You Don’t Have To Tell Me Again, I Heard You The First Time

“How Fucking Ridiculous”

“I know. Why?”

“I don’t know what was wrong with me”

“You seem happier now. Happier than you’ve been for a while”

“I know. How Fucking Ridiculous”

Ich Liebe Dich, Ja, Ja, Ja

I love German, ja, ja, ja.

TODAY IN GERMAN THE MOST AMAZING THING HAPPENED. WE SANG A BEATLES SONG AUF DEUTSCH.
I’ve never been happier.
With a love like that, you know you should be glad.

Clearly, Oprah, the American Jesus and teacher of the Secret, is giving me a sign that I should become German. It was not but a few hours earlier that I was thinking “mmm how I love the Beatles” and here, home from German, I am singing Sie Liebt Dich. Wunderschon!

Although, if I was to become excited every time I thought about, or managed to get someone to talk about the Beatles after I had been thinking about them a few hours earlier then it could be slightly repetetive. I mean, I’m not sure that I’d have time for negative thoughts, even.
This, however, totally counts. Oprah! Oprah!
If things are going to happen, Oprah will give you the sign!

I sound crazy, and I think people who literally worship Oprah are crazy, but I’m using her name in vain to represent my idea of kismet. I love kismet.

Ja, ja, ja.

It Was Always Worth It, That’s The Part I Seem To Hide

My weirdest flat mate is probably A.
He is weird, and has weird noises frequently escaping from his room. Weird noises like squeaks, giggles and one time even honking.
He also has really loud (really weird) music. I can hear it when I’m sitting in the living room. His room is the furthest room away.

Today was the worst. I heard this weird sound, and then realised that it was Sweet Caroline, and I know what you’re thinking, right? How did I not recognise Sweet Caroline sooner? I love Sweet Caroline (bah bah bah).

It was the most disgustingly butchered version of Sweet Caroline I have ever dreamed of. I would call it Sickly Caroline at the very best. It was gross. I almost cried.

He is so weird. I don’t know why, but sometimes he comes into the living room when I’m making Tim watch Biggest Loser with me, and he doesn’t say anything, or do anything. He just stands there. Behind me and not doing anything and not saying anything. I mean, sure, watch the TV, since that’s what it’s there for, but maybe you could sit down? MAYBE YOU COULD STOP STANDING BEHIND ME AND FREAKING ME OUT?

Silly A. I don’t mind the new flatmates because I never never see them and so unless there’s ridiculous noise coming out of A’s room, I barely know if they’re there or not.

They’re weird, though.

I think I’m weird. Mostly, though, I think I’m confusing.
Thinking about it, right, most things I do are confusing. Which invites confusion from other people, I assume.

I maybe also get confused easily. Like when someone comes up to you and asks “So, are you okay?” and I say “What, why? What’s wrong? What did I do?” in quick succession.
Turns out, though, that apparently asking if I’m okay is some kind of greeting abroad. Stupid English people.
Then I said “yay the Beatles are playing” and he said “I know, I was excited, I’ll see you around” and then he tapped my face with his fist and I was confused again.

Sometimes I’m sure that one day I’m going to fall head over heels for someone that lets me talk about the Beatles to them when I’m drunk. I don’t think I need further proof of compatability.

I’m moving abroad. Everyone in England loves them, right?

You’ve Got A Nerve To Be Calling My Number

Dear Lizzie,

You’re a jerk.

Thanks x

PS. I love that you’re still obsessing over a text message from two days ago that only doesn’t make sense because it doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t even matter that you think it was to the wrong number, the wrong girl.

She Dances Like She’s Got A Beat In Her Brain

Ahh Friday nights, I love you.
It’s nice to spend the week looking forward to things when they can turn out so nicely.

Next Friday what I have to look forward to is a three hour train ride home to a surprise party for my mother.
I feel so bad, because she made me promise to never never never ever through her a surprise party because she would get so stressed, turn red, and not at all enjoy any kind of social interaction.
She likes to plan things.
My stepdad INSISTS on throwing her surprise parties, though.
Last time he did it, and I was still living at home, I felt so bad that I told her about it. Everyone was SO mad at me, and my stepdad made sure that everyone knew that I’d ruined the surprise, but oh my gosh! She was STILL so stressed. She just found out that about thirty people were coming over in a few hours and that nothing was clean.
I don’t like the idea of a surprise party. It DOES sound too stressful.
I feel bad, but I don’t think I can tell her this time.
I hated being labelled the ruiner. I’m not a ruiner, I don’t ruin people’s lives.

ANYWAY last night was awesome, because most importantly I didn’t make anyone angry enough for them to leave without telling me. That’s a start, yes?

Abby and I went to Wharf 1 in Milsons Point to see the Sydney Theatre Company production of the Removalists.
Jack asked me last week whether or not it was about a policeman who in his spare time moved furniture. In short? No.

It was so so good, except I did wish it was Steve Bisley (even if I’d be terrified of him by now).
There was this one girl in it, though, and she looked SO familiar. I couldn’t place her, though.

We were what felt like just inches from the stage, and so when the very frequent, bloody violence took place I found it kind of distressing. I found the whole thing kind of distressing, though. It was SO good, but I just felt so bad for the poor kid.
It was undeniably brutal, and the last scene was just fighting, and fighting, and fighting before it went black.
Then they got up and bowed! I couldn’t handle seeing them so placid after that, haha.

But really, it was just quite good. And that is quite awesome.

Oh but THEN we went to Purple Sneakers again, and Al came to my house first, and then Diana came to my house, and then we walked on over.
Not before running into an undesirable though.
Some guy on the steps of my building said to Al “lucky you, you’ve done all three of them, haven’t you? if I had known I would have come and helped” and it was gross, gross, gross, and yuck. I wasn’t planning on trying to get home any time soon.

Then in the shortcut through the quadrant we had what Abby likes to call an Oprah moment (because sometimes it’s easy to believe that the secret may work) because I ran into the exact person that I was hoping to find later. And he said where are you going, and then he said maybe I’ll see you there, and I thought good good.

The line was pretty long, but once we got in it was busy and packed, and I may just be coming to terms with exactly how drunk I was last time I got there. It looked kind of different.

Still, it was uber fun because they played Ida Maria and we got to dance and be stupid because I don’t really care. Dancing like you’re insane is always fun. But I mean, Ida Maria!
Somehow I ended up dancing alone because Diana went home, and I met this guy who insisted that I had been born overseas. He probably still thinks that I was English.
He kept trying to dance into me, and all I could do was stand there and laugh and do the Melbourne shuffle, because people are insane when they’re trying to invade your personal space.
I’m not really particular about it when I’m crushing up against a DJ, but there was something about his ridiculous slouch, and pursed lips that made it seem so completely ridiculous. It was kind of fun. He got mad when I wouldn’t believe that his name was Jean-Paul, and he showed me his ID.
Then Buddy Holly by Weezer came on, and I’ve never been so happy. And then he said “I’ve never heard this song before” and I said “I have to go find my friends now” and I mean, yes, I’m a horrible person. But all in jest, I assume.

My feet were killing me anyway.

I ended up home after Vampire Weekend finished (because what else is there left to improve upon?) and I got home at about three ish. Which is pretty good, I think, because this time I was almost entirely sober. I’m not usually good at hanging out in a smoky sweat box all night.

I got a few weird text messages, but mostly I just slept and slept and slept and oh my gosh, it’s almost nine in the morning. I didn’t really sleep at all.

It was fun. So fun. So funny fun. Yes. x

Flick Your Cigarette And Kiss Me

I cannot sleep.

Sometimes it’s because of fire alarms that go off one after the other after the other.
Sometimes it’s because I’m still so distracted by things that happen that my dreams keep nudging me awake.
Mostly it’s really terrible because all I want to do is crash on our lounge (sofa?) by nine pm.
Crashing is for chumps.

Sometimes I really like waking up early when it’s sunny and nice, and I’ve got an exciting day planned.
Mostly I really hate waking up early when it’s marked by incessant beeps from the laneway, and I don’t have anything to do except go to uni in six, seven, eight hours time.

My room is a litttle bit of a mess again, which is terrible. It’s so nice when it’s clean and I feel like I could invite someone into it (although I’d never want to, really).

I keep waking up with assorted cuts, bruises and sores that I can never remember getting.
The two bruises are nice, almost symmetrical (it’s a trend with me), perfectly round and blue.
I think I cut my hands opening bottles, but it’s a little bit silly when I only opened three or four (or five).

St Patricks Day was weird because I was and then wasn’t and then was and then wasn’t going out and then I almost did.
I made it to the rooftop and drunkenly chatted to the people that I ran into, but ended up walking home, and not to Side Bar at eleven pm.
I tried to go to sleep but even in a drunken haze I couldn’t completely succumb to unconsciousness. Especially at two am when Jacqui came home, yelling through the door at an ‘asshole’ which only leads me to assume that maybe I won’t be seeing her boyfriend around for a while. Maybe. We can only hope.

I didn’t get back to sleep after that, but my phone beeped and I set off on an adventure.
I got back at five am. Nice adventure.

I really like the new Franz Ferdinand album right now. Did I say that before one time? Maybe.
I didn’t love it at first, but now it’s tattooed onto my subconscious.

My brother called me at seven pm, and he was so drunk, and so ridiculous, and we talked for ten minutes until he told me he had to go. I asked him why he called me in the first place, but he’d forgotten. He’s crazy. Hooch, Hooch is crazy.

It’s weird, but some things are so much nicer right now.
It’s weird, but I’m glad everything got better.

I’ve Met Someone That Makes Me Feel Seasick

SO maybe for a whole entire week I was planning on Indie Night and it was supposed to be perfect.
I’d even kind of timed everything out because I had to get skedaddling from a party to make it to the place I hoped would be my mecca.

And so finally it was Friday, and I finished German at 2:47pm and I sewed some cat ears at 3:32pm and I was so excited that I was dressed and tizzed up by 6:39pm which gave me an hour to sit alone in my apartment drinking ruby red vodka (please don’t judge me).

I was so excited! And I caught the 470 after waiting at the bus stop for 15 minutes, and I was dizzy and in a bit of a fog. It was quite suddenly dark and I’m not sure that I usually know where the right bus stop is, but I found it, I found it.
I almost walked into the drug dealer’s house and then another house, but finally I rang the doorbell of the right house and walked down the scary stairs. They were glad that it was me, because I was early but they knew me. I got to make the punch.

It was cheaper goon than I’d usually recommend, some passion pop, and lemonade. Ginger beer makes everything better, as well as fruit concentrate. Little bits of fruit were floating around. They were a nasty surprise to find in the bottom of your styrofoam cup (“Jizzie’s Cup of Love” ’cause my name rhymes and stuff with dirty words). This was all in a giant yellow bucket that I was not supposed to tell about, because even though it used to be their garbage bin, it probably maybe was okay to drink from?

The problem with punch is that when you wake up you realise “Ouch, I’ve been punched” because oh no you’re probably not going to be feeling good in the morning. I can’t believe how much I drank! No wonder I was being laughed at walking home.
We played Never Ever Ever and it was so stressful because the bad drinking secrets that these kinds of girls have are mostly about me. At least I didn’t answer the phone during sex, and that was my saviour.

Some nice chap starting having a rudimentary German conversation with me, which was nice.
Just in case you were wondering, I do realise that they’re not going to teach classes in English when I’m in Germany. Like, I have heard that some countries speak a language other than English. Weird, I know.

I left just as the punch soaked fruit bits were being scraped out of the bucket. Timely, I know!
It was actually really good. I got there early, and talked to the people who lived in the house. Caught up with my other long lost friends and then left while there were still enough people for it not to be that noticeable. Brill!

Time for Purple Sneakers, Abby!
Never have I been so ridiculously excited about going into a packed, thumping bar, and Lord knows why. Or probably, it’s quite clear.
Through some strange coincidence (although, probably not, since who doesn’t go to Sneakers?) some guys I know were there and stuff and that was pretty good because I was early (always) and Abby’s bus was not quite as speedy as my drunken anticipation would have hoped.

Somehow I was still wearing my cat ears and the advertising pimps who were trying to seduce the lining up youths put his hands up on his head and said “hey little girl with the cat ears” and hahaha but then I told him that the band he was trying to get me to see was lame and he stopped talking to me. Sad.
The bouncer asked me if I had been drinking, but I said “Nope” and apparently I’m a good liar because he let me in so that the stamp lady could deprive me of my new found monies.

Hurrah! Sneakers! Once they played a PB&J remix, I was pretty much in love. Maybe I was just drunkish (maybe?) but I had such a nice night. So maybe I found some of these guys that I know to talk to, and then suddenly Abby was there and I was keeping a eye out for a bad crush that I may or may not have been hoping would be there. Perfect!

I really don’t drink that often, but I don’t understand why people think it’s so weird when I do actually cut a little bit loose.
I mean, someone will always say that I either do nothing or go all out, but I’m rarely out of control or anything.
I’m quite a bit more boisterous I guess, but I think that’s got just as much to do with the whole weird trip that I’m on right now that’s pretty much making me more talkative in general (and I talk too much, I know, I know).

Anyway, I’m not a terrible drunk. I’m not sad and whiny, or angry, or mad, or anything. Can’t be such a bad thing?

Also, and now I know that you’re definitely reading this because you told me, I’m pretty sorry that I was a little bit mean to you. I mean, I imagine that what happened was pretty confusing? I told you what I was going to do, though, so it’s not like you couldn’t see it coming, but I imagine that the reason I didn’t see you leave was because I was slightly preoccupied with someone else. Still, sorry! I’m a bit of a cat (oh but that’s kind of funny). At least it was the one that I’d been actually waiting for, and not some complete stranger. It might have looked a little suspicious.
Just remember that I’m a bad person, okay?

Just in short, though. My plan was a pretty little success.
He said “I can’t see your eyes because it’s too dark and so I think that maybe they’re brown” and I’m sure it’s such a line, but it’s my FAVOURITE line. He’s probably a pretty jerky jerk, but right now he’s one of my favourite jerks. So that’s okay. Maybe.

It’s pretty good.

Hurrah!
Next Friday is going to be just as exciting, except we’ll be getting a Campfire Chicken and cultural fix before we embark on the smoky rooftop of the Abercrombie. Brill.

not Going To Lie

Maybe best night everz

The Way That You’re Crying Is More Like A Lion That Licks Her Wounds Before She Seeks Revenge

Last night was so accidentally nice.

Really, I just wanted to spend it watching all my favourite crappy television on a giant screen, and since Brett who owns a giant screen usually spends his nights in my apartment watching my favourite crappy television, I figured that I’d be an imposition on his hospitality this time.

And it was brilliant. I think I love pseudo reality.
Why wouldn’t you love a show about overweight people who speak in the most ridiculous language?
They seriously spend so much time playing the game that I don’t think that they really know what the game is (I mean, really, I don’t even know what the game is).
A great drinking game would be one that means you drink every time someone says that they’re playing the game (because at least this kind of game has discernible rules). Then you’d be extra happy by the time it finished. So, awesome.

But I was just hoping for Thursday night to slip by unnoticed because I was still so pleasantly excited for Friday night (and that’s TONIGHT, hurrah). Only it didn’t, but in the end, that was quite nice too.

I ate some Nachos but dreamed of Quesadillas which was sad.
And talking was good, better even?

Anyway, so like, tonight is Friday night! And I have German but then I have nothing but cats ears to make and evenings to dream of and fun to be having. Oh Gosh.

Yesss.x

It’s True, We Were The Cliche, But We Carried On Anyway

My poor flatmates!

I am becoming ever so slightly loopy at night (some would say especially at 7pm when I get unduly excited about the television) and I’d say that mostly it’s due to the I’m-Oh-So-Broke kind of diet that I’m on just now.
Though truth be told, I really could afford to buy food. I just can’t really be bothered.
Kind of funny, though.

I’m totally living for Friday at this particular moment in time because on Friday I get my Centrelink payment. Although, not the giant KRudd payment that is promised some time this month, but a payment that is enough to buy me a night out. Hurrah.
It’s Friday the 13th, and I have to go to a house warming. I’ve already been to this particular house’s house warming, though, so I’m not quite sure how long that I am obliged to stay.
I gotta get outta there! I got a date!

Well, maybe not quite a date. I do have plans, and these plans involve boys, and these boys will be quite indie listeners, and I think these plans are quite nice.

Anyway, so I’m maybe going loopy for a few reasons.
I really hate being quite so enamoured. It’s frustrating, and I don’t want it, and I can’t stop thinking about it.
Really it’s quite nice at times, but I don’t like being so consumed.

So at my work experience yesterday I was told by the editor that I wrote some good copy.
And then the other girls told me that that was pretty good praise, and she doesn’t just say it.
And now I have a book to review.
Yay for copy. Copy is easy. Apparently I write energetically, which is odd, because I’m not the most likely candidate for that title IRL.

The point is that yay I want to be an editor still. I mean, the point is that the only thing that would make my job better would be getting paid. It feels like such a strain getting there, and often I don’t do anything that interesting, but for a hump day it’s really quite brilliant.
Yay for copy!

Big Hels just underwent some pretty major knee surgery, and so she’s been quite in pain, and quite frustrated with immobility.
It’s funny, because she had it done last week, was in hospital for three days, was told her recovery time would be six weeks, and booked patients in for Monday morning. She’s doing pretty well to keep working just now, I think.

So you might think that I’m a traitor to my family by not playing a sport (aggressively).
I think that I’m too happy with my joints to let them undergo the inevitable ruin that comes in my family. My little brother is 18 and has had two knee reconstructions, and suffered an early retirement from his sport already. Riiiiidiculous.

For Christmas I got a set of season tickets to the Sydney Theatre Company, and Big Hels was so excited about it because it was a surprise. Except we’re supposed to be going to the Removalists next Friday, and she can’t fathom the drive to or from Sydney, let alone actually sitting through the piece.

So, in short, I have a quite good ticket going begging. It’s The Removalists! Even if Steve Bisley dropped out, why would you not want to see it?

I’m pretty excited for alot of stuff right now like Underbelly day, Art Gallery day, etc. etc. Friday day? Defshizzle.

Fuck I hate fire alarms. I should move.