Man, I am so fucking tired of it all. I’m tired of National being ahead in the polls, I’m tired of wondering why the fuck every single American isn’t protesting about the appalling treatment of the people who are left behind in New Orleans, tired of thinking about how awful it would be if that was me, tired of worrying about Sebastian with the couple of recent cases that’ve been reported of people doing awful awful things to cats in New Zealand, tired and bewildered at this world we live in. And of course, I’m doing very little to fix it.
Heal the world, make it a better place. Seriously. Meanwhile, I’ll be literally (ha ha, using the word ‘literally’ quite literally is like figuratively my favourite thing to do right now) sitting over here in the corner stressing out about a bunch of bullshit crap in addition to the great big woes of the world. But while I’m here, I suppose I can catch you up with some recent events in my life, yeah? Even though they’re pretty darn trivial all things considered.
Oh! Just before I do that, how much am I laughing at the fact that my favourite carcrash of a site to read is all “oooh go national!”. Although I hate to think that anyone is voting national, that post almost took the title of my favourite away from the previous “bitch scratches her beamer, no one cares”. And while we’re talking snipilly, who else saw 20/20? Miss Lisa Fur and Brad were over at my house then, so we watched it together in squealing squirming horror. It might just have been the television event of the year. But it wasn’t.
On Friday night, I got very very drunk with my workmates. I don’t know how it happened – I could have only had about two bottles of wine, maximum, but still. We were going to go and have drinks at my old work building, on account of the cheapness of BYO, and the balcony there for smokers so that nonsmokers wouldn’t have to stand around on teh street like we do at Ponderosa (as the new blood, I’m starting a quiet revolution) so a couple of us girls went to get wine from New World and we met up with others at the building, but it was all locked up inside and I never bothered learning the access code, and the boys were out of cellphoneage, so we went to Monsoon Poon instead, where my suggestion of its balcony was well received. We drank most of a bottle of wine before we saw the boys from one office walking down to the other, so we decided to catch up with them – ten minutes later they still hadn’t been let in. But we got it sorted eventually. Later in the night, people were guessing other people’s star signs, and they got to me and I was like “hmm, well you now how I don’t talk very much during the day and now after a couple of glasses of wine I am happy to talk about vaginas all night….” and they guessed Gemini. Clever. Also: there was much vagina talkage. Eventually I decided it was time to go, and waited forty minutes for a bus (while being texted updates on who sang what at the live Idol show, thanks Murray) but then abandoned that idea in favour of getting some J&M goodness instead. Shortly after I got home – or maybe after I’d watched an episode of The OC, I don’t know, Anji came home in a similar state so we got to watch the taped Rockstar together, but neither of us could remember who had sung what. Nice work.
Saturday I felt a little bit ill, but Anji brought me home chips and we sat in the sun on the front steps to eat them, and then we cleaned the kitchen. Well, I pyramidded every dish on teh bench, and dried, and mopped the floors, but she did all the heavy lifting of moving another table in there so we have more bench space. Then I got STUPID PERIOD CRAMPS and there were no drugs. Booh. I wanted to hide under my blanket and stay on my couch, but instead I went and met Brad at the bus stop and then Katy at Liquor King on the other side of the tunnel. I made us take a taxi down to Katipo though, and our driver told us all about his toasted sandwich. Bless. With some hastily purchased nurofen from New World, I was ready to party.
Now, Katipo may very well apparently be the new Treehouse Cafe (ie: full of lousy hippie goths) but it was closed for the night for a private party, since many of the partiers were staff, so I don’t think the people there were representative of its usual crowd. Or maybe they were. I thought that it was Lisa-whose-house-I-went-to-last-weekend-who-still-isn’t-Lisa Fur’s birthday party, but in fact it was Lisa-from-Atomic-two-weeks-ago’s party(*), but I was still apparently personally invited, and expected to debate political issues. Brad, on the other hand, felt very obtrusive and sat back in the corner, texting Dave to help him get over the pain the pain the pain of me uninviting him. Katy has a lot of movie loving friends. Some of them are quite cute. Some of them highfived me when I said that The House of Leaves was terrifying and I had to only read it during the day. It was strange to be sitting in a cafe and have it full of smoke. It was even a little nostalgic, but mostly just very smokey. After the nurofen and the red wine started kicking in, I realised that I was having a very good time, even though my head was a little crazy.
On Sunday I cried and shivered in delight watching 7 Worlds Collide which Miss Fur had leant me in exchange for series 3 of her new addiction. Fuck it was an amazing concert. I must buy the cd. I made lemon pie to take to Karen’s for dinner, and beef burgandy for tonight’s dinner. When we got home from Karen’s three and a half hours later, the house was filled with the delicious odour of the stew. Guess who’d forgotten to turn the stove off? I am a fucking moron. The meat’s deliciously shredded now though. It’s also greatly reduced in volume. I will have to pump up the volume somehow. I suspect another can of tomatoes will be involved.
If you think that the above paragraph was boring, you should a) consider yourself lucky that I didn’t subject you to a line by line retelling of dinner at Karen’s (I was hungry, cold and tired) and b) dude, Christian Slater references! Almost fires! Culinary excellence! How can that be boring?