Shyness. Awkwardness and being my dumbarse scared chooken self.

I made a quiet promise to myself as my hips jerked and gyrated to good music at Sensation on New Years Eve. I swore that I wouldn’t walk past you any longer.

Now if only I knew what to talk to you about….

1) Where did you begin 2009?
Slowly and surely bringing in the new year with my late best friend.

2) What was your status by Valentine’s Day?
Depressingly single (as always)

3) Were you in school (anytime this year)?
Nope, however, work did feel like attending kindergarten at times

4) How did you earn your money?
By being the same old phonebot wageslave I have been for the last five years.

5) Did you have to go to the hospital?
Only to visit people and unfortunately say goodbye to my late best friend.

6) Did you have any encounters with the police?
Just the usual having to deal with the ever reliable VicPol when it came to being threatened by my fuckwit muzztech next door beefcake neighbours.

7) Where did you go on holiday?
What is this thing called a “hoiday”? It does NOT compute. NEXT….
What did you purchase that was over $1000?
My Macbook

9) Did you know anybody who got married?
No.

10) Did you know anybody who passed away?
My once was best friend.

11) Did you move anywhere?
Out of my chair to go to the bathroom on numerous occasions.

12) What concerts/shows did you go to?
Propagandhi, Ferry Corsten. Both were brilliant.

13) Describe your birthday.
Ended up taking the day off from work. Got hair cut and dyed and generally had a stress free day.

14) What’s one thing you thought you’d never do but did in 2009?
Met some pretty awesome people from Twitter and actually attended an MTUB.

15) What has been your favorite moment?
Messy goodbyes between myself and a very delicious bloke at Flinders Street Station, crazy nights out with the work crew, meeting new people.

16) What’s something you learnt about yourself?
I’m strong (in the mental sense)

17)  Any new additions to your family?
Nope.

18) What was your best month?
December

19) Where will you be ending 2009?
At Etihad Stadium, dressed in white, dancing to some funky music at Sensation White.

Highlights:

• Meeting new people (namely Twitter friends)
• surviving my first MTUB
• Meeting the ever elusive @gryphn_ and having a whale of a good time (and then he pissed off back to Adelaide and off Twitter – awwwww)
• Seeing Mr Ferry Corsten do his DJ thang at the Metro and learning that DJs with a hefty pair of manboobs are actually very very talented (bring on Trent McDermott at Sensation!!)
• Gaining a new boss at work
• Work’s major Christmas party (complete with karaoke!!)
• Guitar Hero 5 for the Xbox 360

Lowlights

• Losing my bestie
• Dealing with way too much drama and almost leaving the Internet permanently
• Feeling like I’m not going anywhere workwise at the moment
• Christmas

To all the people who have stopped by this website (that’s everyone, innit??), had a quick read and then ran away in horror, I would like to wish you all an awesome 2010. Here’s hoping the year ahead absolutely RAWKS.

Progress thus far. Weight increase instead of decrease. Diet went out the window somewhere between day ten and thirteen. Friday the thirteenth turned into the biggest emotionally drama laden evening this side of the Rialto Building and my general attitude towards life at the moment has a big fat “Fuck You” tattoo on its hairy arse.

What a life, I say! What a life!

It’s a good life. A comfortably awkward life that reeks of commuter BO, riding on the bloody wrong train home and laughing one’s guts out in one’s head.

Why stress about petty bullshit and carry it around like a sack of flaming crap on your shoulders?

I laugh at difficult situations. I giggle uncontrollably when I’m feeling threatened, nervous or so pissed off that I want to punch someone in the stomach.

Live. Love. Laugh and when life brings you down, give it the middle finger salute and move the hell on.

Pot kettle black advice, I know but I’m sick of being the bad person/black sheep in nearly every bloody situation I’ve been in of late.

I bumped into an old work friend of mine today. I hadn’t seen him in a very long time. We used to catch up for drinks most Fridays and he’d talk to me about the old days of being a DJ.

Another friend of mine would tell me stories about the good ol’ days of being an Economics student at uni. Pissups nearly all the time, somehow passing exams and being a dirty flirty crazy punk loving twenty something person who loved life.

My DJ friend now prefers a game of golf over spooning tunes and my punk friend speaks more like a CEO than a maddie high on life.

It got me feeling a little blue about myself. I’m thirty two years old, dress like a twenty three year old, act like a nineteen year old when I’m out with friends and probably come across as a dopey twenty one year old at work.

As flattering as it is to be mistaken for a twenty six year old by fellow colleagues and (very bloody rarely) prospective BlokesWhoDigMe, I’m finding that I want to be seen as my proper age by them.

I’m thirty two and I’m supposed to fit this stereotype of having the following things in my life – a partner, (quite possibly) children, a car, a successful career, a mortgage and hobbies that reflect being an adult.

I sadly do not have ANY of the above. I’m single (depressingly so), childless, don’t know how to drive, work in a job that “pays the bills only just” and my only hobby is Tweeting and blogging.

I feel like my life came to an almighty halt on the night of my Year Twelve Social back in 1995. The time from then to now is a blur of university, family tragedy, broken relationships, long nights spent talking bullshit on OzOrg IRC, working as a phonemonkey and right up until now, Twitter. Baste that handful of years in a mix of Peroni, Peter Stuyvesant cigarettes, Zoloft and yeah, that’s my not so adult life.

How can a person grow up if they don’t know how to? This whole “being a responsible adult” is one of the most difficult concepts I’ve ever had to wrap my head around.

My dreams of a career, mortgage and relationship have been replaced with living paycheck to paycheck, condensing my narcissistic bullshit to one hundred and forty characters and wondering whether this is as good as it gets.

I want to grow up but I don’t know how.

Four days sans coffee has been hell. A tolerable hell. Kind of like Robot Hell without the palpitations, moodswings and mania.

Four days off junk food has been painful. Nando’s chooken. I WANT IT! I CRAVE IT! However I have to lose my pot belly and that means no deliciously wicked tasting overpriced artery clogging culinary love. It’s salads, lentils and fat free EVERYTHING for noms.

It’s nothing but routine, discipline and exercise to iron out my screwed up head, whale of a body and extremely fiery temper.

Am I “happy” at the moment? I’m not quite there yet. I’m mildly pissed off with what I’ve thrown myself into and the thought of guzzling down Low Carb beer when I go out is making my stomach turn but them’s the breaks.

This what happens when people threaten yours truly and scare the shit out of her. The fast forward button gets pushed one too many times and the mega detox begins.

Twenty six days to go. This better be worth it.

I needed a mini break from the intertube/meatspace drama. If that’s selfish then I’m sorry about that. I despise people who make empty promises. I call them “Gunnas” because they’re always “gunna do this, gunna visit, gunna email” but they’re about reliable as a broken condom during birthday sex. In other words, not very fucking reliable at all.

So I’m back blogging with only one scar and that’ll heal with a shiteload of Mecurochrome and a Wiggles Band-Aid or eight. It’s not called a Stanley knife for nothing, you know.

My fear turned from depression to rage to happiness to bravery because I don’t need “Gunnas” in my life and I’m the only tubby wench who can rebuild her self esteem out of Lego.

This blog post isn’t dissing anyone out. I’m just over feeling like absolute garbage because I didn’t pander to Mr “if I was anymore overanalytical, I’d be a walking talking advertisement for Anusol” whims or caused someone else a slight bit of discomfort.

I mean, I’ve got enough brain cells in the old cranium to take a hint. Pushy ain’t my style even if I’m a chubby Leo chick.

To the people who stuck by me (you know who you are), I love you. We must indulge in Peroni and conversation. You rock my world.

I’m not sure if this bravery will last but damn it, I’m not going to let people bring me down again.

“Mixtape Bloke” has been on my mind. I imagine myself singing The Faint’s “The Geeks Were Right” to him whilist pretending to play the song with an old Guitar Hero controller which I cleverly modified to make lovely sounds when hooked up to my Macbook.

Real girls wield soldering irons, chew strawberry bubble gum and aren’t afraid to use the word “blowjob” in everyday conversation.

So to add to my last post about mixtapes, I’m finding myself in such a dilemma. I’ll post the tracklisting and once he reads it, it’s “let’s unfollow @melbournegirl NAO”

Whattamigonnado?

Instead the one hundred and forty characters get stretched to over one thousand. Every Web 2.0 entrepreneurial type, podcaster, former postman and social media coke snorter is waiting for a paragraph about how AWESOME Google Wave is.

Well, uhhh, sorry to disappoint you but I HAVEN’T GOT A BLOODY GOOGLE WAVE INVITE YET. So nyerr. (that doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t love one)

I spent time trying to make a mixtape last night. You remember mixtapes, right? TDK D90 audio cassette in a twenty year old double deck cassette recorder hooked up to an equally ancient amp fed into the Macbook.

Real girls use cassettes to make crazy mixtapes for blokes they reckon are “pretty bloody alright, yaknowhattumsayin’”.

Trying to figure out whether the bloke has a cassette player himself is a different kettle of barramundi altogether.

There’s something quite special about making mixtapes and then listening to the final product. I was brought up on wow and flutter, jumpy vinyl, half chewed cassettes recovered from a feral National Panasonic ghetto blaster from 1985.

Sadly mixtape making has been a bit of a cursed affair as well. I’ve had blokes throw my cassettes on the ground and step on them. Crushed the magnetic ribbon, crushed the creativity and crushed my heart to pieces. TDK didn’t get the chance to do amazing things to any of their systems.

Is this why all the cool kids now make mp3 mixtapes instead? Uncrushable just deletable.

So, fellas, tell me, if some chick made a mixtape for you as a way of saying “you’re an alright sort of guy, let’s hang out sometime”, would you dig that or find it to be childish?

Hit me up with a comment. I’m curious to know what you think.