You’re So Shallow

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.



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.


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).


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.


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.


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….


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”.

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