Ladynails

I really feel like blogging tonight and I have absolutely nothing to write about. Every topic that enters my head seems completely lame, although I do realise that everything I write for this blog has a tendency to be lame the key difference is that usually the idea itself doesn’t seem lame until after I’ve posted it, so I can at least enjoy the writing process.

Maybe my writer’s block is being caused by the anonymous commenter on a previous post who called me a ‘Self obsessed attention whore with bad teeth,’ (The bad teeth part was added for dramatic effect.)

No. That’s not it, I actually happen to agree with Ms. Anonymous. I’m a complete attention whore- this blog is named after me, it’s pretty much all about me, and the person who gets the most pleasure from it is me, can I cram ‘me’ one more time in this sentence… me.

Ok. I still have nothing of interest to write about so I’ll wrap it up now. Lets hope something tragic/hilarious happens to me over the weekend so I have some decent material, otherwise prepare yourself for a post about the uncanny speed at which my fingernails grow, no lie- I’m only ever two days away from having ‘ladynails’.

And now, for those who got all the way through this poor excuse for a post without hitting the little red x, a small audiovisual gift. Enjoy the clip below.

Nice footwork.

Think About It For A Second

I've been told on numerous occasions that I'm going to hell- for many different reasons. With that in mind I thought I'd have some fun on the way and post this rather 'interesting' picture.

Think about it for a second, how did this actually happen?

First someone had to design it, then someone had to print it, then someone had to deliver it, finally someone had to put it in the window.

Nobody thought there was something a little wrong here?

Fluro Green Slap Band

Besides pondering the obvious question, “Why does my hair look like it was cut by a lawnmower?”, I wonder what this little boy is thinking about.

Unless you recently suffered from a serious head trauma you will have figured out that the picture is of me. I came across it again this evening while my mother was digging through a box filled with old photos. She was looking for my pre-school photos to determine if a young boy romantically linked to a close family friend was in fact a classmate of mine back in the 80’s. Mums ‘research’ skills both impressed and distressed me. If she was more internet savvy I’m sure she would be conducting a MySpace search right now, at least I know where my stalker tendencies come from.

As mum furiously flicked through the photos one was inadvertently flung across the room in my direction, it landed at my feet. I picked it up and looking back at me with a vacant glare was myself at age 5. Instantly a few things occurred to me.

Firstly I thought that my parents either had a sadistic sense of humour or my hair was literally cut by a lawnmower. I don’t care what anyone says regardless of the fact that it was the 80’s I’m pretty sure this was never in fashion. While I’m talking about fashion- acid wash denim? Seriously, this time period was not kind to anyone, it does seem however that I did make some attempts to look cool, after all what other 5 year old do you see with his collar ‘popped’? 10 points for effort young Michael.

What really struck me about the photo was the vacant look on my face. It was probably just taken at a bad moment, it’s highly likely that I was just daydreaming I was one of the ‘Garbage Pail Kids’*. Nonetheless- in the photo it appears I have very little going on upstairs. Rather than being horrified at my slightly handicapped appearance all I could think as I starred at my 5 year old reflection was- I would love to return to those ignorant days. I have always been a great believer in the cliché, ignorance is bliss.

Unfortunately I’m a chronic thinker and of late my mind has been in overdrive. Thanks, in large part, to a late night philosophical conversation with my good friend Rob. A casual catch up session quickly descended into a discussion about the complexities of the universe and the meaning of life. Before having the conversation with Rob my deranged nocturnal routine went as follows: first I would begin by thinking through my less than extraordinary problems, then I'd wallow in self pity for a while, followed by figuring out a way to solve all my problems, then once again I would think through the less than extraordinary problems again and finally wallow in self pity until I fell asleep. Now I am forced to go through this entire routine followed by wondering if my life actually has any meaning beyond moving around a bunch of atoms. This usually results in me determining that there is no meaning to life, at which point I have a mild panic attach and lay perfectly still in bed until I pass out from exhaustion.

Some people have told me that I need to get a grip… on another person. As ashamed as I am to admit it, I see some validity in that point. My prolonged (23 year) lack of a serious boyfriend allows me plenty of time to contemplate my navel. Trust me, there are plenty of things I’d rather be doing in my bed than giving myself a headache night after night, but rather than living in fantasy land I have come up with a much more realistic soloution- time travel!

After looking at the photo I’ve decided that I’m going to somehow regress to my 5 year old self. It is the perfect way to circumvent all this self indulgent ‘thinking’ that does nothing but depress me. I want to go back to the days when my greatest concern was if I could afford a Push-Pop AND a packet of Hubba Bubba from the Milk Bar. The days when all it took to make me happy was watching an episode of He-Man followed immediately by an episode of She-Ra. The times when my most prized possession was a fluro green slap band. The days when my most important relationships were the imaginary ones I was having with the rest of the Garbage Pail Kids.

Alternatively I could just drink myself into a coma.

Goodnight.

*If you don’t have fond memories of the ‘Garbage Pail Kids’ I can not be your friend anymore. There is no room for negotiation.