It has been, so far. I had a dream that I had a pet wolf (I know, right? My dreams rock) and the wolf and I were going on a road trip along with another family and my Dad. (Who I would totally take on a wolf-heavy road trip. He would know which CDs to bring.) The only fly in the ointment was that every so often the wolf would become HUNGRY and the mother of the family would become concerned that the wolf would EAT HER CHILDREN (I know, right? Unfair stereotyping) and I would have to make a quick trip to the supermarket and buy large sticks of salami (which is, everyone knows, what a wolf likes to eat).
I don’t think this dream has any deeper meaning, except that I don’t know much about the eating habits of wolves. Possibly the salami are Freudian.
Exciting news: this morning, in the ultimate modern fuck-you, I unfriended someone on Facebook, which was incredibly satisfying. For anyone who hasn’t experienced the fleeting joy of removing someone from your friend list (fleeting because about two seconds afterwards you have a minor panic that they’re going to realise you’ve removed them and create an awkward scene), I’d recommend it. The person I removed shall, for privacy reasons, be referred to only as Butthead McArseface. (Although Keith really is easier to type.) Goodbye, Butthead! May your pretentious status updates never darken my live feed again!
(Backstory: Butthead McArseface and I had an argument last week which was really sort of my fault (I am not above being something of a butthead myself from time to time), but in which he definitely gave as good as he got, so I ended up annoyed at him and he ended up annoyed at me. This in itself is not a) unusual or b) a reason for de-friending (sounds like something you have to get done at the vet’s). However, it appears that I annoyed Buttface more than I first realised, because he decided to write an email – no, wait, a Facebook private message (unimportant detail) – to my Sister Flatmate, who he has never met, posing as a ‘concerned friend’ and telling her about how I sent him a lot of very concerning txts and he is seriously worried that I’m going to kill myself.
Like I said, this was passed off as the actions of a ‘concerned friend’ and would in fact have been just that and quite excusable, if a little inappropriate, if the entire thing wasn’t entirely a creation of Butthead’s fervent imagination.
No depression! No suicidal txts! Definitely not the decidedly sordid “It’s been fun. Take care. Love you.” (Even if I was going to top myself (an aside: did you hear about the ice-cream man found dead in his truck, covered in sprinkles and chocolate? They say he topped himself, boom boom) there’s no way I would send something so…tacky. Give me a bit of credit here, Butthead.)
Unfortunately when a family member gets an email like that they get all emotional and trust Butthead implicitly and me not at all, and send frantic panicked txts to other family members, the end result of which is that I have spent a considerable amount of time over the last few days rolling up my sleeves and displaying my unslashed wrists to all and sundry as they attempt to make me ‘open up and share what I’m going through.’ Sigh.
My favourite bit about this is that Butthead, ever the master of timing, sent this email on Christmas Day, thus effectively fucking my family’s Christmas. And this is why he has been removed from my list of Facebook friends. Also from the list of People For Whom I Have No Mutual Hatred and Contempt, because it's obviously pretty mutual.)
Sorry that was so angry! Was meant to be short explanation, not long rant. Suggestions for appropriate acts of revenge appreciated – you know where the Comments field is.
In other news, the Balloon Game is awesome. I’m not going to describe it beyond “lining up balloons of the same colour and popping them,” mainly because that sounds lame enough already, but it is incredibly addictive. It is like crack. I am the star! I have not done any work since discovering the Balloon Game. (14 hours and 25 eftpos minutes remaining.)
I am also HUNGRY. Subway is calling me. So is a customer. I am much more tempted to answer the call of Subway.
Showing posts with label Keith. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Keith. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Hot Date
I am taking myself out on a date tonight. I was sitting at work, feeling my brain shrivel up and die bit of grey matter by bit of grey matter, and I thought "I need to do something tonight that is not sitting in front of coronation street eating chocolate."
So I asked me if I would like to go out, and I said yes! I was excited because I thought I might've turned me down, but I seemed quite keen so it was all good. So I'm getting dressed up, and taking me out to a nice bar, and I'm going to buy me a nice glass of red...and, you never know, maybe I'll get lucky and go home with me! Hmm.
Today at work I hit myself in the face with a stick.
I also, now that you've stopped laughing, made friends with Daniel, the enfant terrible of the winery. Example: when he doesn't want to work, he locks himself in the store room and refuses to come out. However, he has become friends with me now. I consider this useful.
Turns out Dad's girlfriend thinks I am 'sweet.' She is obviously deluded- being madly in love with father actually a good indicator of this, now that I think about it- as I am many things, but 'sweet' not one of them.
Oh! Keith wanted to be mentioned in this blog, as apparently he considers himself important enough. (Hey, if Vic features...) Keith and I are like the English Monarchy in that we have a long, confusing and somewhat sordid history and no-one knows exactly what's going to happen to it next (although every man and his dog have a prediction to make).
Keith is also like the English Monarchy in that he is somewhat inbred. Would anyone else like to be featured in my blog?
And now, for the Joke of the Day, today inspired by Andrea (do thank her; the joke was going to be 'Your Mother'):
A woman was caught in a terrorist attack, while she was carrying triplets. Despite the fact that none of the bullets could be recovered, all of the fetuses survived and were born healthy babies- two girls and a boy. One day fourteen years later, one of the two girls came to her mother in tears. "Mum," she said, "I've got a problem." "What's wrong, darling?" the mother asked. "Well, I was going to the toilet...and a bullet came out!" The mother reassured the frightened girl, telling her the story of the terrorist attack. Some weeks later, the second girl came to her mother, again in tears, saying, "Mum...I have a problem." "Honey, what's wrong?" asked the mother. As before, the girl replied, "I was going to the toilet...and a bullet fell out!" Again, the mother told her daughter the story about the terrorist attack and told her not to worry. A week after that, the son came up to the mother, looking very uncomfortable. "Ah, Mum," he said, "I kind of have a problem." "Oh no, don't tell me," she said, "you were going to the toilet and a bullet came out?"
"No..I was jacking off, and I shot the cat."
So I asked me if I would like to go out, and I said yes! I was excited because I thought I might've turned me down, but I seemed quite keen so it was all good. So I'm getting dressed up, and taking me out to a nice bar, and I'm going to buy me a nice glass of red...and, you never know, maybe I'll get lucky and go home with me! Hmm.
Today at work I hit myself in the face with a stick.
I also, now that you've stopped laughing, made friends with Daniel, the enfant terrible of the winery. Example: when he doesn't want to work, he locks himself in the store room and refuses to come out. However, he has become friends with me now. I consider this useful.
Turns out Dad's girlfriend thinks I am 'sweet.' She is obviously deluded- being madly in love with father actually a good indicator of this, now that I think about it- as I am many things, but 'sweet' not one of them.
Oh! Keith wanted to be mentioned in this blog, as apparently he considers himself important enough. (Hey, if Vic features...) Keith and I are like the English Monarchy in that we have a long, confusing and somewhat sordid history and no-one knows exactly what's going to happen to it next (although every man and his dog have a prediction to make).
Keith is also like the English Monarchy in that he is somewhat inbred. Would anyone else like to be featured in my blog?
And now, for the Joke of the Day, today inspired by Andrea (do thank her; the joke was going to be 'Your Mother'):
A woman was caught in a terrorist attack, while she was carrying triplets. Despite the fact that none of the bullets could be recovered, all of the fetuses survived and were born healthy babies- two girls and a boy. One day fourteen years later, one of the two girls came to her mother in tears. "Mum," she said, "I've got a problem." "What's wrong, darling?" the mother asked. "Well, I was going to the toilet...and a bullet came out!" The mother reassured the frightened girl, telling her the story of the terrorist attack. Some weeks later, the second girl came to her mother, again in tears, saying, "Mum...I have a problem." "Honey, what's wrong?" asked the mother. As before, the girl replied, "I was going to the toilet...and a bullet fell out!" Again, the mother told her daughter the story about the terrorist attack and told her not to worry. A week after that, the son came up to the mother, looking very uncomfortable. "Ah, Mum," he said, "I kind of have a problem." "Oh no, don't tell me," she said, "you were going to the toilet and a bullet came out?"
"No..I was jacking off, and I shot the cat."
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