Let's Play Pretend

And I can't believe how many new, and almostly immediately shunted to the outer mind, blogs and discussion groups have had to be endured to get back here.

#3 different loaves of bread, a resolve of migration to America, and a deep desire to start punching those fucking Neanderthal mathematicians in front of me, at the food shop *(8) Eight Items or Less* aisle, have ensued that my mind is NEVER going to be restored to it's former gem-like glittering brilliance.

I have forgotten so much through this ECT. It's so hard to get back to the place that I was, to remember passwords, security numbers, even plain appointents. It feels like my head has had a huge knock; big enough to spill the endless streams of knowledge just a tad from their predetermined dedicated paths.

It is incredibly distressing to not be able to take control, to utilize, to rely on your own mind with surety, when you KNOW that you are a very intelligent person and that some of your skills make you worthy of important intellectual activity.

Quite frankly, I can cook up a storm, look front-side of the bus-worthy, resent not bringing in a second income by not working, and am starting to get rather apprehensive. You blokes obviously have a LOT higher standards these days for your women (which makes me think I spoilt him first time around! (Actually, I damn well spoilt them all, come to think of it; but I satiated myself in the sensual drowning bath along the way).

Better for both of us babe, if we are actually NICE to each other. Much better if our offspring realise that we are both doing the best we can, in unwelcome circumstances.

Please, please, please: somebody find even a tenuous excuse for me wearing my red vinyl stripper boots in the garbe I will end up in tomorrow night!

I've never worn them, not even for kinky sex, and I would absolutely love to. Trouble is, they scream 'slut!!!!!!' and I hate fighting drunken sleazebags when I should be dancing. A private party, in the presence of my dad, seems to suggest that the more basic level might be just a little controlled, when it is known that he is riding shotgun.

New direction in my life; new blog

New Year's Eve is party time!

My New Year's Eve involved of two bottles of champagne , a cat who comes into his own in the witching hours and the fervent idea that my bathroom needed to be repainted in blue and silver. So, that's what I did: drank champagne and painted.

Apparently, I must have thought that nude painting would require less of a cleanup. My thoughts must have then logically progressed to the idea that my body look very, well, plain.

I awoke on New Year's day with a horrendous hangover, silver kitten paw marks all over the apartment, cobalt blue streaks all over me and two carefully painted silver nipples.

In my single, younger days, there probably would have been a much more exciting reenactment to be slowly recollected. It probably would have involved a mutual paint-by-body-part game and at least FOUR bottles of champagne, a lot of it sipped from each other's navels. Nowadays, its a lot more pedestrian.

I got drunk, convinced myself that gorgeous me needed some tribal war paint and that silver nipples really set off the nipple jewellery. God, it's dull getting old on my own.

(The cat? I assume he wanted to play too and thought painting a great game. I've left quite a lot of the prints in hard to reach areas and I think they add a certain something).

Still Painting

A word of warning.

Hypothetically speaking, of course.

If a female was totally engaged in painting her apartment, and hypothetically found it easier to wear nothing while doing it, for clean up ease, problems can occur.

It is not infeasible that oil paint could get onto this hypothetical female's nipples, by brushing against a too wet painted door. If hypo girl failed to notice until it had hardened, she would would first try to peel it off and then go for the turps.

NO! Nipples of fire is not pleasant.

Hypothetical girl wishes to advise against painting in the nude. Or frying eggs.

Silly BN wouldn't work so lots of posts right now

I can't stop laughing. In between debating the finer points of good and bad, via PM, I've been painting a corner unit white.

White gloss oil painted.

My cat just leapt on to the top of it, in spite of me diving to obstruct him. It was fairly tacky by then and the look on his face was priceless, as he started to try and pull up his paws, with tacky strings of half dried paint adhering to his pads.

I was laughing so much that I couldn't catch him as he fled. There are now little trails of pussycat pads, neat little tracking marks, all over my apartment.

Oh well, they add character to the place, I suppose.

You know what sucks?

When the delivery service and post office closes over Christmas and the New Year and you [B]know[/B] that you are expecting a parcel.

You know because they leave a card saying they tried at 6.15 [B]fucking a.m.[/B], at a time when you don't even wake up to an alarm clock (well, if one was set, you don't: for important stuff worth getting up for, you tape your mobile phone to the top of your thigh and set it on 'vibrate mode' and ask a friend to call you. That works, my oh my.)

You know that the parcel contains desperately slutty footware and you can't even get to it!

Also, a word to everybody out there. It maybe that because we know Telstra has outsourced its support crew for more profits, we automatically assume that we are being rerouted to India. And that everybody who has an Indian accent is in the telecentre overthere.

Which is a point of view that should be considered, when telling lies to expedite the fixing of your wireless broadband connection. I always try to make myself memorable and tell them how I need the wireless card for my raunchy pay-by-the-minute live sex cam shows. And that Telstra is costing me money.

Not a good idea when the latest Indian accent guy actually lives in the same suburb and is way too fucking keen to come around in person and fix the problem!

Ssssshhhhhhh!

The medications are working; I am starting to feel better. I am on a combination of drugs because apparently the brain is not producing enough serotonin and the uptake receptor axions are not working properly either.

But this combination of drugs is really helping me and I don't want to jinx myself by saying so but there are actual moments of happiness here and there.

I am staying at my Mum's for Christmas and my girls are sleeping here overnight so that we can do the the stocking /present thing in the morning. I am looking forward to it.

The only said thing is that my thigh high red stripper boots haven't arrived. I really wanted to wear them tomorrow night for Christmas dinner but oh well.

I am not writing so much at the moment because my interent wireless card has stopped working. Countless phone calls to Telstra haven't really resolved things until today. I told Avinol (who assures me he lives in WA, in spite of his his Indian accent, and lack of knowledge of Perth, where he supposedly lives) that the lack of a wireless card for ten days has seriously inhibited my personal and professional life. I told him I was an online camera sex slut and I was losing all my regular customers. He assured me that I would get a new card, expidited post haste. I also told him that lack of internet was severely affecting my hot cyber sex relationship with my overseas boyfriend and that love needed physical satisfaction to blossom.

remind me that my daughter's opinion is not always correct in modern life.

My nearly 14 year old daughter tells me that I swear too much. She says that, instead of saying the naughty cuss words, I should just yell 'PENIS' when I need to swear. She says that it is a proper biological term and that people are perfectly entitled to say it out loud.

So, this afternoon, when I dropped the hedge clippers on my foot, I yelled out "PENIS".

Chair broke when I was trying to hang curtains

I've got a secret

I don't dare talk about it, though, or that might make it less real. I try not to think about it even, lest the gods above cotton on and decide that its time for another round of 'screw kitty'.

I've got a secret and I like having it all to myself. These days, I don't trust anybody with anything. Its y secret and I hug it tight to me last thing at night.

Hey, I went interent shopping again! Yes, I am bad. I haven't paid the phone bill yet but I desperately needed some nipple jewellery. My nipples have had first rings then barbells in them but its been strictly totalitarian and practical. I bought these online.

Is it pathetic?

My mum gave me an early Christmas present of a ginger kitten. I called him ORLANDO and he gives mee a reason to keep struggling though, He destroys everything around hte house and there is toilet paper confetti everywhere. I have scratches and deep punctures for where he loved to grab my arms and play (as an aside, I don;t think the doctor believed me when I told him tht they weren't self inflicted).

He likes to sleep on my hair at night and has been known to bat a paw on my eyelids if he deems it time to get up. he can smell human food a mile off and will be begging immediately. His favourite is feta cheese,

I've fallen in love with his character and his devotion and he makes me feel a lot better (plus drugs, too).,

My mu and stepdad absolutely adore him and have seen alot of him as i've been spending time up at their place so Mum could be less worried that i was going to snuff my candle out. Not unreasonable fear either. I have been a millimetre away at times.

They love dat puddy tat as much as I do so we have worked out a shared custody arrangement!

Wanna have dinner with me?

Dinner tonight is a hunk of Haloumi cheese, a big piece of almond nougat and wine.

I just dropped the cheese and the nougat on the floor but I'm eating them both anyway. Lest you think I have the sort of floors that are so scrubbed Clorox bleachy clean that you CAN eat your dinner off them, let me disabuse you of that notion.

I was just going to have a liquid dinner but figured I'd make it a balanced meal, ala college style: a grease, an alcohol, a sugar. I left out the caffeine and nicotine but I can inhale next door's second hand smoke if I ask nicely and I can brew some expresso to make up the five food groups.

I am fairly sure that there are roaches in this apartment complex in spite of my x million baits laid down all over. I'm still eating my dropped-on-the-floor dinner, dammit.

Butt plugs and paint

I went out for supplies. First migraine free day for a while so had to stock up.

Why does my hardware store choose just before Christmas to do away with bags as part of their 'green friendly' policy? We have the Kyoto treaty, thank you: let the damn politicians work out how many bags etc. Yes, thank you for the offer of a cardboard box, but I ride a damn scooter and those things are hard to balance boxes on, let alone two cans of ten litres of paints plus painting accompaniments. It takes practice to carry everything and a whole family on a scooter, you know. We are close to Asia but not that damn close.

Something that made me laugh, though, in the fresh produce place - large King Oyster Mushrooms. I picked up a tray and remarked casually to nobody in particular, "hey, these look just like butt plugs!". Several little old ladies gave me disturbed looks and I felt bad. I am getting very unihibited in my old age.

Following from the last entry

I've been online shopping again

I was just looking around and I recently sent a friend of mine a birthday present, from his wish list. I always thought those sort of things were a bit presumptious, but I've changed my mind I think. I know I got my friend a book he really wanted and he was happy with it.

Not everybody can always know the right thing to give and I suppose wish lists at least give a general indication, even if the giver doesn't want to give that exact item.

So, purely for the hell of it, I went on a shopping spree myself for my own mythical wish list.

double up

This blog is meant to be more upbeat about my life, due to the fact that people I care about read it (and also due to the fact that, if I am too miserable here people shout at me). I blog elsewhere too, in order to release the bitch within, who is a sobbing, whining, dramatic mess. I don't dare write about it in full detail here, anyway, because the ex has threatened to have me commited. I'm not willing to take that chance and he's such a prick he'd probably do it there was any legal loophole whatsoever.

I don't have bi-polar; or at least the doctors don't think that I do, just acute depression. So acute I can't even get out of bed for days on end. Suicidal thoughts type of depression.

One of the last doctors I saw asked me if I ever felt the need to splurge on things, in spite of lack of money, if I ever felt that I could conquer the world, if I ever heard voices telling me things, if I ever thought my needs were paramount above everybody elses. Sadly, the answer was no.

(No, but I wish I fucking did. I've always thought I'd make an amazing despot dictator.)

But he did put ideas into my mind, damnit!

I thought, 'hell this bipolar lark sounds like I'd at least get a little bit of fun to weigh against the depression. You know, the old 'build it and they shall come thingamajig'"

So I told my daughters that they had 3 hours to shop and spend $1000 between them. To see if they could do it. Not quite, but pretty damn close.
But alas, no mania, just a very hugged mama.

Hmm. Maybe it had to be stuff for me?

OK then. I am now the possessor of a pair of thigh high red leather lace up stripper boots, that cost a fuck of a lot of money. Feeling maniac yet? Nope.

My bank balance (ie. zero now and the phone has been cut off) and I have come to the conclusion that I am merely severely depressed.

But I tell you that I am extremely frugal by nature and those boots were fuckign expensive.

If I ever take that that long walk I'm damn well going to be wearing them, just to get a little bit of value for money.

And, if I feel better before then, I'll wear them, a lot of tinsel, and a smile and send out the resulting photos as Christmas cards.

Sleep, perchance to dream

I went for a walk to the local shopping mall today - I do small goals as a reason to get out of the house - and I saw the Santa there. You know the one: big red throne, wrapped cardboard boxes meant to simulate presents, little tarty things dressed as Santa's helpers (how Santa isn't sporting himself a great big candy cane given these outfits, I'll never know)

Have a drink on me! (Or at least ten to catch up)

I'm drunk (nobody is telling me this) but I am bright enough to notice the signs. Like the slurred words, the urgent desire to pick up the phone and abuse people, and the even less sensible desire to take off all my clothes and post lots of booby pics, which I haven't ever done yet.

I become very exhibitionist when I am drunk. Because I have not drunk enough yet, I am not doing it. Right now. There's a very fine line between seeing things as an excellent idea and being too drunk to actually complete the said excllent idea. (showoff drunky stage)

I think I said my life was getting better just recently. I even said it really low so that those fuckers up there in Valhalla wouldn't hear. They must have great sound levels. Evil fucking god geniuses.

Another thing I want to do is gut my exhusband. He whines about bringing the girls to see me becuase he has to drive them half an hour each way. Oh shock, horror, what an incredible awful journey. And its all my fault because I don't have a car. Lack of car coz lack of money so poor. (maudlin stage of drunky here).

I think if I do see him again, ever, there will be a lot of physical violence, on my end. I married the fucker so I deserve it, I guess, but I do think that my loathing would be safer expressed as screwing anything that moves, rather than enviscerating him.

Why can't I have normal breakup reactions like most people? I wish I liked icecream or chocolate or girly pampering/feel good sessions. And could pick up naive younger people who would root like rattlesnakes.

Some of you regular readers may recall the odd hamster post.

It just seems lately that I am going out of my mind because references to hamsters keep cropping up everywhere. On the internet, in magazines, mentioned in stories....

I'd sort of got accustomed to the regular appearance of fat cheeked rodents in my life and haven't mentioned them so much any more, because I expected them to turn up. Normalisation theory, you know.

I hang out sometimes on a message board where funny, intelligent and often cruel people like to loiter. There are some interesting avatars around but the one that caught my eye was of a rodent that just might have been a hamster (bear in mind, I've never seen one in real life). So, I PMed the author and explained why I was interested in knowing if that creature, was in fact, a hamster.

"I think it is a hamster... it was too cute not to save the picture.
It has broccoli.
yay!

I like bottoms

The bottoms of vodka bottles because it means that I've drunk my way down to it and I am either very happy indeed or unconscious.

Either way is good.

Today has not been great. None of my days are. I feel like Piglet, or was it Pooh, with my own little grey gloom cloud hovering over my head whereever I go.

Didn't sleep at all last night and as a result had a big fight with a friend of mine. I didn't think our friendship would end like this. We both ended up being pissed off at each other and so I've fired him. He's coming off second best from this deal, as he would know if he stopped to think about it.

And in other news I got a text message from somebody who obviously knows me but whose number isn't programed into my phone. There was a little exchange of Happy Xmas and then this person asked me what I wanted for Christmas so I told hi,/her/it about the thigh high red 'fuck me' stripper boots I'd bought myself.