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.

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?

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.

You Drive Me Mental, And My Mind’s Made Up On You

There is one thing that I absolutely cannot stand, and that one little thing is the abundance of seagulls. In Victoria Park. Nowhere near a beach. At all.

I don’t like seagulls when they ARE near a beach, and I realise that they have to make an exceptional effort to fly away from the ocean because they’re made for gliding, and not flitting around like inland birds. They need their ocean breezes, so what the frick are they doing in Victoria Park? It’s bad enough when you get stalked by psycho ducks.
I do like the brown ones though, and I’ve maybe even warmed to the little, albeit very noisy, black things that splash around in the murky Victoria Park pond waters.
I don’t like birds much, but I understand that they’re going to be there. It’s just…seagulls? I don’t like, nor care to understand why they’re there. I simply do not appreciate it. I have actually thrown kebabs at the silly things.
I was obviously a little too inebriated to realise that they’d probably appreciate such a gesture, but it’s the thought that counts, right? The malevolent, and unhelpful notion itself?

I would try and kick them, but I’m actually too scared. I read an article once that suggested that to kick a pigeon would actually incur a fine, and I’ve had nightmares ever since. Kind of.

Apart from an intense dislike for those flying menaces, I think I’m ecstatic. Lord knows why.

World Youth Day pilgrims have clogged the streets and have started pitying me for my agnosticism. This morning one of them actually professed to feel sorry for me. Argh. Not that it especially matters. After going to such a crazily, intense school I’ve never found myself worrying about reaching for a higher purpose. I’m content to know that I never want to actually become one of those small town vipers.

It’s just…everything else is just clicking. Kind of.
For example, I no longer have the hideous shades of pink and green that consumed my hair for the past week. I love my hair. How could it be so disgusting? It kept me awake at night, I swear.
I also ambled down Oxford Street, which was delightful because not only was there no pope there, but also the weather was the perfect mix of cool breeze, and sunshine. Mmm.
Also, any walk with an iPod is the perfect time to think and remember that you’re happy.

I also have busy days and two actual nights when I’ve actually got things to do. Mm. See how they go? Ha.
Tomorrow I’m moving to Ultimo, and I can’t help but worry about the logistics. I’m just so anxiously excited. In the nicest way, of course. I’m kind of worried about which room I will get, but generally, one would assume that those kind of fears are terribly unfounded. Fingers crossed, anyway.

Then, I am going to go home, and I am going to find Renee, and I am going to drink myself silly. All in the name of good taste, of course. I’m going to go to Autonomy Day.
Drinking myself silly, however, is more like two sips of some terribly cheap booze, and I’ll just be overcome with giggles.
Drinking myself silly, really, is a horrible overstatement. I’m just excited. It’s going to be fun.
Tom is going, he’s adorable. He keeps calling me when he’s drunk (although, to be fair, it’s the same as someone just calling me alot, because he always seems to BE drunk). He might bring Ben. Ooh.

Most excitingly, however, is the stack of tickets that I now have in my hot little hands (figuratively speaking, at least). In just a few weeks my musical tastebuds should be thrown into a frenzy with the indie smörgåsbord that I’m going to be indulging in.
Cut Off Your Hands, Vampire Weekend, Little Red, Band Of Horses, The Fratellis, Death Cab For Cutie, oh my! How can life be any better?

Fleet Foxes, another artist on Subpop’s label have been tickling my fancy lately. At first it was simply because of the fact that they were named after foxes, the greatest creature of all time. Now, though, I just dig that (hardly) funky groove.

Somehow I spent $69 on shampoo and conditioner. When Lindsay Bluth-Funke does this we think “What? How?”.
Now, however, I agree.
“It’s a small price to pay for self-esteem, Michael.”

Take Off That Dress, You Won’t Freeze

Although, more likely in this kind of weather you will.
And you’re probably still a tease.

On a more sombre note than my last post, perhaps, Badde Manors has had a fire.
OH NO!

Not some crazy Nandos explosion, though, but enough of a mishap to warrant a note on the window to alert would be patrons to its closure.

Chris: Oh, it’s probably shut because there’s no pedestrian access. Look at all of this fencing, how does anyone get in?
Lizzie: That’s not even the entrance, that’s not why it’s closed. I don’t know why, but it’s not pedestrian access issues.
Chris: No, look! Look at all the fencing, there isn’t a way for anyone to get inside. That’s why it’s closed.
Lizzie: No, Dad, that’s not why. That’s not the door. Trust me, people can get inside. It’s just oddly closed.
Chris: I used to come to Badde Manors when I was at University, I know. It’s closed because of all the construction. Look, it’s all blocked off.
Lizzie: Okay. Sure. Okay.
*Chris reads sign*
Chris: Oh, look. There was just some kind of fire. That’s why it’s closed.
Lizzie: ….

So, in the end, it’s only actually closed for a few days, and I don’t even go there regularly enough to know that the few days won’t be ending tomorrow.
I was just kind of upset.
I kind of wanted a brownie.
Or even, four small pieces of one.

Tomorrow is Sunday, oh blissful Sunday (even if it’s poisoned by the looming Monday morning).
I’ve been half asleep for hours, and the only thought that I’ve managed to maintain is the desperate craving for a late-lunch breakfast.
I can see the eggs now. Mmmm.

Now all I have to do is find someone to come with me…so…so like, not necessarily going to happen :P.

I’m Not Going To Say That I’m Not The Same ‘Cause I Need All Of The Friends That I Can Get

My name is Elizabeth and I am a Bad Person.

I decided to skip class because I should really spend any time that I have writing the essay that is due for it, except here I am, sitting at my desk and I’m writing this, and half watching Oprah.

This is kind of ridiculous because whereas I don’t particularly mind quoting the endless opinions that everyone seems to have about indigenous power and somehow squeezing them into an essay, I actually Do Hate Oprah. She’s so annoying.
I am glad that I’m not American because I think that I would be ostracized for having any kind of objection to their God.
If Obama wins the primaries can you really say that it had nothing to do with Oprah’s endorsement?
If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around does it make a sound?

Another problem that I have with Oprah is that she seems to use her ridiculous power over the U S of A to promote Wonder Shirts that can have SIX different styles and only cost $20!
Although, I guess someone needs to warn America.
Apparently, they are too lazy to change their shirts now.

Yesterday I was aimlessly walking through Broadway, because that’s what I like to do on my stupid thirty minutes of lunch break that, essentially, I get forced to indulge in. Usually I just spend money on stupid stuff because there’s nothing else to do for thirty minutes>
Yesterday I decided to spend money stupidly on Boost Juice! Boost!

I don’t like Boost Juice so much because they make me sad that I don’t have a kitchen. They can’t make the nice Banana Smoothies just the way I like them because they use too much ice. When you get a Banana flavoured whatever you mostly are inhaling the ferocious disappointment that comes with all of the promise of Banana flavoured whatevers and their utter inability to deliver. It’s like sucking something through a straw (although, yes, I realise that it actually is that as well), and you’re so so so so close to the goodness and it just never comes, and you just keep sucking. And sucking. It sucks. Suckily.

I think I missed the point. When I was walking to Boost I walked past this guy in the brightest blue tshirt ever, and for some reason I did a double take.
This itself isn’t so weird, but the fact that when I looked up he was waving at me kind of was.
Weird, but kind of familiar.
So I realised that he was this guy that I’d met on my first day of USyd ever (MATH1002, I think) and we talked, and he was nice, and turns out that I can’t even remember his name now.
The reason I never talked to him again was because I was so scared that he didn’t recognise me, so I never really waved. I realise that this was mostly due to my irrational fear of social situations, but in the end I just look like a snob, a cat, and overall I come across as this Cold Ice Queen. Or something.
Turns out that he was to grow some fugly facial hair during the year, so the longer I didn’t say Hi the less reason and chance that I had to say Hi and the more the facial hair grew so the less it began to matter.

Not surprisingly, but I didn’t have any non-College uni friends last year.

I did wave to him once, though, during second semester when I was high on flu tablets and delirious with fever. I have no idea if he even knew who I was. Well, I guess apparently he did, because another semester or so later he was there, waving at me.

I was standing in the BOOST line and had just worked out who he was, so I turned around and he was on the escalator, staring at me. Creepy, but not really in the bad way, I think.

So now I’m thinking maybe I should pretend that I go to USyd still, and that somehow I suddenly got enrolled in Engineering classes or something because I’m really kind of bummed that I can’t remember his name. Especially since he shaved his fugly facial disfigurations off. Especially since it means that I can’t stalk him on Facebook.
Mostly, I realise that this makes me sound like a silly little high school priss or whatever. I don’t think that matters.
That was my story, and it was FINE.
It got me through the end of work yesterday, though. Haha *cough*loser*cough*.

More importantly, I may be up to something tonight, and I’m kind of hoping it is something. Or something. I don’t know. I just want to do something. I hope it works out, and that something gets done.

If this doesn’t make sense, I don’t care, I’ll still die happy.
Cello?! I mean Vampire Weekend, and then Band of Horses, and then the Fratellis at the Metro? Yes please.

Death Cab rumours seem strong, but I’m scared that they’ll come and I’ll be too broke to notice :(.

In other news, I look like a librarian right now.
I’d complain, or something, but just between us, you know I love it.

<3

Look Outside The Raincoats Are Coming, Say “Oh!”

A-Punk.
Fond memories of pseudo-drunken boys rocking out, unfortunately lacking in fish finger gloves, however.

Also without actual drums, but this is immaterial. It may have even ended up ruining the whole thing. I mean, pfft, who needs reality?

Instead of uttering sweet nothings about the aboriginal subjects of my essay I have been obsessing over the perfect movie night. Who knows why?
I have like…seven weeks of holidays when no one will be in Sydney, and so I figured if I can offer some semblance of perfect in entertainment, maybe someone would come to see me :P.

I think a movie night requires three. Not only because three is an accepted marathon type number, but also because three is the BEST number.
I have always wondered why, but it’s impossible to explain.

It needs three layers, because a movie night is like an ogre like an onion and layers are also fun.
Layer one is comedic, layer two is dramatic, and layer three is slowly bringing you to the realisation of perfection.

I’m not sure how to divide them up, though.
I was trying to work out the number ones from the number twos and the number threes from my favourite movies, so maybe I’d just list them, or something.

ONES.
Election, High Fidelity, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, Ten Things I Hate About You, Reality Bites, and something…I don’t know. This Is Spinal Tap? (HIS AMP GOES UP TO 11.)

TWOS.
Donnie Darko, The Rocky Horror Picture Show, Control, The Virgin Suicides, Atonement, Top Gun even? I’m not sure. I just think it needs to build tension, TENSION.

THREES.
Garden State, Lars and the Real Girl, Juno, The Royal Tenenbaums. Something perfect.

So, I’m thinking that I’d really like to watch Election, then Donnie Darko, and then Garden State.
I think so.
I have to work on this.

More importantly, I got woken up this morning by the frantic text message that told me Vampire Weekend were going to be at the Metro (awesome).
I assume it was announced on Triple J because it’s not on the internet. I also am going to assume that it’s true or I will be crying later.

So looks like my first week of August will exist as one of the most musically delightful experiences of the year.
VAMPIRE WEEKEND >> BAND OF HORSES >> THE FRATELLIS

Awesome.

xxxx

Lloyd, I’m Ready To Be Heartbroken

Have you ever noticed that Italian is the most pointless restaurant to go to?
Who doesn’t get pasta at home? Who finds cannelloni so fascinating that they’d actively go and pay someone to cook it for them? Not just someone, but someone who exclusively cooks cannelloni.
Who wants their bread soaked in so much garlic and oil that there was never any chance of confusing it for herb bread (not that this was a large consideration SINCE WE ORDERED GARLIC BREAD.)
Italian restaurants are SO gauche, really.

I mean, hey, get a personality. You’re in the MIDDLE OF SYDNEY and you’re choosing to go out for PASTA.
So, like, I guess the point of this is not to take me on a date to an Italian restaurant.
Especially not one that spells Mama with two ms, and Menu with an e (menue? What?)

I may or may not have a pathological fear of garlic, though. (I’m a Vampire, I’m a Vampire, but I’ve got no fangs).

So, Band of Horses have totally made my life complete by announcing a show in Sydney, at the Metro (awesome).
Vampire Weekend, on the other hand, have merely broken my heart by only announcing a Melbourne show. I am maybe considering actually catching a train there and back just to see precious Ezra, but that may be a slightly shallow consideration given that I hate the train home (it’s only two and a half hours), and that I would be alone and would therefore be subject to ridiculous train rage from the isolation.
On the other hand, according to my sources, I would finally get to experience a good street kebab. Nice.
Or, I could go to Carlyle Street and pretend that I’m Jewish. Or not, or something.

I hate people that throw tantrums, and who end up storming down the street (although with much satisfaction as the staccato of heels on pavement will attest).
I am not going to come and make you feel better because you’re being stupid.
I came out with you, and I told you that I wasn’t going to go to the Cross because I am so poor that I can barely afford cab fare there, or back, let alone actually getting into the ridiculous, over priced, over hyped bars that you’re apparently craving.

I am not going to come and assuage your rage because if you’re going to be so horrible as to send me a sarcastic diatribe at one am then I really don’t even want to talk to you at all right now.

Ha, that’s all.
I am going to write my feature and then go buy a nice coat. Nice.

I want some Indian food, though. Really bad. Oh dear.

x

You Come On Like A Dream;

So, it turns out that the only people that get fines from the Rail Corp are the honest ones that just submit to their requests for ID and Birth Date because turns out that they actually wield no real powers.

I wish that when they gave me the $200 fine for having my feet on the seat when I was barely fifteen I knew that. Although, I don’t think that it mattered what I said since I was so consumed by tears and was fearfully in awe of the badly dressed woman that jumped out at me so suddenly.

I’m currently wary of any train ride. The three hours that it takes me to get home will be sooner spent in excruciating cramps than me putting my feet anywhere near the seats.
I guess it worked. Although, it probably would have done so just as well if they just scared me and walked away. It’s not like I paid it. Who has $200 when you’ve just turned fifteen?

So a lesson? Do what you want, lie outrageously, and no one gets hurt. Or something.

Weird things make me paranoid.
I saw a blog about the misuse of apostrophes, and I’ve been double checking my punctuation ever since.
Ever since I started listening to Vampire Weekend I have been concerned about the oxford commas that creep into my essays and I’ve been liberally backspacing. Whether or not it matters isn’t really the point anymore.

Maybe, maybe I’m crazy.
I just have odd concerns, preoccupations, and I don’t really mind.

You’re Going To Lose Me If You Don’t Choose Me

So, turns out if you ever felt the urge to scam drinks from suits it’s not really hard.
Don’t think that I’m a bad person. I’d blame the peer pressure. Well, the peer encouragement.

It was Egg Run. It’s what we do. It’s not a big deal.

Some guy just decided to buy me random cocktails! And they were nice.

Not the point of this randomness.

One guy asked if I was Canadian, and I said “nooo.”

I asked his friend whether or not I had an accent and he said “you do seem to have a twang on some words.”

In Establishment (seedy) some guy said “oh you have an accent” and I said “oh yeah where from?” and he said  “Canada” and I said “you did not just say that” but he did, obviously.

Later, some guy said “did you just graduate?” but I had stopped lying and I said “no” and so he said “oh are you Canadian?” and I said “oh my gosh you just not did just say that.”

People are weird.

I have a theory. It’s the loudness of being out in bars. The thumping bass. Bass. Bass.

People get confused. I agree that I don’t always sound especially Australian (apparently saying “Fair Dinkum” is the epitome of this) but I don’t sound CANADIAN. I’d love if I did, to be honest!

I think they just get confused.

Oh well. Still funny.

Maybe James (who is the only one that actually thinks I have an accent) is right.

I also walked through Sydney barefoot.

I am such a loser.xx