Read My Lips ‘Cause All They Say Is Kiss, Kiss, Kiss, Kiss, Kiss

It’s kind of funny, the things that make you happy.

I find myself often rejoicing in spiteful details. Maybe because I feel like they’re justifications, for what? I don’t really know.
Really I think that either that makes me a bad person, or I just forget how much bliss there really is in simple things.
I have chronic amnesia.

So, right now, I think I’m pretty happy. Blissful? Somewhere there is the perfect word to describe me. Maybe not.
There’s always some kind of nomenclature to help, I hope.

At this very, precise, exact moment, I think, there is almost a perfect combination of things. There are grey skies, and coffee dates, and dinner dates, and unfettered freedom that doesn’t drive me to distraction, and little surprises, and night time drives, and rainy fields, and my silly Labrador.
One of the things that’s making me feel so content right now, I think, is actually words, or syllables, or something. It sounds crazy, doesn’t it?
I was driving around last week, and I heard an interview with Andrew Bird, and ohmigosh, I have a slight crush now. He’s so lovely.
The way he was talking, and the words he was using, and his beautiful voice just made me sink into my seat.
He was talking about the ‘fecundicity’ of his home, and although I’m not convinced that that’s an actual word I’ll forgive him.
I sort of feel the same, at least at the moment. There’s something so peaceful about the smell of dirt, and rain, and grass, and animals here, and I guess that’s just another reason for me to sound like I’m high on Prozac, or something. It’s just so, I don’t know, so nice.

He also said something about how “dark on dark is just boring” and I just fell a little bit further in love, because I sort of feel exactly the same way about music. Anyway, so I totally bought his CD, and am currently adoring the elegant mouthfuls and superfluous, but endearing syllables of his Noble Beast.

I think that driving around at night makes me overly contemplative.

I’ve had a pretty social week considering my isolation.
Saturday night, although it could have so easily have burst at the seams was perfect. I always forget how lovely my home friends are, and I wish I didn’t.
Maybe it’s self imposed forgetfulness, and it stops me missing them quite as much as I should.
We made pizzas, and even without pumpkin and feta adorning them, I think they all turned out quite well. Can you ever say there is a pizza you prefer to Franks? I think it’s okay, maybe, if you make it yourself, and it has three different kinds of cheese, and you make them with love, and everything. If it’s not, then just pretend I never rated Franks second to anything.
It was nice to sit and chat, and even though the inevitable conversation/argument began that defied a conclusion (and as always, was about the most irrelevant kind of issue) it was fun. I mean, what does define someone as ‘middle-aged’? Clearly, it’s someone in their 40s, right? Wrong, apparently. Maybe. Depends whose side you were on. 
At least we didn’t break into religion, for once.

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday have been a blur (in the nicest possible way!) of coffees, and dinners, and tapas, and all the lovely kind of things that you fit into a busy schedule. Except I fit them all into my empty days, which meant that they were always the perfect kind of fit.

Despite the animals revolting, looking after the farm has been okay.
The horses may have broken out of their fences twice, and now charge after me whenever they’re near in hopes of bread, or carrots, or sugar cubes, but we’re going to be just fine if they stay in their little barn from now on.
A chicken may have suddenly become clucky, and refused to give up the (unfertilized) eggs that I’m supposed to collect. Lord knows that I’m not about to push my hand underneath the little beastie to get them. I don’t even eat that many eggs. My Grandma dropped by on her way to T’ai Chi to help, so she got the eggs out. All flipping 25 of them. 
I swear, it’s only been a few days.

The one problem with house sitting has been that for me to go out at night time, I have to get the chickens to comply, and to get back into their cage while it’s still light out.
Usually it’s okay. Some days I’m running around in the rain with mad hair, zebra print gumboots (which, incidentally, I am slightly allergic to), and a strained, pitchy chicken call trying to get them inside. Although, you know, that’s kind of fun too.

Daisy is always the best company I’ll ever have.
I saw Marley and Me, and although it was pretty sweet, I wish that I hadn’t. That poor Labrador. I couldn’t bear to see it die, and at the same time to be really seeing my Labrador.

I’ve been crying for days, I think. I can’t help it. Every time I see the news and I see the poor people that have been trodden on by the horrors of the bush fires in Victoria, my throat clenches, and I can’t imagine what they’re going through. I can’t imagine anything worse.
And there’s just so much of it.

I miss my cat.
I don’t always notice that he’s not here, because I’ve never seen him in this house. I just remember sometimes, and it’s like a stab and I wish he was here.
My Dad’s cat is a poor substitute. I think I’ve said that before.
She’s the most gigantic cat I have seen in my life, and her fur is inches thick. She’s also really weird. She doesn’t like to play, she doesn’t like anything normal cats seem to enjoy. She tolerates me picking her up, but she’s so heavy that it’s never for long. Silly Pip.

To be honest, if there was ever a point among these musings, I’ve already forgotten it.

Oh, and I have a question. I was listening to the Bens, and thinking about mannequins (why?).
So, I was just wondering, does Ben Lee have a song about them?
BK has Sundress, and BF has You Don’t Know Me?
I don’t know if it matters. I just like the word.

Words can make you happy. The right word at the right time can make you shiver, and it’s nice that they have such powers.

I’ve had such a lovely few weeks.

I got a lovely surprise in the post, and it’s only been uphill from there.

And I’m Singing ‘Why Can’t I Stay Like This?’

Today is some lovely lovely weather.
It even tastes lovely.

Last night I couldn’t sleep because there was a familiar itch consuming my conscious, and unconscious thought.
I flicked on the flicky flick and when the light hit my feet there were nasty red patches that I remember OH so well.
Except…I haven’t worn Keds, despite being sorely tempted, for over a year. I don’t know what’s wrong with me!

Even worse than this, I couldn’t remember wearing enclosed shoes for days, or really anything apart from my leather sandals (you’re not supposed to be able to be allergic to leather) and my rubber Havaianas.
The problem with a sudden onset of contact dermatitis from rubber, you see, would be more of an issue that just shoes. It would probably mean that I’ve somehow developed a latex allergy, and I don’t think that that would make anything much in my future easy. Especially the obvious.

This morning, my worst fears were confirmed when the angry red skin seemed to trace across my foot in a telltale V shape. However, in a last attempt of disbelief I put on one of my emerald flip flops and was confused when the blotchy skin fell short of the actual straps. How does contact dermatitis come from no contact?

A revelation!
Yesterday I locked myself out of my room, shoeless and all, and with no one else home I had to walk all the way to uni in the rain to restore access to my bedroom. Since I couldn’t very well walk there shoeless I searched through our cupboards until I came across a  pair of thongs, long discarded by former owners. One of them has been used since I can remember to prop open our door. They looked ridiculous, with inches of soles passing my actual feet, but I didn’t have alot of choice, and couldn’t actually do anything until I got a new keycard.

Today, to confirm my suspicions I tried on one of the horrible black thongs and the straps corresponded exactly to my painful skin.
Success!
And because I think that those thongs were made of some weird foamy stuff, and not proper rubber, there’s probably no latex allergy.

Don’t you love my anecdotes? It really was a weight off of my mind.
I’m still tempted to reattempt Keds, but since my horrible night’s sleep this inclination has become very much less encouraging.

You Make Us All Feel Gauche Like It’s A Smutty Joke

So, actually, I had a fun time on Monday.
Public holidays really shouldn’t have much impact on my current freedom, but since there’s something going on, some kind of link with the entire country it felt nice to be celebrating whatever nationalism is supposed to mean.
I don’t understand why changing the date of Australia Day should make our social customs more inclusive. I think, really, that February 13 is little more than an arbitrary date (I mean, what has it really acheived?) that would ostracise the histories that have been built up until now.
Not that there was ever much doubt of Australia Day remaining on the 26th of January this year, and every year. I just don’t understand what symbolic gestures are really giving back to Aboriginals. It’s a problem with no easy solution, though, and I imagine that anything I say from my ivory tower should fall on deaf ears. Quite appropriately, I’d guess.

Now Dodson has his symbolic gesture in the Australia of the Year award, even if he was planning on symbolically rejecting it.

Anyway, I spent the day in the jungle-like backyard of a friend who recently moved out of a drug infested shack in Newtown. There was a barbecue, and it even managed to cook food in the end. The jungle cat was an eight week old kitten that fell asleep everytime I picked it up. I guess Cougar turned out to be an appropriate name.
We tried to keep ourselves entertained with party games, but in the end didn’t find time for them to actually begin.
I didn’t really know anyone except the flatmate, but where can you go wrong with casual meetings around sizzling charcoal?

There was one girl, Kiki, or something else just as sickening, who kept asking me if things tasted lovely. I didn’t know what she was talking about, and had to ask her over and over what she had already said. I didn’t really understand.

I ended up sprawled on a couch, out of the rain, dismayed as the teenage legions had their way with the top ten. We ended up watching a movie and eating cold left overs after everyone else had gone. It was wonderful, and I’m glad I didn’t have other things to worry about.

Some things are just hurtful. Some things just make me feel like I don’t even matter, and you know, I like to matter sometimes.

Today I got Tonight. Finally. I always forget how much I love Franz Ferdinand, but when I saw them live just a few weeks ago I don’t know how I’ve managed to for so long.
The new album, however, wasn’t nearly as exciting as I had imagined.
I was expecting good things, I mean, I’d already heard the new songs live. I was hoping to be mesmerised by the first few notes, but it took me until I walked down some damp, city streets before I really appreciated it. I think it’s growing on me. Although, even if it doesn’t, I’m willing to keep listening until I can pretend.

On a whim, I also got Ida Maria’s album Fortress Around My Heart. I just wanted to listen to those one or two songs that I knew, but I discovered that I actually love her in her entirety. She has the kind of smokers voice that would almost make me take up cigarettes. You know, if there wasn’t the whole issue of stained teeth, fingernails, breath, and the death thing.
Smoky voices are so sexy, though.
They are the voices that rattle through your daydreams and make you want to stay asleep forever.

People are crazy when the weather changes so slightly, it’s ridiculous.
Okay, so it was about 14 degrees cooler than the horrible 38 we had on Saturday, but really, that doesn’t mean you need to be wearing jumpers, and stockings and jeans. It’s still 24. That’s not exactly shiver inducing.

I like the cold, and I wish that it would dip into icy temperatures soon, although I realise the futility of such a dream since it’s only January. I like the shivers and the goosebumps and the icy breath and the serenity of thick doonas.
Sleeping in is so much nicer.

I’m going to move to Germany where I’ll be cold forever. Or not. I don’t even know what the weather is like there.
Still. Mmm. Toasty.

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.

I Know What You Want, You Want A Piece Of Me

I caught a Jet Cat to Manly, because the times were ten minutes to the left of our thoughts.
We bought some wine, and I waited in line, but got to the front three times before we bought anything.

Money! We needed money!
The automatic ATM machine was broken, but the bank left a helpful security guard behind closed (but openable) doors, so we went inside.
Brilliant, really, because we got money for our adventures from the convenience of a hole in a wall, and in our cleverness were soon followed by a lady in colourful skirts and various other drapery.

Security Guard: I like your skirt, lady.
Lady: Thank you, security guard. It sure is colourful and drapey.
Security Guard: Yes, I like your skirt because it covers you. You should be covered. It’s a nice skirt.

Oh dear. Three little white girls (plus a fourth, but she was unashamedly draped in cloth) in skirts and boots and heels. Just a few little words away from being called uncovered meat by the passive aggressive security guard.

Excuse me, I don’t like to feel like I’m a second class citizen because I’m not wearing a fricking burka. It would be more insulting for me to wear one anyway, probably. It’s not like anyone in the bank at 9pm was actually Muslim.

Otherwise, lovely night.

Except, I was petrified on the train home from Kings Cross, any second ready to curl into a ball, squeeze shut my eyes, and wait for the scary to disappear. Then I walked home, but the constant staccato of my boots provided enough false bravado.

Also, I like boys. They’re lovely.
The silly little monkeys made my day.

You Can Prop Me Up On The Table Like A Mannequin

Last night was so great.
I still have a heart that’s beating off key, and who could complain about that kind of exhilaration?

I’m actually having trouble believing this now, but it was just on Friday that I set out to Jack’s 19th (hahaha finally). The train was okay, it could have been worse. At least James was there, you know, to prevent me from having to sit next to some creepy people (rule of train: the person that sits next to you is always the creepiest one). It was packed!
Apparently I was taking in the trees throughout the entire ride, and although I remember looking out the window, I don’t really remember taking anything in, oops.

Jack’s Party Was Lovely.
Even with the threats of BW showing up. Luke did, actually, and although he’s awkward, the whole situation wasn’t awkward. Maybe, though, it’s because if I had tried anything, he wouldn’t have any particular objections anyway. Stupid.
It was so nice, though, with Awesome Matt Mckee, and Lucy and I don’t even know who was there anymore. It was everyone I’d want to see in Newcastle, but wouldn’t really  ever think of calling.
Grace and Abby and I had a nice chat in the park before some boys came and wrestled on the patchy grass. AHAHA. What is this? Did we all revert to high school?
I think, even if my high school was so terrible, that this reversion wasn’t at all so bad. At least for a few hours.
Some girl tried to tell me about a 1950s television starlet with no prompting (because they shared a name) and that my WONDERFUL UTS COURSE was not even second to the brilliance of communications at Western Sydney (AHAHAH. I don’t believe that I’ve ever heard someone praise UWS before).
Also, I was lying down, and Abby and Jack started wrestling on top of me, and it was painful. I was more worried, however, about getting covered in a surveyor pen, which sounds much scarier than a permanent marker just because of the fancy name.
I’ll survey YOU.

Back to reality, and we became the nonchalant nineteen year olds (MOST of us, anyway) you can’t help but love. We had a BIG breakfast, except for Jack whose big breakfast turned out to be GIGANTIC (He wasn’t even manly enough to finish it). It was so nice, I think that I miss Darby street, as ridiculous as that may sound. I mean, how can you miss it when you’re living right next to Glebe Pt Road? It’s like a naughty indulgence.

Rob drove! No train! James was clearly thrilled.
We went to my house first where Big Hels loaded me with food, including eggs from the Luckys. Her chickens. Chickens that are insane, but are also looking forward to me babysitting them soon.
I miss my poor baby, who is comfort eating without me.
There are distinct similarirites between McNaughtons, Labradors and Slugs, says my older brother. They can’t tell when they’re full.
It explains alot in my family, but mostly why Daisy is now a giant butterball. I still love her, but sleeping in my bed may become awkward. She’s so adorable.

Back to the road, and it was a magical ride with little to no traffic clouding the horizon.
We stopped off for a bit of Post Mix and tested the road trip playlists we’ve been so meticulous in crafting.

At home, there was nothing I would have liked more than to just sleep it all off, but I had another party to attend!
It was masquerade, Marie Antoinette and all that jazz, and despite being crazy from a lack of sleep, I was so glad to go and see my long forgotten, Missenden road buddies. I was also excited, because I had a beautiful lace butterfly with which to obscure my face, and who doesn’t like to look pretty for silly little reasons?

The whole thing was pretty brilliant, and everyone looked pretty.
This sounds terrible, especially with a distinct overabundance of girls (at an all girl college ball), but I may have unconsciously stole my friend’s date.
She DID say that he was allowed to flirt with one girl, but maybe he kind of abandoned her after a while. He kept asking me to CS on the DF, and then trying to mack in. Oops.
He was nice, very boarding school, and I think he liked me before he was drinking, even. I wasn’t drinking, however, and stuck to water after a few champagnes, because water doesn’t tend to leave me back in my bedroom barely conscious. Without any knowledge of getting there.
Gotta love that about the aqua vitae.

So, we danced, he kept trying to pull me in real close, but I just laughed as he got progressively more and more drunk, until eventually he got taken back to college and tucked away into someone’s bed.
I wonder if he’ll add me on Facebook. Haha.

He didn’t make it to Cargo, apparently.
I didn’t go to Cargo either, because I don’t really like Cargo, and all going would mean would be that I’d have to pay for a taxi to get home. So I ditched my date (the lovely Erin, who didn’t even make me put out), and I walked home through Victoria Park (a bad move at midnight) and almost went to bed.

I didn’t actually make it into my sheets until after three, but I’m not going to lie. It was well worth it.

So, that was my weekend.
What did you get up to?

Last Night She Said “Oh, Baby, I Feel So Down”

Actually, last night was pretty awesome.

I’d say, though, that much was based on timing.
I really think that some things just work out, without sounding like I’m spouting the supposed genius of Oprah’s ’secret’.

It can’t be a coincidence if it’s largely planned, but it’s still nice to run right into the person you were just about to message for directions. I didn’t really know where I was, but apparently I was in exactly the right place.

There’s something that’s still exciting about walking through Darling Harbour at night. Sometimes I still feel like I’m just on a holiday, and I’ve escaped the clutches of my family, pretending so hard not to be a tourist.
Although, to be honest, I usually am paranoid enough to consciously make an effort not to appear to be one anyway.
Which is ridiculous, no?
It’s just that that sometimes I still feel so lucky to actually live here. Like, not in Newcastle, which is the best bit, I think.

We went to the special Dendy in the Opera Quay, and walked there through streets, and parks, and a lack of buses. Really, it was kind of pretty. I like the city at night, always.
They played Belle & Sebastian in the lobby, and it was like, a sign.
It’s gotta be fate that’s doing it, I think.

My Blueberry Nights was pretty much perfect for that exact moment. Norah Jones was nice, and it was trippy and messy and made me really crave some blueberry pies.
Also, for someone to lick it off my face.
Gross, because yuck, face licking, but it looked pretty nice.

Home again, and the lifts were scarily broken. They were sitting below the floor level, and I still think that they’re going to suddenly close on me again, only to be stuck there forever.
It’s happened before, almost.

So, yeah, last night was nice. This morning was sunny.
What more can you want?

At The Final Moment I Cried, I Always Cry At Endings

Ooh, somebody get me away from here, I’m dying.

Srsly.

I have exactly one thousand, four hundred and thirteen words before I finish this half of the semester.
The only thing is that I keep getting distracted by -isms. -Isms are bad!

The inevitable procrastination has been a good a reason as any to discover the wonders of Genius, the latest release of the so-called Apple genius.
It’s okay, it makes okay playlists. I’m not sure how great a feat this is when you consider that the reason it has the music in my library to choose from is because I like the music in my library already.

I don’t know how far I’d trust it, because it just told me that the top rated Belle & Sebastian album was ‘Storytelling’.
I almost actually even saw that movie one 3am, but am mostly sure that it was no great success.

I actually HAVE some ridiculous gossip, although am reluctant to share it with all the little nooks and crannies of the internet.
I have some deep seeded fears about the permanence of my complaints about employers, and such. I’m also kind of worried that I’ll just make my entire work experience worse should my boss actually come across my fears (although, who am I kidding? I don’t think he knows how to Google himself properly).

In short, I have to go into work tomorrow at 11am for a ‘chat’.
On my days off I generally choose to stay as far away as I can from my job (although, this really isn’t very far at all). Oh no.

None of this is my fault!

Lucky, Lucky, You’re So Lucky!

I love your friends…they’re all so arty. Oh yeah.

Anyway, so I’m almost on my way to class. Not quite.
First I have a few random thoughts.

A darling friend asked me to go to BAMF (greatest acronym for a festival ever, perhaps?) and it’s on January 6 or 7 or 8 or something, and I really am inclined to agree, the line up isn’t at all appalling.
Unfortunately, I can’t go! Honey! I’m sorry!
My whole family (minus me) will be overseas for eight days (without me) and so I must house sit from the 6th until the 15th, and could not possibly be in Byron Bay because poor Daisy and Banana Smoothie will surely starve. Sorry. It would be nice, yes.
I want to see Franz Ferdinand anyway. Those are a few lovely boys.

I would also like to add that I think fish and chips and potato scallops (cakes) are nice, and sitting in front of the water is nice, and cold weather is nice, and rain is nice, and night walking is nice.
These are all nice things, and make for interesting combinations. When attempted together they created a very nice evening, although it was quite damp, to say the least.

Breakfast is the perfect meal…when someone else cooks it.
They cook it nicely when you pay them to do it though, and so I must profess that I am a fan of the cooked, paid for cafe breakfasts that Glebe tends to offer.
I do not pay too much attention to sizing my food up, and do not at all eat in an amusing way.
I mean, I didn’t even spill my food all over the ground, my lap, etc.
Still, a very nice, if odd, suggestion.
Brill.

I don’t know why I continue to ramble, I think I’m actually late.x

Except, hooray it is spring time!
Bring on the twitterpation, please. <3

A Nice Day For A Walk In The Park

Today I decided that it’s time.

It’s time to make that admission that’s been hanging over me for just the longest time.
You probably already know, how could you not? It colours and shades most everything I do, say, or even am.
It’s ridiculous, you’d probably know that too, but today, you see, is the day.

I’ll admit it: I am a worrier.

The Elizabeth Street Blood Donation Centre was open for business, so I ambled in and offered up my humble veins.
I’ve given blood before, and I know it’s no big deal, but there I was, shaking all over in my well-worn boots. Ridiculous.

“The needle! The needle!” exclaims my frantic mind, but who am I to hush my conscious fears?
It’s just, you know, after you’re strapped into the chair, it’s a bit late to change your mind (and to save face at the same time.
I could feel a nervous blush spread over my chest in blotches, and the nurse (lovely Caroline) told me to calm down, relax my arm, it’s all going to be okay, honey.
(Incidentally, she also told me that I looked like Kate Winslet. What? Except that’s another ridiculous story.)

Then, eyes wide shut, the needle was in while I was left waiting for the pain.
“Darling, you didn’t even flinch.”

Ha! Of course I didn’t flinch!
What is pain to me? I’m a McNaughton! (Well, kind of, it seemed the only appropriate refrain.)

Less than ten minutes later I was slightly more woozy, and had one less shiny metal object stuck in my forearm.

What the frick was I worried abou?
But, you see, like I said before, now I’m going to admit it.
I worry too fricking much.

I think it’s to the point of insanity sometimes.
I know, maybe, that I drove a few people crazy over the summer with my frantic fears, and ever present, unquenchable thirst for reassurance.
I shudder to look back, especially now when it’s so very apparent that my fears were so unfounded.
(Sorry about that, and stuff..)

So I’m going to introduce you to my new mantra: “Things Just Work Out.”

Why shouldn’t I think that? What hasn’t, in my life so far at least, just worked itself out?

Crazy.
Actually, I tried this little affirmation out a few weeks ago when I just couldn’t handle stressing about everything anymore, and all sorts of wonderful things happened.
I’m not exactly about to go out and buy a copy of the Oprah endorsed Secret (at least, we all hope not), but hello power of positive thinking! Maybe.

Now, here I am.
A little woozy, a little sleepy, and all held together by a bandaged arm and the enduring spirit of charity.
My name is Elizabeth, and I am going to try oh so gosh darn hard not to worry about simply everything anymore.

Fingers crossed, anyway.

Anyway, so this little episode also reconfirmed another thought that I tend to come across often.
I am a generic looking person. Oh my gosh.

The whole ‘Kate Winslet’ suggestion (oh yes, I realise how ridiculous it is) was followed by interregation about which blood band I usually use, surely Crown Street? Except I haven’t been to any in Sydney.
It was simply the effects of my over familiar face. My common features. My complete lack of aesthetic originality.

Next thing you know, she’ll be telling me I have some sort of accent.
Gosh.