And itchy

I now have the ultimate proof to support my long held view that there are far too many Michaels in the world.

I am dating a Michael, and today is the one year anniversary of the “Michael-is-dating-another-guy-named-Michael” hilarity.

So how did I end up with someone who has the same frekkin’ name as me? The same name that I hear, called out in the doctors waiting room, shouted at a misbehaving kid in the street, and announced as I wait for my morning coffee- usually referring to some other guy with whom I’ll share a knowing glance... “you too?”.

What are the chances of this happening? Well, perhaps a little higher considering my preference for those of my own gender, but still fairly slim I imagine.

To make matters worse, yet thoroughly more entertaining for our friends, family, and shared hairdresser (yes we are that gay) Michael and I also have the same middle name. Surely the chances of that are slimmer again.

Thankfully we have different surnames. If not I think this is the point where you could have safely assumed that I had invented an imaginary boyfriend and given him the exact same name to reduce the chance of forgetting it and revealing my fraud. That is crazy person logic I know, but don’t worry, I’m still on the “fun” side of insanity. He is  real.

The fact that I initially thought Michael’s name was actually Matt presents another “What are the chances?” moment in this story. I’m not entirely sure how that misunderstanding happened as my tequila consumption during the proceeding period was somewhere between ‘High’ and ‘Liver Disease’. The important detail here is that if had I realised that I was about to go on a first date with another Michael it may never have actually happened, what are the chances           

Praise [insert name of deity here] that I’m such a moron. I almost missed the opportunity to meet another Michael who makes this Michael so happy to be a Michael in a pair of Michaels. Yep, sappy and confusing.

This whole thing seems so unlikely, especially the part where my idiocy actually saved the day. But the most unlikely part is the fact that Michael has put up with my non-stop-crazy for a whole year.

I’m not very good at relationships, just ask any of my ex-boyfriends, and I have always had the somewhat unromantic belief that relationships don’t have to last “for eternity” to be meaningful. I still hold that view, but the difference is that now I’m in a relationship that I want to last- and for me that is wonderful and terrifying, and exhilarating, and tiring, and confusing, and astonishing. And itchy.

For the record Michael and I have not come up with a Mick, Mike, Micky, M1/M2 or other nickname solution to the multiple Michaels confusion. To be honest I really enjoy messing with you all.

Happy anniversary Michael.


Post script (15 May 2013): I just signed a lease for a new apartment. On Michael Street. The next logical step is an eponymous sitcom.

This post was brought to you by Coke. A Cola.

Personal

26 year old introvert with extroverted tendencies and low self esteem seeks same (or different) for hand holding and inappropriate displays of humanity.

Random acts of violence

People might think it’s strange that I have so much love and admiration for a person who has spent a considerable part of the last 26 years hitting me across the back of the head. However these random acts of violence were just my Nonna’s strange way of saying “I love you”. Or more specifically, ”I love you- now do what I say.”

Nonna’s reasons for delivering this swift justice varied. Sometimes I would be mid conversation with an uncle or auntie and suddenly... thud. Her heavily bejewelled hand would strike the back of my head and I’d involuntarily lunge forward in an all too familiar motion. And what was my crime? I had spoken to other relatives before saying hello to her. On other occasions a whack might be prompted by the decision to wear a pair of ripped jeans or waking in to family dinner with newly bleached hair. Regardless of the motivation for the swipe one thing was always the same, the brutal force. This unassuming five foot nothing Sicilian signorina was a powerful lady, and that is precisely why I loved her.

Nonna passed away a few days ago and I already miss her.

Her feisty personality began to fade towards the end of her life but I will always remember a strong willed woman who knew what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to make it happen. She valued family above all else, raising eight children and revelling in her position as the matriarch of a big Italian family.

A lot of my favourite memories of time spent with Nonna took place at Footscray Market and Forges of Footscray, two of her favourite stomping grounds. She was practically a celebrity at

Forges and I remember countless lunch times spent at the cafeteria with my brother and sister where Nonna point out random people in the store and tell us that they were undercover policeman who would take us away if we misbehaved. We believed her. And I can proudly say that my siblings and I have never been arrested. I choose to believe these are not unrelated facts.

At one stage or another I’m sure each of her eight children, 18 grandchildren and, 22 great grandchildren have been on the receiving end of a disapproving look or some angry words from Nonna, she certainly wasn’t reserved in her opinions, another reason I admire her. And truth be told we probably deserved it more often than not.

I will miss her secretive handshakes- not because of the five dollars she would covertly hand me, but because of the cheeky grin and sly wink she would deliver with the crumpled note.

Thanks for making me feel so loved Nonna.

Francesca Caminiti

27^th February 1922 – 28^th February 2010

An excessive portion of cheese

My primary source of physical activity over the last year has been typing.

I’m no health expert but fingers tapping away at the keyboard isn’t exactly a well rounded exercise regime.

As my exercise levels decreased my food intake has increased. A large part of this increase is due to my new habit of eating two dinners per night. Typically I eat my first ‘conventional’ dinner at 7pm and then at 10pm I go for another round.

Dinner number two usually consists of something that involves a drive-thru, or alternatively the combination of a random ingredient from my pantry and an excessive portion of cheese.

Needless to say there has been a complete change in my body shape over the last three months, and it’s not pretty.

I’ve always described my body type as ‘pre-pubescent female gymnast.’ I’ve tried unsuccessfully to get a laugh out of this lame self deprecating joke for at least the last five years, and while it is clearly not funny- it was the truth. Aside from a little meat on my legs (genetics, thanks mum) I was always a skinny bitch. Now I’m just a bitch.

My slim frame was incredibly annoying at times, but it was one of my only genetic advantages. I could eat anything I wanted and there were no visible signs of my gluttony, although I’m sure my arteries have probably seen better days.

As someone who is defective in practically every way, (read past posts RE: defective lungs, eyes, skin, jaw, ears, teeth,) I generally appreciated not having to count calories or exercise.

I had an understanding with my body that although the decision not to exercise meant I would never have muscles or a particularly ‘desirable’ body- my laziness would not result in me getting fat.

Alas this paradigm of indulgent guilt free deep fried contentment has ended.

I have put on weight in the most hideous fashion possible, and my body is now a mismatched disproportionate mess.

I’ll let the dot points do the talking.

- My face maintains a gaunt look that is reminiscent of a 90s crack whore. (Think Whitney during the bad ol’ days)

- My legs are chunky (My knees may actually disappear any day now)

- My ass is beyond chunky, it’s actually fat (For someone who invested way too much money in slim/skinny jeans this is a real problem)

- I now have muffin top and blobs of back fat. (I like muffins, not such a big fan of muffin-top)

- My arms are still twig shaped appendages that would send anorexic girls into fits of jealous rage (I may have crossed the line- but it’s so far back that I can’t actually see it)

- I have a gut! (This is very distressing because I used to have abs, and they were the one thing I didn’t hate about my body, THEY WERE ALL I HAD AND NOW THEY ARE GONE DAMN YOU!)

If more than two people actually read this blog I’d probably have to brace myself for a barrage of criticism from people battling weight issues.

Of course I know I’m not actually fat, but the flabby truth is that I’m not comfortable in my skin, I’m the heaviest I’ve ever been, the majority of my pants don’t fit me, (even my non-skinny pants don’t do up at the waist) and for my body type, I’m overweight.

So what now? According to a friend it’s a simple case of calories in and energy out. I think I’ll focus on the calories in part of that equation and when I am comfortable with that I’ll start to consider the energy out part.

On the plus side, I’ve always wanted to buy a moo-moo.

Good muffin.

The Girl From Tomorrow

The following email conversation takes place in two separate offices on separate sides of Melbourne’s CBD.

Names and places have not been changed because the editor is too lazy.

Despite taking place during ‘office hours’ the editor would like to point out that both parties involved are dedicated, hard working employees. Both were very productive on the day of the exchange included below.

The editor has chosen to upload this post comprised predominantly of emails because he feels it gives a little glimpse into an odd yet enduring friendship- and because it is easier than coming up with new material.

The editor has mixed feelings about writing in the third person.

Read on.

------------------------------

Michael – 7:34am
I’m so emotional today. I started crying in front of my boss without realising I was doing it.
I think I have a man hormone cycle.
Help.

Mona – 9:25am
HHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! You're so funny!
By the by I was in the middle of writing you an email!!
Please Michael control yourself... why the hell did you start crying? Are you deranged?
You need booze. Fast.

Michael – 9:27am
Just out of curiosity… when did you get that email? I sent it before at 7:30.
Think we might be having tech problems.

Mona – 9:30am
I got it just after 9am.

Michael -9:33am
All that talk of my cycle must have raised the eyebrow of our mail marshal and delayed it getting to you.

Mona – 9:36am
I’m hungry. Is it too early for lunch?

Michael – 9:37am
I just ate three chocolate biscuits, and I’m on to my third coffee for the day.
Clearly I have no food boundaries anymore.

Mona – 9:40am
I’m seriously worried about you. Maybe you have Prader-Willie* syndrome.

*Prader-Willie Syndrome: Characteristics include hypotonia, insatiable appetite, obesity if food intake is uncontrolled, mild mental retardation and incomplete sexual development.

Michael – 9:42am
Prader-Willie, haven’t heard a reference to that in a while

Mona 9:50am
Thought you'd enjoy.
But I’m actually serious.

Michael – 9:54am
Did you know beside the obesity issue another symptom of Prader-Willie is incomplete sexual development?
I’m not sure I like this disease. Can’t I have something more trendy like bulimia?
bxcg gtgnjfb
That was actually me typing with my face. That’s right I just bashed my head on the keyboard in the middle of the office.
Not even 10am yet. Cowabunga.

Mona – 10:12am
Is it alarming that rather than be concerned for my dear friend who appears to be having some sort of breakdown, I sit at my computer laughing my head off at the email. Do you have to be so funny in your craziness?
I love you. Cowabunga.

Michael – 11:10am
In a desperate effort to make his work day go faster Michael decided to drink as many cups of coffee as humanly possible between the hours of 8 and 6. His next decision was to detail the effects of this excessive coffee consumption in an email to his dear friend Mona, all the while referring to himself only in the third person.
As this is being written Michael is not shaking uncontrollably or bouncing off the walls as one might have expected given the steady caffeine intake. Having consumed one take away latte, two instant coffees and two small cups of strongly brewed percolated joy, the only noticeable effect is a well worn path between Michael’s desk and the bathroom.
Will our hero make it through the day without irreparable damage to his bladder? Will he disprove common logic and fall asleep at his desk? Will anyone notice that the office coffee supply is rapidly depleting? Will Mona tell Michael to shut the f*ck up and stop sending her emails?
All these questions and more will probably never be answered because Michael needs to do some work, as soon as he makes another coffee.
Is it home time yet?
P.S- Your lack of concern for Michael’s mental health has been noted. In response you will not be invited to the ‘Girl from Tomorrow’ DVD marathon planned for late June.

Mona – 11:56am
Mona's response to Michael's rather deranged email is again quite simply to laugh out loud. Who would have thought?
Mona is this time actually concerned about Michael's caffeine intake. It reminds her of the time he burned himself with the cigarette and it got infected. *Michael may now be getting Mona's drift*
Mona is most definitely amused by Michael's reference to The Girl from Tomorrow and will do anything, absolutely anything (even fake concern) to get invited to said DVD marathon.
Mona loves Michael but he REALLY NEEDS TO STOP DRINKING COFFEE!!!!!!!!

Michael – 2:47pm
Apologies for my delayed response. I have been very busy injecting coffee directly into my eyeball as well as attending classes to give up my ‘third person’ addiction. So far so good.
Your last email made me laugh, I knew you hadn’t completely lost your ability to be funny. Here’s hoping you’ll be back to 100% soon because I need a good laugh and your husband’s jokes don’t make any sense. Bless him for trying though.
I think I’m done with the coffee thing. It’s becoming more tiring than my actual work. Which might I say is actually getting done today. It seems I’m having a highly functioning breakdown. Manic depression and rewriting client case studies seem to go hand in hand.
How are you travelling today? I’m guessing that you are about to indulge in a lunch of lettuce leaves and shredded carrot. Please consider something more substantial because I want to drink irresponsibly tonight.
Quick lawyer question - if I change the time on my computer so it says 6:00pm do I have legal recourse to leave work now?
Feel free to bill me for the time it takes you to answer this question. In turn I will be billing all the time I’ve spent emailing you to some large evil company who deserves some Michael flavoured karma.

Mona – 3:15pmI don’t think I want to answer that question.

Michael – 3:55pm
The person you have dialled cannot answer his phone because he is busy making a collage out of chocolate bar wrappers and saliva. Please check the number and try again.

------------------------------

I love that I don’t have to hold back the crazy with you Mono.

Seven years, no itch.

Happy unhealthy relationship anniversary.

x

Pikel.

Catch

The most annoying thing about being single is the comments people make when I show even the slightest displeasure with my current status. My perpetual status. Singledom.

I am fully aware that no one wants to hear me whinge about crawling into a cold bed every night crying myself to sleep with nothing to keep me warm. If at this point you are thinking to yourself, “Buy an electric blanket loser!’ then congratulations. Comments like this constitute a well measured and appropriate response to any remarks a single person might make that include the term or terms:-

- Cold beds
- Empty hearts
- Aching of any kind
- Long nights
- Long days
- Longing
- Being lonely even when surrounded by people
- Tears on/ tear soaked, pillows (or tears associated with any soft furnishings)

I have at one stage or another used all of these phrases, and no doubt on occasion I have used such unashamedly painful combinations of the above terms that could land a job writing for ‘The Bold & the Beautiful’.

**Brief pause while I update my resume**

So please, feel free to call me a fool when these words fall out of my mouth without being filtered through the proper self censoring parts of my brain. Hell- you can even slap me if you like, but please, I beg you, don’t join the pity party. Don't try to make me feel better with a sappy sympathetic remark. This will prompt one of two disastrous outcomes. I will spiral quickly into a melodramatic tirade about how horrible it is being all alone in the world, I will cry uncontrollably- probably in public, and the person stupid enough to attempt a sympathetic reply will be a party to my humiliating outburst and henceforth never be able to look me in the eyes again. The other, more likely option, is an irrational violent outburst from me in response to a well intentioned clichéd comment. For example…

“Don’t worry Michael, when you least expect it someone will come along and sweep you off your feet.”

Response. “Really? When I least expect it. Gee thanks. I’m always expecting it fucktard.” This would be followed by me literally sweeping that person off their feet, preferably with a deck chair.

Or...

“I don’t know why you are still single Michael, you are funny and nice. Such a CATCH.”

Response.

“I’m not 7 years old you condescending shit-for-brains. I understand that funny and nice is code for hella ugly.” This would be followed by me shouting ‘catch’ and throwing a lamp at their head. Preferably an art deco lamp, lots of glass.

So please, on behalf of myself, I beg you. don't do it. I am not your typical single person, I do not want your sympathy. I want a cold hard reality check. When I’m having a depressing moment do not put your arm around my shoulders, unless you want some time off work and can put up with the pain of a broken collarbone.

Ah, bitterness in the evening.

I feel better having that off my chest. But I'm still all alone in this horrible, horrible world.

Woe is me.

Oh sorry, did that heavy lamp shatter in your face? Let me get you a band aid.

Wallpaper*

Booking a flight to Sydney that involved a stopover in Canberra was the beginning of a yet another less than stellar New Years Eve experience for seasoned cynic and all round pessimist Michael Who?.

Travelling to Sydney for the dreaded eve was a decision brought on by a combination of ambivalence on my part and three days of constant nagging from my dear friend Mona. It was a last minute decision so I knew flights were not going to be cheap, however in a cost cutting option that begs the question, “Canberra?”, I chose to make the short Melbourne to Sydney trip via our nations capital. Effectively saving myself $80, an amount that could also be saved if I refrained from drinking six tequila shots every Saturday night. That reminds me of another story, I’ll tell it another time. After I have six tequila shots.

Resigned to my fate, I left home in the wee hours of December 29, fully prepared for a needlessly long 4 hour journey to Sydney. I arrived at the airport to find a monstrous queue of people winding around the check in area, looping back on itself so many times that I was having trouble finding the end. (This may have had less to do with the size of the queue and more to do with the repercussions of my unhealthy relationship with tequila.) So after an exhaustive check in process I was still in fairly good spirits, I had made friends with two people in the queue and decided that I would start this trip, and in turn 2009, with a positive outlook.

It all went wrong as I boarded the plane, the expressions of the flight attendants should have alerted me to the trouble ahead. As I stepped into the cabin I noted a pungent stench, the airplane smelt like poo, there was no mistaking it. While it was not unbearable, it was definitely noticeable. I decided that I could put up with it for the short flight; I just wanted to get this show on the road.

No such luck.

The captain informed us that we would have to get off the plane due to the “mystery” odour. My reaction was immediate; it’s not a mystery, the plane smells like shit, poo, number two, crap, whatever you want to call it. Mystery solved morons.

In what I thought was a humorous and completely implausible solution to the problem the customer service manager (AKA bitchy flight attendant) announced to the passengers that Qantas was trying to find another aircraft for us to travel on. Yeah, just wheel out one of those other aircrafts you keep on standby ready to fly, I’m sure it’s that simple. Not surprisingly after about an hour we reboarded the same plane, only now it smelt like shit and ammonia, delightful.
Desperately clinging to my last fragments of optimism I convinced myself that there are far worse things in life than having to tolerate an unpleasant smell on a short flight, and I was right.

It’s much worse to be wedged in between two well fed travellers who don’t understand the concept of personal space. To a certain degree there is nothing they can do- we were in economy class- its not exactly roomy and they were not exactly small people, but for the love of Oprah- stop elbowing me. Stop moving your seat up and down. Don’t knock over my drink. Don’t do your morning stretches at thirty thousand feet!

Touch down in Canberra, I peel myself out from between the biggest losers, take a moment regain composure and head to the boarding lounge for flight number two. As I wait for the tiny tiny, and I mean really tiny, plane to start boarding I noticed a cool indie musician type sitting across from me, a bit scruffy but undoubtedly attractive, and undoubtedly gay. Usually this would induce pangs of self hate and depression but at this point I was still trying to keep the snide cynicism at bay, so I smiled to myself and took a second look at the guy and returned my gaze to the pages of Wallpaper magazine, (Wallpaper* magazine is my new god. I have not been paid for this indorsement.)

Fast forward. I take my seat. Next to cute muso. Who I shall henceforth refer to as Dylan because I think that name suits him. While some guys would consider this a lucky break I do not, I really don’t respond well to being in the company of extremely attractive people, but I managed to repress the insanity, that was until Lucifer got involved. Lucifer is how I shall refer to the evil flight attendant because I think that name suits him. I was avoiding eye contact with Dylan and happily reading my magazine (Do yourself a favour, pick up a copy of Wallpaper* magazine, you wont regret it.) I did not ask to be involved in the emerging love story of Dylan and Lucifer. But there I was, trapped in my aisle seat, the only physical barrier between Lucifers groping hands and Dylan’s gropable body. I witnessed some horror on that flight. Lucifer worked hard to brush up against Dylan’s arms at every chance possible, which is not exactly subtle when there is someone (ME!) sitting in the way. By the end of the flight they had planned a first date and I had planned their accidental deaths.

Needless to say I arrived in Sydney as bitter and twisted as ever. After taking two trains and walking uphill for 20 minutes in searing heat to find my accommodation optimism was a meaningless word.

The rest of my stay in Sydney was tainted by my mood so the highlights don’t read like fond holiday memories. This brings me to a section I like to call,

“Things I learned while I was in Sydney”

People in Sydney really like tanning, to the point of achieving an unnatural shade of 70’s style mission brown.

The harbour is really beautiful. It doesn’t compensate for the rest of Sydney’s ugliness.

It’s hard to find a restaurant that isn’t designed to rob tourists of their life savings while serving average food. Although Thai-Foon is officially one of my favourite restaurant names ever.

Sydneysiders enjoy being rude and obnoxious to visitors from Melbourne.

In turn- I enjoy littering on the streets of Sydney.

The overwhelming majority of people on Oxford St and at Bondi beach are gorgeous. The normal people must be too scared to visit these places and the ugly people must be living in their basements.

Drinking won’t raise my self esteem but it will stop me thinking about self esteem.

New Years Eve fireworks are pretty but after 10 minutes of colourful explosions you can’t help but wonder if spending five and a half million dollars on fireworks is a bit frivolous.
So much for a positive and optimistic outlook on 2009.

Wait, wait… there was a positive aspect to this trip. I read the new issue of Wallpaper magazine, it was really good. Seriously I really enjoyed it. I think I’m going to subscribe. You can also experience the life altering wonders of Wallpaper magazine, simply follow the link below and start your subscription today!

http://www.magazinesubscriptionsipc.com/ipc/subs/subsorder_XWP.asp?promcode=I8JB

Completely unrelated image.

"Hotshot"

Just over a month ago I took advantage of a momentary imbalance in the universe and managed to con someone into giving me a full time job.

It’s now been a month since I started this job and I’ve spent a lot of time trying to figure out how to paint an impressive picture of myself as a “young corporate hotshot” at the beginning of a successful career, but the words just wouldn’t come to me. It seems that describing myself as a young corporate hotshot is so far of base that even a well seasoned “creative writer” like me can’t pull off that kind of hyperbole. Not that I didn’t try.

So as I reach this remarkably unremarkable one month milestone what do I have to say for myself?

Honestly?

I smell like piss.

No strange metaphor, no attempt at humour.

I’m sitting in my office and at this very moment I smell like piss. Don’t know why, don’t know how but I smell like a urinal at the MCG after half time.

It’s disturbing enough walking around the office smelling like I’ve been rolling around in a urinal but what really makes me mad is that I didn’t actually pee myself this morning, if I had I’d at least know who to blame. Maybe I stepped in a funky piss puddle this morning, maybe I unconsciously rubbed up against a homeless person, who knows. So I’m going to assume that all my efforts to make a good impression in the workplace have gone down the toilet. Embarrassing pun not intended. In all honesty suppose the smell it isn’t actually noticeable, but it’s still devastating.

I should try not to worry. This is nowhere near as embarrassing as spending the last year having to tell to people that after years of university I was working in retail- or as I sometimes described it the “fashion industry.”

EDITORS NOTE: At this point I would like to apologise for the overuse of “quotation marks.” Obviously Michael Who? is one of those infuriating people who always uses “air quotes” and makes those annoying gestures with his fingers. Idiot.

After months of rejection, which is the theme of my year for so many reasons, I somehow landed a great job. I’m working at a consultancy firm that specialises in public and corporate affairs, but I just say it’s a PR company. That way I avoid awkward conversations where I ramble ad nauseam about my job and people give me that blank stare usually reserved for conversations with the crazy uncle who tells you the same story every time you see him.

After the first week of being plagued by panic attacks and insomnia I think I’ve settled in quite well. The people I work with are all down to earth and treat me really well, especially when you take into consideration the fact that I immediately lose 80% of my social skills when I walk into the office, and subsequently make the most awkward, unfunny, cringe worthy small talk. I attribute my diminished social capacity to the amount of effort it takes to keep up a façade that I’m actually qualified for the job. It’s hard work.

It’s just hit home time o’clock. I’m going to tidy up my office and wrap up this urine drenched story at home.

The biggest problem with public trasnport is the public.

So I’m home, and I’ve discovered the source of the unfortunate smell. I clearly stepped in something funky this morning. As I type this my shoes have been sent to the furnace and my feet are soaking in a bucket of ammonia.

I’m feeling a lot better about myself now that the stench has been dealt with, I almost feel good enough to rewrite this and try and fool everyone into thinking that I am indeed a young corporate hotshot, (sans quotation marks), but I think I should focus on trying to figure out how to casually slip the following monologue into conversation at work on Monday morning…

“Hi all how was your weekend? Good, great. Mine too. So I stepped in piss on Friday morning, sorry if you happened to smell it. Just to clarify- I STEPPED in it, I did NOT lose control of my bladder, no sir, not adult diapers for me. Glad we could clear that up, and I’m sure we can all agree that there is no need to speak of this ever again. Ever. Again. Thanks.”

Subtle enough?

Square Eyes

Since completing an Arts degree last year my search for gainful employment draws painful parallels to the days I spent playing Nintendo in the early 90's.

Generally I would be relegated to sitting on the floor watching my brother and sister play; they would spend hours killing various pixilated monsters and telling me I could have a turn once their infinite lives ran out. Occasionally I managed to snatch the controls from my siblings after a series of violent attacks culminating in some vicious scratching and biting. So finally it’s my turn, I’d position myself dangerously close to the TV screen, wipe the blood from my hands (I’m not kidding about the violence), smile my crazy 7 year old smile, and start up a new game of Mario Brothers. Cue the delightfully irritating theme music.

Then... nothing.

It was no fun at all.

Instead of utilizing valuable waiting time learning how to play the game I’d been sitting there cursing at my brother and sister for not letting me play and telling myself that life wasn’t fair. This distraction left me so ill prepared that I couldn’t even defeat the lame pseudo-baddies that inhabited level 1. So very disappointing.

To make matters worse it seemed that whenever I began developing the slightest bit of gaming talent I’d hear,

“Enough of that for today, your eyes will go square!”

Mum’s voice booming from the laundry where she was scrubbing grass/blood stains out of our clothes.

Well years later, my eyes aren’t square, but I do have glasses, and I’ve been gazing blankly at my computer screen for the last 3 hours trying to find a job.

Despite that confusing and completely misguided metaphor the fact remains, I was no good at being a kid- I couldn't play Nintendo, and I’m no good at being an adult- I cant find a job.

The last six months I've spent working as a retail whore have dulled any potential I previously had to secure a job I wouldn't be ashamed of.

“Can I interest you in a pashmina scarf for the low low price of $10? The kids in the sweatshop have really outdone themselves this time.”

My soul has been dissected into little pieces and neatly packaged so that each time I smile and greet a customer who would rather be left alone, I can hand a piece over.

“How are you today? Can I help you with anything? I’m hear to make your retail experience as close to perfect as possible. Here- take a piece of my soul, this one is my dignity, I wont be needing it anymore.”

I’d like to think that after 3 years at university spent working harder than Christina Aguilera’s make up artist my job would involve something more than fighting with pre-menstrual middle aged women who want a further discount on a $10.00 pair of ill fitting pants.

“Give it up lady. Unless you plan to take a time machine back to 1999 and stop eating there is no way you are going to fit into those pants.”

On further contemplation my lack of success on the job front could be due to my less than desirable attitude. For example, my responses to application questions might not exactly be perfect…

Do you have a friendly and sociable nature?

No, but it would appear that I’m both friendly and sociable. You could say that I’ve spent the last 24 years mastering the art of doing all the superficial things that make someone appear friendly and sociable- which is basically the same as being friendly and sociable. So… yes… can I change my answer to yes?

I suppose if I really want to get a job I should increase the number of positions I’m actually applying for. What have I achieved today?

Jobs advertisements browsed – 231.5
Jobs applied for – 0
Misguided Nintendo themed metaphors created – 1

Enough of this for today, I really don’t want my eyes to go square.

My face already looks weird enough with my new giant sized chin.

...

To be con-chin-ued.

I know. It makes no sense. Just go with it.

I have nightmares that look just like this.

Knives Are Not Toys

TO: Michael Who c/o 1991
SUBJECT: Wise words of wisdom and wiseness.
FROM: You.
DATE: 27th March 2008

Dear Michael,

This letter should be reaching you at the beginning of the 90’s and I’m sure that by now you have begun wondering if there is more to life than your treasured set of Derwent coloured pencils so I, your future self, have decided to send you some advice. My first instruction is simple: guard that tin of Derwents with your life, Felicity P is a thieving kleptomaniac bitch and she will attempt to steal them every time you turn your back.

First and foremost, don’t sit there and pretend you can’t understand what you are reading, I am acutely aware that you are much smarter than you let on. Sure you can’t spell, but that really isn’t important, here in the future we have a thing called spelchek so you wil neva need 2 worry about dat. I understand why you put a great deal of effort into trying to hide your superior intellect. I know it’s because don’t want to seem like a geek, you want to be popular and have heaps of friends like your brother and sister. I hate to break it to you but it’s not going to happen at primary school or even high school. Trust your initial judgment, the vast majority of the people you meet at school are idiots, don’t bust your balls trying to impress them.

Be yourself.

By now grown ups have probably started asking questions like, “And what do you want to be when you grow up?”. Although your answer to questions like this will evolve over the years one thing will remain the same- you will still be inventing fake aspirations to appease people. You do deserve a big pat on the back for coming up with the whole “I’m going to be a palaeontologist because I love prehistoric dinosaurs,” lie. People love that answer because it is far fetched, yet brainy and cute. Even at 7 years old you have begun to develop the manipulative skills that will serve you well in later life, one small tip. Ask to go to the movies for your 8th birthday. Otherwise you are going to end up at an exhibition of life size animatronic dinosaurs that will give you nightmares well into your teenage years and blow that ‘palaeontologist’ lie out of the water.

Don’t be talked into doing anything you don’t want to. Trust your instincts.

Ok big ears lets talk health. First and foremost, stick with your plan to get those huge ears pinned back. Mum and dad totally believe the schoolyard bullying stories you are telling so a few more months of ‘schoolyard trauma’ and those extra large flappers will be stapled to your skull and never ruin a photo again. While we’re on the subject of vanity related health concerns can you please get your jaw checked out before the age of 15? Trust me, if you don’t get this fixed before you hit 20 you’ll need operations painful enough to make a deranged masochist blush.

In more serious news can you please eat something that’s primary ingredient isn't sugar. The list of medical conditions/incidents/traumas and experiments that can be avoided by simply taking better care of your body is staggering.

Take care of yourself, stop waiting for someone else to do it for you.

Now to the big issue, it’s about boys and girls. No actually it’s just about boys.

.

On second thought, you’ll figure it out for yourself.

I’ll just leave you with a few quick tips before I sign off. Blonde hair does not suit you, knives are not toys, never get into bed with a bass player, and finally- NEVER GET INTO BED WITH A BASS PLAYER!

Lots of love,

Me.

?

If there is a heaven, it's filled with Derwent pencils.

Bag Full Of Bags

Here is a photo of me standing in front of my wardrobe. (PHOTO REMOVED 2012 DUE TO REGRET - just use your imagination) you'll immediately see the horrified expression on my face. Note the bottles of Vodka on the shelf. Read on.

Fact. Store mannequins are large inanimate objects that are often missing facial features and sometimes even missing the entire head.

Fact. Store Mannequins look far more attractive in the clothes they display than I ever will.

Possible Fact. Mannequins are probably more attractive than me when out of clothes as well but I’d rather not lead into a conversation about my genetils.

I often get told that my grip on reality isn’t too tight and that my self esteem is lower than hell’s basement but I generally just dismiss these comments with a random self deprecating joke and then proceed with my day. However even I can recognise that I’ve got problems when I get mannequin envy to the point where I’m evoking violent fantasies similar to those I experience when I meet evangelical Christians.

Out in the city on my last shopping trip I was engaging in some casual banter with a sales assistant about an ill fitting pair of jeans. It went something like this.

SALES ASSISTANT: Those jeans look totally hot on you.

ME: I’m not entirely convinced about the cut.

SALES ASSISTANT: Those jeans look totally hot on you.

ME: What are your thoughts on renewable energy sources as a means of reducing greenhouse gas emissions?

SALES ASSISTANT: Those jeans look totally...

At this point I was distracted from our riveting conversation by a mannequin that I spotted out the corner of my eye. The mannequin was faceless; its skin colour could best be described as asylum wall grey; it only managed to stand upright with the assistance of a metal pole crudely bolted to its lower back, and most notably, it was wearing the same jeans as me- and it looked hot.

So what’s the real problem with this situation? No, I don’t have sexual fantasies about mannequins, although I did have a strange obsession with that movie ‘A Mom For Christmas.’ The real problem is that I bought the overpriced jeans despite feeling completely inadequate compared to the mannequin. I bought them in what can only be described as a reactionary and spiteful gesture towards the mannequin, the shop assistant, the shop assistants sniggering friend who was not previously mentioned in this story, and anyone who happened to make eye contact with me that day.

This is just one of the many convoluted reasons I use to justify my spending. At the moment I’m basically living on credit. I don’t actually have any of that stuff you use to buy things, you know what I mean, um, you give it to the person in the shop and they give you goods and or services, oh what’s it called, money? Yeah that’s it, money! So here are some of the completely logical reasons I’ve used to justify swiping the plastic and giving my autograph to retailers all over town.

You can never have too much black in your wardrobe.
You really need some colour in your wardrobe.
That fits perfectly.
That doesn’t really fit well but it’s cool.
That does not fit you at all but it’s a good price.
That t-shirt is a piece of art don’t deny your creative side the freedom of expression.
That sales assistant has been really helpful and nice, you should buy something.
That sales assistant is a fucking bitch, you should definitely buy something.
A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.
And so on and so forth.

As I cleaned out my wardrobe recently I made a startling discovery. A large black bag, filled to the brim with bags of every shape, colour and size. I steadily filled the bag over the last year, depositing bags one by one after each stupid purchase. Standing alone in my bedroom face to face with the bag full of bags I was completely overwhelmed. The bag was a horrific reminder of my mounting credit card debt, and it also prompted a horrible realisation that I was far shallower than I’d ever care to admit, this really upset me.

I had to get it out of my house. Like a man possessed I swept up the bag, ran outside to the bin, threw it inside and before the lid had even slammed shut I was on the phone with a friend provoking an intellectual conversation to reassure myself that I was more than a retail whore.

The next morning as I attempted to finish cleaning out my wardrobe I stumbled made another shocking discovery; I found something so horrific that I can’t even write a lame joke about it in an attempt to soften my shame.

I found ANOTHER bag full of bags.

It's times like these I remember why I keep vodka in my wardrobe.

Cheers.

Marcs shirt $120.

Ksubi jeans $300.

A life of prostitution to pay off the credit card, priceless.

Rhetorical?

Let me share one of my current concerns. I’m worried that at some point in the not to distant future medical researchers are finally going to realise that the appendix is actually a necessary organ, and that despite years of chopping them out of people with seemingly no harsh consequences the humble appendix is actually very important. Is it possible that the appendix holds the key to the meaning of life? Is it possible that I’ve just put forward the most ridiculous rhetorical question in history? The answer to at least one of these questions is yes.

Oh and another question- has anyone ever seriously considered the possibility that just because humans don’t shrivel up and die when the appendix is liberated from a tender abdomen it could actually be of some use?

Sure I’m being irrational, but I have good reason. I actually have two good reasons. Firstly, I had my appendix removed on New Years Day and since then my journey towards personal enlightenment has become considerably more difficult- thus conclusively proving that the appendix does in fact directly affect my mental state. Secondly the medication I’m taking at the moment lists “Lowered brain function” as a probable side effect. Other side effects of the pills include “Increased sensitivity to light,” plus “An intolerance of dairy products” and “An increased urge to hurl abuse at the teenage population who seem determined to burn out my already weary retinas with their current fluorescent clothing obsession.” While I’m on the topic, can someone over the age of seventeen please tell these little wannabe glow sticks that even in the days of parachute pants and hypercolour t-shirts nothing was anywhere near as bright as today’s “clothes,” and I use the term loosely.

Ok, I’m glad I got that out of my system, but unfortunately I’m still distressed by my lack of an appendix and what effect it will have on my life. As 2007 drew to a close I declared 2008 would be “my year!!!!!” much like I have done for the past three years. Only this time I made my declaration with much more determination and gusto- hence my use of numerous exclamation points to demonstrate the aforementioned gusto.

How good can a year be when it starts in the emergency room of Sunshine hospital with me listening to illegal fireworks exploding outside while I convinced the doctors to give me some of the top shelf drugs? And why do stupid fucking doctors feel the need to repeatedly point out that being in hospital is the worst way to spend New Years Eve? And how many rhetorical questions can I pose before it starts to get annoying? Just what is in store for Michael Who? In 2008?

I’ll endeavour to answer these and even more ridiculous questions in the not too distant future* here at the home of illogical rambling, Michael Who?.

(*Note the total ambiguity of this phrase.)

No.

BONUS FEATURE:

Today’s post has a bonus feature for anyone who can be bothered getting interactive.

It’s been months since I’ve shared any stories here and therefore I have a lot of random memories stumbling around in my head like Amy Winehouse after a quiet night of boozing and shooting up. I could probably shake out some ideas and arrange them into some kind of written thingy using my impressive literary skillz. So here’s where the interactivity comes in, I’ll give you a few options and you can leave a comment at the bottom of this post and tell me why you want to read about your chosen topic. If you give me a good reason I’ll get typing, simple as that.

Here are your choices;

“You Aren’t a Doctor, You’re a Vet.”
The story of my hatred for doctors, specialists, nurses, orthodontists, surgeons, etc etc...

“Guys You Shouldn’t Fall in Love With.”
This sounds like a list that I should be on, but it’s not, it’s about my stalker tendencies.

“Bag Full of Bags.”
What happens when you give an unemployed homo with self esteem issues a credit card limit of $20,000?

“3 Degrees of Education.”
I finally finished a university degree, now what? Seriously, suggestions are welcome.

Or any other ideas you have...

Interesting

I'm writing again. I'm writing a lot.

Now all I have to do is figure out how much of it I want to share, if any.

"Sanity calms... but madness is more interesting."

- John Russell

Intense Sarcasm

Dear Readers (all 4.3 of you),

It took me forever and then an extra hour to churn out that last superb post about my desire to wear cool clothes. (Note the intense sarcasm.) Lately my efforts to sit down and write have not been very successful.

It’s a shame to end with such a beige post but I’m going to be taking a break from blogging.

I’m very busy at the moment trying to find my marbles.

I’ll be back soon or possibly soon-ish, I haven’t decided yet.

x
Michael Who?

I went to see the Guggenheim Collection at the National Gallery of Victoria and saw, among other things, Felix Gonzalez-Torres' "Untitled (Public Opinion)" which is a continually replenished 300kg-pile of cellophane wrapped licorice candy. It was tasty.

Geek Waiting For a Musician

A quick glance in my wardrobe and you will soon see proof that I strongly believe in the traditional Melbourne philosophy that black is the new black. Sometimes I worry that my penchant for black, or at least dark, clothes gives off the wrong impression about me. I imagine if a pack of rabid little emo kids opened up my wardrobe their mascara ringed little eyes would fix on me with a judgmental stare as they said,

“Seriously dude, you need to lighten up a little.”

Firstly let me say that I don’t consider myself to be an overly superficial person... but, as I meander through my day to day life I do take notice of what people choose to wrap themselves, and so I wonder, do people form detailed opinions of me based solely on how I look? I seriously hope not, because my ‘geek face’ complete with braces and glasses and my pre pubescent body, which all the 12 year old Russian gymnasts are completely jealous of, is not exactly a work of art- and despite my efforts I don’t think any combination of clothes is going to change that.

I love people who have a sense of personal style that they carry off with effortless confidence. It’s less a materialistic concern on my part and more about how people chose to express themselves, I don’t care if you are wearing a designer t-shirt, I want to know why you chose that particular t-shirt. Concise descriptions of my thoughts and opinions are rare; I’m more of a rambler; however I’ll spare you my thesis entitled,

‘Michael’s Opinion on Every Piece of Clothing He Has Ever Seen: The Extended Version,’

and simply say that I love a little bit of creative quirk in fashion. I tend to spend my days admiring people I am impressed by from afar, secretly wishing I could be their geeky best friend who gets cooler simply by associating with them. Unfortunately I have absolutely zero confidence in wearing anything other than homogenized shopping centre ‘fashion’. So I spend my days sitting around wearing overpriced and somewhat ill fitting jeans wishing that my life would turn into an offbeat teen movie where an awkward yet loveable geek is befriended by a free spirited, and impeccably dressed, musician who takes the geek under his wing and teaches him how to express his inner self, of course by the end of the film the musician has secretly fallen in love with the geek and realised that there is more to life than how you look on the outside.

Clearly I’ve given this way too much thought, and upon reflection I’ve realised that simply prefacing a completely superficial post with the line ‘I’m not superficial’ achieves nothing at all, except possibly making me sound like a superficial hypocrite.

Enjoy the following pictures of people whom I would stalk if I saw them in the street.

I can't think of a witty remark to write about these photos.

Cassingle

3am.

Insomnia is a condition invented by weak sycophants with nothing better to complain about. I’m not an insomniac; I actually enjoy staying up all night long slowly descending into madness.

My night usually begins with me using MySpace to systematically stalk every person I’ve ever met, then I like to clean things that don’t need cleaning, such as my phone charger and electrical extension cord.

Sometimes I like to curl up in bed and watch some quality late night television. Recently I have learned a lot about developing a proper skincare regime, after watching heartfelt testimonials from Jessica Simpson AND Kelly Clarkson I think I’m ready to invest in some Proactiv solution. Despite my lack of acne I really feel that I too am a caterpillar waiting to emerge from my cocoon, and for just $69.95 (+ postage and handling) I can finally fly free. Wait- I think butterflies only live for two days, cancel my order, I’m sending my money to Benny Hinn Ministries. Benny Hinn told me that if I accept Jesus as my lord and saviour he will take charge of my life and lead me not into temptation, especially if I give him my credit card information or something like that. The whole thing sounded really exciting and people were totally fainting when he touched them on the head so I think he’s the real deal. The only flaw in this plan is my complete lack of money, sorry Jesus.

Being awake in the dead of the night really isn’t that bad. You do have to throw on an extra layer, or five, of clothing to compensate for the fact that unless you are asleep in bed Melbourne winter nights are like a bitch slap to the groin with a slab of frozen meat. Once I’m rugged up in a style I like to call ‘Eskimo tracksuit chic’ I can actually be quite productive. Just last night I alphabetised my entire music collection- including my prized collection of cassingles. For those of you who are starring quizzically at the screen thinking ‘Cassingles?!? What are they? Did Michael get a bad batch of speed’ a 'cassingle' is a cassette tape single popular in the early 90's. Other useful tasks completed in the still of the night include cataloguing the freckles on my left arm, planning global domination, and arranging the clothes hanging in my wardrobe accorfing to their potential resale value.

There is no better opportunity to spend some quality time with myself than in the middle of the night. Sometimes I like to play little games, like, ‘Can you open a bottle of wine at 2am without the sound of the popping cork shattering the silence of your suburban home where you live with your parents who are sleeping nearby?’ Another of my favourites is the ‘Where did I go wrong?’ game. The aim of this game is to recount and replay in your mind all the stupid things you have done in your life, the catch is you have to do it without having a complete nervous breakdown, complete with tears and simultanious hysterical laughter.

After a few nights things do tend to get a bit repetitive so I like to spice things up with some good old fashioned screaming into the pillow and begging for sleep. I might actually give that a try now.

Let me restate, I’m not an insomniac.

Convinced?

The first person who suggests I try a glass of warm milk and counting sheep will recieve a Croatian axe kick to their head.

Bad Lighting

Last Thursday I had a truly a horrible day at work which involved me spending 6 consecutive hours photocopying like a crazed secretary on a cocaine binge, at one point I had to fight off another would be photocopier who took issue with me using 3 machines at once. The poor guy probably didn’t deserve the verbal abuse I spewed at him but unfortunately at that point I was 4 hours into my photocopying session having only eaten a packet of butter menthols since dinner the previous night and nothing short of a priest wielding a crucifix and holy water could calm me down.

Needless to say when I finally returned home that evening I was definitely not in the mood to go out, and the bitterly cold Melbourne night was doing nothing to change my mind. Alas I had no real choice on this particular evening, it was the final night of ‘Q&A’ (‘Queer and Alternative’ night at ‘A Bar Called Barry’ in Collingwood) and I had promised friends I would be in attendance for one final night of alcohol flavoured antics.

I approached the venue only to be greeted by a line that was 10 people wide with a tail stretching farther than MY eyes could see: which is almost 'as far as the eye can see'. Needless to say I laughed quietly to myself, turned around and started looking for a taxi to take me home. I don’t do lines.

Then my phone rang, it was my friend Paul. In his infinite wisdom he had scoured the line for people he knew and squirmed his way in with them, effectively bypassing the majority of the crowd. Then through a series of tactical manoeuvres he managed to find other people even closer to the front and join them, eventually positioning himself mere steps away from the entry, very impressive.

I crossed the road and approached the sea of writhing homosexuals anxiously, despite having Paul directing me over the phone I could not see him through the crowds. Then suddenly- like a frog’s tongue snatching a fly from mid air Paul’s arm shot out of the masses and pulled me into the crowd. As I regained my orientation I quickly realised how much of the line I had actually skipped, let’s just say that the brief time I spent waiting in line with my face crammed into the back of bad polyester wig was a sinch compared to the marathon the poor fools behind me had to endure.

Finally inside I cloaked my jacket. Then it began, my Q&A ritual, the battle of the voices in my head.

SNIDE MICHAEL: Look at all these pathetic people, desperately scouring the room looking for their next conquest. So glad we’re not like that.

SELF EFFACING MICHAEL: Whatever loser! You’re just jealous because no one here would look twice at any of us.

SNIDE MICHAEL: You may have a point. But at least we are smart and funny and can hold a conversation about something other than designer sunglasses.

SELF EFFACING MICHAEL: Are you forgetting that we have designer sunglasses? We’re such a hypocrite. And let us not forget that ‘conversation’ wont keep you warm at night.

MELODRAMATIC MICHAEL: Yeah! Who is going to want a skinny white guy with braces and glasses? We’re going to be alone forever. FOREVER!

SNIDE MICHAEL: … *rolls eyes*

CALCULATING MICHAEL: Get it together everyone! Smile. Laugh at peoples jokes. Act confident. Hang around with your friends and try to seem as interesting as possible.

MELODRAMATIC MICHAEL: Aaargh!

SELF EFFACING MICHAEL: Why did we even come here?

BAD JUDGEMENT MICHAEL: Enough! Listen carefully. First go to the bar. Second order something dangerously alcoholic. Third, drink! Repeat these directions until I am the only voice you can hear.

Fast forward three Jager Bombs, a few beers and more mixed vodka concoctions then I care to remember and I’m heading home in a cab holding up my head with both hands, completely convinced that if I let go it would fall out the window to be lost forever on the Tullamarine freeway- leaving the cabdriver in quite the odd predicament.

It was a long night...

I made some new friends, fellow bloggers R*yan, D.U.P and Dave, who endured my bad dancing and drink stealing, shared a few laughs with some old friends who introduced me to the gay scene, I bumped into a blast from the past and served up some long overdue verbal abuse, witnessed some dramatic antics from drunken friends, met up with an old crush and flirted shamelessly, and thanks to the bad lighting in the venue I kissed a cute guy who is completely out of my league.

An uterly chaotic night. The perfect final chapter for Q&A.

The role of 'Michael' in this story will be played by... this guy from Heroes who's name I dont know, but it doesn't matter because he is insanely attractive, and I'm madly in love with him, take another look-- he is painfully good looking. Yes- I know how gay that sounds, no- I'm not embarrased to admit that I'm obsessed with this photo, yes I will stop rambling now.

Wide Eyed Horror

Thanks to the wonders of modern technology today’s post comes to you live from Perth airport! Ta-da!

Actually, I take that back. Despite the fact that I’m fulfilling a lifelong dream with this ‘Look at me I’m an important businessman using my laptop at the airport’ moment, I’m not actually connected to the internet and therefore this will not be posted live from Perth. Instead I’ll upload it when I get back to Melbourne- after I take a packet of expired painkillers and enter a pharmaceutical hibernation for a couple of days.

For the past few months I’ve been completing an internship with a music marketing-slash-events management company. My work tends to induce wild panic attacks followed by stress headaches followed by fits of rage. In these situations my usual reaction would be to turn my back on the stress and run off into the distance with my, arms flailing and screaming wildly; however the experience I’m getting is unbelievable and so I’m clenching my teeth and sticking with it. At the end of this year I may even be able to replace some of the lies on my resume with actual facts. For example I find myself in Perth this week on tour with the Dalai Lama. I should have asked him for a reference.

My boss is the national tour manager for the Dalai Lama’s visit to Australia and I’ve been working behind the scenes for a while now, so when I was asked to come along for the Perth leg of the tour I jumped at the opportunity. Who am I to turn down a free trip to Perth? Especially when it gives me the best excuse I will ever have to avoid study. Flying across the country one week before all your major assignments are due is the ultimate procrastination.

So this is the point where I should go into mind numbing detail about the events of my trip. Believe me I’d love to do that, but unfortunately while in Perth I have been in a highly functioning yet completely anxious and neurotic state. This psychotic state was no doubt triggered by my compulsive desire not to mess things up and reveal myself as a complete fraud, all the while trying to operate on approximately 3 hours sleep. This altered state of consciousness seems to have partially incapacitated the memory functions of my brain. The memories I’m left with are nothing but brief snapshots, completely isolated in time. I can’t recall clearly the circumstances leading up to my fragmented memories and conversely I don’t really remember the repercussions of the incidents.

Here are the brief moments I remember.

Dragging a large road-case weighing approximately 60kgs into the Melbourne Airport freight services office at approximately 6am and being politely informed that it will cost me $6500.00 to get the case to Perth. My blood boils; I throw the road-case up against the wall. Blank.

Waiting to collect my luggage at Perth airport, it’s midday, I was scheduled to arrive at 10am. I see my bag travelling towards me, a complete stranger plucks it off the carousel and heads for the door, I give chase. Blank.

I arrive at the Burswood Dome with the heavy road case. I struggle down a set of 5 shallow steps, awkwardly dragging the case, my eyes search from left to right as I try to figure out how to get into the Dome. I stumble and fall, the case pins me to the ground. I notice my boss and the state manager walking in my direction. Blank.

Standing backstage moments before the first event begins. The Dalai Lama arrives and the other four select people privileged enough to be backstage greet him by bowing slightly, making an unfamiliar gesture with their hands and uttering a word I do not recognise. Clearly unaware of the proper protocol I wave and smile at the Dalai Lama. I notice the wide eyed horror of the four people around me. Blank.

The Dalai Lama is on stage, I’m trying to inconspicuously position a chair in the front row for Jamie Durie. He has just finished introducing the Dalai Lama to an eager 17,000 people strong crowd. I pick up the chair and swing around, trying to move it quickly, unaware that Jamie is directly behind me. He instinctively dodges and avoids a nasty chair to the face injury. Blank.

Take two, I’m backstage waiting for the Dalai Lama to begin his second event of the day. I decide to position myself near a large stack of technical equipment, well back from the small group of people near the stage entrance. The car pulls in, the Dalai Lama exits and exchanges pleasantries with Jamie Durie, he says hello to my boss and to the state manager, then he walks in my direction and says, “Hello. This is quite impressive equipment and so…” I don’t hear the rest of his sentence as I suddenly realise that I know nothing about the “impressive equipment” I’m standing in front of. Blank.

It’s been an interesting couple of days.

(Bad) Artists impression of possible injury.

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?