SO i has this kitty-cat...

Hey So, this is my little/fat kitty. He is now the bane of my existence. I have a laundry list of reasons why this seemingly cute little ball of kitty-cat is, in actuality, the incarnation of all hatred and evil in the world:

1) He constantly meows at me to tell me such trivial things like: "ME BE HUNGRY!", "I BELIEVE YOU ARE STANDING ON MY TAIL WENCH!", "MY BELLY NEEDS EFFECTIVES PATS RIGHT NAO! BUT ONLY TO A CERTAIN DEGREE AND ONCE YOU HAS PAST THIS CERTAIN DEGREE I WILL CLAW YOU AND BITE YOU UNTIL YOUR BLOOD FLOWS INTO MY MOUTH!" and even "I REQUIRE MORE KIBBLE 'n' BITS MORTAL!"
2) He repeatedly falls asleep on all of my things and smooshes them and sheds hair all over them rendering them useless and hairy.
3) He Has these little spaz outs where he double-takes like five times with his eyes open really wide, then sprints off somewhere to hide (one time resulting in him running into a wall) or lunges at either me or my other kitty (also known as my sheep-like dog) and tries to destroy either of us.
4) HE KEEPS GETTING ALL DIRTY AND FAIL AND WIPING HIS DIRTY-FAIL ALL OVER ME AND BEING INFURIATING!!
5) He has taken to somehow getting into my room at night (probably with the aid of my dick-of-a-brother) and sleeping on me and then asking for outs at like five in the morning (which is obviously designated for napping and not outs!!) and constantly meowing and either flinging himself at my door or sitting on my chest and hitting me in the face with his paw.
6)He keeps getting into all manner of kitty fight clubs (where they have adorable boxing-gloves and trunks - or so i imagine) and losing and then coming to me not being able to open his eyes and bleeding for the ears and whining about how fail he is because he tries to be stealthy when he's all bright white and can be seen by anything at any time of the day or night (SUCH A TARD!!).
7) He's rubbing himself on me right now, even though i have just fed him, and he's leaving all this white hair on my clothes and around my room! AND NOW HE'S LEFT LIKE NOTHING HAPPENED!! ARRGGHHHHH!
8) He's disgustingly adorable and charming at times and lures into a false sense of kitty ruuuving that eventually leads him to break my fragile heart again. Maybe i'm just to easy.
9) I used to have to clean his kitty-litter (thankfully he learned how to use our "dog-door" which is actually a large "kitty-door" as my "dogs" aren't so much "dogs" as they are "slightly-uncharacteristic-kitties" - well no the lovable "Scottie", but yes the deplorable "Sir Kitty-face") and he always flung his excrement outside of the box after he had finished desecrating it! ITS WAS DISGUSTING!
10) He keeps giving me the "evil-kitty" eyes which freak me out - especially when i wake up at night to find him sitting on my chest purring and staring right into my eyes, centimeters from my face.

I like to think that now you all hate my cat as much as me, and that some among you (you know yourselves) are willing top come here and put him out of our collective miseries - also: don't feel shy now, come on over!). Thank you for your time.

So I'm probably missing the target audience, but...

(This picture is entirely unrelated to the following post, but it's quite possibly the single most beautiful thing I have ever seen.)

I have a friend, we shall call her "Miss Face", who loves reality TV like nothing else. Miss Face comes to my house on Mondays, and I'm pretty sure it's because of the MTV, because you can trust that she will be down there with her eyes superglued to the teev, watching The Hills or, I don't know, one of those other trashy shows like that one with the stripper from Myspace. She eats that trash for breakfast. Anyway. The point is, reality shows aren't generally my area of expertise...or interest. (Although I like to think that Battlestar Galactica is a reality show, so I can kid myself that one day I'll grow up AWESOME and fly Vipers and go pew pew pew. And I guess really that's about as "unscripted" and "reality" as something like the Hills, but I digress).

There is a show on MTV, however, that is the exception to this rule. That show is My Super Sweet 16. I don't know if any of you have ever watched My Super Sweet 16, but it is PURE GENIUS. The schedule of MTV is erratic and illogical, but whenever I spy this on the little digital TV guide thing I am immediately RIGHT THERE, unable to look away. I know a show about whiny 15-year-olds celebrating surviving another trip around the sun doesn't sound like gripping viewing, but these aren't ordinary 15-year-olds. (However, you mustn't mistake them for being actually special in any way.) These are 15-year-old harpies, the spawn of demons - demons who, incidentally, fork out hundreds of thousands of dollars on giving their precious babies every single thing they want. And that's just for one night.

The thing is, though, the tantrums! The drama! The unwarranted self-importance! This show is like crack, vapourised and delivered straight into your body through your eyeballs and your slack-jawed mouth. The (usually) girls on the show operate under the assumption that everything else comes after them. Which, whatever, right, it's their birthday. They can have one day, right? But I don't mean that their parents chuck a sickie to take them bowling. I mean they can honestly not comprehend how the functioning of their entire city comes before them - I recall one episode where the birthday girl demanded that the major thoroughfare of her city be closed (think Hoddle st, or Flinders maybe, I don't know, I don't drive) so she could have a parade. Another girl had a tantrum because her dress was missing "a few grands worth" of crystal - because money can't buy you class, just look at P. Hilton - and also that it made her look fat. By the way, she evidenced this by shaking her arm-flub and demanding "DOES THIS LOOK SEXY TO YOU?" despite the fact that said dress was completely sleeveless and not actually near her arms. Apparently it immediately turned all muscle into this poor girls arm into fat. I don't know about you, but if I'd bought a dress that could do that I'd be immediately crashing the Oscars or something and rubbing it on celebrities and then maniacally laughing as, in one fell swoop, modern society's perception of feminine beauty crumbled. I think I'd probably get Chris Brown as well, render him completely harmless. Because seriously, that is completely wack.

Personally, though, I think the pièce de résistance was the girl who completely broke down, tantrummed all over the place, because Dearest Daddy's birthday gift was the wrong kind of brand-spanking-new high-end car. I mean really, how much can it possibly matter what kind of car it is? You're only going to crash it anyway.

A MODERN GUIDE TO TRAIN-RIDE ETIQUETTE:

Oh God. I have been invited to contribute my muses to this blog business here. Hmmm this is just dandy.

Well, let's get right into this shall we?

Catching trains. It's a necessary evil. Depending on where you live, you may be blessed with the nippy train ride, 15 minutes or less. OR there is the chance of living ridiculously far away from anything and everything important. In the latter case, perhaps you need a little advice from a fellow commuter. Let's put it like this:

Your train ride could be the definition of awkward. In all aspects. Or it could just be it's regular awful self. I know which I prefer. Here are some of the experiences I have endured, just for your sakes, and have found simple solutions for.

(NB: ALL OF THE FOLLOWING SITUATIONS HAVE OCCURED. YES, INCLUDING THE LAST)

A MODERN GUIDE TO TRAIN-RIDE ETIQUETTE:
The suburban dandy's source of normality

SITUATION ONE:
TIME: 6:47 am
CONDITIONS: Peak hour
DESTINATION: That coffee shop where you can sucessfully wear your sunglasses indoors, order your coffee (strong please), avoid small talk with the waitress and hide quite nicely.

Your sitting down in one of those little four-seater booths. Unlike the seating plan seems to suggest, you are lacking in three friends. Someone, most likely a gruff businessman with laptop at the ready, sits directly opposite you.
Now, I'm all for sharing.
But when it comes to knee-space, I'm slightly less accomodating.
There is nothing worse than having to sit so precariously you're literally on the edge of your seat. It's not that I fear other people. I am just sure that angles are not meant to touch. Think about it. Knees. Elbows. Knuckles. To be honest, the touching of these body parts never results in fun.
This is when we come to a little word called 'Aphenphosmphobia'. The fear of being touched (if I really have to spell it out to you). Yes, I know, this probably refers to all touching. However, I'll just use it for the specific case of stranger-touching. See, even you recoiled a little when you read the words 'stranger-touching'. Am I right?

SOLUTION:
So we've both decided you don't enjoy stranger-touching. The physical form, and the sound of it. Well, what better but to fight fire with fire?
You know what this knee-space greedy commuter deserves? A taste of their own medicine. So, my tried and true solution is simply to start taking up too much knee space yourself. Get right into it. Don't be shy. Dig in (Just pretend you don't suffer from 'Aphenphosmphobia' for the time being). Just wait for it. They'll move out of your designated knee area quick sticks.
I mean, I guess I can admit there is the slight chance of looking slightly perverted. Sick, if you will. But which do you prefer? A little judgement from a person you will never meet again AND the luxurious personal space, exceded only by waiting in a line without that guy who insists standing close enough to smell your hair? Or alot of stranger-touching. There I go again.

SITUATION TWO:
TIME: 3:47 pm
CONDITIONS: School Hours
DESTINATION: Home. Oh God please home. I've walked through Myer four times, and I've been sprayed with so much perfume I have my own atmospheric conditions.

Your train ride has been relatively peaceful. You've had a total of three seats to yourself, limited take-out leftovers swim around your feet and your iPod still has at least an hours juice left in it.
Then the moment comes. You arrive at the first station close enough to a school to merit 500 school children boarding.
Your tranquility: Shattered.
Your space: Invaded (Not the good sort of space invaders, mind you)
Your mood: Disdainful.

As they board, one scallywag decides to spray the deodorant his mother bought for him, all over his friend. The friend, as he only ought to, retaliates, throwing pages of the MX at him one at a time, shrieking in the way children seem to. Their friend, child three, decides there's room for one more. He gets his bottle of back-wash ridden soda, shakes it, and...well...we all know where this is heading.
So you're sitting there. The modern day version of feathered-and-tarred. Covered in cola and tiny shreds of newspaper. Lamenting the fact that you once smelt of a not-so-distant combination of Versace, Dior and Chanel. You almost wish you could go back...

SOLUTION:
There's only one solution for this. Children are extremely impressionable. And nosey. Don't forget nosey. Therefore, when you pretend to answer your phone, of course they'll listen with their dear little ears.
You: 'What's that you say?'
...
You: 'Psychotic?'
...
You: 'Oh dear'
...
You: 'But Frank seemed like such a nice guy'
...
You: '12 you say?'
...
You: 'A what?'
...
...
...
You: 'Oh. A spanner'
...
You: 'Well yes, I am meeting him. In fact, he's getting on at the next station'
...
You: 'You're sure?'
...
You: 'What a ... mess'

Problem solved. Watch them scatter.
Note: Ensure mobile phone does not ring.
However, this could work to your advantage. Now who's crazy?


SITUATION THREE:
TIME: 12:13 am
CONDITIONS: THAT train. You know the one.
DESTINATION: It's cold. The train smells curious. That man over there in the shirt fashioned from a paper bag is giving you the eye.

You sit down, ready to go home. You've had a lovely evening with friends. You have calculated you need to wake up in 4 hours and 47 minutes. There is an empty two-seater behind you. Neat.
But then you stop at the next station. Two men, in shabby suits, clutching paper bags and hiccupping much more than they ought to, sit behind you.
You are sure, that someone has had a little too much. You hear the cavernous sounds of digestion behind you, a little to close for comfort (well, to be honest, I never seek comfort in the sounds of digestion...).
Any moment now.
But then.
You pull into Rosanna station.
And one of the merry scamps breaks out in:

"Rosaaaaannnaaaa Rossssaannnnna
All I wanna take is a night you'll never ever have to compromise
Rosanna, Rosanna
I never thought that losing you could ever hurt so bad"

SOLUTION:
Enjoy it.
This is possibly one of the wittiest things you will ever hear a drunkard say.
And when he's not releasing his evening's food intake on your back, you have much to be thankful for.

Right?

<3

The Elderly: A Case Study

Recently, I have had quite a high level of exposure to the elderly. The elderly are strange, morbid, aged reflections of ourselves, that are neither dead nor alive. They tend to congregate in retirement villages and bowls clubs, while rarely venturing out into the world to feast on the flesh of the young to absorb their youth in a futile attempt to regain their humanity.

In my recent dealings with these horrific nether-beasts from the underworld, I have been given the rare opportunity to study these creatures in their natural habitat, and I have made some remarkable discoveries:

One of the main specimens I have been studying is known to his fellow age-ed ones as 'Peter', who resides in my street. Now From what I can gather, this man has undergone a surgery to remove his stomach for some reason. This was most likely due to the fact that Peter is, well, just really old. You're probably thinking 'what? no stomach? but that's crazy talk!'. And I agree, it is crazy talk. Only someone that has lived such an unnatural long life, like Peter, could survive without a stomach. Now I haven't had the chance to examine this specimen at close range, but after analyzing my findings, I have come to the conclusion that the only form of nutrients Peter is capable of consuming, due to his lack of stomach, is raw youth. While children between the ages of 5 and 12 are the main source of raw youth, an unrefined form of youth can also be harvested from teenagers, but this impure youth is considered by most old people as less filling than the higher grade raw youth. 'How does one attain this youth?' I sense you are thinking, well that is quite is simple. You see the upon reaching the age at which a middle aged person becomes and old person, this age being anywhere from 65-75, depending on the mental and physical fitness of the individual, certain biological changes occur in the persons body. Now these changes vary from small subtle things such as the wrinkling of their skin or the loss of their physical appeal, to the most extreme and horrifying physical change: the growing of an organ called the 'youth straw'. Most scientists will deny the existance of the youth straw, passing it off as an urban myth or old wife's tale, but that is simply because they are scared to acknowledge the fact that god could curse humanity with such dastardly bodily mutation. While the youth straw is technically classified as a bodily organ, it is not actually contained within the body. It takes the form of a horrid, fleshy, straw-like appendage that emanates from the belly button of the old person. If you have been unlucky enough to see an old person you most likely wouldn't have seen their youth straw. This is because they tuck it away under their many roles of wrinkly, rotting, dead flesh located on their belly region. As it's name suggests, the primary function of the youth straw is to latch itself onto, and then suck the youth out of a young host, although it can also be used as a secondary from of breeding between a male and female old person, due to the shriveling of the male's testicles and the drying up of the female's ovaries, rendering these sexual organs as unusable, and just kind of grose. 

I hope you have found this study informative and will put the knowledge to good use in your efforts to banish these wretched abominations known as the elderly, back the abyss from whence they came.

The Good Old Days.

Ah, how I miss the good old days of children’s television. The days when kids were encouraged to eat copious amounts of tooth-rotting foodstuffs, and the days when the public transport system was run by a man with the title (not in so many words) of “morbidly obese”. Take the Cookie Monster for example: Cookie Monster used to be cool. Remember him in the “Got Milk?” adds. How cool was he? Mega cool, that’s how. On a scale of one to cool… well… you get the point. And he used to spend all day (in Sesame Street time) eating hundreds of cookies in a gluttonous riot, despite the fact that he was lacking a stomach, an oesophagus, a large and a small intestine (or so one assumes) and… all that other visceral stuff that digests food and junk. Let’s just say I was never an anatomy student. And for that matter, I was barely ever a science student. Us music and language students do stuff real good and think real nice! Anyway, my point is, Cookie Monster has gone downhill like the economic decline, or a fat man falling down a steep slope – no longer are cookies a daily joy, cookies are “sometimes foods”. Bitch, what is a sometimes food? How often is sometimes? How do you classify that? “I eat cookies sometimes” is like saying “I watch collectors sometimes” when we all know I am right there in front of the TV at 8.00pm on the dot every Friday night, waiting to see what my collectors have to say about a woman from Dubbo’s collection of blue plastic and Harrison Ford memorabilia. I have no control over my Collectors addiction. The sky is the limit – so, really, Cookie Monster, you need to set some standards, man, before you make claims about “sometimes” and “foods”. But regardless, I highly detest the way television is making the youth of today moral. I grew up with morbidly obese train controllers, furry puppets that had no gastronomic control and plasticine lands created entirely to mimic a world built of cheese with a lemonade ocean. So Cookie, man, what the fuck is up? You used to be cool.
Speaking of “cool”, truth be known, I used to have a mild obsession with Cookie Monster when I was about fourteen. I’m not entirely sure why, although I have a suspicion that said obsession would be the basis of my “quirky” yet “admirably so and somewhat hip” persona that I would later build. Needless to say I was neither “quirky” nor “admirable and somewhat hip”, so I crawled back into my band geek cave and forgot all about it.

But anyway. I have issues with children’s television. And don’t even get me started on the “Politically Correct Controller”. To be honest, I have no idea if the “Fat Controller” has slimmed down or not – I haven’t watched Thomas The Tank Engine since I was three – so weight loss is entirely possible. But if he has lost the weight, surely that is influencing the youth of today badly, considering how quickly he dropped the kilos and became merely “The Controller”. It would appear that “The Controller” is going through a rollercoaster diet reminiscent of Oprah. Next he will release “C” magazine and start writing self-help books. (Interesting fact: Oprah’s real name is “Orpah” and she had a kid when she was fourteen). (Interesting fact: I am not sure if “The Controller’s” real name is “Contropah” or if he had a kid at fourteen, but it is entirely possible.) And thus the mystery of “The Fat Controller’s” weight loss and subsequent renaming of “The Politically Correct Controller” is discovered: his obesity was simply baby weight! The more you know.

But I suppose there is still television to warm my corrupted heart. Those of you that are fans of “Escape From Scorpion Island” (and, yes, there are many of you, I know), will recall episodes where competing children are kept in cages and are spun from poles over the ocean while other children pound them with skulls. Now that is entertainment.

Similarly, although not in television form, the board game “Cluedo” always kept the spirit, by introducing families to a game of brutal murder in which many of the suspects are A) Alcoholics B) Smokers and C) Tarts. Although, I have to say, I wish I were more like Miss Scarlet. She was such a babe.

Anyway, now that you have read my rant regarding children’s television programming, you are free to leave. But keep in mind, any interest in wholesome tv shows will be met with a quirky, admiral and somewhat hip raise of an eyebrow.

All the best,

Anna x

P.S. I would also like to clear things up re: Mr Fancy’s reference to my bladder. All accusations made are entirely false and fabricated and highly offensive. I AM A LADY! I most definitely did not have to get off the train several stops before my own at midnight, I did not have to run to the toilets, I did not discover upon reaching the toilets that they were locked, and I did not pee in the bushes near a bus stop.

P.P.S. Guess who got four hours sleep last night?!?!?! A WHOOOOOOOOO WHOOOOO!

To all my lovely readers.

Dear Devoted Readers (of which there may be very, VERY few),
I apologize for not blogging to the pace of my co-writers this week. I have had the displeasure of finding a second job that has been eating my life for a few hours every day of this week. Honestly, i've done dishwashing gigs before, i don't mind doing them. And yet this one manages to have me considering the various ways i could top myself using only a flamboyantly coloured sponge. So far i have devised the methods of:

A) Working so much soapy discharge into the sponge so as to make it so large that my esophagus cannot contain it and thus i suffocate.

B) fashioning a makeshift noose out of many loser dishcloths. Leading, again, to suffocation.

C) Or using a loose dishcloth to lasso myself a knife and then going from there...

D) any combination of the above (or just ingesting several kitchen appliances and detergents in no particular order)(but that doesn't really involve a flamboyantly coloured sponge now does it?).

So, in other words, its a good job. But you know, i'm not bitter about it or anything. Nope, i'm just not the complaining type. Or apparently the quitting type. Very thankfully uni begins next week and i will be too busy partying down at o-week to even bother thinking about godamned stupid working and dishes and MY HANDS BLEEDING FROM OVER EXPOSURE TO DISHWASHING LIQUID!!! WHYY!?!? DEAR GOD ITS LIKE I HAVE LEPROSY!!!
But i digress, and begrudgingly ask my (small) group of loyal blod-partakers: "how are you today?"
Hope you had fun (and enjoyed the fairly mediocre picture - i haven't made anythign new lately.)

moleskines and macarons

Ahh... I love having a good day after a series of bad ones. Specifically, I love being able to speak like a normal person again. For the last two days I have been incapable of conducting normal conversations due to lack of sleep and sinus pain. Previous conversations have gone like this:
Man: "So are you doing reception work here now?"
Me: "Yeah...... yeah......................................yeah. Um... I'm just......... working.... on Tuesdays. Here. For. Reception. Yeah."
Man: "Oh okay, it looks like it would be a nice job"
Me: "Yeah... I'm just......... learning.... how things work. Now. Yeah"
Man: "Okay. Well, I'm Steve."
Me: "N-n-nice to meet you."

OR:

Jessie: "Is your new ramen nice?"
Me: "Hm???"
Jessie: "Your ramen."
Me: COMPLETE AND UTTER BLANK FACE OF INCOMPREHENSION.
Jessie: Points subtly to bowl of ramen.
Me: "OH! Ramen! Right! Yes, yes, good, yes!"

Worst. However, I do recall a certain conversation myself and Mykill had the other day that went something like this:
Me: "I had my first day at work today. It was pretty good."
Mykill: "Oh really? I mean, was it good, yes, no, I mean you said it was good, but yeah, so it was good, yes, no, yes??? AH-HULG-HULG-HULG."

The "hulg" implies jolting laughter. So it was not just me.
But anyway. I had a pretty good day today, starting with a flute lesson with my new flute teacher at uni. My new flute teacher happens to be a large, jovial american man with a beard who is very cool and very nice. This is him telling me about breathing:
"So, I just think the diaphragm is so cool, it's my favourite muscle, I mean, well, my favourite muscle is the bicep on everyone - men, women - because we can pick up such HUGE things and I mean, whoever built us, they must be pretty cool."
Best. BEST. Best.
After this I went to Borders to pick up the new Frankie (many Benjamin Law articles, many Mia Timpano articles, best), and went up to the counter to pay and was flirted with in an abstract, and confusing manner by the boy serving me (but, yes, MyKill, I still love you more.)
Anyway. And then I came home and read and got angry with my university for not rearranging my course for me, and then I gave up and ate and read some more. And tonight I am playing in a Gypsy orchestra. Wonderful!
Anyway. The above pictures are mostly things I find pretty today, see: hot air balloons, flutes, Ken Vasoli in full musical and hobbit-like flight, moleskine diaries, Michel Gondry films, macarons, Paris, Izima Kaoru photos and, oh dear, is that Gilles Simon, how did that get in there? Excuse me.
And to finish, here is a nice poem called Knee Song, which I love:

Being kissed on the back
of the knee is a moth
at the windowscreen and
yes my darling a dot
on the fathometer is
tinkerbelle with her cough
and twice I will give up my
honor and stars will stick
like tacks in the night
yes oh yes yes yes two
little snails at the back
of the knee building bon-
fires something like eye-
lashes something two zippos
striking yes yes yes small
and me maker.

xxxxxxxx

Mr Fancy...

... is not actually my real name, unfortunately.

... is very happy with his purchase of Lost Season 1, and is very much enjoying watching the mysteries unfold right in his very own lounge room.

... will have to save some more because his Lost Season 2 fund became his metcard, ramen, alcohol and churro fund.

... is currently accepting donations to his Lost Season 2 fund.

... has an extensive collection of eighteen little buddha figures (as well as one Chinese Money Turtle), which when he needs it, rubs their tummies for luck.

... would like a Mrs Fancy.

... thinks writing a sci-fi tv series would be fun.

... wants his license but doesn't get enough opportunities to drive so wont get his license for some time.

... wants a car but can't because of the above reason.

... thinks that when he does have a car the sense of freedom will feel gooood.

... enjoys buying DVD's, and after he has gotten over the excitement of having them (which can take anywhere from a few days to months and months), also enjoys watching them.

... is very proud of his new TARDIS message tone on his phone.

... is possibly addicted to Jungle Diaries, an ABC Kids show much like the renowned Scorpian Island, but a lot less barbaric.

... wishes that the people in the real world solved their problems by throwing skulls at each other and outrunning large foam boulders that lose all authenticity when they are clearly bouncing, which is very un-boulderlike.

... needs to use the little boys room because he has an immensely small bladder and nature is calling.

... just remembered that the only person who's bladder is possibly smaller than his, is AnnaHydes', who regularly gets off trains many stations before her stop, because of this.

... now REALLY needs to use the little boys room and will right now.

... used the little boys room without the help of his Playgro™ Toilet Trainer Step & Potty Seat.

... is proud of the above achievement and is confident that he is now a big boy.

... is considering going to watch the third episode of Lost Season 1 instead of writing this.

... resisted the urge and is still writing.

... can't resist any longer and will save this as a draft, watch the third episode of Lost Season 1 and then return.

... watched the third episode of Lost Season 1 which he found very engrossing.

... also found out the previously mention Jungle Diaries is actually called Serious Amazon and is now wondering where he got the name Jungle Diaries from.

... urges all readers to tune into Serious Amazon today at five o'clock on ABC Kids.

... is finished writing this post and will now take the remaining hour before Serious Amazon starts to prepare himself mentally and physically for its brilliance.

Christian Bale SMASH!!

Because I can, here is a list of some movies I'm looking forward to:

Terminator Salvation

Because it's going to be an awesome movie, but mainly because Christian Bale is a CRAZY MAD ABUSE SPURTING MACHINE!!

Trailer!

Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen

Because the first Transformers is one of my favorite movies and I hope that they keep the right mix of serious and funny that they had in the first one.

Trailer!

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince

Because all the Harry Potter have been awesome, and it has Luna Lovegood (aka. Evanna Lynch) in it and she is veeeeery pretty. 

Trailer!

Star Trek

Because I love Star Trek and this is a remake of the original series, of which I have only seen two episodes. Oh and did i mention it's Star Trek??

Trailer!

Watchmen

Because it's directed by Zack Snyder, who was the genius behind 300, so will therefore hopefully be equally as AMAZING.

Trailer!

X-Men Origins: Wolverine

Because Hugh jackman is old (well apparently only 41), but is still crazy muscly for his age which is awesome, and highly inspiring.

Trailer!

Scroll up, watch it again, you know you want to. He was just so mad and abusive...

Oh why?!?!

I had a dream last night that our counter was working. It was the happiest moment of my life.
That is all.

I had a dream last night that I could turn into a bluebird, but no one believe me.
That is all.
xx

Welcome To Babetown. Population: You.

Salut! Comment ca va!? You may or may not have noticed recently that Valentines Day is tomorrow. This is both good and bad, but mostly it means I want to go to Paris. I have been stuck in a bit of a French obsession recently. This is partially due to the fact that I have seen numerous french films recently, and partially due to the fact that I am studying French this year (hear me discuss my crashing and burning in later blogs, most likely), and partially due to my crush on french tennis players.
All of these are contributors. I MUST GO TO PARIS.
I am sure it is wonderful there. And I will go and eat only baguettes and souffles and crepes and nothing else because they do not sound French enough.
And I will be able to converse cleverly with French speakers, and make intelligent and highly perceptive comments such as:
"Ou est la grenouille?" (Where is the frog?)
"Je pense que la grenouille est la!" (I think the frog is here).
"Je deteste les grenouilles!" (I hate frogs)
"Pourquoi vous n'aimez pas les grenouilles???" (Why do you hate frogs?)
"Je pense que les grenouilles sont tres moches" (I think frogs are very ugly).
So I'll be fine talking about frogs. I believe I will have many in depth conversations about frogs.
But actually, I am sure those sentences are grammatically incorrect. Excuse me.
Anyway. But I don't really like the soppiness of Valentine's Day, and for that matter I mostly dislike lovesongs. So here is my list of Top Five Anti-Lovesongs (TM) for your reading pleasure:
#5. Tiny Vessels - Death Cab For Cutie
Death Cab is mildly disappointing recently. I liked them when Benjamin Gibbard was crying his broken little heart out privately and without the adoration of thousands of lovesick teenagers. Unfortunately, supported by the abundant love of said teens, Benjamin Gibbard has now found a happy new pop-formula which he applies to every song, and then adds witty maths metaphors to hint subtly, delicately, at the broken down relationships, and oh poor Benjamin, why will your heart not mend, why?
However, I actually quite like Death Cab. Anyway. This song is lovely, and also fairly depressing. And also about thinking people are pretty, but not loving them for their inner beauty. Ben, you shallow bastard. I can call you Ben, right? We're on nickname terms now, aren't we?
P.S. Actually, I'm pretty sure it's deeper than that, but shut up, it's late, I'm tired.

#4. Bloody Motherfucking Asshole - Martha Wainwright
Okay, so I'm pretty sure this song was actually written about Martha's father, but still... it's kind of an anti-lovesong in a different way. So if you're a fan of unnecessary and bitter swearing about hurtful men, I guess this is for you. Personally, I just really like writing the title and giggling.
I get to swear, because it's lyrics! Wa-hoo!

#3. Kill The Director - The Wombats
I love The Wombats. I love their wonderful pop music. I love their ridiculous lyrics. I love hearing them talk about East Enders and rom-coms. That is all.

#2. I'll Kill Her - SoKo
I have newly discovered SoKo and this was the first song I heard. Mostly, I like the fact that she makes up words, and is sullen and bitter and has an accent (see above French rant). Also she is very blunt and adorable. Okay, so I guess it's not "moral" and "logical" to threaten to kill your ex-boyfriend's new girlfriend, but SoKo makes it snappy and fresh!!!
Or something like that. Does it not sound like I just described snowpeas? Reading back on that, I feel like I'm describing snowpeas.
Or carrots.
Maybe green beans. There is an abundance of snappy, fresh vegetables. Seriously, think about it. I am not even kidding.

#1. Rootless Tree - Damien Rice
So a while ago I was driving with my friend (let's call her "Face" because that is what I call her), and playing a mixtape in my car (endlessly cooler than "mix cds". I spit on mix cds. Hypothetically. I don't actually bother spitting on them, because that would be tiresome and gross, but by that I mean they are not as cool) (I think you got that though. Because we're on the same wavelength, right? We're on nickname terms now aren't we? Yeah. We're tight). And this song came on, and then "Face" took a drink from her water bottle and started choking because the chorus is basically comprised of Damien yelling "fuck you" at someone. As I have mentioned before, I quite like swearing in my music. But anyway. That story didn't go anyway. The moral is, Damien Rice makes wonderful music for of obscenities and now I should be asleep. Why are you still reading? What are you doing? You should be asleep. Unless you are in the northern hemisphere, in which case you should be awake, and what the hell are you doing sleeping, you lazy bastard? That's right. You.

Oh by the way, I love you and Happy Valentine's Day.

All the best,
Anna.

I'm pretty jealous of Fabbio...

SO i am here to somehow follow Mr. Fancy's rather amazing discussion on boredom. I'm not exactly sure how to tackle such an impossible feat, so i've decided i'm not going to. Instead, i ask all of you loyal readers (of which there must be many seeing as the counter has broken from being overworked) to scroll down the page and re-read Mr. Fancy's last post. I'll just give you some time to do that now.
...
You see what i did there? I can't actually make any of my own jokes so i just borrowed one from someone i know is actually funny... i've probably used it wrong now... oh god i'm just not good at this humor thing. I'm like Woody Allen talking about bagels: people just walk away.
However, on the note of me being unfantastic (unlike Mr. Fancy), i wish to bring to everyone's attention just how fantastic a Mr. Thom York is. For those unfamiliar with the sheer fantastitude of this man there is one link you must follow to learn. These are:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rrnNn0mt8h4

Now obviously you are all thinking "who laughs like that? What a tard! I am outraged at such a spectacle of spaz!". Unfortunately, if you are thinking that, i must ask you to leave right now because i love this man and the presence of your harmful thoughts is hurting me deep down.
Also, on the matter of how good Thom York is, one must talk about how amazing Radiohead are in general. But this is an unconventional blog and i won't be doing that. Instead i will instruct you to take this link:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_OBlgSz8sSM

Now that everyone is relaxed and rejuvenated i will ask that you again scroll down, and once again read Mr. Fancy's lecture on boredom as this is the end of my post. I hope it was educational and not too full of epic fail.

An Abundance of Boredom.

I'm back! But this time I have something with me. Do you know what that is? I should hope not because then that would ruin the suspense. Now I'll just let the suspense sink in...

...

Boredom! That's what I brought with me! Oh and sorry to those of you who were enjoying the suspense and would have liked it to last longer. You could always reread from the start, but that would only work if you have short term memory loss, and well, if you have that then I'd prefer you just leave now, you FREAKS OF NATURE! No only joking, I actually make very sizable annual donations to the Short Term Memory Loss Foundation, but that's a story for another time.

Now more importantly: boredom. I  have been experiencing quite a lot of this strange substance known as boredom recently. No one really knows what exactly boredom is, and those lucky ones who did know, well if i told you what happened to them, you would subsequently become very bored yourself, which could possibly cause death. Or worse, life!

But do not fear, because for those of you who do suffer from this illness, there is a cure!

I'll now allow a few moments for you to rejoice in the knowledge of this fact.

...

If you would now please cease rejoicing. Thank you. 

Now before I tell you the cure, I must first tell you the symptoms, because there may well be people who have been exhibiting these symptoms, unaware they are the symptoms of boredom, when in actual fact, they are. 

Symptom 1:

Where you would normally have an absence of boredom, you now have an abundance of boredom.

...This is actually the only symptom of boredom, so if you were expecting more symptoms, then you are clearly reading the wrong blog and should consult a real doctor, or at the very least someone with mental illness who is under the impression they are a real doctor.

And finally to finish of, here are a few grammatical facts relating to boredom:

Boredom contains seven letters.

Not including the 'd', boredom contains six letters.

Spelt backwards it's moderob.

Spelt forwards strangely it's still boredom.

And spelt diagonally it's b

                                             o

                                                  r

                                                   e

                                                      d

                                                         o

                                                           m

Now you are officially released from this lecture on boredom. Go. Be free. Move on with your lives and procreate.

Reasons I Hate You.

I hate dog shows. Or I don't so much hate dog shows as I hate the people who put their dogs in shows (almost like you can't hate the small children in pageants as much as you hate their pushy stage parents). Anyway. The world's most prestigious dog show was apparently on at Madison Square Garden yesterday. Or something. Look, I don't know when, I'm no fortune.... telling... woman. Anyway. You have no idea the kind of crowd that was there. There were about a million people. And my exaggeration is minor. And when a fluffly spaniel won the competition they all went wild. It was like a U2 concert. Or what I imagine a U2 concert would be like - many middle aged, frantic women, screaming and grasping their chests in shock and awe.
Poor, poor Bono. What must he be faced with???
Okay, so I'm getting off the topic. But I really hate dog shows. My friend (let's call her "Louella") (I guess I don't really need to keep her identity a secret, as she's not an intrinsic part of this story, but "Louella"is endless fun to say). So anyway, the hypothetical "Louella" and I went to the Melbourne Show last year, and watched a dog show. The whole time, we had three young dog trainers sitting behind us in vivid pastel dress suits, gossiping about the show dogs and their trainers. Things like:
"Oh my GOD. Did you see that A-FRAME!?? She is not lining up that dog AT ALL!"
"Well... I'm not sure purple is really her colour, a HEE HEE HE HEE HEE!"
"Well she has been getting better recently. Her pace and control is quite good now!"
Shut up. I hate you. "Louella" and I looked at each other confusedly. Then one of the trainers tried to climb over us, and fell over, almost crushing us.
And okay - so I can't really make a judgement about what a good dog is. My dog is relatively obese, a shade of burnt orange, at least four mix breeds of dog, who has nightmares and farts in her sleep. I am not even joking. But at least she's got guts. Or that's what we tell ourselves.
Not that I don't like pure breed dogs. My friend (let's call him "Giuseppe" or "Mr Fancy" for the purpose of this story), has a HIlarious greyhound called Meg. Meg is mostly hilarious because when "Giuseppe" takes her for a walk, her collar cannot stay on her head. This is due to the fact that Meg's head is the same width as her neck. Similarly, when Meg is excited, her legs fly everywhere on the polished wooden floor of their house and she ends up having to splay all her legs in order to keep standing.
Meg is my hero.
Anyway. The basic conclusion of this story is that A) I like some dogs B) I dislike dogshows C) I woke up this morning at 6AM and just killed a wasp with a ridiculous abundance of fly spray that may or may not have gone to my head and D) I now have to go do flute practise, excuse me.
All the best,
Anna.
P.S. I would like to clarify that Mr Fancy's previous claim that "Blue Hog" is an incorrect term for a blog is entirely false. All the cool kids are calling them Blue Hogs these days. Mr Fancy is outdated and uniformed.
P.P.S. I would also like to clarify that Mr Fancy did in fact laugh at the certain "Blue Hog" joke that someone (*cough me cough*) made.
P.P.P.S. I would also, also like to clarify that Mykill DOOMwater is incorrect, and I clearly do not rant and/or ramble, thank you very much. Sheesh.

Blog: The Untold Story.

Now before I start, I'm going to assume that at least some of you people out there reading, are as clueless as me about what exactly a blog is, so this post, is for you guys.

So, what is this crazy, spaced-out, hyped up, piece of whack that everyone keeps talking about?? The answer? A blog.

Now some people might tell you that the 'blog' originated from the words "blue" and "hog". My advice if you ever come into contact with these kind of people, is to run very fast and very far, because these people are most likely mentally unbalanced or just simply on drugs. Of course the blog did not originate from the words "blue" and "hog", which is an absurd idea and one that I definitely did not find funny the first time i heard it. 

According to wikipedia.com, the blog originated from the term 'weblog' which was first used by Jorn Barger on 17th December 1997, but would you really trust someone named Jorn? Of course you wouldn't because it's a ridiculous name. Anyway, sometime during the months of April or May of 1999, another man, with a much more sensible name; Peter Merholz, created the term we now use; blog, when he very wittily separated the term weblog into we blog on his own blog. Obviously Mr Merholz thought this was very clever and that he was quite the witty man for having created it, although it has since been scientifically proven that it was not clever and he was not a witty man. He most likely had very few friends, owned an excessive amount of pet cats to which he referred to them all as 'his preciousss' and was generally just a bit shit.

And there you have it folks, the origins of a blog. All the above facts are of course true, with the small exception of a few, which are not so much facts, as little bits of fiction added for the purposes of humor.

Anyway, that's quite enough for now, I hope you all feel very much enlightened and that you are now capable of delivery various different blog related facts to your friends and family.

Peace out.

Mr Fancy.

A challenger approaches...

So, as new co-writer/owner/provocateur of this so called "blog" (and also "significant-other" to the so-called "Anna") , I have decided that it is time I revealed myself. Though not in the strictest sense as i prefer to remain an anonymous angry-interwebs-man. Thought, some of you may say that, in saying I'm a man, I am risking my interweb-identity already. To this i reply: I LIVE ON THE EDGE AND RISK ALL!!! Because that's the kind of blogger I am.
Alrighty then, I've decided that i'm probably just going to bitch and moan on this blog like my lovely co-writer (as well as continuing the also lovely service of posting pictures that are filled with magic and whimsy). This is mostly because I have no other outlet and just would generally like a place to write things and post some of my pictures (yes, they are my own lovely little pieces of work for those who wondered) as a means of documenting whatever may be in my mind at the time.
I would also like to apologize to the amount of exposition needed to explain simply that I am writing this blog. Unlike "Anna", I do not do this often.
Today is kind of a medium day; not really going anywhere or giving anything truly exciting. But hey, that's what holidays are for aren't they? Am I the only one who seemingly dislikes the so-called "relaxation period" that is supposed to be associated with holidays? I always find that within the first week I have done all the things necessary to truly "relax" and am left with nothing but repetitious monotony for the rest of the time.
Now maybe this is because I could be more "outgoing" or "thrill-seeking" (and I admit that I am kind of like the "mega-babe" Christian Slater is "Pump up the Volume" in the sense that if you give me a medium where I can speak my mind without interfacing with anyone and then I'm good to go, but face me with a tete-a-tete situation and i freeze)(just let it be known that I also really hate "Pump up the Volume" as it had godly amounts of pure fail and a lack of nudity that makes all other "teen-movies" like it seem like fucking Romero's holy trilogy when faced with comparison)(for that matter "mega-babe" Christian Slater is neither "mega" or a "babe" as I may have lead you fine readers to believe. I just don't know what i was thinking).
But yes, as i was saying before god-damned Christian Slater was brought up, fuck being "outgoing". I mean I get by with my marginally small group of friends and my constant need to be checking the webternets. This just may mean that it is harder for me to find a decent part-time job and harder to find enough like-minded people who will come and see genuinely horrid movies to come and enjoy a mighty lol at. But oh well. All i'm saying is that I would prefer having something to do rather than sitting around and creating this fine piece of literature.
It is for this reason internets, that I am excited to go to uni in a few weeks and begin my foray into the wide world of philosophy, which I am majorly invested in (and which the lovely "Anna" despises). Thank you for reading and stay tuned for more verbal diarrhea from me.

PS: really do hate Christian Slater and yes, I overuse the word "lovely".

Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.

Well hey there. So I've started a blog. Primarily because I like posting pictures of pretty things and also ranting about other things I like a whole lot less. Considering that the three or so other blogs I've started have all crashed and burned (or, actually, they never did anything that spectacular... mostly I made one post and then left them to fade gradually away, unloved.) (I am good like that), I'm not sure how long this one will last. But anyway...
It's about a billion degrees outside. I know that everyone is saying that its a billion degrees outside, but I am somewhat hungover and have nothing else to do other than think about how hot it is. Also to think about how my stomach would have been so much better off without several glasses of wine, a glass of homemade bailey's, and an ice cream sandwich. I'm not sure if the ice cream or the bailey's was responsible for my phenomenal upchuck reflexes, but anyway.
So all I've done all day is lust over everyone on Face Hunter, drink peppermint tea, and upload photos. The Exciting Life I Do Lead.
It's unfortunate that the tennis is no longer on. Now all I can do is watch Dr Phil. And we all know how I do like Dr Phil and his amazingly biased Christian solutions to all of life's problems, but... it's just not that same as watching Gilles Simon... one of them is distinctly better looking.
I'll let you work out which one.
Anyway. I am going to go use my boyfriend for the purpose of his pool. No.. I actually like him too. I like the pool a lot though.
xx
P.S. The above photo has no relevance to anything. It is exceptionally beautiful though.
P.P.S. I lied - my name isn't Anna.