Tag Archives: mini-break

Paranoia, Pessimism & Prescription Medication

28 Jul

ImageI have returned from a full-blown mid week mini break vacation (by myself) to the sad reality that I start the post-graduate law program tomorrow. My subsequent state of disarray finds me lacking previous paralegal employment (having quit a week and a half ago), in possession of no relevant textbooks (see aforementioned unemployment) and no boyfriend (read current position: bath with wine, soon to be: bed with wine and sleeping tablet).

* No, I’m no one’s wife, but oh, I love my life! *

My delightfully named “suicide holiday” in the mountains consisted of me watching movies, ordering room service and reading J.K Rowling’s rather expensive new book (expensive insofar as I had to buy a Kindle to read it as it was sold out in print). I did manage to get out for a nice walk with some tourists past some rocks and a missing person sign only to return a couple of hours later with cheese, crackers, olives and wine for a little indoor picnic. Not satisfied with eating a wheel of brie I cooked some noodles in the kettle and watched Seinfeld. Cut to me being woken by housekeeping at 8.30am with food scattered everywhere and the TV still on. I asked her to come back later and quickly got up and packed. It turned out I hadn’t finished the wine from the night before so I decided rather than let it sit in my bag and sweat or leave it at the hotel I’d just polish it off (all part of a balanced breakfast). Then I checked out and came home. A solid two days of masquerading as a shut in.

* There’s always going to be a part of me that’s sloppy and dirty, but I like that. With all the other parts of myself. *

At least I wasn’t the couple in the next room having furious coitus to Somebody That I Used To Know.

* That’s all I have to say about that. *

About a week prior I realized it had been far too long since I’d been intoxicated in a social setting. So, when I was a few bottles deep in slut juice I decided it was time to make like Beyoncé’s shoulders and Emma Watson’s eyebrows and get fierce. My friend hid our bags in a locked cubicle like they were Jaden and Will Smith and we partied till 5am. As it turns out I may or may not have met someone (who we shall call Josh Duhamel) and we have been texting him on the regular ever since.

* You know how it is. New school, new babe pool. *

I’ve noticed that I’m the type of person that likes to play games with other people. Not just because I’m manipulative and enjoy feeling superior but also because I like to feel as though there is some set of rules governing the awkwardness that dominates the majority of my attempts at general human interaction and by extension my recent endeavor to woo Mr. Duhamel.

* I’m gonna go talk to some food about this. *

I’m not, by way of association, proclaiming a love of sports. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. You’d think I’d share the plebian fascination with meatheads and a large variety of balls, but alas, those two things are only amusing in a metaphorical sense. Perhaps this dislike stems from the time my father heckled me when I accidentally landed, posterior first, on a soccer ball shooting it into the air like some horrible parody of a Ping-Pong show. Or more than likely it’s because the people who play professional sports seem to be only a couple of evolutionary steps away from flinging poo at each other.

* Hammer-throw. Definitely. *

Either way, I suppose what I’m trying to say is I don’t enjoy playing games unless they’re on my terms. Going from texts that make Yao Ming look short to absolutely nothing is making me worry. As my friend succinctly put it “we’re smart and therefore impatient  – we don’t want our time wasted because we’re busy gals!”

* Is there some reason that my coffee isn’t here? Has she died or something? *

He’s still pretty cute though.

* One time, she met John Stamos on a plane and he told her she was pretty. *

I also had a very satisfactory encounter with my ex a couple of evenings after meeting Mr. Duhamel. Emilio Estevez (formerly knows as “the ex”) literally threw himself at me yelling “you’re my favorite person!” and “I miss you!” He even went so far as to text me (in a ham-handed attempt at making me jealous) later in the evening, telling me that the guy he was there with is “100% the biggest straighty 180. I would never flaunt. Or be a big fucker.” To which I replied with a picture of a takeaway restaurant and a happy emoji.

* Farewell, mortal bus-boy! *

Seeing him realize what a huge mistake he made dumping me in the first place is almost as satisfying as mixing prescription medication and alcohol. I do feel a bit bad for him. I mean he does have a lot of emotions. They’re just bottled up with the issues surrounding his parent’s divorce and his ability to talk without shattering glass.

* Big mistake. Big. Huge. I have to go shopping now. *

Really though, emotions are just like a big crying baby vying for your attention. They wail and wail until you pick them up to find they have carefully concealed a diaper full of poop and you’re stuck with the thankless task of cleaning them up – having all of your senses violated in the process.

* Smells like Bigfoot’s dick! *

Whatever, I don’t need emotions or a boyfriend anyhow. As Aristotle said “The law is reason free from passion.”

* Wish me luck, Bruiser. *

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Never Have I Ever

21 Feb

Image

This week I went on full-blown mini-break weekend holiday to a music festival on the central coast. 5 friends and I camped, drank and danced ourselves silly surrounded by strange festival folk. You know the type: weed smoking, moustache having, singlet loving, underground music enthusiasts that like to wear their own buttholes as necklaces.

* Not a single body that exists in nature, look at that. *

The one benefit of this particular scene was the availability of 3,4-methylenedioxy-methamphetamine. No, I didn’t end up in a Thai prison giving a Madge master class though I did end up somewhere quite unexpected.

* Not Slytherin. Not Slytherin. *

I decided before we went away that I needed a conquest or a rebound, whichever came first. And considering that the whole world of dating terrifies me perhaps finding a hobby might’ve been a better idea. Earlier in the week I considered “destroying men” but unfortunately I’m a couple of recently divorced women and a lesbian daughter shy of the First Wives Club.

How about knitting? Or pottery? Or menopause? Maybe not.

* Matchmaker, Matchmaker make me a match. Find me a find, catch me a catch. *

Pick up attempt No.1:

I noticed a guy next to the dance floor who seemed to have his own supply of various phallic shaped fruits. We shall call him B2. I would like to say beforehand that outside of a gay club setting (which as we know can be misleading anyway) it’s really hard to figure out who’s gay and who’s not; short of bringing up a dislike of female reproductive organs and putting your mouth on their mouth.

Anyway after striking up a conversation with B2, my friends and I relocate to our tent with his fruitiness in tow. During the conversation that follows it comes to light that:

a)    He juggles for a living.

b)    His mother’s in a cult.

c)     He’s straight.

I might’ve dodged a bullet on that one.

Pick up attempt No.2:

A few hours later I’m 6 inches deep in dubstep and breathing easy with my pride rekindled or forgotten in an alcoholic haze. I spot a silver party hat perched on a familiar face of a gentleman who shall call Mr. Sheffield. Mr. Sheffield just so happens to have dated one of my previous boyfriends who, as coincidence will have it, bumped into me that same afternoon. At the same festival. Fun!

I shout a few comments at him like  “Alec Baldwin is the Ryan Gosling of the 80’s” just to make sure it’s a thing and

* One thing led to another, and dot dot dot. *[1]

Cut to me 40 minutes later outside his tent imitating Beyoncé en pointe while he sings Halo. Thanks for this embarrassing display must go to Lena Dunham for making this an acceptable dance move and to Microsoft Word for autocorrecting my lack of accent on the e.

* I beat Meryl! *

Personal idiocy aside it turns out I may have scored a second date next week! I also scored an invite to my 5 year high-school reunion today and a text from my ex-boyfriend. One I don’t want to speak to and the other fills me with dread. I vowed never to go a high school reunion until I was rich and famous or married to someone rich and famous. Which is where the ex boyfriend or any boyfriend would’ve come in handy. I would introduce them as “Astronaut Mike Dexter”

* I have to go back into space, Liz. I hope you enjoyed the kissing, followed by my genuine interest in that T.V. dance competition. *

Swoon.

There are a lot of things I’ve done that I never thought I would do[2] and some that I wish I had never done in the first place[3]. But as they say variety is the spice of life.

*You say potato, I say vodka.*

Well, better dash. I have to write up a first date contract.

Must like Gouda and Harry Potter.

Apply within.


[1] While we’re on the subject of Mama Mia! I once famously said mid channel flick  “Oh, that’s Meryl Streep. She’s like gay Jesus.”

[2] Drugs, redheads, camping, sleeping with a woman (twice).

[3] All of my ex-boyfriends.