Fat Superhero Friday

She also couldn't get the invisible jet off the ground.

Fat Superhero Friday

Roger Ramjet he's our man, fighting for our nation. For his adventures just be sure to stay tuned to this station!

Good luck getting that out of your head, sung in creepy 60s era children's voices.

I know he's not technically a superhero, but so's your face. So there.

I'm not sure why Mr Ramjet popped into my head, but maybe it's a belated "Happy 4th of July" to our internet friends across the ocean.

Fat Superhero Friday

Even superheroes have unrealistic ideals for their body shape. 

Fat Superhero Friday

I'll be Harley Quinn'n it up next weekend at Oz Comicon. I'm puddin cup'n it up right now. Bless you, inventor of snackpacks. 

Fat Superhero (?) Friday

Superhero, supervllian, anti-hero, anti-venomn...no wrong comic....anyway whatever. Ninja batman training fat man.

Fat Superhero Friday

Might as well put that laser vision to good use. 

Fat Superhero Friday

I have the handwriting of toddler. And the illustration skills of......ok yeah, a toddler. 

Hulk Spandex

I didn't think The Hulk counted as a 'Fat' Superhero, so he gets his own Thursday post instead. 

All that ruined denim. If only he had discovered stretch pants sooner. 

Fat Superhero Friday

.........................................ZOOM!

Coefficient of Restitution

Rubber Band Ball vs Earth

Chronicles of Incompetence

I tend to use my Facebook page to share stories of my ineptitude. The below few incidences have all occurred within the last few months, and as you can see my rate of failure is steadily increasing.

____________________________________________________________________________

 “How I know it's time to get my eyes checked - was walking past a car with a slightly rolled down window and could see a grey poodles fluffy head fro and ears poking up. 'Awww', I thought as I moved in for a closer look, 'poor fella must be hot in that car'. About a foot from the window as I stared at it, partially through the glass and partially through the open crack in the window, I noticed there was a face staring back at me. A human face. It wasn't a poodle I had noticed in a hot car. It was an elderly lady with a grey perm. I flashed a quick smile and gave her a wave and ran away as fast as I could.”

__________________________________________________________________________________

“Had a bunch of new sports bras and stuff I ordered arrive from Victoria's Secret today. Naturally tried it all on, danced around the apartment like Cameron Diaz at the start of Charlies Angels feeling sexy as hell. Then came the moment where I had to remove one that zips up at the front. Instead of taking one arm out at a time, I decided I could slip both out at once...and promptly got both my arms stuck behind my back. I was naked from the waist up with my arms tangled behind me in a now mangled sports bra, swinging from side to side in a futile attempt to free myself, which is when I noticed the workmen on the roof of the building opposite my lounge room window.

And that's when I died.”

_________________________________________________________________________________

 “I'm certain that eventually my name is going to become synonymous with clumsy embarrassment.

There I was, practicing my ballet pirouettes (which I can assure you are stunningly beautiful and well executed) to some Placebo, and gracefully leaping over the dog and cat in an off-the-cuff and emotionally raw routine showcasing my artistic talent and musical prowess to the mirror.

At a particularly climactic chorus of "Did you forget to take you meds?" I attempted a slightly overzealous fouetté (I had to google what this move is called), which resulted in me losing control of my spin. Trying to correct myself, I stumbled backwards, one-legged, into the puppy fence we have enclosing the dining room table and shag rug, fell directly on top, and then over the fence, hitting my head on the table and bending the wire enclosure beyond recognition. To add insult to injury, as I tried to collect myself and get back en pointe to complete the routine (my mirror fans were waiting) I felt myself snag and be pulled back on top of the mangled mess of a fence. I tried again, to no avail which is when I realised my underwear was caught. One leg hole of my tighty whities was hooked over the top of the puppy fence, and the other was being held steadfast by the puppy himself. All the while Louie (cat) watched contently from a high perch on the couch back.

I know cats can't laugh, but I swear that smug bastard was judging me with a smile in his eyes.”

Stage Presence

I’ve been on stage many times. As a child I went to dance class, did pageants, sang in the school choir and was in the Christmas play. I can’t remember what my character was in the Christmas play, but I have a feeling it was something inconsequential to the plot. Similarly at my dance school there was a routine titled “Jolity Farm” which was performed every year by the younger students. The first year I was in it I performed the crucial (sarcasm) role of a tomato….and nailed it. The following year I was promoted to crow…and fell down. Strange that I was able to maintain more grace in a red foam ball which encompassed me from neck to knees than in a spandex bird suit.

I also suffer from wildly unpredictable stage fright.  The first instance of this debilitating happenstance I can recall was when I was around the age of 7. My mother had entered me in to a pageant of some kind or another. I was used to these events, having walked runways like a tiny, curly haired (not naturally, mum had perfected the artificial white girl fro styling) professional on many occasions in my small town. The difference on this particular occasion, was that more than a few dozen people were in attendance.

This event was held somewhere by the beach, and the runway was a huge (huge to a 7 year old anyway) stage with an attached catwalk which was set up for what I assume was some kind of festival. There were bands, dancers, and an overly dramatic MC.

I was entered in this runway competition with a friend of mine from school. Her mother was very ‘Real Housewives of Tanning Beds’ so I can only imagine she had the upper hand on the situation from the beginning and had been training since birth. I on the other hand, had never seen a crowd this size in my young life, despite all my extra-curricular performance based activities, and my penchant for singing Christmas carols on boats (see ‘The Toddler and the Sea’).

I remember clearly my friend taking to the runway right before me. She did a vibrant, fun filled model walk down to the end involving some freestyle swim moves and that 60’s dance where you hold your nose like you’re diving. After a few more bits of flair and pizazz she skipped back up to stage with enthusiasm and high fived the MC. The crowd went wild for this confident, happy little girl.

Then it was my turn. I held back the urge to soil myself as my name was announced, took a deep breath and started my walk.

The only way I can really describe my runway walk at that time, was if a primitive robot and Lurch from the Addams Family had spliced themselves together and projected the external image of an extremely curly haired, blue faced child.

I say blue faced because I did not breathe for the entirety of my runway. I lock stepped, arms pinned un-moving to my sides, all the way to the end of the catwalk. When I did reach the end, I didn’t stop for a second. I spun 180 quicker than a politician after being elected. My vision was blurred and my ears were buzzing, possibly from the lack of oxygen reaching my brain, and I marched right on back to the main stage convinced if I did not leave it immediately my heart would explode out of my chest.

I ignored the MC’s out reached high-fiveable hand and barreled down the stairs to meet my furious waiting mother. Evidently she had spent a fair bit of time, money and effort to enter me into this competition, and was under the impression that I was just being lazy. Once she saw that my face was rapidly turning purple and I hadn’t said a word since leaving the stage, she realised I was, in fact, absolutely petrified. She convinced me that oxygen intake was a necessity and Alien was not going to burst forth through my tiny rib cage and I eventually calmed down.

Needless to say, my friend won the competition. I didn't place.

This was not the last time stage fright played a role in my young life. Around the same age I was given a tap dancing solo to perform at a dance recital. It was an extremely simple little jig, tap from one corner of the stage to the other, tappa tappa tappa, tap over the other side of the stage, more tappa tappa tappa, tap off stage. It wasn’t a very long song, but when you fuck it up, any song feels like Bat Out of Hell.

I was performing my aforementioned tap from one corner of the stage to the other, which was at the very beginning of my routine, when I slipped, and fell on my ass in my sparkly green leotard. Luckily, the leotard had an enormous padded bow on the back of it which cushioned the fall.
(Dance fashion is the shit). Determined not to cry on stage, but also practically shitting myself, I pulled myself up and tried to continue to dance.

The problem was my mind had been wiped completely blank, either from the impact of my ass hitting the stage or from the fear of all the judging eyes staring at me from the depths of the dark theater. Instead of continuing my rehearsed routine, I did the same tap move over and over again moving a few feet from one side to the other at the front of the stage for the remainder of the song. It wasn’t even in time to the beat. I just tried to make as much noise with my shoes as possible in the hopes that no one in the audience would know the difference between good tap dancing and bad tap dancing. And let’s be honest, at a 6 years old’s dance recital, it’s all bad tap dancing.  

Once I got off the stage this time however, I was praised by my teacher for being brave and continuing the routine instead of just bailing out then and there. My internal response to that was: “Bitch, if I had known just walking off the stage was an option I would have done it.” My tiny 6 year old brain didn’t know any better. I was under the impression that I HAD to stay on that stage until the song was done. I didn’t know what was keeping me there exactly, but I had a distinct fear of snipers.

Stage fright continues to haunt me sporadically to this day. I never know when it will strike. I can go from one performance with absolute killer confidence, acting/talking/dancing up a storm in front of an audience, to being paralysed with fear, unable to open my mouth, and even on one occasion during high school, shaking so violently from head to toe I was told to not worry about finishing my presentation and to go to the sick bay. (That one kind of worked in my favour – I got an A out of pity).

I now tend to avoid speaking in front of crowds unless I am intoxicated, in which case the whole world is my stage. And incidentally, my toilet.

Fat Superhero Friday

Oh Captain Planet you blue skinned, green haired environmentally conscious bastard.

FYI that caption says 'Oblate Spheroid'. Seriously need to work on my letter spacing. Or maybe I'll just start typing the captions....yes, that seems like the lazier option involving no self improvement. That's the one for me!

The equator expands as his belt does.

Fat Superhero Friday

Remember all that controversy a while back over the new Spider Woman? 

Nailed it. That is dead on. 

Bette Midler

I think this may have been drawn in the shortest time physically possible to draw a comic. 

I'm just saying that so that you don't mock my laughable boom-box drawing abilities. It actually took me a while. Look at the exquisite detail on the girls dress. I also realise now that I got the lyrics to the song in the wrong order. I think this furthers my point. Do not play Bette Midler around me. 

I'm sure I'm not the only one. 

Fat Superhero Friday

Another installment of your favourite (I use that word loosely) Friday shenanigans. I have titled this piece 'Dat booty doe'. I think it really captures my artistic vision.

Supervision

Here's another post it note comic. I drew a bunch of these for my old supervisor at work towards the end of each day when any work ethic I may have had was completely and utterly dead. This was my way to waste time and show how bad I am a spacing out my handwriting.

FYI the last panel says good work guys, not good work guts.

Fat Super Hero Friday

Fat Super Hero Friday on Friday for realsies. It's ok to be in awe of my artistic skill. Almost lifelike isn't it?

Fat Super Hero Friday Thursday

So as a way of introduction to what I am dubbing "Fat Super hero Friday", I am posting my first installment today - ON A THURSDAY!

I know, I'm crazy and I won't listen to reason.

Just note, I drew these on post it notes at work and then took a photo with my phone, so the quality is comparable to that of a potato. I also can't draw to save myself, not that I think that would ever be necessary thankfully.

Enjoy Fat Aqua man and check back tomorrow for another of your favourite super heroes letting them selves go.

Pre-work out and Me: No sleep for the idiotic

Two things you need to know before we begin:

1)      I’ve never had pre-workout before.

2)      I workout during my lunch break at work

A lot of my friends and acquaintances and people I stalk on the internet are fitness fanatics.

These healthy, happy people who always seem to have better lives than me are always touting the benefits of some supplement or recently discovered rain forest dwelling grass-berry hybrid. One thing however that I am constantly being told both by my internet stalkees and their real life counterparts is that if you’re not using pre-workout you’re not “getting the most out of your workout”. To translate out of gym niceties: “You’re an embarrassment to the gym and yourself. Why do you even bother, you sloth on a moving walkway?”

So when it came time for my 20^th or so “diet and exercise starts tomorrow” declaration for the year so far, I decided to purchase one of these wonder powders. This was less a well thought out and researched procurement than it was one of these products being in my direct line of sight and costing under $30 at Chemist Warehouse.

Since I work out almost exclusively during my lunch break (home time is internet time) it dawned on me that I was going to have to take my new energiser work with me. This I did.

I had been told by many people (who I now realise were embellishing the truth to some degree) that pre-workout was basically rocket fuel for people. It would give me an unparalleled burst of energy which I would then parlay into becoming a workout monster when presented with a treadmill and/or dumbbell. Gullible as I am I thought “Wow, better halve the dose so people at work don’t think I’m on crack.”

So Monday before work I zip lock bagged up a half dose of my pre-workout miracle powder and off I went.

As lunch rolled around I decided I better mix up this stuff of legends as the container suggested drinking it an hour to an hour and a half before your workout. “Cool. No problem. Everybody does it right? How bad can it be if all those fitness people take it. So you’ve never tried it before and you are in your place of employment, it’ll be fine it was $29.95 from the chemist. You didn’t buy it from a guy wearing a trench coat in the middle of summer.”

…………………………..When it comes to new things I am, as a rule, an absolute wussy. So I halved my half dose.

I pulled out my suspicious looking baggie of white powder and tried to discreetly distribute it into a shaker bottle at my desk. The majority of it ended up on and in my computer keyboard. But I managed to get some in the shaker and enthusiastically added water and shook it above my head in a defensive display of “I didn't bring cocaine to work! See?! I’m just really into fitness!”

For the next hour I sat at my desk, placebo effect in full swing. If I typed an especially fast sentence in an email, my brain immediately suspected I was under the influence of the pre-work out and it was enhancing my already absurdly quick and particularly inaccurate typing skills.

I decided I’d better head off to the gym so I could reap the benefits of the best investment under $30 I’d ever made (Except for maybe 45 pairs of Kmart socks).

As I stepped triumphantly through the front doors of the gym, my energy evaporated instantly. It was like someone decided to flick my lazy switch into the ‘on’ position. Evidently the placebo effect was not strong enough to carry me through an actual workout. So I spent 30 minutes on the cross trainer at a very low resistance reading a book.

Far be it from me to give up on this thing I had spent my hard earned cash on and that was supposedly the best energy booster ever to grace the earth, I decided that the next day I would take a full dose of this crap. No, not a full dose as recommended on the container, a full dose in the eyes of me, which out of stubbornness was a whole scoop of powder (note: recommended dose is half a scoop).

Again, suspicious baggy on desk, but this time I dumped the whole lot in the shaker, careful not to coat my keyboard a second time. I downed the liquid as quickly as I could, which is not very fast. (For some reason I am a terribly slow drinker who gets full really fast. As a kid..and possibly still now..it would take me all day to drink half a juice box.)

I again noticed my typing speed seemed to have accelerated to Flash like levels, but wrote this off as more placebo effects induced by the concoctions tropical flavoured lies.

 I trotted off to the gym anyway. This time, however, I practically flew there. I burst in through the front door and wove through the few people in my way like Pacman avoiding Blinky…although somewhat less agile. I went straight for the treadmill and cranked that shit up to 11. (I literally put the speed on 11. I know that’s not crazy fast, but I felt like Roadrunner at the time). I zoned out listening to a mismatched playlist of Britney Spears’s ‘Toxic’ and ‘The Plot to Bomb the Panhandle’ by A Day to Remember on repeat, and watching my reflections pony tail bounce exultantly from side to side with each lightning fast step that I took. I finished my 5ks in a less than impressive time, and with less than impressive pains in my legs, but it felt like a victory to me. I had survived the pre-workout! It had given me the energy to run to a Britney Spears song!

Whilst showering and feeling on the edge of exhaustion, I thought back over my intake for the day. Got up, had coffee. Met a friend for dinner, had coffee. Got to work, had a can of energy drink. Needed a break from my computer screen, got coffee. Almost lunch time, had pre-workout.

Andddd so I added up just how much caffeine I had actually had prior to my ‘pre-workout is awesome’ epiphany run.

Too much.

Enough that it may have caused me a crazed burst of cartoon bird enthusiasm for running short-moderate distances on a flat surface at a controlled speed, (What type of bird is Roadrunner anyway?...Google says Roadrunner is a roadrunner. Huh. Well there you have it.)

Had I jumped the gun too soon praising pre-workout as my motivational savior? Was it in fact glorious caffeine which had kick started my ability to run Terminator T1000 style towards a car that I never reached (this is what I imagined while running to keep me motivated, which is why I kept my palms open and focused greatly on arm swinging technique).

I didn’t really care. I was that tired that putting my pants on after the shower was enough effort to almost make me break out into a sweat again. Dear god I’m unfit.

I am home now, and have been for the past 4 hours. I should have been asleep 3 hours ago, but am not in the least bit drowsy despite the (minor) physical exertion I put myself through today. The lesson is probably that no matter how much of an addict you think you are, you CAN have too much caffeine, and will suffer the consequences of sitting up in bed when you should be asleep, writing terrible blogs about how you can’t sleep. It will help you run fast briefly, but then you will be trapped in an endless thought cycle, trying to decide which caffeinated beverage it was which inevitably pushed you over the edge. 

Caffeine + Caffeine + Bubbly Caffeine + Caffeine + Tropical flavoured Caffeine = Energy/Brain malfunction + a thousand word essay on caffeine.

So for now I guess I will continue the pre-workout regime. Largely because I don’t want to waste almost $30 I could have spent on regular coffee, and partly because I don’t really care if I never sleep again.

That last part is not true. I would like to be able to sleep now please. My left eye has started twitching.

The Toddler and the Sea

Mum told me a story over the weekend which I had never heard before, which I think succinctly summarises what sort of child I was, and what sort of an adult I have become.

When I was 4 years old, I accompanied my Mum, her friend and my brother (13 at the time) on a cruise over Christmas.

I have a few vague memories of this time, and a few more vivid home videos.

Memories include: using a Minnie Mouse lip gloss I was given for Christmas as perfume (I smeared it all over my ears and wrists) and being unable to properly align the cotton balls I was gluing onto a paper Santa Clause face in day care, and still thinking the finished product was the absolute tits.

Home movie evidence shows: requesting my stuffed Jemima Puddle Duck toy sing and dance for the camera, and becoming incensed when she did not. Taking over when Jemima would not co-operate and singing Christmas Carols myself in the hallways of the ship cabins, only to fall silent whenever somebody stopped to listen; and wearing a homemade ‘flower’ costume for a children’s dress-up parade, which I lost (because I looked more like a psychedelic lion than a flower).

This incident, thankfully, was not captured on film. It was recalled with near perfect clarity by my mother. 

My mum’s friend was a children’s clothing designer. She had constructed the psychedelic lion flower costume I mentioned earlier, and she had made me several dresses and bits and pieces which I was not always a fan of as a child. My personal 4 year old style had more a fluoro-pink-taffeta-shorts-or-nothing kind of attitude to it.  

Specifically for this cruise, in addition to a few other pieces, she had made me a bikini. After a day of swimming in the deck pool, being partially drowned by my brother and just generally disturbing the peace, mum decided we should head back to the cabin to shower and change. Mum, her friend and my brother headed off with me in tow.

At some point, mum turned around to check that I was still following her like a good little duckling, and I was, just waddling along behind the rest of the group ........only suddenly I was stark naked.

“Where’s your bikini!?” Mum cried

“I threw it over the edge mum.” I replied matter-of-factly. 

“Why did you do that?!”

“I felt like it.” No hint of remorse. 

And I continued to pad along the deck, nude, having gifted my handmade-with-love bikini to the sea, and evidently quite happy with my decision. I wasn't trying to be rude, or ungrateful or bratty. I just wanted to see what it would be like if I took off my bikini and hurled it into the ocean from a moving luxury liner.

I wish I remembered the feeling, because I think it would be much less acceptable behaviour for an adult.

My main question is, why did no other passenger stop me? Surely someone would have noticed a 4 year old disrobing in the middle of the pool deck, running up to the side of the ship and setting their swimwear free over the edge?

I can only imagine it was the look of fierce determination on my little toddler face which dissuaded them from trying to keep me from my life’s mission.

But as I said, I think this story pretty well sums me up as a person on the whole. When I do stupid things I’m not trying to be bratty or rude or ungrateful…I just want to see what would happen if…

Plus I don't like wearing pants.

I’m out there every day asking the big important questions. Scientific mind. 

Let’s call it that. 

The Gadget Murderer

I love technology. My eyes light up watching the latest gadget I've procured illuminate with pretty moving colours and soothing space aged start-up music.

But I don’t look after my technological gadgets, and because of this, I feel the machines have finally started to make their move against me. The end is near.

I have been blacklisted by my entertainment systems, communication devices and portable work consoles for being careless in my efforts to maintain their well-being.

I am careless with my belongings.

I break things.

Hulk smash.

Maybe it’s because the first mobile phone I ever owned could survive a teenage girl throwing it directly at the tiled kitchen floors in a fit of rage over a text message. How silly is that? I can’t even remember what it said. (I remember exactly what it said. Fuck you Karen, you bitch.)

Or maybe it’s because I've never owned anything of significant value that I haven’t bought and paid for myself, and I therefore feel some kind of entitlement to destroy it, along with the money I spent, as I see fit. Now watch me flush this Tamagotchi down the toilet (true story).

Or maybe I have spoiled myself with my technological gadgetry and now subconsciously seek to arrange the demise of my computerised minions earlier than their intended expiration date as some kind of justification to purchase the NEW version of the gadget without feeling guilty. “I NEED a new one…my old one just fell to pieces…after being subjected to multiple beatings in the bottom of my gym bag under some weights I just happen to carry around”

I like to think it is not the latter, both to reassure myself that I am not a psychopath and serial purposeful gadget murderer, and because the last gadget I broke was the latest up-to-date model of a phone of which there were no viable upgrades on the horizon.

Right now I am writing this on a tablet on a train. Not because inspiration to write struck me or I felt the need to warn the world of my murderous tendencies towards anything more technical than a calculator (who am I kidding, I have broken several calculators), but because it appears the headphone jack on the tablet is broken, and I can’t watch my stories.

I’m only at this point now because I have finished the book I loaded onto my E-Reader before leaving home and am too fussy to pick another one without first reading several reviews on its literary quality from internet people I don’t know.

I can’t read any reviews on these books from these people who live in the internet because my phone is broken and I don’t have access. 

I DON’T HAVE INTERNET ACCESS. Trying not to panic.

I may have panicked a little.

The E-Reader itself is a recent upgrade and/or replacement of the older model which I managed to break by carrying around in my bag with no case. Bottle of wine vs. unprotected e-reader…..you already know who won.

It wasn't even good wine. $10 Moscato vs $120 gadget.

Ha, nah you’re right, it was still good wine.

Can they just start building these things with covers? That would really help me out a lot.

The gadgets, not the wine. I imagine if the made wine bottles indestructible bad things would happen. I’m not sure what bad things exactly, but I imagine it would have something to do with turtles.

And I know I know, the evil techno giants (incidentally my future DJ name) want my money so they make things smash-able and shatter-able and with a shelf life shorter than spring onions (quite literally, I had spring onions in my fridge for longer than I had this new phone.) so they’re not going to make a tougher version of my fancy pants phone which has a screen too big to fit in to any type of fancy pants pocket.

But a girl can dream.

I don’t dream much.

The last one I had had something to do with a me triumphing gloriously over someone I was upset with and I woke  up sad to realise that was not the case in reality. In reality, I was sitting in bed with a laptop that must be plugged in at all times because the battery is dead, a tablet with a broken headphone jack, a phone which doesn't work – at all, and an e-reader with no books on it.

My iPod shuffle is still in remarkably good condition. This is likely because it is the only item I have mentioned which was purchased for me as a birthday gift from my best friend about 8 years ago. I tend to take care of the shit other people give me.

It’s also small enough that me dropping it or throwing it in the bottom of a sweaty and weight filled gym bag has no effect.

What I’m getting at here is, please will someone buy me some new technology. I have exhausted my gadget budget and have already managed to break all the things I spent it on.

The great migration

So I've started this new blog.

I hope to update regularly.

I probably will not.


I've moved across all my old blog posts from the Ramblex, since I know how popular they were ...*cough*...where did that tumble weed come from? I live in the inner suburbs.

Just FYI, they have not been spell or grammar checked.

Anything below this post was written circa 2012-2013. Anything above this post was probably written in an alcohol fueled rage.

Just kidding. I don't need any kind of substance to fuel my rage.

Louie - Water Cat

My cat has a weird obsession with water. I'm torn between thinking he is some kind of genius aqua cat philosopher, constantly pondering the fickle nature of our greatest and most life giving-est resource.... or slightly retarded.

On a daily basis he repeats the same water related activities for changing periods of time and intensity.

The most damaging behaviour is when he scoops water out of his bowl with his paws and just tips it on the floor. For no reason. No reason at all! Then he just walks away, his floor destroying, flood damage inducing mission complete.
The most concerning habit is watching wet face washers dry. He will sit there for....I don't even know how long actually, because I get bored of watching him before he gets bored of watching the washers....just staring at the washer I have just used to scrub my face hanging on the towel rail, occasionally dripping little aquatic droplets of his obsession onto the floor. He won't chase the droplets though, he will just watch.

He saves the chasing of water droplets for when I am taking a shower, and with no concern for modesty will plaster himself to the outside of the glass door, diving to the floor when he spies a particularly enticing raindrop leave his field of vision.

He has also picked up the annoying habit of meowing bloody murder if I don't open the door for him to go in and investigate the remaining shower floor and wall water after I finish showering.

Louie's increasing level of comfort around me has meant more and more of his quirks have come to light. And let me tell you, he is weird. Aside from his strange fascination with water, he steals my socks - picks them up off the floor and hides them under the couch, he lies over the back and arm rests of chairs and couches - as in with his head on one side and his ass on the other, and will stay that way for hours, he tries to eat both my pant legs and my hair, and he eats his food with his 'hands' - by this I mean he has never just eaten out of his bowl, he will pick up individual pieces of dry food, or chunks of wet food with his paw and then eat it out of his hand. He is the weirdest cat I have ever owned, and I seem to attract weird cats as a rule. (Including Mistchet, who allowed me to dress her up in dolls clothes, push her in a pram and feed her from a bottle with no complaint [I was 7 at the time]; Duckie, who will become completely disabled if you lay her on her back, and has a habit of collapsing on the floor in front of your feet to get your attention, and Spooky, who managed to remove every single collar ever put on her, and proceed to capture possums and set them free in the house.)

I have illustrated some of Louie's aforementioned daily water rituals below (extremely poorly), and included some actual photos of his shower exploration. Enjoy.

Updated to include this picture I just snapped of Louie doing the face washer watching thing:

Egg Chair

Auto correct and a drunk me don't mix. Apparently my phone also has the ability to produce drawings in text messages that drunk me obviously stumbled across and then couldn't get rid of. Unless that's meant to be an extremely detailed floor plan of the night club indicating my location relative to Jodie's.

On Hold with Optus

Was just cleaning up the icons on my laptops desktop, and came across a notepad document which I had completely forgotten about. Opened it up and found an epic rant I barely remember writing about 4 months ago. I think it's pretty self explanatory. If you can make it through reading it....it be LONNNNGGGG!
That should give you a pretty good scope of the amount of time I was on hold for actually. 



So I've already been on hold to Optus for about 15 mins. In that time I've played 3 games of spider solitaire on my computer and now my eyes are starting to go cross eyed so I figured I'd move on to something else.
I'm on hold because I called to get them to set up my new internet connection, which I was assured was a simple self installation job. After attempting the set up multiple times I gave up and Googled the help number on my phone, which promptly died, so had to wait for it to charge to call them.

Although I did find it interesting, in an "you are all idiots" kind of way, that the letter I got with my new modem/router said for troubleshooting advice go to the website.

Number 1) I need troubleshooting advice for the fact that I cannot connect to the internet, you jackasses. So just to add insult to injury you put the help tips on the internet where I cannot access them. Putting aside phone internet, what if I had no phone signal? What if I was over my download limit on my phone?

I had to Google the number for the phone help line! Do they not see the issue with this? No Internet = No Help but No Help = No Internet.

Number 2) The "Help" on the website was literally the same booklet they had included with the router, only in adobe document format. Again, you jackasses. Why would I want the identical information I already have, only at the cost of wasting my mobile data to download it?

Now at this point, I have been on hold for another 8 minutes since I started typing. And I need to poop.
I think I'm going to poop. Maybe the awkwardness of the situation will make them more likely to answer the damn phone. Things usually work out that way for me.

...........................................................


Have pooped and returned. Still no word from t................


WHAT THE FUCK!

On hold for a total of 30 minutes with no word, and then an electronic voice comes over the phone and says "The Optus service center you have called is currently closed. Please call back tomorrow"

............

I CALLED A 24 HOUR LINE YOU FUCKERS!

And what did the people do, palm me off to another office who then put me on hold til they closed so they didn't have to take my call?

FUCK YOU OPTUS!
EPIC RAGE!

Now have had to call them AGAIN! And have to be put through the punishment of listening to their hold music, which I'm fairly certain was developed initially as some form of psychological warfare weapon system.
There's one tune that sounds like something from James Bond, only much much creepier. Like if James bond was a secret agent ghost or something.
And then the one that comes after that is like some overly happy 80's shit with an electronic organ playing beneath what can only be described as the highest pitch whistle it is possible for the human ear to decipher. It may even go higher than that pitch, I don't know, to my knowledge there are no dogs in my apartment building.If there were they would surely be howling the fucking place down right now.

10 minutes and counting on hold this second time. Now it's a song that started off like a weak version of the power rangers theme song and has gone into some soul singer singing "everything will be alright yeah yeah" over and over again.

No sad soul singer, not everything will be alright. Your career for one thing, is never going to be alright. If you have to sing a song to be used as hold music, nothing is going to be alright for you as a singer. Especially for Optus customers. You're voice has become the voice of evil. The voice that signifies being put on hold for half an hour and then hung up on. You're going to trigger some serious 'Nam-esc flashbacks if I ever hear your voice outside of this phone call.
You should probably give up singing and move to Iceland. I'm less likely to hunt you down and take vengeance against you for your crimes against humanity if you are in Iceland.

Less likely, but not totally unlikely. If I were you I would start running.


RUN.


Good thing I don't value my time or anything. I like being on hold for an hour when there's nothing to do at my place since I have no internet, no games, can't use the phone because it's busy playing me brain melting subliminal message songs, and can't watch TV as I've only managed to get the SBS channels working so far.



DAY TWO

Called Optus again, am on hold again, the time is now 6:00pm exactly on Tuesday. Let's see how we go today.

More torturous hold music, coupled with unbearable static and distortion from what I presume is both the quality of the music and the quality of my phone load speaker.
This music is making me feel like I'm in a waiting room some where with 8 other sad and tired people
where they are playing this horribly happy trumpet music to try and cheer up the poor bastards stuck there. But on the other side of the doors is the lethal injection. So the music is just a macabre insult really.

Wow. Took a dark turn there for a minute.

Oh look someone answered, 8 minutes later. Then said "I'm transferring you to someone else". Have been transferred to the someone else who then once again put me on hold.

2 minutes and counting for this second hold.

After 5 minutes, he is back! And asks if the internet and DSL lights are on on my modem/router.

The answer is no, neither of them are. And his response is "Well you need those to be on otherwise there is no internet connection"

Thanks captain obvious. Not like I called you because I couldn't get that to happen now was it? I just called for a chat. A deep bonding session with your hold music, who has now become my most hated adversary.

Oh good, after another 5 minutes on hold I am told the same thing I was last night, that I will be called back in 5-10 mins when they have talked to a technician.

I call bullshit. I call bullshit on this whole operation people! SHENANIGANS!

My warning to you all:

Get out! Get out while you still can! If you are considering Optus for your internet DON'T DO IT! I BEG OF YOU! RUN, RUN WHILE YOU STILL HAVE MOVEMENT IN YOUR LEGS
BEFORE THEY GO ALL PINS AND NEEDLES FROM BEING IN THE SAME POSITION IN FRONT OF THE COMPUTER WAITING FOR THE HOLD MUSIC TO ENDD!!!!!

Was called back over an hour later, and am now on hold again. I am starting to hate all humans.

Life with Louie the Cat

Motivation Deprivation

Motivation strikes me at the most useless times.
I'm sure I'm not alone in this.

It always seems to be at it's most powerful when I myself am powerless to act on it.
Or, in situations where it would've been more useful 15 minutes earlier.

For example, half way through eating a triple chocolate chip muffin I just paid $5 for.
Two bites in and I'll go, NO! You know what! I want to be healthy! I'm not going to eat any more of this muffin!........................well that was a waste of $5. Repeat every Wednesday, indefinitely.


Or walking home and I'll decide to go to the gym.....when I've already passed it. "I'll do it, I'll go to the gym!......Damnit. I'll go next time."

Almost precisely like this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AIhDFL6jdyU  (but much better quality)

Then of course there's those times you see all the things you need to do to fix your life with sudden clarity. How to be happy, be fit, save money AND own each of those 7 pairs of nearly identical shoes. But this sudden clarity and motivation hits me either when I'm in the shower, which I'm convinced has some kind of magical properties to it's water to induce these epiphanies, because as soon as I step out of said shower and dry myself I've forgotten everything I just meticulously planned for my future happiness and prosperity, and slipped back to reality and away from Nirvana and enlightenment, OR when I am laying in bed on the brink of sleep. So much motivation to do ALL OF THE THINGS when I am trying to sleep. But of course, daylight comes, alarms sound (repeatedly for at least half an hour before I actually get up), and motivation has evaporated along with any attractive qualities my face may have retained up until sleep took me for it's bitch. (I wake up every morning looking like a cross between a panda that's been through a hurricane, and Mr Burns)

So, motivation is gone and inevitably I end up with the 7 pairs of nearly identical shoes but none of the rest. Including food, as I have undoubtedly spent my food money on hilarious outfits for my cat.

I find motivation also works to a weekly schedule for me. As outlined briefly in this comment I sent earlier to Jodie:

"Usually I keep my place pretty clean from Saturday through Thursday. By Thursday night I'm pretty tired and cbf washing up or putting shit away. Then I live in relative squalor until Saturday when I clean up everything. 
This week however, this week is different. It is Monday, and I already cbf cleaning anything. I have been sitting on my couch since 6pm only getting up once to microwave a potato. 
I'm hoping this is just an off week, because otherwise this #singlelife thing is going too far. By Saturday you'll probably find me flat out on the carpet watching old South Park episodes surrounded by empty tic tac boxes and bread crusts."


It's like my brain is split into two distinct personalities - a really enthusiastic, motivated, happy brain who thinks I can do anything, and the much, much more powerful lazy shit of a brain who always knows the exact thing to say to win out over motivation brain.

"Gym! Let's go to the gym! We'll feel so much better once we run and then when we get home we can eat some delicious turkey and vegetables! Healthy and fit! Woo!"

"Ok, yes that's a good idea, OR...and hear me out here....OR...we could not do that."

"But...healthy!"

"Yes...but couch."

Reasons I think I'm old beyond my years

Now, normally that saying is 'wise beyond your years', but that's not so in my case. I am just old beyond my years - only 23 but with the characteristics of someone around the age of 60. Not just a regular 60 year old either. One of the grumpy ones who yells at children to get off the lawn. 10 reasons pertaining to this revelation are the following:

1) I regularly either think or utter the phrase "Stupid kids."
2) I actively avoid going outside between the hours of 3pm and 4pm on weekdays so as to avoid school children returning home.
3) I have been waking up at 8am on Saturdays and Sundays. And actually getting out of bed. And not being tired.
4) Then, around 4pm I start to get drowsy and need a caffeine kick.
5) I am choosing, without coercion, to buy home wares and furniture over clothing and shoes.
6) I've started to actually enjoy watching home improvement shows
7) I can make a quiche...without a recipe
8) New technology is no longer exciting, it is frightening and confusing.
9) I have been to a night club once in the last 4 months, and I hated it.
10) If I don't write something down, it is immediately forgotten. Not only do I need to write it down though, I have to write it down and set an alarm to alert me to look at the note at an appropriate time to take action.

I'm pretty sure that last one is some kind of early onset dementia. I will write notes on my hand, and then forget to look at my hand. Then I'll go to shower and see it there and think oh shit I forgot, never mind I'll do it when I get out of the shower. Then of course, I wash the pen off my hand, get out of the shower and have completely forgotten there was ever something I was meant to do! Especially something so important that it required me temporarily tattooing my hands with blue ink.

I'm pretty sure I also drink more milk than should be legally allowable for a human being to consume.
I'm not sure if that's an elderly thing, but it's probably not helping since everyone else my age drinks soft drink.

As I write this, I am sitting in my dressing gown, on the couch on a Sunday morning, considering walking down to pick up a Sunday news paper just so I can do the crossword and Sudoku.
Speaking of which, reminds me that I am the only person under the age of 60 that does the Sudoku in the MX paper on the train ride home after work. The only other people I've seen actually take out a pen and attempt the puzzles on the train are men with white hair, brown shoes and briefcases that I'm fairly sure would fetch a pretty penny at an antique market.

So I'll leave you with my sad elderly lady confessional, and go and get a coffee and the paper. If you relate to any of this, I'm truly sorry. Maybe we could start a club? We could all learn Mahjong together and complain about today's youth. (Do you realise I was born before the internet was commercially available? Today's kids won't even have to ask their parents where babies come from. They can ask Google instead. Not Jeeves though. Fuck Jeeves, he was always the worst search engine.)

Fat Superhero Friday

Fridays are notoriously dull in the later afternoons at my workplace. Everyone has gone home, the phone's not ringing, and there is no work left to do, but as a receptionist you have to stay 'til the very end. Like the people that went down with the Titanic, except much less tragic, and nothing to do with a ship. 

So this is the fruit of one such afternoon, Fat Superheros. I drew Batman first, and never actually intended for him to be fat, but when he came out chubby I rolled with it (pun intended). I can't draw to save myself so generally I just have to draw first and then decided on intention later. Whenever I think, I'm going to draw 'THIS', it inevitably ends up looking more like 'THAT', or more accurately, like nothing at all. But here they are for your perusal, happy Fat Superhero Friday! (They're drawn on my reception messages pad by the way, hence the name, calling for, etc...that's not just part of the drawing...)

Post No. 2

So in an effort to keep this up, here is post number two. It feels like it's snowballing out of control! First one post, then a second? Watch out blog-o-sphere, there's a new contender for queen of the internet!

....sadly, it's not myself. I imagine the queen of the internet would be someone like Jenna Marbles or possibly Mila Kunis. And Mila Kunis wouldn't even have to do anything to be queen of the internet, someone else would upload her pictures and BAM, the queen is crowned. 

I have absolutely no topic for this post other than my own inane ramblings. Better out then in eh? Well no that's not strictly true I suppose. Organs, for the most part, are most definitely better in. And probably some blogs, including this one. Oh well too late now.

In my quest to create this blog however, I have realised my own technological downfalls. I'm not as computer savvy as I thought I was. Which I don't understand. Surely if celebrities can figure out Twitter I can too?! Or is it something you have to be capable of 'Writin lyk dis' to grasp the concept of? Seriously I don't get it. Although admittedly I do enjoy the tweets of Will Farrell....when someone else screen shots them and posts them on Facebook, because I DON'T GET TWITTER!

Swiftly moving back to my original point, assuming I had one...something about technology....? Oh right. When I decided to start this blog, I went on a quest to find the most user friendly and accessible blogging website available. (By user friendly I mean impossible to fuck up, and featuring a formidable spell check, and by accessible I mean doesn't require a URL 1,374 characters long...you know the ones....http://www.blogwebsite.co.country.internet.streslecki/australiaisatthebottomoftheworld/howisanyonegoingtofindthisblogever?haha,hahatheywon'tyou'rewastingyourtime/alexsblog.com.au)...(and by quest I mean typed blog website into Google)

I settled on this one, for not much more reason then it was the first link. (I gave up on the user friendly and accessibly quest pretty much straight away.) Convenient Google...considering it is a part of your Google plus scheme....preying on the lazy ones I see. 
I wrote my first blog post, but was off Facebook at the time so had no conceivable plan of how to share it with anyone, not that it was worth sharing anyway, and so just let it mellow.

Not only that, but I tried to adjust the information on my profile and I couldn't even figure out how to change my photo. Now the optimist in me says that maybe there was a bug in the system that day and when I came back this evening to write a second post it had been miraculously fixed and allowed me to update some of my profile information, however the pessimist in me (which more often than not is the most accurate in these presumptions) says that a 4 year old could have changed my entire profile with one click of a completely unrelated device like a calculator or a banana or something and then looked at me as if I was a 106 year old with a learning disability. 

Smug little bastard.

I'm still not convinced I've figured it out. In fact, I'm positively certain that I haven't got a clue, but I'm going to attempt it, in the true insanity spirit that I hold so dear (trying the same thing over and over and expecting different results).

And so concludes my second post, in which I have said absolutely nothing and wasted precious seconds...minutes...? of your internet life.

Someday, maybe I'll have something interesting to say and I will post about it and it will be glorious!

But probably not, and I'll resign myself to blogging drivel about nothing. 

It's like the Seinfeld of blogs, except with fewer pink shirts, baggy jeans and sneaker combos. And less money. Much less money.

So, I've decided to start a blog.

It took little to no thought, and the probability that I will keep up posts at a regular pace is slim, but Facebook only allows so many characters, and I can imagine the masses get sick of my out of control posting sprees expressing my dislike and frustration about anything and everything overtaking their news feeds.

That and I have a new laptop with a really good keyboard and it is satisfying to type on. Typety type type. Typing on they keyboard!

Eh hem. 

Anyway this will now be the home for all of my ramblings and inane chatter between the left and right sides of my brain. And should anything exciting happen to me (unlikely) I will document it here. There is no theme to my blog, no topic off limit. So don't expect uniformity or stability. Don't expect anything, that way you won't be disappointed, also you'll be pleasantly surprised should something nice happen. Advice from a pessimist, take it.