Hakuna matata.

I’ve been attempting to pick my life up again by re-connecting with the strangers whom I’ve chanced upon in times of tedium. So far, I’ve traipsed about Sydney’s Dee Why (a quirky name for a squeaky clean beach-hood), sung with the quenched weeping willows at the Chinese Garden of Friendship (which is mawkishly but very aptly named), umm-ed and ahh-ed at the diminished collection of street art at the derelict Cockatoo Island, and had an all-out Korean night with my Political Economy buddy. I also window-shopped at the Blue Mountains, a good three hours from where I live.

Look before you cross (someone)!

Of course, it would be remiss of me to not announce that I had my first day of work as an Events & PR ‘Officer’! My band of overly-enthusiastic co-officers rammed in me, the duties that I should, that I could, that I should consider, that I could consider doing. And why not? Am I not one fine applicant who knows five languages and must thus impress them all with explosive shows of initiative? Am I not Vicky, who is so victoriously named and must thus be so in person? Am I not young and charged with lipids and hormones that glandular-ly shackle the need for sleep?

I could only blush like a faux gold-plated brass tack, as I was pressed against these lofty expectations. From a luminous sheen, I dulled to a tiring shade of ochre. To be sure, I was excited, and my agitation was manifest in my always-fidgeting fingers which busied themselves with brushing off the slaking sheet of dust that collected atop my sweating self. But still they lay upon me, layers upon layers of dust, fears of disappointment upon my veneer of competence.

One could feel real small near three big faces.

I wanted to do well, and I will try. I need a panacea of sorts to help with the digestion of my old tear-inducing nemesis: fear.

Atishoo!

Nevertheless, I feel blessed to be entrusted with the task of building upon the dreams and smiles of youth, and of realising opportunities and happiness for myself. Employment for a grand cause—that is, to publish the voices of my entrepreneurial peers and to stimulate conversations that matter, could be my ultimate elixir. To bathe in it could gently eat away my inflamed worries and cares, my heavy armour. Goodness knows what is contained within said armour, but surely, I could do no worse without it. I’d have space from which to breathe steadily and grow, space to iron out my frowns and winces. The mind could then become a flourishing forest, one that invites in all things pleasant—colours, life, and warmth. The bad would be more easily processed as the basinet, which has only served to build blind spots and to choke its wearer, is removed.

Schmaltzy as this will sound to you, my dear reader, I believe that we are all phoenixes. We are conceived anew through the ashes of time and wild sorrow.

And so we breathe again, in the clearing air.

p.s. You have Cutex Strengthening Nail Polish Remover to thank for today’s inspirational blog entry (that, or for me rushing through it like a manic Shinkansen). The liquid positively reeks!

A country song for the aspiring cow-pokes in all of us! Forgive me for the sharp turn from phoenixes and all things medieval. Yee-haw, it’s k.d. lang’s ‘Changed My Mind‘, ‘Diet of Strange Places’, ‘WTF YOutUbe?!‘, ‘Curious Soul Astray‘, ‘You’re testing my patience, youtube… OMG am I blocked?!‘, ‘Got the Bull by the Horns’, which really sums up this post!

I have. I stand before a cheerless crowd, vying for attention of my heart-crusher as I battle against a paperback by Toni Morrison called fuckin’-something-or-other. On this court of friendship and hushed, fagged-out love, the book is Victoria Azarenka whilst I am mummy’s British monkey, Andy Murray.

The metonymical Azarenka emerges victorious in a most unlikely match to claim the equally metaphorical prize, that is, the coveted Black Exotic Oxidised Trophy. But me, a surly, postmodern Neanderthal defeated by a pretty Soviet girl in plaits? Unthinkable!

Likewise, the same baffled expression has been contorting the symmetry of my face for much of yesterday. The shock of Rafael Nadal’s narrow defeat by the world’s top seeded tennis player, Novak Djokovic, has unleashed a torrent of tears that seeps into the cracks of age, past the godforsaken T-Zone where the Cooperative of Angry Pimples (Cr.A.P!) forever resides, and deep, deep into my bleeding heart.

And I have no real lover by my side. No one to fling their fat fingers into the air perilously near my (more) aesthetically-pleasing ones. No one with whom I’d riotously share my TV diet comprising of House, tennis, Peppa Pig, tennis and more tennis. No one with whom I’d compare the rate of sagging in breasts. No one to belly laugh, wish or cry with.

It’s never “with”, but always “for”.

I wish to be with someone important.

I wish to never be without.

I wish to drain the tears that weigh down the lightness of my being.

I wish to use “with”, and sometimes “for”.

I want to be happy.

My mother glutted on the choicest oriental delicacies when she was heavy with me. Abalones, oysters, shark’s fin, bird’s nests, finely iced desserts, you name it. You are what you eat. You reap what you sow.

Once exquisite life forms have been used to construct me.

Oysters, once shelled are ugly, naked, things, wet in the remembrances of the sea. Still living, so long as they are not dried.

Me? I have my sea-wet shell, but it has been prised open. So much so, that if you’ll just peer into me hard enough, you might see the parched heart, the murmur of faded hopes, sunken hollows pierced by hungry fangs, and the empty dent that once cushioned a pearl of satin iridescence.

Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero. Only the latter part is feasible!

That being said, my visit to my psychiatrist is overdue.

Signed,

Jealous dog

I totally disapprove.

Isn’t it a horror that the richer you are, the lower the fees you pay? Heck, you even could afford to moisten your lips with driblets of Veuve Clicquot-coated saliva, thanks to your morbidly obese savings, compounded interest, and what have you. This pauper’s throat is parched of low $ self-worth. I drink (sometimes) contaminated tap water. You point out that I live in a city governed by regulations (rightly) imposed by our many hypochondriacs. I point at the German cockroaches by the tank, and the mound of tissues that have dutifully shielded my lady fists from pummelled cockroach guts.

I’m not insinuating anything here of the Germanic race. Only their disease-carrying bugs.

Somehow, the cockroaches had it in their little bile-coloured brains that my apartment is Gordon Ramsay’s kitchen. Naturally, this is a tourist hotspot for either human or cockroach.

Much like the great Ramsay himself (I don’t know how great. His looks don’t appeal to me as much as that of Jamie Oliver, so I cannot judge his culinary expertise without thinking of his absent physical hotness), I more than sometimes sling shots of vengeful expletives when displeased. And nothing displeases me more than the sight of a cockroach of any gender, sex, sexuality and type.

In conclusion, I have an alter-ego named Gordon Ramsay who presents himself in the company of one cockroach or more.

Now back to the topic of my poverty:

Don’t go lecturing to broke students about the huge drain income and luxury taxes that leech onto your Alfa Romeos (which are fucking awesome) and your Rolexes (and I cannot emphasise how fucking ugly these are). On the subject of watches, I recommend ‘Zodiac’, ‘Maurice Lacroix’ or the more pocket-friendly ‘Police’ for men. For the ladies, I recommend the same men’s watches, because I staunchly believe that women should be able to tell the time too, and not from anorexic bracelet things. Because squinting, my lovelies, does vicious things to one’s worry lines.

You never know who’s got a watch fetish. That ain’t me. But here’s a tip to all my gay male friends out there: I repeat, you never know who’s got a watch fetish.

I have a thing for rings and cyberpunk jewellery. Don’t ask me, I still have a pickle of a time figuring out the differences between the subspecies of punk. To me, cyberpunk is ‘cleaner’ than the other strains of punk. Rather like a Mac computer, as opposed to a Windows PC. But cyber-villains are using Macs these days anyway, in jolly ol’ Tinseltown. So there’s always that grungy element. But hey, hold your Trojan horses, I may be completely wrong.

I’ve managed to squeeze in the Blade Ear Cuff (with stud) into my virtual shopping trolley. It’s been, say, a decade, since I last had my ears pierced. Zomg, don’t I sound old now? n.b. This slangy ‘Zomg’ interjection was strategically incorporated into the sentence to temper the semblance of aging. The piercings parlour where I will get my ears punctured, will have Just Acces to thank for the extra lobar business. Just Acces, in turn, has Rooney Mara from ‘The Girl with a Dragon Tattoo’ to thank for my sudden obsession with socially alienating accoutrement.

Mmm, j’adore les pièces suivantes!

Welcome all to Punkistan.

Clockwise from upper left : Just Acces Ear Cuff, Stolen Girlfriends Club ring, Just Acces double chain ring, Maria Francesca Pepe ring

This ‘YOUR FRENCH WON’T SAVE YOU NOW’ ring positively reeks of me, in a positive way, but at $168? (Why I’ll just not eat that extra $168 of course! Friends, bar me from Oyster Bar, Circular Quay):

To think that it should cost more than a one-way flight to Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia!

Anyway, I’ve been writing this blog entry with half-hearted attentiveness as my right eye has been glued to the telly all the while. It’s Lleyton Hewitt versus Novak Djokovic and it certainly looks that the latter would prevail. Though there is always room for miracles to happen, as my favourite commentator Sam Smith wisely said during the edge-of-my-seat match between Maria Sharapova and Sabine Lisicki. Rafael Nadal aside, I tend to have an uncanny preference for the underdog in men’s singles tennis. For the women, I choose them on the basis of their outfit and victory speeches. Superficial?! I bloody think so too.

Omg, Djokovic has already nabbed two sets. I need to end my bizarre ophthalmic multi-tasking here and shall conclude today’s entry with a list of my favourite tennis players and the reasons for which I chose them. Take heed, you will be alarmed:

1. Rafael Nadal
   Why: Because he’s got the warmest smiling face after a victory. Plus he is Spanish and has amazing tennis moves (I don’t know what the technical term for fancy backline footwork is). Liking Nadal automatically places both Djokovic and Federer onto my I-don’t-like list. I don’t go for complex triangle lovin’.
2. Sam Stosur
   Why?: She’s Australian and she’s my kind of wonderful. Need I say more?
3. Justine Henin
   Why?: I forget why. But she is hugely talented, albeit retired.
4. Alexandr Dolgopolov
   Why?: His name, damn it.
5. Sam Smith
   Why?: She’s also my kind of wonderful. Plus, she has a British accent. I’ve never watched her play though.
6. Maria Sharapova
   Why?: I believe she’s the first player I’ve ever watched. And oddly enough, I don’t mind her >96dB grunting. Mais non, je ne suis pas du tout une perverse.
7. UPDATE: Lleyton Hewitt
   Why?: He just made me cry when he one his first set against Djokovic, 2012 Australian Open.

‘Too Darn Hot’ by Ella Fitzgerald should totally be blasting through the speakers at Rod Laver Arena right now:

Soon after the little incident, I watched ‘The Girl with a Dragon Tattoo’ with a film buff/ curator wannabe. May I just say that I’ve found an idol in David Fincher, the director of this film as well as the great cult films of our time: ‘Fight Club’, ‘The Curious Case of Benjamin Button’, ‘Panic Room’, ‘Seven’, and my personal favourite, ‘Zodiac’ (starring the yummy Jake Gyllenhaal). If you’re into film noir that’s darker than the winter solstice, that’s just as stylish as Daphne Guinness in icy platinum fit, then hop into your brogues and dash to your nearest cinema. Within, you’d be held spellbound by the talents of the stellar cast, most notably Rooney Mara who plays the kick-ass protagonist Lisbeth Salander. You’d have full frontal and back views of human depravity (oxymoron? I think not). You’d wish you took those acting classes when you were little so you could have a 0.00000000000000000000001% chance of baring all à la Lisbeth in a critically-acclaimed film, and you’d resent living Down Under where said classes are few and far between. You’d slaver like an idiot in parts. To my credit, I held my tongue and my libido during the more blood-curdling scenes.

Scratch me happy.

Okay, I’m not one for writing reviews. I could do that impromptu (and hesitantly) along the arty-farty Eastern Avenue stretch at my University.

So let’s go over how I’ve been. Yes, I’m afraid this is a very self-centred post, but what else would you expect to get from a writer with parsnipfeet? Ain’t likely that I could fit in another’s shoes, let alone think in them, now could I?

I am sick. I’ve ravaged the box of Kleenex Eucalyptus with aching fingers. Thank the goddesses the date of my interview has been postponed until Monday since my interviewer is not back from her holidays yet. Now I have a few more days to think of an answer to “Soooooo, tell me about yourself!” or “What is your favourite book?”.

I’m desperate to have this placement because: a) it would shut my relations up, b) it’ll be my first step on a path strewn with media contacts and hopefully, riches, and c) I need a confidant and from what I hear of this organisation, there’ll be many within who’d fit the bill: gay and single of either sex. It’s social nirvana.

My nostrils are already clearing at the prospect.

I spoke too soon. I’ve just received an email from another organisation, that they’ve already employed two Media Coordinators and will contact me in a few months if I’m still looking for a job.

DAMN. I knew leaving the cover letter hanging for a fortnight was a bad idea.

On a different, but no less despondent note, I present you ‘Sweet Painted Lady’ by Elton John. It’s a song about a prostitute. I adore it.

It's hard to have a gaytime on your own.

I have self-destructive attachment issues. If I had a penis, I could attribute it to the Oedipal complex, but since I started this sentence with the conditional clause ‘if’, one could assume that I possess the complete female works and so I cannot link my emotional shortfall to that of an ancient Theban king.

My favourite friend is about to leave for Fiji tomorrow, and I haven’t the heart (or geographic comprehension) to check out where on earth Fiji is. Before he announced his sudden desire to intern there for over a month as an engineer, I’ve never given a second’s thought about Fiji. A country whose name has two i’s out of four characters seemed to me, as highly insulated, even self-centred. At any rate, he’s getting that tan he so desired all right. Fiji, pfft. Why not Cuba? There are hot dancers there to wean him off his insatiable need to showcase his perilous salsa moves, at least.

Why not Sydney, until I could find another similar agent of corruption? FYI, it took me two dozen university societies, double that amount of parties and gatherings, and three further chance encounters to find a friend in him, to entrust him with all that I am. He’s my zip-lock bag of me and my shame, as I am his.

I’m surprised that during our many slapdash, slipshod, slam-bang dances, we’ve never danced to the point where you’d see me rattle about in golden crutches with a garden of blisters in full bloom on the soles of my two left feet. No, we get only bashful glances (including glares from me directed at him), or offers of the choicest crack from touchy-feely pedlars. To our credit, we never smoked any. He despised junkies, whilst I hold them in a sort of distanced admiration. I’m something of an outcast, but I’m no William Burroughs. I am an obsessive person myself, one who is prone to addiction, even with seemingly the most innocuous of things. To compound my already pathetic personality with drug use would be calamitous, catastrophic, cataclysmic! I wouldn’t be that pathetic parsnipfeet blogger who pines after her friends even before they are due to go away for two months. No, I think I’d lose them for months eternal.

I’m not friendless quite yet, for there are three more to knock down, and until then, Herr Pedlar, we won’t haggle.

But what of the 350 odd friends you have on Facebook and the lonesome two on Google+, you ask? Let me clarify that for you. When I use the term ‘friend’ on secret soppy blogs such as this, I couldn’t give two flying fucks about my Facebook or Google+ ‘friends’, except for the two within who are fuckin’ fly in my tatty books. Seriously, who uses Google+? What I mean to say is, my friends are the physical embodiments of mind-bogglingly powerful relationships which I’d sever only after the Fates have done so with mine. I.e., only after my death, for those of you who are not well versed with the Grecian fables and were scratching your heads.

Don’t be too alarmed, though. I am a very happy person and am always on the watch for catching fuckin’ fly homeboys.

Bon voyage, bowlful of red grapes that is making its way down my alimentary canal, dying it crimson.

Bon voyage, mon ami. Tu me manqueras.

This marks the end of Sulk Week. Tomorrow, my close university pal returns. Roll in Tarantino and hide David Lynch! Mazel tov.

In honour of those who have recently fed me kryptonite while making sure I still feel like Wonder Fuckin’ Woman through it all:

The English version:

My future lies behind. Oh, the irony. I'm splitting my sides.

Just yesterday, I returned a call at half past twelve (only because I was still slumbering on when the calls blasted my phone at noon but to no avail), that came from my (hopefully future) employer. Hear this: I might become a Public Relations intern someplace in Sydney’s Ultimo!

But now, don’t you think you could trick me into releasing the name of the organisation yet, because goodness knows that I’m extremely capable of bullshitting rivulets of murky sewage, both verbal and tangible, through all my orifices, when I am nervous.

But fingers and toes crossed that this position is the one for me and only me, made just for me, who will love only me, who will always be there for me… that this is my ‘it’, my ‘Hideki’.

Add oil, add lots of oil! Chii enjoys.

Thank the goddesses I’ve bought a new pair of eyelash curlers for the event, though Manicare can never live up to its lost predecessor, Mister Mascara. Lost, because my tomboy of a friend was so ultra-fascinated with the latter’s clamping actions, brought it someplace (my bed, I shouldn’t wonder), and well, lost herself along with it. Rust in peace, Mister Mascara. I shed my lashes in your honour. If not, Manicare would anyway. It’s a darned vicious thing.

Hmm.

Ready for a change in subject matter? I note your desperate nod of approval and so in three, two, one…

Unbeknownst to all but my cat, I sing a lot, mainly Perry Como tunes because I could sing scream ‘em out of tune an octave below my usual conversational pitch, and no one would notice since no one in my slummy ghetto knows who this wonderful but dead codger is anyway. My favourite singers, you might as well know now before you bruise my heart by posting a gaffe on my parsnip of a blog, are k.d. lang and Serge Gainsbourg. Be well warned. You cannot escape my gushing praises of said duo. I’m not diagnosed with bipolar disorder. Yet.

So I’m writing about myself to an audience of almost exclusively myself, at a most uncharacteristic hour, at 4:36 p.m., as opposed to ante meridiem.

I’m bringing self-lovin’ to daylight, babes.

In memory of Mister Mascara, I give you ‘Tomboy’, by one of my favourite dead oldies, Perry Como:

Absolve me of the seven deadly sins in my timeline.

Cleanse me of my constant cravings.

Blow PayPal and my two credit cards to atomic smithereens.

For the latter three culprits alone have robbed me of my youth and sanity. They make a very dishonest woman out of me. My friends and cat are neglected as I surf the cyber waves of consumerism. Asos, one of the world’s largest fashion e-tailer, is most definitely back, swinging on the anorexic neck of my bank account. My nails are ground to mini shards of keratin by nervous teeth; to below the tips of my fingers for fear that the watched items will be seized by hands more improvident than mine. Mastication is ultimately preferable to chucking a Cullen fit about my wrists while glittering in the less-than-sunny process.

Damn. I was going to eBay me a sparkly One Ring.

Postman, I look forward to the buzz at my door and to welcoming the new blazer, paisley scarf and two pairs of leggings.

I’ve discovered one of my bestie’s full name today, and am bubbling with envy. Size does matter after all! Not mentioning his polysyllabic first and last names, his middle name is “Alexandre Vladimir César”. I mean, freaking almighty goodness! I take photos with the Count Dracula. Mine pales in comparison. I remember my childhood bestie, born of Malaysian royalty, having a name length that is twice that of Monsieur ___ A. V. C. ____. She is a Miss. R.S.I.B.b.R.I.Dz.

Name length is an indication of wealth and ego, and by god and goddess, my unhatched daughter or son will bear the brunt of my sense of deficiency. I will ram the syllables into their birth certificates and have children with either overly inflated egos or an overly long-list of bullies.

There needs to be a ‘Wolfgang’, ‘Esprit’, or ‘Serge’ somewhere. I see I’m hankering after a baby boy. Don’t let my baby brother see this. He will gloat.

It doesn’t help too that the selfsame French person becomes my guide to my own hometown. Under his chaperonage and a ruthless westerly, I visited Bondi Beach for the first time since I was five, followed by a hair-in-your-face trip to Tamarama Beach and Bronte Beach. Only then could I understand and appreciate Sydney’s charm and its popularity with tourists and locals. I love Sydney. Schools of dolphins skimmed the blue waters to congratulate me on my change of heart.

Bondi Beach, Sydney, 11/1/12

Cue in the soap queen act, in three, two, one…

To me, human (and cat) connection is my most treasured possession. Sorry closet and the piles of luxe silk blazers within, but friends are the only beings in the world who could make me wonder, and who could talk me into a attaining a higher level of insanity than I would if I were to talk to my closet.

Terrible comparison I know, but beyond the odd maverick thread which sticks out, beyond its history and development, beyond its uncanny ability to place, empower or pauperise its wearer, clothing cannot make us better people. It can make us giggle thanks to cuts administered by some tailors, but in most cases, depending on one’s lack of emotional disorders, they cannot make us roar raucously to the point of being blue (and I mean no disrespect to the Na’vi race). Friends could do all that, whilst inflicting serious disrespect to the Na’vi. And they’ll do that over a mug of Tooheys beer or by quoting Uncle Victor from ‘Harold and Maude’.

“Duhduhduhduhduhduhduhduh! Only one thing kept going through my mind!
KILL! KILL! For Joe and Mack and all the rest of the guys!
KILL! And then there was a blinding flash!
…. and I woke up on a stretcher.”

Q.E.D., I would happily go naked for all my lovelies out there. Thank goodness I don’t have too many. My privates might get raw, cooked in the naked limelight.

You should know that I like Haribos gummy bears very much.

Bear with me, mate. You're so yummy.

I have two loves, as you see, and no one says it with more panache than Madeleine Peyroux in ‘J’ai Deux Amours’:

Not much has passed today, but it could, if only my French person would budge from his ultra-King sized bed for a stroll down Sydney’s most debauched lanes. Darlinghurst. Kings Cross even. But that was not to be.

My vinyl hat brings the boys to the yard. Damn right, it's better than yours.

So I reluctantly allowed my eyeballs to guzzle four episodes from Disc Two of my favourite American series, House. Disc One has not arrived yet, from the highly unreliable but necessary Quickflix, an online DVD and Bluray rental site. My consciousness has not gone to waste indeed, for those episodes were some of the best of House! I apologise for the plethora of superlatives and intensifiers today, but any fan of my favourite curmudgeon Doctor would agree with me on this, or so I fancy. Memorable patients include an African-American teenager with an horrific facial deformity the size of two cricket balls (cricket? Yes, I’m Aussie), a magician whose performance went (near) fatally awry. I adore the magician and his British accent! I adore all accents if you must know, yet some of my strongest affections are obstinately veered towards those without an accent, or those with an Aussie accent. I cannot emphasise how much that accent irks me, yet I am getting used to it, after living here for a good portion of my life thus far.

Moving on.

In a bid to lubricate my charred throat (no, not the kind used by people who are “at it”, as my happy slip calls it), I have been slurping down six cans of Guīlínggāo Chinese herbal jellies aka Tortoise Jelly. These mass-produced kinds are definitely sweeter than those I recall having in Asian restaurants. I have an easy, sweet tooth so I suppose it suits in the end. The ‘Nutrition Facts’ list was printed in such small print, that I could not quite decide as to the future of my throat: whether it will progress on the Stairway to Heaven or towards Lucifer’s den. Judging by the empirical alone, I’d say my throat is edging towards the latter.

Jelly's definitely guilty.

Oh, and I’ve bought another pair of tights. Falke fishnets, and pink ones at that. I’d like to try it with a predominantly white fit. I should look rather symbolic. I have been preoccupying myself with trying out a myriad of ways to wear my new Therese Rawsthorne silk blouse. As a consequence, I was thought a bride or a bridesmaid more than one time. And lo and behold, two hours later, a newly wedded couple waddled past us.

Tragic.

I have my ways of overstating the understated, which I tend to transfer to my tastes in clothes, music, as well as in the suggestive vectors in my eye and bodily movements.

It is an hour past midnight now, and I think, gosh, isn’t it marvellous that I am no longer a child, bounded by curfews governed by mechanical things such as clocks and mothers?

Alas, not quite.

I miss innocence. I miss the 5 cent artificially flavoured popsicles. I miss stuffing Enid Blyton’s ‘The Mystery of the Missing Necklace’ into the toilet tank for fear my mother would find that I’ve been ‘defecating’ for six hours straight.

I was an odd one. But I was normal in that I would have gladly stuffed myself down the tank, even the bowl then, to avoid taking my cough medicines. Mother broke the door down, literally, and I knew then I chose the wrong toilet in which to cower. The meds were issued, and I have recovered since.

Ella Fitzgerald’s sultry ‘You’re My Thrill’ beckons me back to my reality. My reality, really, only equates to long hours of frustration and bewilderment. It’s either those or hours of gluing my eyeballs to Dr. House solving gruesome cases, Dr. House chasing Dr. Cuddy, Dr. House illegally self-prescribing Vicodin, and Dr. House hoodwinking a league of colleagues.

And back again.

Ella Fitzgerald is really quite wonderful. Hers is a voice that could demand undue attention even from the most severe ADHD patients, a voice that makes us keel over like dogs, a voice that caresses and pants by our ears, arousing desire, wonder, and sorrow.

The Lady Day could teach Moses a thing or two about parting waves gently. She could create ripples of warm feelings in the coldest of hearts.

She could make me enjoy writing.

Oh, what a trickster!

Fittingly, I thought to include a sound clip of her singing ‘Let’s Do It (Let’s Fall in Love)’, a delightful jazz standard.

And oh yes, she beats Billie Holiday to a pulp. Vocally. And maybe sexually. Holiday, I’ve been informed, was something of a masochist.

Dismay, because I am getting poorer, as is the case with girls who preoccupy themselves with glutting wardrobes with whimsical yet psychologically essential purchases. Relief, because after hours and hours of perusing fashion sites, I can now resume my reading of ‘The Little Stranger’ by Sarah Waters, or ‘Great Expectations’ by Charles Dickens, or ‘When Things Fall Apart’ by Pema Chodron, or ‘The Finkler Question’ by Howard Jacobson. Yes, I’ve been trying to get my head around four books (and more, but to tell you which books will require another trip to another bulging bookcase) simultaneously.

This sense of relief, somewhat aroused by writing this rare blog entry, is alas dwarfed by another rising mountain of guilt. Ironically, writing for you dear readers, is plumping up said mountain of guilt. I have here, five Microsoft Word tabs of incomplete cover letters pleading for five odd jobs. They are left unsent, my five sloths of CV twaddle, since last Christmas. Unhappily for me still, they continue to feed on the scant RAM left of my sleep-deprived computer. Lack of RAM, as we all know, equates to no gaming or movie sessions. Rest assured, I have a personal telly on my dresser to help me while away long nights and dawns of sobriety.

But enough of this self-denigration. I could do this any time. Hah, I’m not only procrastinating procrastination but I too am procrastinating that of criticising my tendencies to procrastinate—I do believe this is either a first for me, or it has always existed alongside my inability to do whatever that is most pertinent.

Confused?

If it were not for my throat that’s now swathed in Hellfire’s flames, I’d surely have tipped to intermittent spells of sleep right now. Yes, I am physically sick and I’m thinking, “when could I GTFO the computer, souse my throat with black herbal jellies, think of how wonderful I would look in my strategically-holey European tights and then perhaps read another 200 pages of one of the four books?”

I am unsurprised if you have been fast forming opinions, of the contemptible sort, of me.

Today is not my day.

I am a rather social creature at this time especially (time being, the ungodly, witching hours). But my sore throat seeks to make a naked mole rat of me. Hmm, perhaps a  hermit crab is the more fitting analogy.

Are naked mole rats asocial?

At any rate, I’d hate to be seen beyond the confines of home if I were to become reincarnated/ Mcgonagally-transfigured/ Kafka-metamorphosed into one. I could never be naked in public, even if I had the body for it, which I like to think that I most certainly do.

As I whistle the awkwardness away from my last sentence, a needy grunt erupted behind me. This is all very non-sexual of course.

It’s my cat, wondering why I’ve not been having my midnight chat or an unreciprocated roll-the-cricket-ball session with him.

Take it as an adieu from me.

With my tonsils being inflamed like eucalyptus drops inexpertly hard-boiled by an inexpert eucalyptus drop maker, I think I’ll opt for the latter option.

Time to roll on,

Vic

Oh, I’ve quite forgot! A video for every post. Delight your aural canals with k.d. lang’s swashbuckling James Bond tune. Seriously, I’m no fan of balding sleuths, but I think I’ll give the movie a go, some day. Presenting, ‘Tomorrow Never Dies’, a fitting title really, for agents of procrastination:

Much and not much has happened to me. I have been unleashing the nocturnal bunny in me, that hops and haunts Sydney’s night scene. Needless to say, this involves clubbing, alleyway ambling, accidental l’amour, bumping into friends made in February, severing old ties in the most humiliating of ways, and of course, insobriety! Even without a card to flash the fact that I am officially over 18, I’ve sipped my way through a smorgasbord of gin and tonics, margaritas, mojitos, beers (yeulch!), wines, and my personal favourite, the infamous green fairy. What can I say about absinthe? It’s sexy, mossy, forest-y. A nymph dancing on one’s tongue, delighting it with strokes of green that grow into the deepest herbs, the greenest wood forests! It felt like that and so much more.

Enough of me showing you a little of my debauchery. I can also tell you I’ve been a good Samaritan in terms of my (so far non-existent) smoking and drug habits. And that is about it! Oh, and I do love my BBC—does that make me a good person? You’d be surprised to know how the old lap that up.

Old people are fascinating.

I have been digging into my past, times when I was relentlessly summoned by toothless gums spitting out “卓魏持! (pron. zhuo wei chyi)” between their mouthfuls of the most delightful fish porridge. I cannot tell you whether rediscovering my love for Siti Nurhaliza and old Malaysian folk songs is an act of wholesome self-actualisation or a shameful ploy to avoid writing the opening paragraph on how anyone can be a celebrity in the modern day. I chose ‘The Sartorialist’, my absolute favourite blog/ger as point in case.

He’s hot. So too are his models. Period.

On a side note, I want to share with you my experiences of being properly (okay, perhaps not) employed for the first time since my unofficial sacking at Donut King, wherein my employment lasted but a day! Thanks to a desperate agent, I’ve landed in one of the thousands of (questionable…) positions for Telstra’s new 4G ad launch. Our job involved creaking and rising up in the un-glorious dawn and making our way to Mrs. Macquarie’s Chair, a tranquil lookout that is one harbour across the Sydney Opera House. Handed seven tees of varying colours each, we were expected to wear them all, a blessing at the time for it was absolutely freezing! Then we stripped.

And stripped.

And stripped.

To the Ellen Degeneres-que whoops of a stout American supervisor.

And stripped.

To the whirrs of two helicopters.

And stripped.

To the disquiet of the trained media mind who thought of the recent aircraft crashes.

The Four Corners tragedy.

The Buffalo plane tragedy.

The plane which rammed into a Ferris Wheel. (Wrong time stream but you get the point)

And stripped.

And stripped.

The result?

We mutated into the Na’vi. James Cameron would have hired us for more than the paltry amount that we Telstra strippers were (not) given.

Value-added production, see? To top it off (literally), I have mastered the sacred, overstated art of speed stripping.

The fruits of our labours. Alors, c’est ici:

As always, a music clip to bump up your culture-o-meter.

J’ai choisi une chanson de jazz par mon chanteur préféré, Serge Gainsbourg.

Oy, shut your xenophobic trap. I’m a-tryin’ to impress y’all with my fabulous quin-lingual-ness.