sir, we're closing this area of the Memorial now. If you'd like to start making your way out

English Tourist

• /pretends not hear, fiddles with camera, takes another picture of the Mustang on display/

MelWuv

• /slightly less patiently/ Sir, the Memorial is closed, and I must ask you to start making your way out. Quick as you like!

English Tourist

• /baleful stare/ I've travelled halfway around the world to be here, and this is my last opportunity to visit the Memorial. Do you mind?

MelWuv

• I can understand your frustration, sir (yes, it's pretty similar to mine when f*ckwits wanna play the whinge card), but it is closing time, and I must insist you leave this gallery so we can close and secure the building. Now

English Tourist

• You know, if I was working at an Allied war memorial, I'm not sure I'd like to align myself so closely with a totalitarian approach reminiscent of the Nazis...

MelWuv

• Oh, CHAMPAGNE SIR! You totally just won another 5 minutes in here - go nuts.

Too soon for a Hitler joke?

I Won't Tell If You Won't

The Lovely Dave got me thinking - I know, totally new territory for me, rite? - with his post Guilty Little Pleasures (check out the brilliance here) about the things we do just to spite our conscience. Long showers seem to feature prominently. But, as I've noted previously, the trick to brilliance is to wrestle any topic on to the floor, then beat it till it bleeds. Which is how I ended up pondering on several... practices which I enjoy tremendously, but don't really seek an audience for. Okay folks, out of the gutter, and stick with me here.

While long showers are publicly considered to be akin to smacking puppies these days, no one really looks at you askance for indulging. So where is the line crossed? For example, my secret sin is fiddling with, and removing, ingrown hairs. Oh my God, the joy, the sheer relief, the sense of accomplishment that comes from squeezing out an ingrown hair. Disgusting? You betcha! Will I stop doing it in the privacy of my own bathroom? Not f*ckin' likely, son!

Where does guilty pleasure cross the line to secret sin? And if it's not hurting anyone - apart fm my beautician anyway (apparently, my 'helping' is about as much use as a Gideon's Bible in a cathouse) - does it really matter?

C'mon ppl, 'fess up - what do you do when no one's watching?

Christ is Dead, Christ is Risen, Christ Has Come Again

Happy Easter everyone! In celebration of the Lord rising from the dead, eat your way into a diabetic coma. Just like it says to do in the Bible.

Smokers of the World Unite - We'll Be Outside On The Fire Escape

I'm a smoker. I apologise for that, but in my defence, I will say that:

• I don't smoke in outdoor areas where food is being consumed - I understand that non-smokers probably won't enjoy the smell wafting over their crudites
• I don't smoke in areas where there are children, e.g. public playgrounds, schools, neo-natal units. Just because I've made the decision to smoke doesn't mean I'm going to expose impressionable youngsters to it
• I don't smoke in ppls' houses; further, I ask for permission to smoke on their property - it's just good manners, really
• I try to move away from open doorways/windows, to avoid blowing smoke into buildings

BUT IT'S NOT ENOUGH. I'm not sure when 'smoker' became synonymous with 'kiddie fiddler', but Christ, we're hated. Hated. Nothing else I do in life - and believe me, I do plenty of weird and wonderful things, as this blog will attest to - seems to invite the angry wrath of total f*cking strangers the same way lighting a Marlboro does.

I usually walk across campus with a fag on. This, apparently, is akin to crucifying Christians along the Appian Way - the number of times I've been addressed directly, or just had other pedestrians stand near me and fake cough is bizarrely high, with 3 occurrences in the last 6 weeks.

WHAT ELSE CAN I DO, PPL? We've been banned from smoking in

• hospitals (well, that makes sense, even to a pack-a-day habitual like me)
• public buildings (fair enough - with air conditioning systems, you just cannot contain it)
  
• on planes (agreed - a smoking section on a plane is about as useful as a peeing section in a pool)
• restaurants (you go for the meal, not the charming 'smoky French bistro' ambiance)
• pubs (what? Hang on... Surely the whole charm of the pub is in its smoky atmosphere?)
• in parks (I understand that we shouldn't hold small children down and exhale in their faces, but are you f*cking serious?)
• on beaches (hello, I'd like the police, please... Yes, public common sense seems to have taken off, and I just can't find it).

IF MY SMOKING BOTHERS YOU THAT MUCH (you big jessie), GO INSIDE, YOU SILLY F*CKER! Visit any one of the millions of places where I can no longer legally smoke, and leave me to it. Really, we'll both enjoy our private moments that much more.

And please, don't give me any more shrieking tirades about how your tax dollars will fund my death. Cigarettes are highly taxed items. I'm happy to pay the asking price. However, it's MY tax dollars fm this that will fund my medical treatment. Really, end-stage emphysema patients usually last less than 5 years. Seriously, we get really sick, then we die. We're so cost effective when it comes to medical treatment that cigarettes should be subsidised. There'll be no need to long-term aged care, let me tell you. Of course, the most likely scenario is, I'll quit smoking, and my tax dollars will fund your interminable treatment for a degenerative mental illness, such as Alzheimer's Disease (NB. This is one of those conditions where the ill don't even have the good sense to move along quickly, with physical health continuing long after the patient has reached the point of requiring 24/7 care to stop them from setting their hair on fire. In some cases, we're talking decades.)

I'm not asking you to smoke. I'm not asking you to like or support the fact I smoke. But if you feel the need to treat me like a second-class citizen while I'm quietly smoking in the last purgatorial areas left for this exercise, I'll have to point out that you, being at least 10 kilos overweight, and driving a car, are no paragon of good health either. Then I will ask you to f*ck off. But nicely. Very, very nicely.

Licence to Thrill

I'll stand up and admit it: I have A Thing for James Bond. Quite where this leaves my Feminist sensibilities, I'm not entirely sure (of course, if James Bond knocked on my front door, and opened with, Melwuv, you're the only woman who could ever be my emotional, spiritual and intellectual equal - do you fancy some dirty dirty raunch sex?, they'd probably be on the floor, with my knickers, but I digress).

But I'm still trying to figure it out. I'm entirely opposed to any kind of violence being threatened or indeed acted upon any woman, by any stronger man. I really don't think that any work a woman does is somehow worth less in monetary terms. I really think that there's room for a MASSIVE improvement in the way government addresses maternity leave.

And as I thought about this, my opinions started to shift. I actually don't agree with domestic violence full stop. I don't care if he hits her, or she hits him, there has to be a better way to deal with personal inadequacies, frustration and pissed-offness. Belting the living daylights out of someone you profess to feel such positive feelings for that you live under the same roof with them is JUST NOT ON.

Looking at pay inadequacies, I sure as hell don't think that, by being a middle class white male who somehow ended up in a managerial, executive position, you're worth intrinsically more - all those CEOs who enjoy bajillion dollar payouts for not actually summoning Satan on the Boardroom Table, I'm looking at you, pals.

And while maternity leave in Australia is woeful, I'm pretty sure there's room to open it up a little, and listen to what the dads have to say. Call me crazy, but there may just be some fathers out there who'd relish the opportunity to hang out with their little ones, and conduct conversations that make them sound like they've left their brains out in the rain, whilst feeding small ppl a diet that is comprised entirely of coloured... mush.

BUT HOW DOES THIS RELATE TO JAMES BOND? I'm glad you reminded me that that's where we're headed - I was getting a little het up back there. But, it a subtle way, that IS my argument. For all the Feminist Establishment lamenting the perpetuation of the female as victim/sexual plaything/nurturer (while never actually getting be all awesome and kick arse... Unless she's evil, in which case she kick everything until dispatched of by James, usually with some dry witticism), Monsieur Bond is hardly 3 dimensional. Let's face it: he's a ripped pussy magnet who occasionally does some spying. That's. About. It. He has discernible skills, for sure - the ability to drive a manual car, the knowledge of several lethal martial arts, and an almost Zen-like affinity with the cocktail shaker and the wondrous concoctions one can inveigle fm it - but when it comes down to it, would you actually want to try and spend a lifetime with this fella? The dirty dirty raunch sex would be plentiful, dirty and raunchy, but what about when you wanted to lie on the couch in trackpants, and argue the merits of crunchy versus smooth peanut butter? Or just stay in and watch 'The Bill' on a Saturday nite? Or indeed, combine the above two activities?

So to those out there that argue that James is a Cold War relic of outdated misogynistic masculinity, I say, too bloody rite! Congratulations! You've cracked it! Such insight! (These comments may or may not be tinged with sarcasm, depending how generous I feel at the time).

It's a constant refrain that women will never live up to the ideals created for them by media and popular cultural consensus. Again, I agree wholeheartedly. But lads, you'll never be James Bond either (sorry). So can we just watch the films (and read the books, for us purists out there), and enjoy a slightly different reality where trackpants, 'The Bill' and nites in are instead replaced by tailored everything, million dollar cards games and massive gunfights in exotic locations, without needing to think too hard about them?

It's time to get back to Bond basics: the dirty dirty raunch sex, and how to get it. End of.



Stay tuned for Melwuv's insightful analysis as to why Casino Royale was 11 kinds of awesome, and may indeed be her favourite Bond film ever produced. NB: she will not discuss Quantum of Solace. At least, not until the spiritual whimpering in her soul quietens the f*ck down.

All Stand For The National Anthem

Ladies and Gentlemen, please sit down. I have an announcement to make, and I'd hate to think that you might hurt yourself if you're overcome by emotion.

Today, I would like to announce the presence of Fakeistan, and Robonia.

These sovereign nations are not new, in a physical sense. However, being two Eastern European countries, they have newly demarcated borders, which may have escaped even the most avid geopolitical scholar.

Thus, I present for you a potted history of these illustrious countries.

Located in the Siberian steppes, Fakeistan and Robonia are former USSR satellite states. As such, they are both nuclear powers, but shhh, don't tell anyone. (No, really, they're trying to keep this on the down-low, so they'd totally appreciate you keeping this under your toup). They obtained this technology at the end of the Cold War, during the collapse of the USSR - their location made them the perfect sites for nuclear silos, and when the USSR withdrew from these satellite states, they didn't have time to pack properly. This was poor forward planning on the part of the USSR - no wonder it collapsed! - as they were dealing with countries whose Foreign Policy was, in a nutshell, Finders Keepers. Because Fakeistan and Robonia now have The Bomb, this Policy has extended to encompass a Shit Us And We Nuke You mentality. This is not an ideal situation, but it does mean that everyone is really, really nice to them (until they go the bathroom, then everyone bitches about them behind their backs). Their First Strike Capability is manned by a manic depressive named Igor. When Igor takes to his bed, overcome by the overwhelming bleakness of the human condition, his shifts are covered by his donkey, Trevor. Should you ever tour the weapons facility, make sure you say hello to Trevor, as he has a persecution complex, and a failure to greet him appropriately, and thus shit him, will lead to you being nuked. This is not an ideal outcome for anyone, so practice a big Hello Trevor! before you visit.

Igor (when he's well enough) and Trevor answer to the respective governments of their nations, which are located in the capital cities. Madeupograd, the political heart of Fakeistan, is a triumph of Soviet architecture. Seldom have so many different shades of gray been used in a single city - truly, it is a sight to behold. However, Pravda, the capital of Robonia, can make no such claim. The less said, the better.

The GDP of both nations involves two sets of books. The actual set of books - the ones we're not allowed to disclose - seem to enter a fair few shipments of opium. The money from the provision of such goods to the world is funnelled back into the nuclear program. But we're not talking about that! The set of books that the accountants get to play with state that the main export of Robonia is mercury. This is handy, as this product is readily bought by Fakeistan. Fakeistan uses the mercury to create a dye compound, which is used in the production of dye. Again, handy, because Fakeistan is the world's leading exporter of fuzzy felt shapes. Because of the mercury compound, it is highly recommended that you do not lick these fuzzy pieces. Indeed, if they can be kept away from naked flame or living tissue, so much the better!

The people of these nations are triumphantly living the Communist dream. As such, they can not afford jam, and so are forced merely to lick pictures of jam. They claim this as a crowning achievement in their histories, as previously, they couldn't even afford pictures of jam. In the future, they're looking forward to obtaining radiators.

The easiest way of getting around Madeupograd or Pravda is by Segue. While these bicycle wannabes are the gayest mode of transportation on Earth, the punishment for pointing this out is severe - transgressors are arrested, and forced to watch Star Trek re-runs until they agree that there are gayer things out there. Further, we're talking about of nation of people suffering from mercury poisoning, with access to nuclear weapons. This is a combination that doesn't need right on its side to take the kind of actions that will ruin your day.

But don't let this stop you from visiting this beautiful area of Eastern Europe! Visas can easily be obtained - if the office is closed, simply write 'TREVOR WILL GET BACK TO ME, ASAP' in your Passport with a red pen. All Customs officials will recognise this, as Trevor is a donkey of his word. Happy travelling!

Let's Get Physical

Being a specimen of such physical perfection, ppl are always asking me, MelWuv, what's the secret to lookin' so damn awesome?

In my dreams, perhaps.

I have reached a point where the closest I get to a sit up is a get up, usually fm the couch, in order to grab another bag of corn chips. If I could actually be arsed to figure out the intricacies of on-line grocery shopping, I'd probably stop walking the supermarket aisles to procure such delicacies. However, this hasn't caught up with me yet - another 3 years and I'll be a fat bastard ready for my appearance on 'The Biggest Loser' - but so far, I'm holding back the tide. But this has to change.

I have a relatively good diet - the rule of thumb is my house is, Himself should cook - and don't drink too much (I merely enjoy myself tremendously, as often as possible). However, I'm pathologically stingy in matters relating to gym memberships. I won't pay hundreds of dollars to go running! sez I. I can run around the lake for free, I sez. Of course, I don't. So I sat down, and I tried to think about how to overcome my connundrum, namely

• I don't have the readies to be throwing at the gym
• I hate running with the fire of a thousand suns
• I like having a (relatively) flat tummy, and totally would NOT mind if other bits of me tightened/stopped their vague wobbling

I need a cheap, available exercise routine. Answer? Lots and lots of sex.

• Hello? Do it rite, and it's THE aerobic workout (aerobic is a fancy word for heavy breathing - always a good sign in this field of endeavour)
  
• Get on top, and work your bum and thighs
• No man I have ever, ever met is thinking about how wobbly your bum is/how roundy your tummy is/how small your boobs are during this kind of workout. Not one single man. Mainly, and I rely on the research of myself and others here, the train of thought seems to be, My God, my God, she's so hot, yes yes yes, this is the best ever, she's amazing, do that again, Ahhh! (Admittedly, not being a man, I'm merely recounting this. If you are a guy, and feel this info to be incorrect, please correct me! I dare you!). How great - a workout that's good for your self-esteem!
• Sucking your stomach in (for appearance's sake), makes it all feel a little more awesome
• Do it standing up, and increase your core strength and balance (or, alternatively, fall onto the fall, and die laughing. That's good for you, too)
• You won't have to buy, or wear, stupid, fluro, lycra outfits, or massively expensive running shoes to get the most out of your workout. Unless that's your thing. In which case, you go, you saucy minx!
  
• It's good fun sharing the details of your exercise routine with the unwary who ask what you're doing to keep yourself looking so good (unless this fool is a family member. In which case, you've been doing Pilates. Lots and lots of Pilates)
  

Admittedly, there are some cons

• It's considered poor form, when one is engaged as I am anyway, to have more than one exercise 'buddy'. (On the plus side of this, if you're both committed to your workouts, you won't have the time for another buddy)
• Do it at the gym, and you may be asked to leave/arrested (unless you're a gay man. In which case, you are LIVIN' it, Miss Thing!)
• The money you've saved on gym membership/sports outfits/shoes must be redirected to approriate contraception. That stuff is damn expensive. Bastards.

Have I come up with a brilliant solution to the obesity epidemic? Or am I just looking for an excuse to shag like a rabbit?

Grant Me The Serenity

Sometimes, changing things is really hard. Like, really REALLY hard. There have been moments (including some under duress) when I've looked at my life, and realised that the state of it is making me unhappy, unhealthy, and slightly mad (oh, who am I kidding? Completely mad. Completely). And despite the wisdom of the statement that admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery, this fails to add that that journey of change which any decent recovery entails can be a grade-A, lifelong sonofabitch.

But really, what are the options? Staying where you are can be awesome: comforting, familiar, a place of enduring sameness in an otherwise hostile and ever-changing world. However, it can also mean stagnation, a failure to adapt, and a complete underexposure to new and challenging ways of thinking, doing and being. Change, while offering us the chance to grow and create new ways of of expressing ourselves, can also push us too far away from being ourselves.

God, the New Age, hello trees, hello flowers, la la crap mood of this post is making me cringe - another couple of minutes of this and I'll be reading Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus (Actually, I do want to read this book - it's necessary research for my own future bestseller, Men Are From Earth, Women Are From Earth - F*cking Deal, but I digress).

What I'm attempting to say is this:

• no one can continue to use past hurts as an excuse for current and future bad behaviour. Bad shit goes down for everyone. This is kind of a defining fact of human existence. The trick is to deal, not dwell. Get some therapy, find a 12 Step group, write a novel with thinly-veiled references to those who have wronged you, but for God's sake, do not be that person who, at every party, gets drunk, cries, and wants sympathy for how bad their entire life is. My life is not all f*cking lollies and kittens, but I try to move on.
• remember, it's called Secret Pain because it should be secret. Not everyone needs to know about why your life is such a sh*t. Even more importantly, not everyone cares. Having said that, have at least one brilliant friend who will listen to you. Unloading is theraputic, providing it's not your only method of communicating with others.
• introspection can be f*cking frightning - very few ppl have the desire to honestly examine theirselves and their actions, and look for their own part in things, especially when that part may show them to be less than perfect. However, the most well-balanced ppl do. And we'd all like to be well-balanced, wouldn't we???

So, if you're that unhappy, change. It's scary, painful, and sometimes feels like you're sweating blood for no discernible outcome, but any decision you make to live in the way that makes you feel content and at peace with the world is a change worth making.

And let's face it, you're never gonna be able to change the world to suit yourself. Believe me, I've tried.

3! 2! 1! HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Merry Christmas, mes amies, and a very happy New Year. I hope you all had a wonderful holiday, like I give a f*ck, let's move on.

While I realise I'm a little late with the countdown, I felt it necessary to ask: has anyone out there made any Resolutions worth breaking? If I hear 'I'm going to get fit! I'm going to spend more time with friends and family! I'm going to eat better!' one more time, I'm going to resolve to punch everyone mouthing these platitudes in the wang.

Why is it that we come over so serious on NYE? Hardly the time to be making earth-shattering pronouncements, considering how much Chardonnay has been taken internally during the celebrations, we nonetheless make sweeping statements that we'd be hard pressed to keep with the assistance from a nutritionist, time management assistant and a team of nannies to keep the kids from putting us off our stride.

Is it that we think big in order to achieve moderately? Do we say we'll eat better - nothing but fresh fruit and vegies! - and count cutting down on takeaways from 3 nites a week to 1 a success? Or do we all have this desire to build failure into any project that really could effect dramatic changes in out lives? (Oh God, there's my next rant: Is Change Really That Scary?). Or do we all realise that it's just pants, and simply feel the need to say something at midnite?

Leaving aside these weighty matters, let me share mine with y'all.
1) Finish every bottle of veen-ho I open
2) Shoot more bats

Simple but effective.

Say Something Controversial

Yes, well, don't mind if I do.

Let me begin by saying, I drive a car. It's not very big, but it's quite speedy, and a lovely green colour, and I love it. However, for some strange reason, it attracts wonky cyclists (this is where the controversial part comes in, okay?).

I'm prepared to accept that 10% of (lunatic) cyclists give the rest of this breed a bad name. I'll even go as far as to accept that yes, the government really needs to get serious about creating, upgrading and maintaining viable cycle paths in order for the whole experience of getting to work to become one of happiness and little fluffy bunnies, rather than bowel-destroying fear, but in the meantime... Jesus Christ.

This vitriol was inspired by my experience last week when, in reversing my car into a parking spot, I found my vehicle, and a rather deranged looking cyclist, attempting to break Newton's Third Law of Matter by occupying the same physical space AT THE SAME TIME.

Of course, what with me being a nasty, yukky car owner, and a woman to boot!, it was all my fault. Though it makes me cringe, let me quote BigBrother '08 - I DON'T THINK SO!

There is really not much I could say for myself. I had legitimately found a parking spot - not always easy where cheap uni students, avoiding pay parking, congregate - and was putting myself into it. Apparently, it is my fault that a cyclist, noticing my car going in a backwards direction, decided to ride BEHIND me, and cut across my boot. So of course I deserved the name-calling, the fist shaking and the threats made on my unborn children. I'm a bad driver - imagine, reversing into a parking spot, and expecting others to NOT BE STUPID ENOUGH TO STAND BEHIND YOU. Duh. It all seems so simple now.

So I apologise wholeheartedly to the poor cyclist I nearly ran over, and I say only this: I drive a tonne of metal, and you have a pisky-lookin' bike. Do it again, sunshine, and you shall be squished beyond recognition. I am big, you are small, and I will ALWAYS win that particular contest.

In the meantime, enjoy a world with lower carbon emissions.


NB. Let the flames begin - I bought marshmallows