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.

Our boss, in his infinite wisdom, decided to invite our department to party on down with the cool kids in telco land.

Slushy machine, jukebox playing boring as batshit RnB and the usual drunken rants from the usual drunken social misfits.

I was out of there after one drink, no food and conversation about cars.

I’m hoping that the company wide Christmas party is a little “better”, warmer and the tunes are pumping.

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.

Lo and behold, I had a total of twenty three, yus, 23 moderated requests from random people across the intertubes asking me for a Google Wave invitation.

PLEASE READ THIS NEXT SENTENCE CAREFULLY BEFORE LEAVING A COMMENT.

I don’t have any Google Wave invitations to give away. Please don’t ask. If I do acquire one, I will happily help people out.

Please don’t make me feel sadder or even more left out than I do at the moment. I have no bananas or Google Wave love to give.

Thanks.

“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?

She trawls through old emails from back when people wrote to her. The days before the ex boyfriends, spam monsters and “respected” friends frightened the few online penpals she had away.

She wants to light up a cigar but it’s a school night and she knows that if she did this, she’d buzz off to the bottle-o for an eff off bottle of gin.

She’s had enough of looking at old photos that she took of stencil art that’s long been painted over. Hosier Lane ain’t what it used to be five years ago.

Life on other planets must be awesome compared to this.

These are some of the stupid things I wonder when I’m not playing the “Which bloke on the train looks rootable” game. I’m sure any of the blokes I’ve eyed would need to be extremely drunk to give this old chook a second glance.

Getting back to ruts and what they look like, I think mine must, at the very least, be a nice marle grey. A nice neutral looking rut. Emo to an extent but not your stereotypical “I listen to MCR and want to slash my wrists while wearing a pair of skinny jeans that bring new meaning to the world ‘cameltoe’” shade of emo.

I’m not afraid to admit that I’m lonely. Well, not afraid to admit it in my blog because let’s face it, there’s only two of you reading this and one’s a former postman.

There’s an easy way or two to send loneliness packing – go out and meet people or slash your wrists while listening to MCR in a pair of skinny jeans.

No dramas. Too easy. Get all your funky fresh bros and hoes from Twitter to come to the usual haunt (Transport/Yakbar/Softbelly) and get remarkably tiddly on overpriced Italian beer and talk rather loudly about some Bulgarian DJ nobody has heard of.

It’s a shame I hate crowds, I’m claustrophobic and too much Italian beer turns me into a very maudlin @melbournegirl.

…and this why I’m lonely?

Far from it.

The last proper good time out I had was way back when I met up with the then muse and we kept the gin companies in business.

Last I heard he pissed off from the Internet and back to Adelaide never to be seen again.

I found another “muse” since then but telling him would a) cause him to unfollow me from Twitter and b) freak him out.

Even though I’m suffering from a very colourful rut, he’s been keeping me afloat with his out of this world comments.

Perhaps it’s smarter to stay silent and suck up the loneliness instead of making an arse of one’s self.

Damn you, moral dilemma.

• a DJ (ever since my bestie passed away, I haven’t been able to find the strength to get behind the decks and make people dance
• a camgirl (it was at a time when everything/nothing sites were cool and I thought it’d be fun to say “Hey, vacuous Internet bitches, FUCK YOU!)
• a radio show host (those were the best seven years of my life. Being able to share my love of music and talk random babble about life gave me the biggest buzz. I miss those days so much)
• a photographer (there was a time when I photographed derilect buildings and street art. Now my camera gathers dust on a shelf. Lack of inspiration and passion to capture the colourful derilect world around me)
• happy (I have little to smile about in my life these days. You once couldn’t wipe the dopey grin off my face because I was with someone who loved me, I was in a job I adored and I actually felt like I fitted in)

now am

• single and lonely (when the Low Self Esteem Fairy dusted my plump self in Low Self Esteem fairy dust, it stuck. While what very few real life friends are busy with their boyfriends, I’m fighting off the black dog that’s mauled my face)
• inarticulate (words fail me on a daily basis. I’m finding that even the simplest of sentences come out of my fat gob all jumbled up. My job involves me talking to more than one hundred people a day and I’m finding it difficult to even strike up a conversation with them.)
• exhausted (when people ask me how I am, I tell them that I’m “surviving” and then try to find some way of getting out of a conversation about my life. I feel like I’m stuck in my own private version of the film “Groundhog Day”. The customers get crankier by the day, the routine drives me to hit the hay at crazy hours and my dreams are filled with people taking me away from all that’s going on. The truth is, there is no escape)
• a blogger and tweeter (I feel as if the only people who understand me are my Twitter friends. That and the two readers of this blog)
• hopeful (perhaps things will change one day but I’m not holding my breath. Sometimes the only thing that cures misery is a smidgeon of understanding.)

Yeah, perfect icebreaker. While BlokeILike was downing his Heineken, I’d saunter over and hit him with the icebreaker and we’d be doing the horizontal lemur dance a few hours later.

Buhm-bow! Survey says “EPIC FAIL”. Instead of a saunter, the walk became a weird wiggle, err, wobble, err, whoops. Right, that wasn’t so bad, it was just my shoelaces playing funny buggers with me.

I was now next to BlokeILike. SHOWTIME!

Take note that I had NOT downed any Peroni at all (it was Asahi) and I was as coherant as any respectable AFL player on Brownlow night. Actually, I only had had one beer on an empty stomach so I was fine.

What came out of my mouth was “Hey. Are those new shoes you’re wearing cos they’re reeeeeaaaalllyy cool”

WHAT THE FUCK?

I’m asking this guy about a grubby pair of Onitsukas he was wearing. Where did the coy sounding icebreaker go? Did someone spike my Asahi? Where the hell was my stunt double with the perfect teeth, big tits and 5 foot 9 frame when I needed her?

BlokeILike looked at me with his usual dazed expression (poor boy was baked) and smiled. I almost dropped my Asahi.

TAXI!! Clean up required in the Raspberry Room at Highlander Bar…PRONTO.

We had a nice conversation for a while until his best mate arrived and I promptly forgot about BlokeILike.

What still amuses me to this day is how I feel a hell of a lot more comfortable talking to BlokeIOnceLiked’s best mates than him.

Grubby looking Onitsukas, indeed.

To the bloke whom I ran away from because you were chasing me. Your first name was that of an Italian city and you had this horrible knack of writing the word “bass” in uppercase letters when you talked about your prized BASS guitars. I wish I could talk to you again. We had the most amazing connection. I miss you.

To the bloke who had a chance but always played the “respect” card. Cheers for treating me like a freaking psychological experiment. I laugh at that fact that you apparently are a “player” these days. Five women on the go? Where do you find the time?

Finally, to you, the #twittercrush. I know that you wouldn’t be daft enough to read my kindergartenesque drivel but you’re a special kind of something in my mind. A really good cupcake and oh how I wish I could find a way to cure your blues. You’re beautiful and don’t let any other owner of a set of perky boobs tell you otherwise. You make me want to write, sing, dance and shyly yelp out “You’re pretty fucking awesome, squire”. Pity I’m too chickenshit to even DM you a hello. Oh well, viva la being a chicken that loves cupcakes. Bawk bawk bawk.