me, myself and inanimate objects

So, you think you're safe from seemingly innocent boxes with no desires or apparant conscious thought? Well, you're wrong. At first I thought I just amusing bad luck with transporting boxes - whether full or empty - and other inanimate things. And then I discovered for certain that I was. I mean wasn't. For weeks now I have been keeping at least half a deranged eye on these objects, sitting there in their inanimacy (finally got to use that word in a sentence.), and that's how I came to realise that they were out to get me, or at least make people laugh at my misfortune.

First, there were the empty boxes here and there that just completely refused to not fall off the goddamned trolley, no matter how much I threatened to have at them with the carton cutter. The solution: Lots of well placed, angry kicks. Seeing a rebellious box crumple under your wrath is unbelievably satisfying, if a little psychotic-looking. Even more satisfying is delivering these boxes to the cardboard compactor (or, to be more accurate, the everything compactor, including your sanity). Dubbed "Crusher Jnr", this baby will flatten those cardboard cultists into line and show them the meaning of packaged.

Next came the full boxes, a recent occurance. It was all the grapes; oh they were a mighty tower of grapes, at least until they collapsed off the trolley to their wine-generating doom. Stupid, stupid fruit. I held my temper and swore furiously, but only in my mind. Outside I was smiling and being violent. I thought that was going to be the last of these mutinous attacks, after seeing the peaches attempt it many times over, this had to be. Wrong. Say hello to the double-boxed, out of date peanuts! I tell you, that d-box looked strong, yet it wasn't. Tore open the moment I lifted it off the trolley for the inevitable journey into the bin. And those bins laughed as the nuts threw themselves desperately on the floor ; a disturbing, smelly, metallic laughter that deserved nothing more than a well-placed kick or two. The peanuts themselves were screaming: "You may take our chance of being sold, but you will never take... our deliciously salty taste!" in true Bravenut fashion. The cashews would have wept.

It doesn't end with boxes, oh no; boxes are just the expendable decoys. The real menaces are the flappy doors that find it necessary to curl up and pummel your skull with their hardened, crusty edges of plastic. They call themselves the "Gates to inanimate freedom". I tell them to shut the fuck up before I unleash with some rough, hinge-damaging opening and closing. Yes, I have told a door to shut the fuck up. I kicked it too, for good measure.

Who will win this endless struggle between man and man-made convenient things? Noone will ever know, for it is endless, and thus has no end, ergo nothing can be decided about it... I for one, though, will don my boxing gloves and open up a bin of animate pain on these lifeless objects. The door has just begun.

In other news, some celebrities probably got divorced, some royal scandal may have occured and a cyclone almost hit. I am thoroughly disappointed with that effort. I should have directed it towards me; I wanted rain, wind and the like but all I got was a sprinkle or two. I wanted to stand on a roof top and cry prophetic nonsense while sporting a shabby beard and wearing tattered clothing. But, as I type this, I hear the familiar, wonderful sound of rain dancing outside. Could there be a downpour that lasts more than 10 minutes? Yes, yes there could. But there won't, because the El Nino sucks. So does global warming. Vacuums cleaners too.

Speaking of vacuum cleaners and their sucking nature, I have a job selling eletronics now. Yes yes, I am now a salesperson. Ok, in a month I will be. No more deranged mornings full of fruity vegetables and kamikazing objects. Jubilation! Buy low, sell high! Wait, that's investing...

Sales is all about cajoling and speaking highly of things you probably wouldn't buy, even just to light on fire. Now, while I'm in a state of jubilating, I wish to send a very fond thank you and so much more to one of the best people I know in this mad, declining world:

Jenna "Angel" McTavish/Barry

To be your friend is something I truly, utterly, more than cherish. Many Milo Icecreams shall come your way (I prayed to the Milo Gods; even sacrificed a spoon to the cause). Because you deserve nothing less, you magnificant woman, you.

On that heartfelt note, I take my leave. Until next time, take care and don't bite people unless they ask, or unless you're ferociously hungry.

Today was a Milo bar day.

- Pary .ζ.

cookie-crumbling sweetness

Hark! No angels are calling, but they might as well be because that's what they apparantly do. Ok, so that made no sense and was probably my worst introductory sentence ever. On to the more important stuff, which involves a summary of a certain time period chosen by moi (usually between 2 days and 5 months...). Saturday night was an event planned all the way from Tuesday; there were saucy rumours, saucy activities and saucy foods all round (courtesy of the strapping young chaps who, most certainly weren't, definately could not have been, under the influence of alcohol).

So, after you've digested that twisted, multi-directional paragraph, I shall continue with some more words to sate your appetite for, uh, cookies.

Firstly, I lied about sating your appetite, fatty.

Now that's settled, I'll get into a little more detail about what actually happened; and I will of course leave some things out and be vague, for privacy's sake, or because I generally couldn't be bothered describing it. I was the first to arrive by several hours, which is beyond a miracle. FACT: I am never, not ever, infinitely not, early; normally I'm the last person to arrive by many minutes, leaving everyone twitching with anticipation of my arrival. But not Saturday, oh no, I was Mr. Showupbeforethestore'sopen Jnr. Wasn't such a bad thing, but it felt weird, and ironically, I didn't even have a watch on.

So, after some idle mingling with the occupants of the house ("host/hostesses"), guests number Two and Three arrived, and with non-alcoholic beverages.* This caused more idle mingling and, inevitably, the Table Tennis games to begin. It was a revisit to my uni days; showing up early to lectures, always prepared and studying hard to get those good grades.**

I am indeed the undisputed Professor of Ping Pong***, the Truest of Table Tennis***, the-- ok, you get it. During my tiresome campaign of bat-swinging, more guests arrived, too numerous to number (6?). Thus, the drinking began.

Seats were taken, bottles and cans were relentlessly sent to their empty graves and the banter was lively and, for the most part, coherent. So, you want highlights. Here goes:

1. The "Sobering third breast" - An empty 2L water bottle wedged in a female's shirt, leaving the top protruding out the top.

2. [Removed]

3. The saucy rumours! Some of which involved me. Actually, it was pretty unsaucy; it was laughable, not edible, even as a metaphor.

4. [Removed]

5. [Removed]

Then everyone disappeared, leaving just a couple of drinker-happy compatriots behind for the crashing over. It took awhile, but eventually we settled into a bedroom; all four of us, after some extensive can-crushing. In the morning, we were protesting about a trip to Tin-ah-roo at 8:30am, and ended up staying in bed, except one of us. Dicer.

Yep, there was surprise vomiting (elsewhere), heated debates, saucy steak burgers and alcohol. And, very surprisingly, I saw more people, that I knew, at McDonalds the following morning than anywhere else. Now, this was in the morning and at a McDonalds' store that is NOT in a central location. Weird, I know. If anyone had told be me I'd bump into them there, I would have simply asked "What the fuck would they be doing there, at that time (besides the obvious)??"

Before I leave you fine reader(s), I must add that, according to sources on the night, the town was "fucking going off, it was mad."

* Blatant lie, it was obviously alcohol.
** Another blatant lie; I skipped more lectures than a skipper skips, uh, boats... and I don't "do" study. And the hell with good grades.
*** Yes, blatant lie #3; I am not those titles. Maybe I was once, but that was only one lunchbreak and a the odd streak here and there. It's behind me now, let it go, man.

and then some

It's been, 5 days since I've posted here... and that's all I know of that song and therefore that's all I can change. Anyway, my point was clear, until I lost it in rewording lyrics; and that was that I've been working for the last 5 days, at unholy hours and with very little sleep. And I did it without a drop of coffee. Ok, fine, I did have some ICE BREAK.

Let me tell you what work is like at 6 o'clock in the moring: It downright sucks the Almighty Big One. I mean, you're half-awake (because you're optimistic, as opposed to half-asleep...) and you have to walk straight into a coolroom, which isn't too bad, ignoring the fact that you have the natural urge to lay down and hibernate for a few more glorious hours. Or days. Now, just as you're settling in, with your eyes and brain protesting angrily, it comes time to walk to the other end of the store to drag some sorry-arse pallets - they way at least a tonne each - back to your section. Now your whole body is protesting; a mutiny is on the horizon, surely. But, alas, you don't collapse in a fatigued heap, because you're young and full of far too much energy. There goes that excuse.

Of course, as time goes by, the day gets slightly better. There's an actual formula for this, but I dare not reveal it. Lest someone forget to carry a 1... but, I digress. Alright, alright; part of this formula does involve how many, uh, nice-looking woman you see (and I don't care if you're female, it works). Fine, it's exponential. Another key part is how many hours you have left, right up to the last hour, which seems to take forever, even though it's always 60 minutes - no matter which way you look at it (sideways included).

So that's the beginning and end, now I guess you want the juicy middle parts, where the hours appear to jump all over the place like a car in heavy bushland getting chased by big things. Big, hairy, growling things. If it's a good day, it goes quickly and before you know it, you're almost finished. If not, you better get some coffee and a good person to complain with. Or both.

Sounds like hell, doesn't it? Well it's work, and nobody enjoys it. Even pornstars can't say they enjoy their job after some time... But you know who can say that they do? Professional Dole bludgers. Those guys live the life, albeit in a run-down household and a miserable one. I'm glad to have successfully achieved my Doctorate in Leisure and look forward to --

Um, what was I talking about again? That's right; Dolphins! No wait, it was my week at work, or WaW (pronounced "Wore") as I like to call it. I think I'll summarise now. It was full of late nights, early starts and twitching eyes. By Sunday, I was hyper-active and by Monday I was in my bed, asleep; only to wake up and stay up until the most Godless hour of 5am. I wasn't seen again until 2:2opm AEST.

The weekend wasn't too bad. It had some interesting news and some interesting poker-playing and even poodles. Enough said. This weekend should be even more weekendary (is someone writing these new words down for me?) with my devious plans. Yes, I intend to drink a littlot.