Why Do Birds Suddenly Appear?

So, I’m at home (kind of), in my little brother’s bedroom (kind of) and I’m finding myself trying to come to terms with a big decision.

I’m not sure if I’m sure, but really I think that it’s already been made. It’s just probably kind of scary to admit.

It actually, though, was pretty easy, maybe.

In more important news, though, my darling kitty has run away since my mum moved and I don’t think that he’s coming back. It’s so sad. I don’t think he even liked me that much, but I miss snuggling into his fur. Lucky that I’m not allergic and stuff.
It’s sad to think that he’s dead somewhere, but no one has seen him squished or anything. He was always kind of feral, so I’m going to think of him on a glorious farm somewhere where he is just as horrible as ever.

Maybe I’ll go to my dad’s house so that I can harass his cat.

I Can’t Believe That You And Me Did Sex

I have been repeatedly told that I do not write enough. It’s probably true, but not an incredible impetus.
Last time it merely resulted in a post about my (far away) dog’s new kennel.

All is well, however. I’m going home tomorrow.
Maybe not for long enough, because despite everything I think about home, and despite every reason I give to stay in Sydney, I am starting to miss Black Hill. Haha.

A few days ago I got an email, and it was all, you can’t do French for International Studies, and you can’t go to Canada, or Switzerland, or whatever for a year, etc. etc. etc.
So I had to change my mind, but was met with reassurance that as long as it wasn’t French, I could probably get in.
Although I suppose this is positive, and means that my measly Journalism degree will be supplemented by International Studies, it also seems kind of sad that I won’t be able to study French anymore.
I really quite liked el francaise.
(I know, I know, el is spanish, and stuff).

The most reasonable substitute is, of course, Spanish, but oh no, it’s not my first choice.
I decided that I’d like to be European, and so I’ve decided to dash off to Germany (hopefully).
I think that German will be harder than rehashing my lost French, or even beginning again with Spanish, and I can’t exactly explain why I want to lose myself in Deutsch and all.
Maybe to be just like Dr Reed, or something.

Anyway, Tom told me that Germany is much cooler than Canada, and has told me that he’s now going to go to Berlin to confirm. What a wonderful sibling. So self-sacrificing.

I don’t much care now, I’m almost guaranteed a place within the course, and that’s more important than anything. I’m too scared to finish uni in two years and have no idea what I’m supposed to do next.
If not Germany, I’m going to Latino USA, maybe Miami. Even though I’m scared of alligators. It’s time to face my fears.

Last night I went to Kings Cross because I told you I was hardcore.
I went to World Bar, which I like when I don’t have to pay entry, because it’s nice, and it has cocktails that come in teapots.
That makes the cocktails second only to actual tea.
Kings Cross is sad when you’re traipsing the actual streets. I mean, you know that there are street walkers, but when you’re seeing lines of them waiting for drunk guys to come flash their wallets, it’s kind of sad.
I work under a brothel (and we had a work stoppage last week when a spa leaked through the floor onto one of our computers), but it’s never quite so unnerving as when you’re walking past them, averting glances.

World Bar is quite nice when you’re in the mood, and isn’t going to kill you when you’re not.
We got there early enough to claim a couch, and watch the crowd ebb and flow with the irrationally loud music. Music, which incidentally, isn’t too bad. I mean, they played Vampire Weekend twice in the two, three, whatever, hours that we were there.
No Walcott, but enough to have (at least) me salivating at the thought of Ezra, his outstretched finger, his boat shoes, and the glory of the beautiful light.
It’s a reason that I can be bothered to even go to World Bar. Clubs bore me beyond distraction, and I’m either drunk and begging to leave, or sober and walking myself home.
The music is enough to keep me happy. Which is nice.

My ambition is to be the bass player in a cover band, now.
I’m perfecting my angry, bass chick glare.
Ask anyone, it’s angry.

Can I leave you with a question?

Do beautiful people go to clubs, or do people who go to clubs become beautiful?
Or is it just a trick of the light?

Whatever it is it is not enough to disguise the clearly-from-out-of-town, denim-mini-skirt girls that I was watching.

It’s My Party && I’ll Cry If I Want To

Happy Birthday, Daisy. You’re ten. You’re old.

I miss you.