Saturday 23rd September, 2000
So it’s half past three and all I’ve done so far since I got up around 2 is read the paper. It’s a big paper on Saturdays, takes three different reading positions to get through it all. I was still up at 4.30am today, reading Marie Claire because the other kids were still up, very suprisingly, and so that meant I couldn’t sleep.
Popular Kate invited herself over last night to watch our tape of Dawson’s. Kate Benton and I had already watched it while devouring home made sandwiches, so I didn’t watch it with her again, because it was a way too gruelling 2 hours. I rang my parents and got really annoyed with my dad for some reason.
After Brad and Popular Kate had watched Dawsons, me and Clay played that postit-note/forehead game with them. (Not the game that Kamahl’s famous for – leaving a postit note on the forehead of some random chick that he’d brought home with his name and a summary of the previous night’s events when he went out and left her sleeping because she was so drunk he didn’t think she’d remember). Brad was “myself”, and it took him ages to work out who he was, even after we said he’d been on TV, but did a radio show more often. Clayton and I were practically yelling when Popular took like half an hour to figure out she was Snoopy. I was “an inanimate object” and also female, so at one stage I was like “Am I a phillips lady shave?” but no, of course I was Barbie. There’s always one Kate or another in our house. I’d say that they were interchangeable, but that’d be a bit cruel. Then they made me watch the greatest commercial ever made three times over. I mean, I am LOVING the m&m one where they’re all sitting around eating themselves, but this ad for Rotorua is even cooler.
Anyways, it was about 2.30am or so by that stage, and so we decided to walk up to Shell for some foodage. But just as we were about to walk out the door, Clayton started playing “Billie Jean is Not My Lover” so we all stoppped to dance, which was quite odd. Needless to say, we were quite hyped up, so we walked up to Shell arms linked, singing songs from the Wizard of Oz. I decided I was the tin woodman, cos that was the song that I knew all the words to. That’s when disaster struck. The doors were SHUT at Shell, and the man standing at the counter counting money pretended not to see us. We debated several courses of action, including knocking, swallowing petrol, and just making off with coke and assorted other beverages that were stacked outside, but eventually we just settled on going back to the house for my car (parked two blocks down because of all the fucking people that park in our street by day) and driving to the BP higher up the road (none of us had drunk a drop). And I had me some m&ms. I am not crispy, and therefore it’s okay for me to do that.
Yesterday morning, I went on a field trip to Software Images in Ponsonby, this place where they make cds. Upstairs past a zen water sculpture, the offices were all cool and hip new media-y, all light wood and sandblasted glass, and I’d like to work there. Then downstairs it was a sweatshop, hundreds of ugly people packaging and boxing up cds. Interesting contrast, i thought. Helen and I went to lunch at Atomic Cafe afterwards, and chatted for ages. It was disturbing though, because she kept mentioning things I’d written in my online journal.
As I type this, Clayton is on the roof breaking off tree branches and dropping them past my window. He’s very frustrated with our TV ariel and our Channel One reception. I didn’t realise he was up there at first, and it was quite quite scary. I think i should have a shower, get my act together and find myself something to do tonight. Yes, that’s a good idea! He had lunch at his aunt’s today and says he’s seen the footage his uncle shot at his 21st. Apparently, there’s a lot of me dancing. I’m very scared.