Hubris.co.nz

There is going to be an immense amount of whining and wailing and weeping in this entry, so if you’re not down with that, go read this instead. Caution: contains insanely adorable children in tutus.

Things have taken a swing for the worst for me lately. I know it is at least partially related to the miniscule trickle of blood that’s occasionally dripping from my cunt, but really, $200 parking fines, and discovering that WINZ won’t let me sign up for the dole unless I go to that horrible degrading seminar AGAIN and needing new a new flatmate, and still no jobs on the horizon, and continued burglar-related crap and assorted personal dramas and the very very small amount of money that I have left in my account are really piling up. I’m not coping very well with it. I have hid in bed for the past two days, and unless something drastic happens, I imagine that’s probably where I will spend tomorrow as well, at least until I go to Petone to eat cupcakes.

Here’s a story that is NOT the centre of my problems, but it is something that is weighing on my mind in the grand scheme of things. You know that boy who slept over in a post recently? And how although that was strange for me, it was actually quite nice? He stopped replying to my texts after that, and then didn’t show up for roller derby. Perhaps he’s too busy winking at my friends via online dating sites the day after he fucked me (Wellington is a very small place). I know there was no contract or anything, but it still seems like a shame. I thought we got on well, and that my gut instinct was right in thinking he was a nice guy. Oh well. I could tell him this in person but of course I have deleted his number so I won’t drunkenly passively aggressively text him. Does this mean that I shouldn’t trust my gut instinct then?  I know that my gut instinct is correct in thinking that the boy I kissed this past Saturday is trouble, but oh, what a kiss. And then on another note there’s Anji asking me if I think people are crazy because they’re crazy or because they like me. And there’s me wondering if I hold my cards too closely to my chest at all times because I don’t want to get hurt again and wondering whether or not I use not being over someone I could never have had anyway as a way to hold others at a distance.  I guess I’m getting ahead of myself somewhat, and lord knows I’ve been complaining enough lately about people who tell stories in a non-linear non-sequitarial fashion.

So what have I been up to lately? Last week there was tea and cake with Chrisana which was lovely because I hadn’t seen her in a very long time and I very much enjoy her company. There was making economic decisions to go home and sit by myself on the Friday night instead of drinking with the Wellingtonista. I painted signs for Roller Derby with Miss Fur. There was a crafternoon with Megan in which I made the aforementioned tutus that I sent to Maree’s daughters. She made me a skirt to wear to the roller derby on Saturday, so I looked suitably hot:

I got to meet Kim who took this photo and Laura for the first time before roller derby, so that was awesome. Anji’s friend stuck her tongue in when I gave her  birthday kiss, and another girl pulled me into a toilet stall, pushed me up against the wall and felt me up quite roughly. It was kind of fantastic and hilarious at the same time, because there were a lot of people around and she was pretty loud. Loud enough that she ended up getting kicked out of the derby, and I had to leave the afterparty really early to go meet up with her and her friend in his hotel room. The baths at the Duxton are not as good as the baths at the Museum Hotel, I can report but the staff are great at finding super glue for you if your boots are coming apart. It is strange however, that they let people smoke inside. Even the Garden Bar where we went and danced to drum & bass doesn’t let you do that. Then when I took a taxi home the driver didn’t have any credit card slips so he let me pay with a Farmers voucher instead. Mint.

Today my fitted sheet blew off the line when I was doing laundry and now it is gone. That seemed like an insurmountable obstacle to happiness for me so I stopped doing chores and went back to bed. I’m tired of all this shit. I just need some catharsis and probably to have a talk with someone so I don’t end up screwing them over. But for now, I will watch many many episodes of Weeds in a row, pull the duvet over my head, and sleep some more until this mood goes away.

Since I last wrote, the intense bruise on my knee has faded somewhat, but it’s still pretty sore and spectacular.

Since I last wrote, we have opened up the Tiki Shack for summer, and consumed our own body weights in frozen fruity drinks. Well, perhaps just Anna Jane’s bodyweight.

Since I last wrote, I got back the photos that were taken of me in the shack and the back yard. Friends of mine on flickr can see a sampling of them under this tag (warning: I am in my bra in some of the pics, and I look incredibly hott), but because I am so in love with it, I’ll post one pic here:

I am a dusky maiden

Sylvie is a fricking amazing photographer and I highly recommend her for all your photographing needs.

What else? I have been busy on PPP adding in an Outfits of the Day page, which will hopefully soon display any flickr picture tagged with “PPPoutfit”. I have been obsessed with looking at what people are wearing lately. I blame the LJ Fatshionista community, and also Megan for making me do things on Polyvore.

In career pursuits, I have applied for a surprising number of jobs lately, written my first blog post on Open Govt, and I’m working on some advice for Community Central including how not to be a dick on Twitter. That last post was on my portfolio site, which I’ve also spent a lot of time working on. I have been writing a lot on a lot of places. I have been having many thoughts.

In more important news, it’s the Miss Fur‘s birthday today! Lisa it’s your birthday, happy birthday Lisa! Tomorrow night I am cooking dinner for her and a gaggle of girls. And in exciting lady news a) I’m going to see Martha tomorrow because I am helping to organise the opening of her new store b) I’m getting drunk with Emma on Friday and c) I’m going to HLAH with Lisa on Saturday d) there’s roller derby next Saturday e) Kat & Kane are coming down next Sunday! And at some stage in all of that, Amy may be cutting my hair for the first time in a million years. Joy!

If only I had an income so I could maintain this hectic lifestyle for always. It is nice having leisurely lunches with entertaining friends. If only I had a sugar daddy or mammy. Hmmm…

Why hello there! I am back from Vanuatu. It was fantastic. Karen and I stayed at Breakas, got lots of sunshine, ate amazing food, drank a lot of French wine, did the most amazing snorkelling ever and read huge stacks of trashy books, magazines and watched many episodes of The Mighty Boosh at night on my laptop. You can see all the photos in this flickr set, but here’s a couple to whet your appetite:

The restaurant & pool at Breakas at night

This is what holidays are all about. Even though they didn’t have sex in the book til page 270.

One night we went to Iririki Island for dinner as we’d almost been going to stay there. It was beautiful.

Other girls staying at the resort traded magazines with us and gave us booze when they left.

Good times. It was lovely to be offline and away from Wellington. I turned my phone back on when we were taxiing into Auckland Airport and was immediately like UGH! Sometimes I really hate the internet.

And then sometimes there are days when I drive out to Petone with Megan, listening to power ballads all the way, to buy things from Martha at Wanda Harland, and in the evening I go to Lisa Fur‘s house and twirt (ha!) with Emma, and I get to see Wellington twice from the motorway and realise that I really couldn’t leave this city.

What else? The post office haven’t delivered us any mail since July so today I picked up all the packages waiting for me. It was fantastic. I got 21 Jump Street and Dollhouse on DVD, and some fantastic tights that I wrote about on PPP. IThe other day I got all dressed up and took photos of myself, like this:

I’ve been posting outfits to Fatshionista on Livejournal and today someone commented “*fans self* I’ll be in my bunk” and I squeed and squeed in glee. I adore easy self-esteem boosts. I also like it when I do nice things like send KateH flowers in London, and forget that I did it and then be all surprised when she thanks me for it. I really should do more nice things for people.

Finally, a list of things that have been making me happy lately:

• Wheat gollums
• Marlee Marlin impersonations
• Stalkers
• Getting paid in cheese and wine and beer at a GOVIS talk
• Plans to get dressed up like a slut and totally ask to get raped
• Drinking zombies at 11am in the morning to celebrate my new tiki mug, and also to kill my nerves at a thing I was nervous about that is actually happening next week instead.

Because I’m trying to get everything tagged and tucked away and imaged and stuff here on Hubris, I have been reading through many many many entries, and woah, I sure have a lot of angst, don’t I?

I don’t, so much anymore, or at least not all that much today. It is nice to start your day with lunch at the Med Warehouse with Megan, and gossip your hearts out, and then to cruise the aisles looking at tasty things you want to eat, and then do the supermarket shopping, buy healthy vegetables and stuff and make huge big pots of dhal. It is also nice to have a Lisa Fur visit you and to watch Flash Dance together and sing along and twitter incessantly about Sassy Black Friends.

This unemployment thing is handy in that now I am coming off the zopiclone I am not sleeping at night at all so I am sleeping all day, but trying to be financially responsible means that my going out is severely curtailed. That is probably for the best, I suppose, because I am running out of people to drunk text. Getting cease & desist emails was a good thing, and the reaction that I had been pushing for.

Being home during the day means more amusing conversations with Smoo, and also being beaten by him at both Wii Tennis, despite my Williams-y grunting, and at bowling although I’m normally good at it, but beating him at Wii Baseball. It also means that I get to spend more time with Sebastian:

It sadly does mean that I’m churning through bandwidth at alarming rates, although I’m defaulting to simple things, rereading Harry Potter (I have lust for young boys, who knew?) and rewatching Angel.

I’m excited that I get to attend the cheese celebrations of Miss Harvestbird in October, and I’ve booked my flight on airpoints. Nothing good ever seems to happen to me in Christchurch (sorry Good Tom), but perhaps three times is a charm.

I am no longer a public servant. This means that I can therefore say whatever I want. Because oh yes, I had totally been holding back before, right?

I have been without a job for 11 days now. I’m applying for things, networking through Girl Geek Dinners, booking a trip to Vanuatu. In total white whines Karen and I took ages to decide which resort we wanted to stay at, and then in the end we’re staying at the other one because our first choice only had a queen bed and we don’t want to share. We’re going on August 18, which is a million years away, and it makes me sad because it will mean missing the ONYA awards that I have already bought a beautiful dress for. Still, tropical holiday, you can’t really argue with that.

Saying goodbye at work was really sad. I cried at Green Land when they said they didn’t have any more scones and was very very embarrassed and it was totally my iPod’s fault for playing “So Here We Are” and “The Funeral” together. I had some quiet tears in the bathroom. Yenping cried more publicly. I was happy I got to make out with someone on my desk before I left though. Our goodbye function at the Backbencher got very drunk and raucous and we ended up going to the The’Ho afterwards, and then back to mine because all the bars were shut but there was more booze at my house. There was very stupid ill-thought-out clumsy fumblings in my bed afterwards (“you’re not going to twitter about this, are you?”) and terrible hangovers, and then I had an all-day battle with The Man, by which I mean my shrink who conveniently got sick again right when I needed a new script, and the receptionist at my doctor’s is the living embodiment of the Computer Says No lady, but luckily the practice nurse who returned my call was able to understand what it was that I needed, and so I got a two week script out of them – but then even though I’d rung the week before, my new pharmacy didn’t have any lexapro in stock so I had to wait until the end of the day to get my scripts, and then it was 5.30 and I had to drive to the house I’d booked in Martinborough. I was very very shakey and hungover and it was so misty going over the Rimutakas and I was on the verge of having mad panic attacks the whole time.

I discovered that in my shakiness I had packed one sock and no pyjama pants, but there was a gas fire, and a glorious big bathtub, and I had packed delicious food, so that was fantastic. I had intended to have two whole days with the only time I spoke being when I sang to the rubber duckie in the bath, but the house owners came over to check that all was well, and the woman in the thunderpants store turned out to be someone I used to work with, and the girl in the cafe felt compelled to ID me when I had a glass of wine with my onion soup, and the butcher wanted to complain about his day, so blah blah blah, but most importantly, I was free of the internet and the associated incestuous clusterfuck that is Wellington for a good 36 hours, and that was bloody lovely. I resolved to try and have a twitter-free day every week (that has yet to happen) and I took stock of things and realised that sleeping with other people isn’t really chasing away the memories of someone else as much as I would like it to, so perhaps I should stop doing that. Spoiler alert: I don’t stop.

Back into Wellington I got straight back amongst the clusterfuck by dressing up in a corset ala Moulin Rouge, and going to Phillip’s to drink absinthe. Absinthe was a strange thing to drink then, because it made my mind seem even sharper, while my motorskills became blurred. Nevertheless, I honoured my new intentions by leaving around midnight. The next night I went to Bambi’s drinks at the Southern Cross, drank ridiculously large amounts of red wine and brought home the boy that I had fancied like mad last year – (“you’re not going to blog about this, are you?”). Upon reflection, I suspect what the real issue I’ve had with the last three people that I’ve slept with is that there was very little attempt by any of them to actually seduce me. It just happened. I want the flirting and the touching and the tingles back, not just the inevitability of the cold weather. It has hardened my resolve to hold out for a hero.

Kane came to stay for a couple of nights and it was lovely to see him. It was also nice to have someone more shockable than Lisa around. I cooked some great food for them. I’m trying to get all budgety so I didn’t go out to Kylie’s farewell drinks last night – which is probably just as well from the sound of things. I’m paying Anna Jane to do some cut’n pasting of my old journal to put it all into wordpress which I hope will be done before July 18 when you’re all coming to my party, right? And tonight I’m going to a dinner party at Theresa’s when I don’t think I’ll know most of the people, so I’m nervous about that, but hopefully it will all be okay. I made chocolate mousse.

So that’s me, really. Doing lots of laundry, trying to tidy my room, looking for work, looking for love in all the wrong places. You know, the usual. Hurrah.

So apparently, according to everyone and also me, I haven’t been writing here very often. That kinda sucks. It means that my writing is pretty much restricted to stupid little snippets of everyday banter about what I’ve been watching on TV, or endless melencholy about people that have touched me (literally) that don’t get aired much. Well, maybe I can change that. I could write a bit long piece here, or I could publish dirty snippets that I must stress are not related to one another, nor are they chronological. Maybe I’ll do both.

For a nice guy who told me that he hadn’t had sex outside a relationship before, he still managed to fuck me in half a dozen positions, transitioning seamlessly between them.

Yeah! This is going to be fun. Plus this way I get to pretend that I’m still hot and desirable instead of sitting around wearing old jeans in desperate need of a decent haircut and some proper shampoo.

So, Jo’s life as of November 25th. Well. Still searching for the perfect job. Still not sure how she’s going to pay the bills. Still questioning the meaning of life. Making sure she takes her pills regularly every morning and never lets doctor&pharmacys fuck her around again so she ends up going ten days without them.

Other than that, what ho? Hmmmm. Sebastian went AWOL for eight days, causing me no end of worry. I pashed a hot boy who looked like he was from The Strokes, but he was British, and British boys NEVER come home with me. I don’t know what’s up with them. What’s up with you Brits eh? Are you all prudes? (Actually he had a girlfriend. Whoops). I need two flatmates. I moved my bedroom furniture around. I may move the lounge furniture around although now that La’s gone I no longer have a willing helper monkey. And that’s it. That’s all that’s happened to me in the past shit, nearly two months. Fuck.

So it doesn’t matter that he seems like he is a sexual deviant. It doesn’t matter that he rejoices in my hairy legs that he takes the time to rub his cock up and down. It doesn’t matter when he licks my armpits, or tries to fuck me in the morning when he’s still wearing the same condom. He is no one. He is nothing. It doesn’t matter.

I don’t have new things going on in my life which is kind of a problem given that I need constant stimulation to keep me going. I feel very out of the loop now that I no longer receive free movie tickets and cds. I haven’t left the house in ummmm two weeks to go anywhere but the shops. No work and no play makes Jo a dull girl. No work and no play makes Jo a dull girl. No work and no play makes Jo a dull girl. You get the general idea. So right now I’m trying to correct that, in the sense of downloading free mp3s from NZm to see if I can find a great new NZ band I can love and hopefully I’m going to a show tomorrow night. Must. get. out. of. the. house. Of course, all donations of mix cds, tapes, old books and magazines will be most gratefully accepted.

I also should be creating more than I am. Maybe I oughta do my portfolio site. In fact, there’s absolutely no maybe about that at all. A few more job applications wouldn’t go astray either. I’m bloody sick of rejection letters though. If only the dole paid about $50 a week more – or my flatmates were able to cough up for their bills instantly – life would be so much sweeter. I could go out! I could do things! Oh yeah, did I mention that my car is totally dead? That kinda sucks some ass too.

What I need I think is a makeover. Maybe the Fab Five could come over and laugh at my clothes (“you have HOW MANY bonds tshirts? and they’re all tight on your nipples like that?” “What are these shoes? Silver plastic? Are you from the Jetsons?” “Christmas lights? Tack city! And what’s with all the saris?”) and change my life. Already half the time I think I have Joss Whedon doing commentary over my life (“And in this scene, Jo’s watching TV. Again. The empty dishes piled at her feet adn the newspaper opened to the ‘Situations Vacant’ are there to really drive home the loneliness she’s feeling, while soon the demons she’s battling will come back cos we’ve cut off her cipramil”). I think maybe instead I need less TV in my life. But Heather Havrilesky is the best thing about Salon, and if I never watched TV again, how would I know what she was talking about?

His hands are on my head, pushing back my head to secure his view and to make sure I don’t move my mouth away. I can taste his tang and it’s all I want for now, all that I could ever want, but there’s a knocking at the door, and he says that it’s her.

Oh yeah, crack out the porn, Jo. I do think that I’d probably have a good career in Erotica writing. I just need to get me a laptop so I can be more savvy about it. How exactly does one become an Erotica Writer? Or rather, a Writer of Erotica Who Makes a Living out of it? Perhaps even An Erotica Writer With A Shiny Laptop AND an Aeron Chair? An Erotica Writer with a Shiny Laptop and an Aeron Chair Who Can Afford to go see Her Hairdresser Again And Fill Said Hairdresser With Accumulated Scandals and Gossip, And Who Can Also Find Another Pair of $30 Jeans from Farmers That Fit All Lovely Except That Now They Have Big Thigh Holes And Are Thus Rendered Useless. Yeah, that’d be sweet.

PS: my hubris mail went down for a couple’o days, so if you emailed me and didn’t get a reply, try again. Cheers.

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.