Hubris.co.nz

Goddammit, when is someone going to actually punch me in the face and remind me that English accents aren’t actually as awesome as they make my loins feel?

So this week, my manager has been away, but luckily she gave me a very comprehensive list of things to do which has had me making many many calls. Do you know how easy a comms girl’s job would be if people actually answered their phones? Easy like woah is the answer you are looking for. But as a key feature of Comms is being patient, work has been busy in the sense of lots to do, and slow in the sense of much waiting for others. It’s that waiting that had me having lunch with Miss Kimberley today, so I could give her a copy of 101 Stories that I want to tell you, for her raffle, and now it turns out that instead of just buying some tickets, I’m also selling them. Go to her page for more details, or get in touch with me when I’;m more sober (It’s 3.24am right now).

Anyways, towards the end of the day, we were supposed to go to Concrete for a drink, but I went there with Mel last Friday and most of their cocktails were $20. Seriously? And not even a Long Island Iced Tea? No way am I paying that (although the $8 glass of rare and tasty white that I had was bloody good and also generous), so we suggested that we get a bottle of wine in instead, since our coopted lady wasn’t done (she was waiting for our minister to wake up, apparently), and so I went to Kirks’ and bought an $18 bottle of very tasty Sav. We had nice conversation and plotting for next week and stuff, then I wnet with one of Lani’s friends down to Ministry Drinks. It was Caribbean themed, which meant rasturbated pictures of Bob on the wall and cricket stumps. I sold two tickets and left to go to New World Metro for a $17.50 bottle of Shingle Peak Sav that I thought was $12.50, and a bus up to the lovely Miss Lisa’s house. She cooked me spinachy cheeesy pasta and we watched ANTM the recap episode, until we were joined by Dave, and headed down to Havana for Amber and Karl’s goodbye drinks. It turned out that I’d left not just my phone but also my wallet at Lisa’s house (I am so usually not that girl),so we cabbed back for it, and she stayed, so I went back and talked to many ex CWAers. And I was all woah.

Then I found myself on a couch talking to some British boy, so I made Karl change places with him, and he was saying he flew kites, and I was all “oh,that’s so interesting” so I bid everyone goodbye as they left and settled in to talk to the Brit. He was all blah blah blah and I was all “tehehe accent” and our knees were touching, and our thighs against each other, so I was like omg, makeout. He said he was a chef, so I was like “okay, so what would you cook for me? I’m drunk and kind of cute” (cos I know that he’d been staring at my cleavage like woah), and he started going on about crab, not in a vol e vant (sp?), but rather in a wonton wrapper, and I was like oh yes? saying that I’d never eaten crab but trying to imply that I was totally willing, but then he went to the bathroom, and I was all “okay, he’s got 10 minutes to get back here”, checking my watch, but then he was all talking to others, and he reawlly did remind me of Kateb’s ex, and there’s no way I’d do that, and I was like oh stink bro, you’re a chef, all I wanted was a hot beef injection, but I taxiied home and now I am here. Hurrah. l

On Friday I left my comfortable position in one of the partially enclosed courtyards at the front of Red Square with leather couches and company directors buying the drinks (although it wasn’t THAT comfortable cos I was feeling bad for wearing a rather low cut new top, which would have been fine had there not been 13 of us in a small space and if those people hadn’t been the top brass, one of whom commented that she was feeling underdressed, but meh) to go up to Katy’s house for a girlie night. It was fabulous. There’s nothing like insulting the personalities of pretty girls on America’s Next Top Model to make yourself feel ever so slightly shallow. Lots and lots of wine and snacks and vege lasanga and nice girls who seem keen to come to birthday parties make it better though. LisaB went off on a hilarious riff about girls who sit on boys’ laps and because of the teeth inside their cunts they stay together for years. Katy and I also had a big long discussion about morals and people’s often lack of them too, which was great.

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On a vaguely related note, don’t think that I fail to see the irony – or the contradiction, perhaps, in someone saying that maybe she doesn’t want to come to my party cos she doesn’t want to hang out with my friends but she’s perfectly happy to co-opt certain people. Not impressed.

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Also this weekend I finally decorated my room. There’s been a Bic Runga poster up since I moved in, pretty much, but now there’s all kinds of goodness – well, mostly Hellcat Amazon posters. They’re so great. Also great is SUNSHINE, and sitting in it drinking pina coladas. My hot tip? Condensed milk added in to the blender. Yum. The problem with our back garden though is that the concrete is on an angle. We need bean bags, or something. I’ve discovered, however, that I can cook a mean roast beef. I like that we seem to have people for dinner every Sunday (so okay, it wasn’t actually a ‘beef’ I was roasting. Heh).

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You know how it’s really hard to stop squeezing your pimples? On that same note, damn I wish I could stop reading all those websites that I really loathe. It’s even worse now that I’ve made some comments. I’m sick, I’m diseased. I need help. And ewww, people who have sex with Winston Peters – that is so so wrong.

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When I was ten and my father was working as secretary to the Minister of Foreign Affairs I sat in Don Mckinnon’s chair during a tour of Parliment with an exchange student from Palmerston North (when I stayed with her they took me to the stock car racing). Now I wish that I had pooed in the chair. If Daddy ever actually answered his emails, I’d ask him what he thought about the current state of affairs.

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I’m going to be pretty happy when my bleed finishes and the full moon buggers off so I can stop having filthy but unsatisfying dreams. I would like my dreams to stop featuring me 1) being sexually assulted 2) sucking on the boobs of random slappers in bars cos everyone was doing it 3) making out with one of my female friends a lot in a hotel room 4) giving one of my male friends who I haven’t seen in a very very long time a blow job, only to discover that his penis was pretty much finger sized. All so wrong wrong wrong. It’d be great to be able to control my dreams – or actually, you know, do something in real life. Ha! I don’t think I actually even remember how anymore….

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Random points to finish up on cos I gotta go do dishes:

You do still have my Straitjacket Fits CD, right Joel?

Rachel Hunter is so much more betterer on TV than I imagined that she’d be.

There are still literally too many people on the Internet who say “literally” when they literally mean “metaphorically”.

And yes, I am well aware that I just said “much more betterer”.