Hubris.co.nz

I think it is fairly safe to say that I am addicted to fairy lights. I set up our Xmas tree today (it is named Sam, because it’s a fucking prick. Although it is yet to insist that I must have diabetes). In the process of getting this in place, I also cleaned off our buffet! There are empty flat surfaces in my house! It is very very exciting!

Yes, that’s right, I don’t update for a month, and then when I do, all I write about is tidying my house. This is how I roll, yo. Oh okay, I will talk about how I’ve been Xmas shopping, and making plans for the dinner that I want to cook, and preparing secret potions and all that kind of thing.

I’ve been feeling a bit thoughtful the past couple of days. As you may have seen me twittering about yesterday, it was ten years since I first had sex. So that was the guy that I had my first relationship with. It’s been a year since I began my second relationship as well, which I call a relationship because he did, and because it was more than just fucking, even though it shouldn’t have even been that. Although I didn’t want the first one to be, the second one is most definitely a secret. In 2010, I’m going to meet someone who will love me so much that they will shout from the rooftops that they’re with me. That’s going to be really fantastic. Oh yes indeedy.

I don’t really have that much else to say, because it’s been so long that all the stories I wanted to tell you have been forgotten. Instead, I will grab some photos of me from Flickr with which to start conversations, okay?

SPICEWORLD

Still the greatest movie ever made. We had a most awesome night of watching it and then I stayed up til 3.30am talking to Amie. She cleaned up in the morning! Best houseguest ever until the next lot showed up.

ROLLER DERBY!

Richter City (Wellington) played Pirate City (Auckland) and three of Auck girls stayed with us. Turns out one of them was Hannah who was Iva’s friend when we lived at Volcanic, so she’s also slept with Lance. Hilariousness ensued. Also, Roller Derby was AMAZING, even though we got creamed. It was edge of the seat jumping up and down and yelling and cheering and fantasticness. And look who happened to be in town for it and managed to get in on the sign and fascinator-making?

Yeah that’s right, that’s motherfucking KateH! It was very very nice to see her again after years overseas. Plus, I am now the Popular Kate of Wellington, which makes me feel allpowerful. In fact, I’m the Empress of the Internet. Bow down.

I went to the Havana Club cocktail championships and wrote about it on the Wellingtonista. Speaking of, holy fucking shit, next week it is the FOURTH ANNUAL WELLINGTONISTA AWARDS. I am crazybusystressed sorting it all out plus I don’t get to buy a new dress which is sad but hopefully it will all go smoothly enough.

Oh yeah, duh, flickr reminds me that there’s this:

I got an infected ingrown hair on my stomach, and it developed into full-blown cellulitis and I spent 48 hours in the hospital. Almost two weeks later, I still haven’t finished my antibiotics. Kind of a bit bored of talking about it, so here’s this:

o, so 48 hours of IV antibiotics and crazy Syrian ladies yelling in the bed next to me and NO WIFI (omg death) and so many things beeping and being woken up at 4am all the time so they could change my drip and then at 7am because apparently that’s when they wake up usually anyways later, I cried and begged them to send me home so they have with lots of codeine and also fuckloads of antibiotics, and now my stomach is much better but my arm is in immense pain from where my veins collapsed under the harshness of the antibiotics and it all leaked into my tissue instead. Moral of the story: ingrown hairs are not a good idea.

Many people were wonderful and came to see me in the hospital or afterwards and it made me so happy to have such lovely friends and family and flatmates who provided me with food so I didn’t have to eat the hospital slop and so I had clean laundry and access to technology to keep me from going crazy.

So yes, even though things are far from perfect (I still don’t have a job or a flatmate), the awesome things in my life kind of outweigh the sucky, and that’s the way I would like to keep things, thanks.

It’s Thursday, it’s the 2nd, it’s October, it’s 10.55pm. And if you don’t know it’s 2003, you’re more fucked than me. Dear god I am SO FUCKING BORED. I’m about to chew off my own arms and legs in the hope that the doctors will at least give me some codeine or something after that, because hey, that’s something different and new, and maybe it’d stop the fucking dreams (yesterday morning: being 12 and raped by four different guys and no one would believe me or take me to the police station so I could get DNA testings done, and then this morning it was Iraqi soldiers torturing me, pouring carbolic acid in my mouth and over my breasts. My head is not happy on the inside).

Pay for me to fly to your city and I’m yours. Unemployment fucking SUCKS. And you’re like “eh? last time we heard from you, you were busy working on a paper and having some sex”. Well yes, but that was well over a month ago, right? So since then there’s been the “Well this is nothing to do with the quality of your work, but we jsut want someone more experienced” two day notice kiss off. And so yes, unemployed, not yet able to go on the dole but completely run out of money. Life pretty much sucks. You know how you think that when you have a whole lot more spare time life would be a lot easier? You’d be more tolerant of other people’s crap, and would have more headspace to deal with trying to work out people and all that, etc etc. That’s so not true. Being bored has made me even more intolerant and less willing to put up with being dicked around. Although I was never very good at giving up on flogging dead horses. Etc etc.

More self pitying, more whining. More self pitying, more whining. More self pitying, more whining. Rinse and repeat.

If Winz had been nice and started paying me from the 6th of October like they originally said they would, then I wouldn’t be so worried about money. As it is, my holiday pay is all gone on a dvd player and buffy dvds and the usual extravagent spending that I’m so good at in vain attempts to pass the time. This means I will have to borrow from my parents, which means that I can’t ask them for money to go to Chch or Sydney or San Fran, which fucking sucks cos dear god I’m bored in Auckland. BORED BORED BORED. And if you email me suggesting that I clean my room or something else mundane like that, please to be expecting a big bitchout. I want excitement like strangers on motorbikes fucking me in alleyways or something similar. Nothing else will do. Okay, maybe without the motorbikes. And the alleyways. But just something, some way to let off steam. It’s all bottled up. If I was a piece of kitchenware, i would be the pressure cooker Ammy used to prepare chickpeas for hummus – before she blew up Lance’s blender, that is. Speaking of Lance, he’s been away for a fortnight with only a small stop-through in the middle, so that may add to the boredom. Luckily I still have Iva to watch Buffy with. I’m praying she will bring me home potato chips, but of course she won’t know thsi, since I lost my cellphone at Gilmours and it got pinched, so I reclaimed my old one off her. I still have the same number, but I don’t have my old sim card, so everyone if you have me in your phone, text me your name please so I can have your numbers. Thank you. Andrew is also staying with us which at times is entertaining. Him and I had Wine&Cheese the other night, and we even managed civilised conversation some of the time – I explained in detail why I didn’t like 1984 and how it didn’t work because all of the characters were so inhuman it didn’t seem real and therefore wasn’t frightening, wheras the reason that Margaret Atwood’s grim portrayals of the future were so much more poignant is because you can get under the characters’ skins and become them and it’s pretty fucking terrifying. See, there’s more to me than everlasting jokes about sodomy. Well, a little more to me anyways.

I’m just really really super lonely. I want someone to sleep with – someone who’ll cry when I cry so our tears mingle and I forget where I start and they begin, or someone who’ll make me feel like their arms are the safest place to be in the world because they’ll never hurt me, or someone who’ll hold me so tight that I almost can’t breathe, like I’m totally precious to them. Sebastian snuggling into me will have to run a close second. I adore him utterly, but he bites me if I ask for too many cuddles. And sure, I want sex too, and jesus, unemployment is majorly bad for the OOS, what with all the extra time for the Internet and also the wanking, but most of all I crave what – intimacy? Perhaps. Foreign scary concept for me. I’m so special, I’m so super, I’m so DEEP. Whatever.

My letter to the Editor of the New Zealand Herald about this story

“The day before Parliament is set to hold a conscience vote on the Prostitution Reform Bill, the Herald runs a front-page story about a convicted rapist visiting a brothel. This isn’t news. The story isn’t about police catching Michael John Carroll red handed committing another crime (remember that under the double-standard current law, prostitution isn’t actually illegal, just solicitation). This isn’t a serious debate about whether or not he should have been paroled. The story is just an absolutely sickening editorial attempt to sway the vote away from law reform. By linking sex work with rapists, the story intends to imply that sex workers are entirely responsible for the moral decline of society. The front-page placement of the article, despite its lack of newsworthiness (it happened “some time”, not yesterday), clearly demonstrates the editorial position the Herald has taken on attempts at law reform. If prostitution remains illegal, the Herald will have more opportunities to publish those “12 year olds sell themselves for a can of corned beef” moral panic stories that it so dearly loves. Heaven forbid that such a conservative paper should actually support a bill that would improve people’s lives instead of scare mongering to raise sales.” 200 words only

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So it’s been a while, hasn’t it? Well, when did you last hear from me and what did I say then? Ahh June 12, the night before my birthday party. That was a jolly good night, with people dressed in bear costumes (!), much gossip and scandel and me lusting after not one but two gentlemen. I had so many friends there, I wasn’t able to talk to anyone really. That was a shame. Oh well, a good time was had by all, except for Kara, but really, why is that such a suprise? It’s not. The following Tuesday (the 17th) I had my dinner at Canton, and that was lovely dovely, except for losing my wallet and feeling like no one cared about that fact. It was found later, and of course people cared, as I am constantly reminded.Yes, people care about me, I get that. I just feel really isolated a lot lately, and have discovered that it’s far more convinient and possibly a little more mature to push bottle caps into your arm so that they leave marks for a couple of days rather than scarring up with hot knives in hidden places. I’ve been questioning my current meds a little bit too because I feel sometimes like I’m at the stage where I can’t be bothered with people at all (re: Clayton being upset at Kara’s storming off at my party), while at the same time I’m feeling lonely and scared and freaked out. I guess it’s just generally weird when you hear Live on the radio or get books about monkeys and it brings to mind “You took advantage of me. I don’t know why I bother with you”.

It’s not all that though, there’s also gigglestyles at boys in bands who I saw play on Saturday at the Kings Arms for the ‘Here Come The Bulletholes’ release party who I have crushes on and I get to email them and say that they look sexy on stage. And then there’s that I got to talk to Tom McRae last week (thank you soooooo much darling!) and he was absolutely lovely. English people should be banned from saying “erm” instead of “um” because it’s just SO DAMN CUTE. I sounded like a fawning sycophant in the interview, but oh well. How could I help but be anything but?

I’d like to think that Iva has settled well into our flat although I’m sure she finds my disappearing chequebook a little annoying. Our computers are intemittently networked, so I can access her huge amounts of TV and movies. Oh how in love with Bernard Black I am! In other flat gossip, I’m incredibly pissed off with Johnny for buggering off to Queenstown without paying his rent, leaving me almost literally penniless and unable to purchase tampons or painkillers. GRRRRRRRRRRR. GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR. Daniel is coming out of his shell more and more, and although Lance’s fetish for bringing home white picket fence pailings is more than a little disturbing, I adore him, he’s very fun.

Other things going on in my life right now? I think my Masterplan is never going to come to fruition. I’m annoyed with my failing lack of ambition, and the fact that I just churn out shit at work – when I’m doing anything at all, that is. It’s more than a little disconcerting to think of all the people I told about my brilliant idea, and how supportive they all are, to know that that’s going to be swept away in a tide of self pity and bleakness. I think that it’s probably quite likely that I should be going back into counselling (so.much.anger), but the prospect of starting all over again is more than a little daunting.

I miss having people love me. Even if I don’t deserve the love – but surely everyone deserves love? I know this entry is more than a little pukefest, but just like Bobby Brown, that’s my prerogative. There were so many more narratives that I meant to include but have forgotten. Probalby something to do with vidoes. I watched ‘S.F.W’ which I fucking worshiped when I was 15 (people fucking to “Teenage Whore”, Stephen Dorff walking in slow motion through a mall to “Creep” – what’s not to like? Oh, and Amber Benson is in it! I adore Tara. Oh Buffy, how can you be coming to an end so soon?), and it made me feel very nostalgic for a time when I thought I had the right to be “angry at the system, maaaan”. I have no idea what the hell I thought was oppressing me back then, but I want it back. I wanna jump up and down and scream “fuck you I won’t do what you tell me” in the mud again. But instead, I will just watch more videos and cry in joy at the end of “It’s a wonderful life”. Is this growing old? I guess so. Shit, I’m 23 now. Time to call out the knackers.

I’m wearing new Napolean mascara Karen sent me (although it’s weird – mascara? rather than eye shadow or lipgloss what I asked for? Surprises are cool.) and I feel like it’s making me open my eyes extra extra wide. That’s no bad thing.