Whether it be food or work performance, you can generally define the quality of something based on its consistency.  A word that i just learnt isnt that easy to spell and consequently have most likely been pronouncing wrong.

con-sis-tenc-y. vs. con-sist-an-cy.

huge difference.

Enough of that, focus on the task at hand.
Infront of you is a glass, its contents is half. Is it half full, half empty, or just a complete waste of time to be asked that stupid, insulting question, OR just an indicator that the person asking it is clearly an idiot to think that by answering that question you can deduce one’s approach to life and all of its unanswered questions.

Talk about a take down on h20.

So in our last segment we discussed music, so i see it appropriate to discuss the topic of dancing in this segment.  Today we have our live audience in and may i just say you guys have been great so far, that right, lets applaud to that, i can’t hear you, cmon, you can do better…( insert 2-3 minute segment of what can only be described as an ellen de generes dance/walk through audience to some ghetto-booty song ).

ok so ive found that if i am dancing in a large group of people, and i hope for the sake of my dignity that i am not alone on this, that if im watching someone dance, i subconsciously start to mimic them.  ( for the record, mimic is also a hard word to spell ). And by this  i mean, say they are doing the casual side-step, possibly throwing in a few ‘hoo-ha’ hands every now and then, i honestly, for some reason unknown, will do it too.

they could look like a complete idiot, but there must be some little man in a leotard standing on a dance pad inside my brain that says, ‘ day-am africa, im gon’ shake my ass like that fine honey and see if i look as good as her on the dancefloor’. or maybe its just a case of getting nervous and realising, ‘ ok so ive been first pumping for the past 5 minutes and the song changed to a slow dance about 3 minutes go so now might be a good time to opt for grabbing a stranger and pulling them tight to me and waltzing’.

Whatever the case, i do this silent simon-says act, realise it, attempt to rectify, but only rectify by turning to the next nearest person closest to me and then trying out their moves for a bit.

and i musnt be the only one because there is always that person on the dancefloor who’s dancing leotard wearing mind control man has panicked,fixed themselves on the DJ and consequently thinks its dance-floor etiquettely (imaginary word, thanks spell check ) acceptable to start spinning imaginary turn-tables.

Oh i still have my own moves, however outdated they may be, i wonder if being able to dance comes from experience or it is something you are born with.

ive always had this crazy thought, and i think it stemmed from one of the matrix movies, but i believed that a person already knows how to do everything, it just depends on whether they believe they can do it. And i dont say this is in the ‘ you can do anything you set your mind to’ sort of way, although that statement just encapsulated what i just said, its not an encouraging, faith building, pump-up sort of concept. its more of a, ‘ yeh, i can skateboard, all i have to do is jump on and ill know what to do because i believe i can do this, why wouldn’t i ‘

unfortunately i soon realised it doesnt actually work like that, and my dreams of flying a plane or performing open heart surgery were soon diminished.

NB: for the purposes of readers who have minimal or no sense of humour, the above statement was said with something humans ( amusing or not ) call ‘sarcasm’, and in no way have i ever had the desire to do either activity.
NB: that was a poorly constructed statement and if anyone cares to apply for the position of editor they can leave their resumé in the box marked ‘fuck off and do something productive’

its always nice to leave on a offensive, profane proliferated statement, so with that i shall take my leave.

Thanks for joining us today, if you all check under your seats you will not find a secret envelope with a $1000 gift voucher to myers, but instead a dried up, old piece of chewing gum that someone with a poor sense of courtesy has deposited there months previously for you to enjoy.

n is for the nutbush.

And it just so happens that life and society provide us with extremely important song choosing moments.

Some are joyous, others for reflection and sorrow, yet we are still expected to choose a total, moment defining song, to encapsulate whatever it is there is to be encapsulated.

A wedding is a ceremony that requires several song choosing moments.  Now a wedding is a very public-private affair.  Only you and your partner know the reasons for why you are choosing to spend the rest of your existence together, yet it is the celebration of this choosing that is made public.

The playlist goes as follows:

- a song for walking down the aisle.
- a song for every one else to walk down the isle to (normally of their own choosing)
- a song to walk the other way down the aisle to
- a song to enter the reception
- a song for everyone else to enter the reception
( at this point in time, this procedure may only make sense to me because of my attendance at a cornucopia of  italian-catholic marriages, and the vorbose nature of this ritual may seem more apparent to some than others )
- and of course, ‘the fist dance’ song, which is later referred to for the duration of a couples ‘coupling’ as ‘our song’.

blah.

Lets talk about funerals.

I’ve decided that i will not have a funeral. I will have a fun-eral. FUN-eral.

And it will be a huge celebration of the life that i am to live, and my funeral song will capture this.  Now the point of this conversation is not to discuss what possible song choices i have to pick from, that would be rediculous, but instead the point i am trying to explore is the act and nature of song choosing.

As stated earlier, a good song is one that renders you of your mobility.  You are left vulnerable, it may even have the ability to cease your bodily functions.  Whether you are head-bangin’ or hysterically crying.  A great song at a funeral should be so great that the coffin bearers will actually stop what they are doing, possibly take a seat, ( thats way crude and sacrilegious ) and think ‘ shit, good song choice ‘ .

Meow this is all said with no intention of being offensive, abrasive, naive or just general douche-baggy-ness.  Music is a key player in key events of our life.

An upside to this daunting task is that people will remember a good song choice…for a day or two.  But people will remember a bad song choice for a lifetime.

Bad wedding choices:
If you Wanna be Happy - Jimmy Soul
Love Stinks - J. Geils Band
Run for Your Life - The Beatles

Of course these are all very humorous and i hope that there is no one in the recorded history of wedding songs that has actually signed their own death certificate whilst signing their marriage one…

After all this talk about songs i find myself inspired to go on the hunt for new favourites, which are more often than not someone else’s old favourites.

I think this post has been successful in that if i should by some random act of fate meet my untimely death/demise ( i am running an empire here ), that i have sent it out in to the world that the soundtrack to my casket bearing should definately be chosen from the following list:
- Stairway to Heaven, Led Zeppelin
- alternatively…Highway to Hell, ACDC
- Wake me up before you go-go, WHAM!
- Stayin’ Alive, The BeeGees.

It’s been fun.

N is for Necrophilia.

There are several survival techniques we are taught since the day of our existence:

1. how to tie your shoelaces
2. say please and thankyou
3. how to wipe front to back
4. dont eat the yellow snow

And it appears that somewhere along that list there should be a lesson on changing a tyre.

It became apparent to me, through having a copious amount of strangers offer their help, that no one, in fact, knows how to change a tyre, except for the NRMA man, who must have studied an intense thorough course in the matter.

The saying, ‘too many chefs’ can be applicable in this instance.  Every one has an opinion and every opinion is useless.

Be warned, the act of changing a tyre is not for the light hearted or ill equipped.

Not only did this experience lead me to believe that changing a tyre is a quintessential piece of knowledge for surviving in this modern era, and that I have a new found respect for those who are competent in the matter, but I also had one of those experiences which temporarily restore your faith in humanity.

Although 1/4 of the traffic that passed by my car for the two hours that I was helplessly sitting there offered their assistance, despite the value of their input, the small gesture was greatly appreciated.

It also seems that most D.I.D situations can serve as a handy pick up tool. Which reinforces an assumption of mine, sometimes people just need an excuse to converse.  Not all people are the bad guys in a movie, but don’t get me wrong, some people are just plain old fucking weird.

It is a common topic of discussion that once a person has been traveling they learn the value of new friendships.  Why is it so hard for people to converse with complete strangers?  It can be proven that through a little discussion you can trace back some type of commonality.  Whether it be having a mutual friend, living in the same area, or both having a strange and unidentifiable rash on your left buttocks, alarmingly close to the family jewels.

They say there is only 6 degrees of separation.  And while I choose to believe this in the hope that some day there will be 0 degrees of separation between bruce willis’ pelvis and mine, people need to take a step outside of their comfort zones and explore the joys of the unknown.

n is for new

I’ve decided to enlist in a come-back tour and make my reappearance in the blogging world.

It has been almost a year, and i can confidently say i am none the wiser, and my posts will most likely reflect that.

Yet although my depth in wisdom may have not varied, experiences have been had, none of which i will divulge now, yet will inevitably be soon revealed in my posts to come.

Hello old friends.  With so much on the subject of nothing to write about, i find myself in bed at 2:22 am (no shit) , struggling to find something to entertain you all.

I think its safe to say that i currently find myself in the same position as Oprah and J.k Rowling.  What we have in common is the vastly popular empires that we have created, that have come to an end, and the foreboding task of creating the next empire to meet expectations.

Yes that, we do have in common.

Time has been the subject of many popular songs throughout the generations.

I was contemplating listing various quotations from various songs and their interpretations of time, but then the song ‘ turn! turn! turn! ‘ by the byrds got stuck in my head and i just cant seem to get it out, so the thought of having multiple one-liners stuck in my head seemed infuriating.

consider this a civil service.

The point i was raising is, a lot of time has passed, and it is interesting to be able to read back, reflect on past moods, amusing recollections, momentary bursts of insanity and permanent useless streams of consciousness.

This post is here simply to say:

Guess who’s back?
Back again.
Shady’s back.
Tell a friend.
Guess who’s back, Guess who’s back, Guess who’s back, Guess who’s back, Guess who’s back, Guess who’s back, Guess who’s back…

n is for na na na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na na na, na, na, na dia.

smooth…

listening to people’s conversations.

sometimes i wonder if they speak especially loud because they want someone to hear what they are saying.

for example, yesterday a man next to me was saying, ‘i just want to see a chick hook up with a statue…you know, like a totem pole’.

im not even going to comment on that, each to their own.

so im sitting here with a half eaten salmon sanga and im dying to go to the toilet but i cant do that because that would involve me either leaving all my shit here at the table, or picking it up and taking it with me and we all know that isnt an option because i made the mistake of having my lunch ‘in’ as opposed to take away, so its sitting there on a nice plate looking all pretty and unwanted.

now a couple opposite me are talking about jesus christ super star.  i wonder if they are a couple.  i wonder if they know that i am writing about them.  im going to put $1 000 000 on red and say ‘they dont’.

and if they arent on a date im going to put the other million i have laying in the bank on the fact that the guy is probably wanting to get in this girls pants.  which brings me to the ladder theory.  a theory that was formally brought to my attention one night whilst exchanging drunken-banter with an acquaintance of mine.

i use the word formally because i was already aware of this theory, yet not of the fact that it had its own website, which i will kindly link to you here.

when harry met sally.  one of my favourite romantic comedies as i am 99% sure i have already brought to your attention.  there is a particular scene in the movie in which harry explains to sally that men and women can never be friends.  ive actually blogged it on my tumblr, which i will link to you here.

what is amusing is that my ‘dashboard’ for this bog allows me to see how many people view this particular post, and then how many of you actually proceed to click those links. amusing eh?  dont feel pressured now.  but for your sake ill mention that all the cool kids are doing it these days.

to my left, 8 fully grown men and one woman are attempting to sit around a circular table that has the approximate diameter of 100cm. needless to say, its am amusing spectacle, i wonder if i can ask one of them to mind my salmon.  nehh.

you know how some random facts just always stick with you?  kind of like how you will for some odd reason remember something that someone said to you once but if you were to tell them they wouldnt remember.

i think this is most commonly witnessed when reminissing about times when we were younger.

ok the group has grown to 9 men and one of them have now joined me on my table, i think it would only be fair to ask for him to mind my salmon.

back to my point of bits of random information you remember.  full bladders. i think it was healthy harold that once said, oh superstar jesus guy just said the name harold, anyway, i think that giraffe puppet once shed some insight into the fact that when your bladder if full, your body temperature is maintained, or exacerbated, whatever, if your cold, and you have a full bladder, you will remain cold or become colder, and vice-versa for if you were hot.  at the moment im content.  apart from the fact that my bladder is probably over flowing and i will eventually develop a liver infection. liver? is that even right? kidney?

people who fart loudly in public amuse me.  given that they are a fair distance away from you.

n is for nicotine.

i’m your host, queen latifa, so sit back, relax, make a cup of tea and light up a cigarette as we look into the oh so interesting life of myself.

ive been a little MIA.  for all those not-so-army-fanatic fans, thats ‘war talk’ for Munting In April.

not really. i’m just fucking with you Ted.

but seeing as i havent blogged for a while, i have the choice of two options.

1. write as much as i can remember about everything that has happened since my last blog, or

2. give it to you eager beavers in small instalments.

jeeze.  ive used that word twice already and i’ve barely written 100 words.

yes, this thing has word count on it. 130 and counting.

ok. so. the way my brain allows me to work is this.

backwards.

start from today and hit the rewind button.

but just because we are going in a backward motion as opposed to a forward motion that doesnt mean that you have to read really fast in a high pitched squeaky voice and unintentionally, subconsciously, strain your vocal box to a point where you then start speaking and its permanently tightened so then people think you’ve developed a speech impediment where you’ve been involved in an unfortunate helium explosion and the over exposure to the gas has rendered you to sound something resembling a chipmunk.

naturally this would open up many career opportunities in vocal artistry, primarily Disney films.  but then again Pixar are pretty up there too, so the competition would be tough so then if you became successful enough you could charge astronomical prices to share your talent with the world.

and then because if we revert back to the initial cause of this unperceived and highly unlikely event – you reading my blog, i would then proceed to take 10% of your earnings.  something like a finders fee.

322 and counting.

so i have this problem with punctuality.

im either really really early, or really really late. correction, marginally late.  if im really really late then its probably intentional and i had no desire to be somewhere in the first place.

today i was an hour and a half early to uni.

the point of this story? my point is, that having some spare alone time to yourself is good for the soul, brain, body, whatever.

in this time i wrote a list of ‘things i would like to do if i had all the time in the world’.

to share this list with you would make sense.  to lay myself bare and vulnerable to strangers on the internet is a thought that excites many.

to be honest, the list isn’t private at all.  i actually just list things like, ‘read alot of books’ or ‘collect a large variety of music’

real pussy like adventures.

maybe i will make a bucket list.  ’a list of things to do before i die’.

daunting.

look we are already at 500 and i havent been remotely constructive.

do you love it?

TELL ME IT EXCITES YOU.  THAT YOU WANT TO TEAR YOUR CLOTHES OFF AND ROLL NAKED IN A PADDOCK OF WILD ORCHIDS THEN DIP YOUR BALD HEAD IN OIL AND RUB IT ALL OVER A FOREIGN LANGUAGE SPEAKING PERSON THEN TURN ON THE MUSIC AND DANCE DANCE DANCE TILL YOUR FEET SPLIT OPEN.

of course at this point in time i must advise you that the trouble with dancing naked is that not everything stops moving when the music does…

put a muzzle on her.

im going to stop it there.  but its been lovely. divine. i would go as far as to say romantic.

there are a couple of people im supposed to give a shout out to.

but im not going to do that just yet.

quick final story.

just now. not a second before you blew a hole through my door. did i receive an anonymous letter.  inside the envelope, was a purple post-it note, and on the post-it was written 3 very moving words.  words that would change my total existence.

beautiful stranger who knows my home address. who are you.  reveal yourself and let me know why you uttered those 3 words.

‘the storm suck’

n is for notoriety.

has it actually been 5 days?

shizer.

and i have nothing to show for it.

i had to turn the music off in order to concentrate.

ok. so. constructive criticism.

as a child i was never a fan because as soon as someone used that ‘ohthisisgoingtobeawkwardformetotellyouthatyoureshit’ voice i would automatically burst into tears.  i wasn’t as bad as the token emotional girl that would always make a scene.

actually this reminds me of a conversation i was having with bart and jack, so im going to digress but im going to type, CC, so that i remember my point.  actually this is going to be very ironic. i will reveal all.

ok. primary school. the emotional kid, or the aggressive kid, who wasn’t so much a bully, they just had really bad anger management issues. how about the prematurely slutty girls who had their hearts set on marriage, or just the plain old fucking weird kid who did weird shit and you would be told by your parents to preferably ‘stay away’.

as i recite a list of the various stereotypical character types that have sprung to my mind, do images of the faces of kids you grew up with spring to yours?  do you flick through the imaginary rolodex of your recollections and project faded memories of someone throwing a tantrum, or someone crying uncontrollably for no reason, or perhaps being led down the make-do wedding isle in the playground feeling as though you’re heading towards your doom.

the point im trying to make here is.

do you think those people know that other people have these kinda of memories about them?  that they have been placed into a category, and that they should be really fucking embarrassed?

im being quite profane today.   its all in good humour i assure you.  i feel as though it gives more character to my style of writing.  and to be frank i tend to swear alot anyway. deal with it. wow that was rude. i never go as far as to use the CC

ok good. back on track.

so i was at coffee with soraya and sam, and i shouldnt even mention sam’s name in this thing because he stated and i quote, ‘ if your blog wasn’t electronic i would burn it’.  anyway. coffee. constructive criticism. conversation.

sam: nah but i do like your blog

soraya: so do i, but sometimes its too long.

so here we go. third time lucky. im going to try and use a poll again. and this time its going to be a serious one o.k. not some lame shit that you dont really have an opinion on. or to be honest, one thats results wont actually change anything because we all know im not going to write a novel because one person says to. oh jeeze ive done it again.

ok.  there’s a poll. do it. its anonymous.  but you viewing this page isnt so i will hunt you down and find you and feed you to a cattle of toothless cows who’s udders are full of off milk and are leaking from old age and over milking so you would be covered in mouldy cow saliva and lactating udder juice.

some people say im charismatic but i just tell them

n is for niche

OH OH OH OHHHH OH.

i poke her face.

do you think it matters the order in which you write a blog.

title then blog

blog then title

im title then blog 99.99% of the time, because i believe that the blog is empirical.

i need a shoe rack. i need an instrument which will enable me to display my shoes, not for viewing pleasure, but so that i am aware of my options.

dont you find that once you buy something new, you tend to wear it to death and then forget about the other things in your closet.

or even have items of clothing that you favourite over the others and therefore they get more love and attention, while that pair of jeans that is still quite nice and will always be in fashion is at the back of your closet screaming ‘LOVE ME. WHY WONT YOU LOVE ME’ to which you so indignantly reply, ‘BECAUSE YOU’RE DRY CLEAN ONLY, AND I JUST DONT HAVE THE TIME OR MONEY.  YOU’RE TOO HIGH MAINTENANCE, YOU BRING THIS ON YOURSELF’. to which your jeans, so resilient in nature reply, ‘I NEVER TOLD YOU TO GET DRUNK OFF 3 BOTTLES OF RED WINE. WHO ARE YOU!?’.

ah. the classic dirty jeans vs. alcoholic debate.

when in reality its the black pair of jeans that win because you can just put that shit in the freezer.

sometimes i want my shoes to be slightly dirty.  like my thongs. no one wears clean thongs.  thats just un-heard of.  and for any un-australian readers, the thong is an adornment of the foot also referred to as, oh shit, what else are they called…flip-flops?  well anyway, thongs on your feet, not on your burdunk-a dunk.

point i was trying to make is, one time my grandma put my thongs in the washing machine and i was so upset because they came out sparkling clean.  and i just had to go outside and rub them in dirt before i could be seen wearing them out in public.

how funny is it when your typing as you think, and your fingers type a completely different word than what you were thinking.  9/10 times they will be slightly related, bet every now and then it will be

‘ yeh so i had to go to the supermarket to pick up 5kg of penis’

amen to that sista.

my puffers are going heaps good. thanks for asking. i was thinking of turning one into a necklace.  probably the purple one, because everyone knows what purple stands for. OHH YOU TOUCHED THE BOTTOM OF THE CAKE, THE KNIFE CAME OUT DIRTY, YOU GOTTA KISS A BOYYY.

that shit used to keep me up at night and make me cry.

the thought of spin the bottle…oh. my. god.

ive just realised that i only live in half of my room.  you can perfectly dissect it down the middle and one is perfectly tidy and the other looks like a shit fight.  i hope my parents dont read this.

actually, today some extended family came over and my mum’s aunty was like, ‘oh i havent seen you in 3 years, but ive seen pictures on facebook’

and my face kinda deflated…of course if that same aunty is reading this, keep on truckin’

my itunes has been providing me with the cutest surprises today.  during the day it was on shuffle and ‘coco jumbo by mr. president’ came on.

what a blast from the past.  that song actually elates my mood, under any circumstance.

and just now the song ‘lotion by greenskeepers’ came on.  i downloaded it because its based on SILENCE OF THE LAAMMBBBSSS. which i mentioned in my previous blog.  do you like how im making an effort to draw in connections. correction.  two blogs previous.

my tea tastes so good.

its out of a mug that reads ‘ive been to movie world’

and let me let you in on a little secret, that place, my friend, is not so good.

its been great.

n is for ne plus ultra

maybe i should tweak it and then finish it off?  how about we try round two with the poll.

At what point do you consider yourself dead?  It’s one of those topic areas of death that people don’t usually like to think about.  Just as a married couple evade the omnipresent question.  Who will die first?

Of course a doctor will tell you it’s the point in which your heart stops beating and all bodily functions cease to operate.  Except of course for your hair and nails which continue to grow for a particular period of time – a general fact everyone is supposed to know.  Just like everyone knows it takes just 7 degrees of tilt to knock over a bowling pin or just like how the name Britney Spears is an anagram for Presbyterians.

When the biopsy was performed on Kevin Klint Klein (an unfortunate name on its own without considering the repercussions of the initials it formed), Doctor Andrews deduced from the ubiquitous amount of maggots in the decomposing corpse that dear Kev had been dead for approximately 4 days.

He was wrong.

Kev was a forty-seven year old, cyber-nanny, balding male with carpel tunnel and dyspepsia, but that wasn’t what killed him.

There is a commercial fridge magnet that can be purchased from India Fox for $3.99 and is guaranteed to be on the fridge of any ‘spiritual being’.  It reads ‘there is a difference to being alive and living’.

Kevin never died, as he never lived.

Kevin worked from home.  It was one of those simple pleasures of existing that compensated for Kevin’s lack thereof.  This allowed him to isolate himself from others and do what he loved most.

Kevin loved watching movies.  It was through transcending the rectangular glass screen in his lounge room and inhabiting the bodies and minds of those characters on screen that Kevin began to live.

Kevin was one big, fat, intertextually cliché cluster.

Kevin woke in the morning to the smell of what can only be described as musty burnt toast – as it was the closest thing he could find to the smell of napalm.

He cleaned his house wearing nothing but a white shirt and black socks and spent hundreds of dollars removing the carpet from his apartment and replacing it with floorboards just so that he could slide down hallways.

At night he forced himself to drink alcohol just so that he could converse with the mirror he had strategically placed in his kitchen to say ‘shaken not stirred’ then proceeded to act out the infamous ‘are you talking to me’ scene.

Ordering take in was a mess and signing for packages was a disaster as Kevin no longer had his own identity.

As much as I’d like to recount the exciting and insightful journey of Kevin’s life, I’m afraid I can’t.

Kevin had recently moved.  He insisted on wrapping each individual item in newspaper (he’d seen mr. Bean do the exact same).  So it was on the dark, rainy Tuesday afternoon that Kevin first came across the 6 step program to living.  As Kevin tediously unwrapped each light globe and screwed them into place he read the article he has wrapped a particular globe in.  As Kevin’s eyes engulfed the black and grey, slightly smudged writing, he came across a small add in the centre of the page with a pink border and cursive typography.  As Kevin said aloud in his head ‘6 step program to living’ the light bulb in which he was fastening clicked into place and turned on above his head.

And that’s how it started.

Take Our Poll

you have the ability to keep some things going

n is for nourish

one is purple and the other is blue/grey.

other than stating their simple aesthetic qualities, they also have important functional qualities as they are my new puffers.

i have drawn faces on them, as witnessed pictured below.

Sara and Venti

They’re awesome fun.  wouldn’t want to leave them alone with electrical tape, paprika and a bottle of tequila.

Dopplegangers.  Great things.  apparently i have an uncanny resemblance to Boy George.  i can upload a picture too. im on a roll today.

Separated at birth?

apparently its in the lips and the nose.  if you cant see it straight away try squinting your eyes and tilting your head to the left. better?  maybe try looking at the screen close up, crossing your eyes, and then moving your head away slowly and wait for a 3D image to appear.

DAMN I USED TO LOVE THOSE BOOKS. i was so good at them too. and those I-SPY books, and that one where you have to solve the mystery and its about all the animals and then at the end it turns up being the mouse so you have to go back and count all the hidden mice within the pictures on each page. talk about reminiscing.

so today i discovered the variant thresholds people have for scary movies.

allow me to set the scene.

silence of the lambs – a classic

soraya and sam – possibly the worst people in the world to put in front of a film with slight, SLIGHT suspensful-jump moments.

take these two ingredients, put them together, and you get two whimpering girls hiding behind their cardigans refusing to watch the movie – which i assured them was not scary at all.

so a couple of things.

1. im not teasing them at all, my point will arise, although

2. i love the fact how i can talk about them in unison despite the difference in sex

3. sex

4. im so disappointed in the fact that i am desensitised to scary movies.

give me suspense. give me thrillers. give me an anticipated twist followed by an unexpected twist mixed in with an even bigger scarier cliff hanger.

scratch that last part.

cliff hangers suck arse.

and i can distinctly recall sitting in my year 2 class room looking out the windows on to a neighbours backyard and hearing my teacher educate us in the ‘cheap way’ out of story conclusions.

…and then she woke up and realised it was all a dream.

imagine if shakespeare operated that way. or dear old aggie who i mentioned in my previous blog.

actually, im going to rant. because. BECAUSE. i read a book a while back. the lace makers daughter, if i recall correctly.  i was pretty into it, very into it, this girl was solving a mystery that happened in the past and couldnt get to the solution…so then concluded, that if she couldnt solve the mystery, it was because it wasnt supposed to be solved, therefore she wouldnt..

…

WHAT KIND OF SADISTIC AUTHOR TORMENTS A READER LIKE THAT?

it is under circumstances as such which make me want to take Barthes literally when he discussed the death of the author.

ive digressed enough.  no one is going to read this because it appears too long.

convoluted. love it.

n is for nude.

because Luke just had a shower.