Aw hiiiii....
I'm a bit low-vibe today - need someone to give me a good kick in the pants and say "cheer the hell up ya big fat sookie bubba".
No don't... I might cry.
I can see why kiddies throw tanties. I'm becoming more in touch with my childhood through my adulthood you know. (Well isn't that what we're SUPPOSED to do? Geez...) and I was a twisty panty tanty-thrower as a kid. Partially because I got teased... A LOT and also because I was alone... A LOT.
Here's my philosophical pitch for the month - BOREDOM is a BITCH.
I'm so quiet its driving me to age. I can feel new wrinkles forming, veins swelling, bladder collapsing, a mysterious puffing sound which can only be evidence that my reproductive system is turning to dust - powdered eggs anyone?
My sense of humour is stretched to the point I'm feeling laughter could come but it would be insane scary lady laughter AND the situation would only be hilarious if I could actually punch someTHING not just someLINE.
People are annoying me unnecessarily - I'm not sitting here rubbing them up the wrong way.... ohh no I am quietly minding my own gaddam bidness but the respect is hardly retaliated and I can't escape the feeling of...wait (searching literary banks for something deeply profound... ah fuck it) - Shittyness.
Its like the smelly man that walks in front of you and past you 10 times at the supermarket and you almost vom each time but you can't do anything about it because for some reason he and his BO-tainted-bod be going where you going just coz they can.
I think of these little downfalls and potholes in my daily grind as 'mini-karma-fish-slaps'. Yes when that little somethin-somethin you messed up ages ago probably when you were pissed or hungover OR... pre-menstrual hungover AND half pissed is coming and paybacks a bitch.
Yeah I hate mini-karma-fish-slap-Fridays.
I'm constantly reminding the Karma Hall-monitors wherever the hell they are in the universe about various little and big deeds I've done through my life and that I'm not that bad a person and don't really deserve the Karmic Corporal Punishment of "thou shalt be surrounded by fuckwits today so there na na na na na naaa" but all-in-all shit happens.
Maybe I've cancelled all my 'she's a good sort' moments out?
What if that day I... paid-for-that-guys-coffee-because-he-didn't-have-any-money-and-just-changed-a flattie-and-it-was-Monday-and-he-deserved-something-nice-to-happen-day... has already been cashed out on some dumbass thing I did eons ago that I probably don't remember and quite frankly could potentially not give a flying monkey poop about these days?
What a waste of some fecking good Karma. I'm disa-freakin-pointed quite frankly and I'd like to see the manager of the mini-karma-fish-slap department...
"I'd like to see a copy of my file please to figure out that joke you call your freakin scheduling software if I may... I think its puckaroo bro..."
"Ya dropped me in it mate... for the sake of a wee swear word in 1977?!... where's your sense of humanity? Ya messing with people's LIVES and ya just don't care..."
Oh crumbs. I must be in a bit of a mood... I sound just like an overheard conversation at WINZ.
I better go... finally the shifting of the guard time has come and the bone-crunching grind of today slides with a clunk a creak and a squirt of dirty oil into the next phase of the evening... and that's just me getting off my chair and walking to the car.
I do hope though that I haven't pissed the mini-karma-fish-slap Friday department off too much and there's free-flow traffic on the Sou'Western. Love you guys... keep up the good karma :-)
(Sheesh... might be a little too late to suck up now)
Wish me luck and the best of British to you :-)
Stylz - stomping - out.
Xoxoxox
Thursday, August 23, 2012
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Free Range... Egg.
Well well well... what an interesting turn of events this week.
Firstly the new 'regime' is going well. For those of you that I haven't had the pleasure of my life being shoved in your face (along with some spit and a slight hint of garlic) I am house-sitting in the deep deep south at the moment. South AUCKLAND that is... in the hills above the quiet, quaint and multicultural suburb of Papakura - nooo I'm not scared at all. I'm a hard-arse Westie for goodness sake and lets face it - I'm glad its not fricken Horrenderson then I'd be really screwed.
What a regime it has been.
Sidenote for dummies: Regime ("RAY-GEEM")... A regime to me is like the list of necessities.
For men - simple: Shit. Shave. Shower. Done-burger.
For women... Cleanse, tone, moisturise, wax, pluck, shave, colour, exfoliate, squeeze, suck, burn, bronze, file, paint, irrigate, bleach, bleed, iron, nip, tuck, f.... aaaar out and that's all before brekkie. No wonder we're a stroppy wee bunch. Meh.
Well grab that list and add: A horny goat, shrek-the-sheep's twin sisters, a depressed dog, two freaky cats, a psycho parrot, a bunch of funky chickens and a couple of huge cocks into the mix and we got a party goin' onnnn.
Throw in the delightfully damp July/August Auckland spring weather, mud up to me delicates, a dead tree, a dumb gate and lots and lots of animal poos and you have my life right now as a lifestyle block fake farmer.
Moved in Friday and settled in for 10-day stint... much like the weather pattern. Saturday wasn't too bad with the exception of a very depressed K-9 - highly unimpressed at my appearance instead of her beloved humans who are currenlty laxing-out, animal-free in swim-up bars on an island in the warm pacific the pathetic losers.
Sunday brought rain, wind, cold and a surprise challenge. I was sitting in front of the telly when something to the left of me caught my eye out the window... it was a big old tree... falling... in slow motion... right across the driveway toward the house. Landing (luckily and without damage) on the concrete, its impact softened by the hedge. Far out that was freaky, big tree, impressive crash. Hang on a minute... where's the driveway gone? Aww, shit.
"F*ck." (I say to noone imparticular except the psycho parrot, two cats, depressed dog, Ganny the Goat, the Cocks and Henny Pennys)... "Umm. Right. Okay. WOT...TF?!!" Yes it was certainly a capitals moment thats for sure. Thar it still be me hearties, that felled twig, layin dead and blocking th' feckin driveway. I found a couple of chainsaws but couldn't for the life of me find some extra balls to use them. So I sucked it up and texted my brother, told him not to panic because he'd drop his pino colada in the pool (which would be sacriledge) but could he please call as I have a wee tree situ. He called and oh how we laughed. The bastard. I offered to get in the abourist but he said not to worry - he'd handle it when he got back... okie dokie.
So if you are wondering why every morning I have moss under my fingernails... blame the tree for ruining my nice, smooth exit. I'm now heaving a dirty old wooden gate open and shut twice a day so I can actually escape the property - mind the heavy chain hanging off it for no apparent reason or duty...it has an uncanny ability to slam you in the shin when you're not looking.
Now before I go on I have to say that being here is in fact a delight... it is a lovely spot, quiet and private and I feel really safe and relaxed but... (and knowing me as you do my lovely blogees - I've got big buts and I cannot lie, I always share my buts... its the 'but' that makes the story you see - I'm always the 'butt' of my jokes, its how I roll here in CETV and its usually MY but that is freakin hilarious...hahahaha... oh bollix.. where was I?) Oh yeah... peaceful, tranquil, semi-rural beautiful rolling hills and plush green bush surroundings but...
COCK-A DOODLE-DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!
Time check: 4am
COCK-A DOODLE-DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!
Time check: 4.01am
COCK-A DOODLE-DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!
Time check: 4.02am
COCK-A DOODLE-DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!
And so on and so forth...
COCK-A DOODLE-DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!
Time Check 5.44am
BRR..BRR..BRR..BRR..BRR..BRR..BRR..!!! Alarm...
Time Check 5.45am following imediately by... you guessed it...
COCK-A DOODLE-DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!
Time Check 5.46am. Ace.
We skip forward about 12 hours to:
Arrive home from work...
COCK-A DOODLE-DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!
Time Check: 5.30pm
And of course there's TWO of them Hugh Chookner and his sleezy sidekick Ron the Rooster... so they have some sort of weird cocky-doodley battle going on - its like a couple of crazy 80's rock-opera singers screeching themselves to oblivion on 'The Voice - Old MacDonald's Farm Special'. And they do it ALL DAY - hmmm... I thought cocks just woke you up in the mornings?
(I didn't mean it to sound that way. Well actually yes I did... lets face it, I'm the only one that actually THOUGHT of it that way... welcome to my world - how's the gutter life treating you? Sit yo' ass down on a copy of "50 Shades" and stay awhile why don't you?)
Anyway its not just a couple of cocks that are ruling my world right now.
So here's the drill right? My new regime. My farming schedule:
- I wake up around 5.45am (I know I know, real farmers get up at 3... suck it I'm just a ring in...)
- Pee
- Sneeze (HAS to be IN. THAT. ORDER or I'll end up the subject of one of those really inappropriate feminine product ads they play right on teatime...)
- Shower etc... (see above sidenote for unedited version of events)
- Dress - fully. Office attire on weekdays... (dressing gown on weekends - double knotted... don't want those flirty cocks thinkin' there's anything interesting to peck on...)
- Put on thick socks, dressing gown, beanie, gumboots (adopted Robe-over-office-attire on weekdays - its the closest thing to a raincoat okay and it repels splashy mud poos. Geez this isn't NZ's next top model... yet)
- Walk precariously down knee deep mud paddocks in the pitch black of a stormy morning balancing goat nuts (no... stop it), chicken feed, bunch of bok choy, torch and recently - umbrella while somehow staying vertical on uneven and unstable terrain. ( I know I know real farmers have oil skins... well I have girl skin and hair that is really REALLY easily fucked up by the slightest amount of moisture so brollie it is - if you can FIND a freakin oil skin then be my guest and hook a girl up...)
- feed goat - keeping an eye on massive horns at all times - hopefully arse padding will suffice if hungry goats attack...(actually Ganny the Goat is quite a sweetie and answers when you call...plus she has a MASSIVE belly... in actual fact I FEEL like NZ's Next Top Model next to her even in 14 layers of clothing...)
- slosh my way over to the chicken coop... pitch black... lots of flapping and squawking goin' on... a big cock at the front door fluffing up his feathers and bleating at me (Cut to flashback scene: hilarious reminder of the long adolescent nights at 'Timbucktoo' Nightclub in the 80's - 17, naive, big-haired and madeup-to-the-nines (and tens!), charming my way past the poser bouncers with their big chests and flexed cannons. Sad but true and I'll have you know for free it is my belief that we don't have enough nightclubs in malls anymore... great parking, close to the bus stop).
So in I go... squelching through the pooey smelly chicky coop...in the dark, knowing that there are spiderwebs as thick as French armpit hair above me and I might have to stick my hand under a chooks arse to pinch the eggs she so lovingly squeezed out her crappy pooper just for me to nick off with.
Have I mentioned that I'm not a huge fan of birds? I think they are lovely and pretty and can make cool tweety noises but when they flap around my head like that scene with the crow in 'The Omen' I totally soil myself. So being all cheery and calling "Hey Chookies!" as I entered the dark damp spidery cave of feathered shit... was an epic fail. It was a 'chicknami'... waves of feathers and clucks and cocks comin at me from all directions I literally pulled a slippery U'ee in my gummies and gapped it the fark outta there. Yep totally shat myself just saying hello to the chooks. Doin' ma job... rockin the redbands and what do I get for it? Skidmarks.
The chook house is kind of like the playboy mansion... for chickens. There's Hugh Chookner - the alpha-cock that bosses everyone around, the other cock who's got a bit of a wonky crow so is the underdog wingman with a slighty deviate side...Ron the Rooster. And then there's the Desperate Cluckwives who seem to just eat and cluck and scrap - one of whom seems to be spittin eggs out like bum wees. She must be Hugh's number one - shes a great layer. (hehehe - oh come on that was gold)
They have quite the life those chooks and their regime is simple but impressive. Like a little family really with slightly questionable hygiene practices. Hugh stands at the entrance to the chookhouse and crows like a regiment bugle at sundown and all the chookies fall in to roost for the night - I think Ron tucks them all in (hence his name Ron "the Rooster") while Hugh keeps guard at the door. They have free range... to wander and roam the day away, they eat off the ground and poo wherever they damn well please.
Hmm... I think - metophorically - that I too am embracing a little chicken dance of my own out here... and despite the challenges it is quite cathartic... except I don't poo on the deck and I do mostly prefer a plate. Don't hate me 'coz I'm human...
Like me, the array of animals out here have dynamic personalities... I've touched on the chooks and the goat - its amazing how much you learn about them even though you only hang out for about 15 seconds in the dark each morning. You have to know that my big brother (the owner of said property) and chief farmer is somewhat of an 'animal whisperer' known famously for his deep love for all things furry, feathery and farmy - the difference is he would bend over backwards and give his life savings to try and save an animal as opposed to the more rugged method of those that have a few thousand more of each species not just a wee handful. He's a good man with a big heart full of fur after years of ingesting it through his lungs :-). Let me introduce you to the rest of gang:
Ganny the Goat and the two baa-lambs chill out down the bottom paddock, hangin out, eating grass and pooing. That's about it. But they do come running up to you which tells me they quite like their wee daily visit from the 'hooman beans' and they don't shy away from a bit of a pat on the head which is nice. Warm and smelly.
Quite often Hugh Chookner, Ron and a few of the Desperate Cluckwives go hang with Ganny... probably pinchin her food, teasing her about her big hairy belly and then running off into the bush before they become a rotisserie on her horns when she gets pissed off with their bullshit. I know when they are down there because there's a whole lotta ruckus going on - clucks and crows and baa's and crashing through bushes... poor Ganny... its like livin' in the animal projects, buried in the South Auckland Bronx.
We got John the cat... who licks his willy a fair bit. His favourite grooming spot is on top of the printer in full view, just under the heat pump in the living room. If you hear a strange noise in the middle of the night, it's just John-John, burning the midnite oil... sending some faxes, keeping in touch. He's quite regal, typical tommy with an attitude... I bet he's had a lot of pussy.
Now Possum... the other feline, is an orphan... deserted by a family of kids that kind of just left her behind when they were staying there... so she's got some abandonment and trust issues. Funny little cat. Skittish, runs away from you like you're a Rottweiler then comes up meowing for a cuddle and then its an all claws attack. Bitch. Likes to sleep in drawers and only drinks the water out of your glass on the nightstand... word of warning - watch out for hairballs.
AJ or is it BJ? I dunno. Its a parrot that spends a majority of its time hiding inside an icecream container. It comes out every so often to screech... and I've become pretty fluent in undersanding parrot.... it goes like this a bit
"Shhh! Don't look at me! ARGH! CAT! Fark off! DON'T TALK TO ME! I'm lonely! ARGH! Who's there? What's that? ARGH shadow! Shh! I'm not home! Mmm, seed, nom nom nom".
Yep that's pretty much word-for-screech. When I lean closer to the cage and peer in through the little bird-sized door in the icecream container all I can see is this crazy black and white eye staring at me... quite wild looking...like Jigsaw's eyes from "Saw". Freaky-deaky little bird.
And finally we have the original member of the clan - Meg, the 7-year old brindle who speaks when spoken to and farts like a bloke. The lovely Meg who indeed is the man's best friend and has literally taken 5 days to get over herself and stop moping at her owners' deserting her. We had a little chat the other day... before I went off to work. I told her to harden up, stop being a sookie bubba and that she wasn't to worry, that I'd be back later that day AND she's lucky she's not stuck out in suburbia with her nut case sister dog in a back yard in the miserable pouring rain all day. She's got her bed, and the chooks and cats to keep her company AND she gets to sleep inside in the warmies from the minute I get home... suffice it to say she was wagging her tail and barking for joy when I arrived home that night :-)
So... I think it is safe to say that Old MacDonald can retire a happy man - along with Farmer Brown - in some worn old sheep-shearers shack, full of character, eating porridge off a coal range while talkin' tractor trash, barn dances, Sheilas, and hay days. Yeah no worries - I've got this :-)
Good on ya mate...
Farmer Stylz... in da (chook) HOWWWWWSSSSE!
Baa.
xoxoxox
Firstly the new 'regime' is going well. For those of you that I haven't had the pleasure of my life being shoved in your face (along with some spit and a slight hint of garlic) I am house-sitting in the deep deep south at the moment. South AUCKLAND that is... in the hills above the quiet, quaint and multicultural suburb of Papakura - nooo I'm not scared at all. I'm a hard-arse Westie for goodness sake and lets face it - I'm glad its not fricken Horrenderson then I'd be really screwed.
What a regime it has been.
Sidenote for dummies: Regime ("RAY-GEEM")... A regime to me is like the list of necessities.
For men - simple: Shit. Shave. Shower. Done-burger.
For women... Cleanse, tone, moisturise, wax, pluck, shave, colour, exfoliate, squeeze, suck, burn, bronze, file, paint, irrigate, bleach, bleed, iron, nip, tuck, f.... aaaar out and that's all before brekkie. No wonder we're a stroppy wee bunch. Meh.
Well grab that list and add: A horny goat, shrek-the-sheep's twin sisters, a depressed dog, two freaky cats, a psycho parrot, a bunch of funky chickens and a couple of huge cocks into the mix and we got a party goin' onnnn.
Throw in the delightfully damp July/August Auckland spring weather, mud up to me delicates, a dead tree, a dumb gate and lots and lots of animal poos and you have my life right now as a lifestyle block fake farmer.
Moved in Friday and settled in for 10-day stint... much like the weather pattern. Saturday wasn't too bad with the exception of a very depressed K-9 - highly unimpressed at my appearance instead of her beloved humans who are currenlty laxing-out, animal-free in swim-up bars on an island in the warm pacific the pathetic losers.
Sunday brought rain, wind, cold and a surprise challenge. I was sitting in front of the telly when something to the left of me caught my eye out the window... it was a big old tree... falling... in slow motion... right across the driveway toward the house. Landing (luckily and without damage) on the concrete, its impact softened by the hedge. Far out that was freaky, big tree, impressive crash. Hang on a minute... where's the driveway gone? Aww, shit.
"F*ck." (I say to noone imparticular except the psycho parrot, two cats, depressed dog, Ganny the Goat, the Cocks and Henny Pennys)... "Umm. Right. Okay. WOT...TF?!!" Yes it was certainly a capitals moment thats for sure. Thar it still be me hearties, that felled twig, layin dead and blocking th' feckin driveway. I found a couple of chainsaws but couldn't for the life of me find some extra balls to use them. So I sucked it up and texted my brother, told him not to panic because he'd drop his pino colada in the pool (which would be sacriledge) but could he please call as I have a wee tree situ. He called and oh how we laughed. The bastard. I offered to get in the abourist but he said not to worry - he'd handle it when he got back... okie dokie.
So if you are wondering why every morning I have moss under my fingernails... blame the tree for ruining my nice, smooth exit. I'm now heaving a dirty old wooden gate open and shut twice a day so I can actually escape the property - mind the heavy chain hanging off it for no apparent reason or duty...it has an uncanny ability to slam you in the shin when you're not looking.
Now before I go on I have to say that being here is in fact a delight... it is a lovely spot, quiet and private and I feel really safe and relaxed but... (and knowing me as you do my lovely blogees - I've got big buts and I cannot lie, I always share my buts... its the 'but' that makes the story you see - I'm always the 'butt' of my jokes, its how I roll here in CETV and its usually MY but that is freakin hilarious...hahahaha... oh bollix.. where was I?) Oh yeah... peaceful, tranquil, semi-rural beautiful rolling hills and plush green bush surroundings but...
COCK-A DOODLE-DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!
Time check: 4am
COCK-A DOODLE-DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!
Time check: 4.01am
COCK-A DOODLE-DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!
Time check: 4.02am
COCK-A DOODLE-DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!
And so on and so forth...
COCK-A DOODLE-DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!
Time Check 5.44am
BRR..BRR..BRR..BRR..BRR..BRR..BRR..!!! Alarm...
Time Check 5.45am following imediately by... you guessed it...
COCK-A DOODLE-DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!
Time Check 5.46am. Ace.
We skip forward about 12 hours to:
Arrive home from work...
COCK-A DOODLE-DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!
Time Check: 5.30pm
And of course there's TWO of them Hugh Chookner and his sleezy sidekick Ron the Rooster... so they have some sort of weird cocky-doodley battle going on - its like a couple of crazy 80's rock-opera singers screeching themselves to oblivion on 'The Voice - Old MacDonald's Farm Special'. And they do it ALL DAY - hmmm... I thought cocks just woke you up in the mornings?
(I didn't mean it to sound that way. Well actually yes I did... lets face it, I'm the only one that actually THOUGHT of it that way... welcome to my world - how's the gutter life treating you? Sit yo' ass down on a copy of "50 Shades" and stay awhile why don't you?)
Anyway its not just a couple of cocks that are ruling my world right now.
So here's the drill right? My new regime. My farming schedule:
- I wake up around 5.45am (I know I know, real farmers get up at 3... suck it I'm just a ring in...)
- Pee
- Sneeze (HAS to be IN. THAT. ORDER or I'll end up the subject of one of those really inappropriate feminine product ads they play right on teatime...)
- Shower etc... (see above sidenote for unedited version of events)
- Dress - fully. Office attire on weekdays... (dressing gown on weekends - double knotted... don't want those flirty cocks thinkin' there's anything interesting to peck on...)
- Put on thick socks, dressing gown, beanie, gumboots (adopted Robe-over-office-attire on weekdays - its the closest thing to a raincoat okay and it repels splashy mud poos. Geez this isn't NZ's next top model... yet)
- Walk precariously down knee deep mud paddocks in the pitch black of a stormy morning balancing goat nuts (no... stop it), chicken feed, bunch of bok choy, torch and recently - umbrella while somehow staying vertical on uneven and unstable terrain. ( I know I know real farmers have oil skins... well I have girl skin and hair that is really REALLY easily fucked up by the slightest amount of moisture so brollie it is - if you can FIND a freakin oil skin then be my guest and hook a girl up...)
- feed goat - keeping an eye on massive horns at all times - hopefully arse padding will suffice if hungry goats attack...(actually Ganny the Goat is quite a sweetie and answers when you call...plus she has a MASSIVE belly... in actual fact I FEEL like NZ's Next Top Model next to her even in 14 layers of clothing...)
- slosh my way over to the chicken coop... pitch black... lots of flapping and squawking goin' on... a big cock at the front door fluffing up his feathers and bleating at me (Cut to flashback scene: hilarious reminder of the long adolescent nights at 'Timbucktoo' Nightclub in the 80's - 17, naive, big-haired and madeup-to-the-nines (and tens!), charming my way past the poser bouncers with their big chests and flexed cannons. Sad but true and I'll have you know for free it is my belief that we don't have enough nightclubs in malls anymore... great parking, close to the bus stop).
So in I go... squelching through the pooey smelly chicky coop...in the dark, knowing that there are spiderwebs as thick as French armpit hair above me and I might have to stick my hand under a chooks arse to pinch the eggs she so lovingly squeezed out her crappy pooper just for me to nick off with.
Have I mentioned that I'm not a huge fan of birds? I think they are lovely and pretty and can make cool tweety noises but when they flap around my head like that scene with the crow in 'The Omen' I totally soil myself. So being all cheery and calling "Hey Chookies!" as I entered the dark damp spidery cave of feathered shit... was an epic fail. It was a 'chicknami'... waves of feathers and clucks and cocks comin at me from all directions I literally pulled a slippery U'ee in my gummies and gapped it the fark outta there. Yep totally shat myself just saying hello to the chooks. Doin' ma job... rockin the redbands and what do I get for it? Skidmarks.
The chook house is kind of like the playboy mansion... for chickens. There's Hugh Chookner - the alpha-cock that bosses everyone around, the other cock who's got a bit of a wonky crow so is the underdog wingman with a slighty deviate side...Ron the Rooster. And then there's the Desperate Cluckwives who seem to just eat and cluck and scrap - one of whom seems to be spittin eggs out like bum wees. She must be Hugh's number one - shes a great layer. (hehehe - oh come on that was gold)
They have quite the life those chooks and their regime is simple but impressive. Like a little family really with slightly questionable hygiene practices. Hugh stands at the entrance to the chookhouse and crows like a regiment bugle at sundown and all the chookies fall in to roost for the night - I think Ron tucks them all in (hence his name Ron "the Rooster") while Hugh keeps guard at the door. They have free range... to wander and roam the day away, they eat off the ground and poo wherever they damn well please.
Hmm... I think - metophorically - that I too am embracing a little chicken dance of my own out here... and despite the challenges it is quite cathartic... except I don't poo on the deck and I do mostly prefer a plate. Don't hate me 'coz I'm human...
Like me, the array of animals out here have dynamic personalities... I've touched on the chooks and the goat - its amazing how much you learn about them even though you only hang out for about 15 seconds in the dark each morning. You have to know that my big brother (the owner of said property) and chief farmer is somewhat of an 'animal whisperer' known famously for his deep love for all things furry, feathery and farmy - the difference is he would bend over backwards and give his life savings to try and save an animal as opposed to the more rugged method of those that have a few thousand more of each species not just a wee handful. He's a good man with a big heart full of fur after years of ingesting it through his lungs :-). Let me introduce you to the rest of gang:
Ganny the Goat and the two baa-lambs chill out down the bottom paddock, hangin out, eating grass and pooing. That's about it. But they do come running up to you which tells me they quite like their wee daily visit from the 'hooman beans' and they don't shy away from a bit of a pat on the head which is nice. Warm and smelly.
Quite often Hugh Chookner, Ron and a few of the Desperate Cluckwives go hang with Ganny... probably pinchin her food, teasing her about her big hairy belly and then running off into the bush before they become a rotisserie on her horns when she gets pissed off with their bullshit. I know when they are down there because there's a whole lotta ruckus going on - clucks and crows and baa's and crashing through bushes... poor Ganny... its like livin' in the animal projects, buried in the South Auckland Bronx.
We got John the cat... who licks his willy a fair bit. His favourite grooming spot is on top of the printer in full view, just under the heat pump in the living room. If you hear a strange noise in the middle of the night, it's just John-John, burning the midnite oil... sending some faxes, keeping in touch. He's quite regal, typical tommy with an attitude... I bet he's had a lot of pussy.
Now Possum... the other feline, is an orphan... deserted by a family of kids that kind of just left her behind when they were staying there... so she's got some abandonment and trust issues. Funny little cat. Skittish, runs away from you like you're a Rottweiler then comes up meowing for a cuddle and then its an all claws attack. Bitch. Likes to sleep in drawers and only drinks the water out of your glass on the nightstand... word of warning - watch out for hairballs.
AJ or is it BJ? I dunno. Its a parrot that spends a majority of its time hiding inside an icecream container. It comes out every so often to screech... and I've become pretty fluent in undersanding parrot.... it goes like this a bit
"Shhh! Don't look at me! ARGH! CAT! Fark off! DON'T TALK TO ME! I'm lonely! ARGH! Who's there? What's that? ARGH shadow! Shh! I'm not home! Mmm, seed, nom nom nom".
Yep that's pretty much word-for-screech. When I lean closer to the cage and peer in through the little bird-sized door in the icecream container all I can see is this crazy black and white eye staring at me... quite wild looking...like Jigsaw's eyes from "Saw". Freaky-deaky little bird.
And finally we have the original member of the clan - Meg, the 7-year old brindle who speaks when spoken to and farts like a bloke. The lovely Meg who indeed is the man's best friend and has literally taken 5 days to get over herself and stop moping at her owners' deserting her. We had a little chat the other day... before I went off to work. I told her to harden up, stop being a sookie bubba and that she wasn't to worry, that I'd be back later that day AND she's lucky she's not stuck out in suburbia with her nut case sister dog in a back yard in the miserable pouring rain all day. She's got her bed, and the chooks and cats to keep her company AND she gets to sleep inside in the warmies from the minute I get home... suffice it to say she was wagging her tail and barking for joy when I arrived home that night :-)
So... I think it is safe to say that Old MacDonald can retire a happy man - along with Farmer Brown - in some worn old sheep-shearers shack, full of character, eating porridge off a coal range while talkin' tractor trash, barn dances, Sheilas, and hay days. Yeah no worries - I've got this :-)
Good on ya mate...
Farmer Stylz... in da (chook) HOWWWWWSSSSE!
Baa.
xoxoxox
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Bum bum...boo-boo...
Help... I'm a fallen woman.
My bum hurts.
Its my own damn fault really - Mr Chemicals told me its because I'm always in a rush... and its true. I clunk, clang, bang, bump and trip my way through life because I'm goin' "full tit". Which confuses me really because I'm a self-confessed lazy-arse. Go figure.
I cut corners which is dumb because doorways aren't corners and it freakin hurts when you smash into them. I'm constantly whacking my toes on large objects that have always been there but for some reason have a subconscious bulls eye on them that my trotters are drawn to at speed.
Whomever invented elbows was a wanker. I figure with the amount of times my funny bone gets hammered I must do the chicken dance when I walk and lately it seems I have been having issues trying to extract the fingers of one hand out of a drawer before the other hand commits digit GBH.
Honestly what is my brain on?
I know there are people out there that would say that I'm lucky to actually have the abilities to experience clumsiness and for that I have the deepest empathy but far out man the truth is I'm shit scared of all of it...falling, pain, being broken, hurts, boo-boos, owies. Faaark that Freddy.
So to my story... Today... after a night of torrential downpour soaking the ground to ugg-boot unfriendly slickness, I decided that since I was running around 15 minutes early in my mish-mash pre-work routine (if you can call it that) I should get the rubbish out because I forgot last week and its startin' to funk up the neighbourhood...
So I, in my fluffy purple dressing gown, over sized boots, fresh out of the shower so all glory and no modesty underneath, grab me two bags of steaming household waste and aim to head out to the front gate... as I have done thousands of times. Let me paint you a picture of the events that followed. Here is a step-by-step and I MEAN descending each-actual-step, account of my greatest fear - falling down stairs:
Step One...
Speed: minimal
Balance: 40-60
Concentration: fuzzy - "What am I gonna wear to work? No idea. OK will start with undies and work up from there"
Feet: left - landed, right - in transit...
Step Two
Speed - air born
Balance - horizontal
Concentration - "fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck"
Feet - waving to bus going past. Nice.
Step Three...
Speed - negative
Balance - irrelevant. Flat on arse
Concentration - do NOT cry out for your Mum
Feet - useless betraying tiny piglet good for nothing ugly sausage bits... well that's a bit harsh because its my fault for trusting that size 8 ugg boots have traction control. Fool.
Once the bus had gone by and my inner Godiva was shoved back into my dressing gown I peeled myself off the steps and hobbled inside all the while holding in the silent scream of pain threatening to alert the neighbours that I was a fallen woman (yeah right... like they didn't know THAT already ha ha ha - oh sorry, I digress).
Within the sanctity of my living room, in true Hollywood style I sank to my knees, put my face into an armchair where many butts have been before and howled like a banshee one lone cry....
"Owwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww..."
Then a quick sob.
A hot flush.
A wave of nausea.
And then back out to the evil steps for attempt two. Wednesday - rubbish day. It had to be done.
I figured some smart arse statistics geek somewhere had spent literally TENS of DOLLARS and most of his first month in Uni researching the likelihood of a klutz falling down the same stairs on a post-injury-immediate second-run. And that a 47,000 thousand word thesis paper on the subject, paid for by my over-inflated SuperShitty rates would result in minimal risk of repetition - or just crappy luck and doofessness if it did.
Suffice it to say I remained statistically boring and the stinky garbage successfully made it to the roadside. But I know by the end of the day I'm gonna hurt. I told a male colleague that it felt like one of my kidneys was trying to explode out of my arse. Graphic but honest. Sharing is caring.
Of course what followed was the obligatory "you think THAT's bad well listen to this..." ('my story's better than your story' moment). Much more intense involving (of course) an ENTIRE stairwell, its evil nemesis footwear 'socks' AND (here's the kicker) heroism involving a small child. Yes. He happened to be carrying a 2-month old baby who remained completely unharmed during the ordeal. Now due to his entire body taking the full force of the fall, he was laid out flat for a week whereas I... with my budget injury of busted-arse-bruised-back-fat...just look like I've shit my pants when I walk. Score is even stevens though I reckon... 1pt to He-man (only because of the bubba), and 1pt for me for flashing the Hendo bus... at my age. Rockstar. A for effort.
I have an intense dislike for stairs.
In fact I come rather close to having a real-life phobia about them... I DO. I even googled it and found a name for my condition - hold on to your hand rails coz its a big bastard...
CLIMACOPHOBIA
Yup. A fear of stairs. A fear of climbing them, a fear of falling down them... and that's definitely me coz I'm packin' jobbies everytime I venture down stairs and woe betide if I lose concentration - case and point this morning's flight of the big purply bird.
However I'm pleased to announce that although I suffer Clima... Climax... Climbatree... oh crap... umm 'SSCS' (stairs scardy cat syndrome) I am so not 'BATHMOPHOBIC' which is like a total relief because THAT would be some serious shit. (FYI... nothing to do with baths... google it).
When I was little I remember I had no fear. I used to stand proudly at the top of our internal staircase at home, my little piglets shoved into Ma's size 8 platforms, usually dressed up pretending I was Marie Osmond, massive earphones wobbling on my head mostly cranking my brothers old school rock 'n' roll records and Dads 45s, shakin' my pudgy little butt and lipsyncing into my Andy Gibb microphone.
It gave me great joy... and immense pain. On a regular basis my over-enthusiastic performance would over power my balancing ability and my basketball belly would be the tipping point and off I would go... bouncing down the stairs like a human zorb in high heels.
Bump-de-bump-bump-bump-de-de-de de-bump... bump... crash. Silence. Then a tsunami siren.
"WwwwwwwwwwwwwwAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!"
And my older brother's bored voice barely audible over the wail...
"Maaaa-ummm... Flicks fallen down the stairs again."
Alas... my fear was borned. But not a bone done broketh in all my tripsy, whoopsy, roly, poly, crashy, bangy fuckups. Just my pride and always a sore arse.
I get knocked down, but I get up again - not bad for a chubba-wubba... but if given an option... I'll be in the elevator bitches.
Have a great day.
Stylz - out........................on her arse. Again.
xxx
My bum hurts.
Its my own damn fault really - Mr Chemicals told me its because I'm always in a rush... and its true. I clunk, clang, bang, bump and trip my way through life because I'm goin' "full tit". Which confuses me really because I'm a self-confessed lazy-arse. Go figure.
I cut corners which is dumb because doorways aren't corners and it freakin hurts when you smash into them. I'm constantly whacking my toes on large objects that have always been there but for some reason have a subconscious bulls eye on them that my trotters are drawn to at speed.
Whomever invented elbows was a wanker. I figure with the amount of times my funny bone gets hammered I must do the chicken dance when I walk and lately it seems I have been having issues trying to extract the fingers of one hand out of a drawer before the other hand commits digit GBH.
Honestly what is my brain on?
I know there are people out there that would say that I'm lucky to actually have the abilities to experience clumsiness and for that I have the deepest empathy but far out man the truth is I'm shit scared of all of it...falling, pain, being broken, hurts, boo-boos, owies. Faaark that Freddy.
So to my story... Today... after a night of torrential downpour soaking the ground to ugg-boot unfriendly slickness, I decided that since I was running around 15 minutes early in my mish-mash pre-work routine (if you can call it that) I should get the rubbish out because I forgot last week and its startin' to funk up the neighbourhood...
So I, in my fluffy purple dressing gown, over sized boots, fresh out of the shower so all glory and no modesty underneath, grab me two bags of steaming household waste and aim to head out to the front gate... as I have done thousands of times. Let me paint you a picture of the events that followed. Here is a step-by-step and I MEAN descending each-actual-step, account of my greatest fear - falling down stairs:
Step One...
Speed: minimal
Balance: 40-60
Concentration: fuzzy - "What am I gonna wear to work? No idea. OK will start with undies and work up from there"
Feet: left - landed, right - in transit...
Step Two
Speed - air born
Balance - horizontal
Concentration - "fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck"
Feet - waving to bus going past. Nice.
Step Three...
Speed - negative
Balance - irrelevant. Flat on arse
Concentration - do NOT cry out for your Mum
Feet - useless betraying tiny piglet good for nothing ugly sausage bits... well that's a bit harsh because its my fault for trusting that size 8 ugg boots have traction control. Fool.
Once the bus had gone by and my inner Godiva was shoved back into my dressing gown I peeled myself off the steps and hobbled inside all the while holding in the silent scream of pain threatening to alert the neighbours that I was a fallen woman (yeah right... like they didn't know THAT already ha ha ha - oh sorry, I digress).
Within the sanctity of my living room, in true Hollywood style I sank to my knees, put my face into an armchair where many butts have been before and howled like a banshee one lone cry....
"Owwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww..."
Then a quick sob.
A hot flush.
A wave of nausea.
And then back out to the evil steps for attempt two. Wednesday - rubbish day. It had to be done.
I figured some smart arse statistics geek somewhere had spent literally TENS of DOLLARS and most of his first month in Uni researching the likelihood of a klutz falling down the same stairs on a post-injury-immediate second-run. And that a 47,000 thousand word thesis paper on the subject, paid for by my over-inflated SuperShitty rates would result in minimal risk of repetition - or just crappy luck and doofessness if it did.
Suffice it to say I remained statistically boring and the stinky garbage successfully made it to the roadside. But I know by the end of the day I'm gonna hurt. I told a male colleague that it felt like one of my kidneys was trying to explode out of my arse. Graphic but honest. Sharing is caring.
Of course what followed was the obligatory "you think THAT's bad well listen to this..." ('my story's better than your story' moment). Much more intense involving (of course) an ENTIRE stairwell, its evil nemesis footwear 'socks' AND (here's the kicker) heroism involving a small child. Yes. He happened to be carrying a 2-month old baby who remained completely unharmed during the ordeal. Now due to his entire body taking the full force of the fall, he was laid out flat for a week whereas I... with my budget injury of busted-arse-bruised-back-fat...just look like I've shit my pants when I walk. Score is even stevens though I reckon... 1pt to He-man (only because of the bubba), and 1pt for me for flashing the Hendo bus... at my age. Rockstar. A for effort.
I have an intense dislike for stairs.
In fact I come rather close to having a real-life phobia about them... I DO. I even googled it and found a name for my condition - hold on to your hand rails coz its a big bastard...
CLIMACOPHOBIA
Yup. A fear of stairs. A fear of climbing them, a fear of falling down them... and that's definitely me coz I'm packin' jobbies everytime I venture down stairs and woe betide if I lose concentration - case and point this morning's flight of the big purply bird.
However I'm pleased to announce that although I suffer Clima... Climax... Climbatree... oh crap... umm 'SSCS' (stairs scardy cat syndrome) I am so not 'BATHMOPHOBIC' which is like a total relief because THAT would be some serious shit. (FYI... nothing to do with baths... google it).
When I was little I remember I had no fear. I used to stand proudly at the top of our internal staircase at home, my little piglets shoved into Ma's size 8 platforms, usually dressed up pretending I was Marie Osmond, massive earphones wobbling on my head mostly cranking my brothers old school rock 'n' roll records and Dads 45s, shakin' my pudgy little butt and lipsyncing into my Andy Gibb microphone.
It gave me great joy... and immense pain. On a regular basis my over-enthusiastic performance would over power my balancing ability and my basketball belly would be the tipping point and off I would go... bouncing down the stairs like a human zorb in high heels.
Bump-de-bump-bump-bump-de-de-de de-bump... bump... crash. Silence. Then a tsunami siren.
"WwwwwwwwwwwwwwAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!"
And my older brother's bored voice barely audible over the wail...
"Maaaa-ummm... Flicks fallen down the stairs again."
Alas... my fear was borned. But not a bone done broketh in all my tripsy, whoopsy, roly, poly, crashy, bangy fuckups. Just my pride and always a sore arse.
I get knocked down, but I get up again - not bad for a chubba-wubba... but if given an option... I'll be in the elevator bitches.
Have a great day.
Stylz - out........................on her arse. Again.
xxx
Thursday, June 21, 2012
Fifty First Drinks... Fifty Shades of Arse...
Hello old friend... it's been a while.
I'm sitting here at my desk halfway through the first week back at work after the big Christmas and New Year hoo-haa and there are so many things I should be doing, I could be doing and I'm not. I don't want to, I can't focus or think properly and I feel like I've aged 50 years and regressed 20. By the way...
HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!
I think I missed wishing you this leading into 2010 AND 2011 so consider it back payment for old Auld Lang Syne moments that could have been.
Hmmm... rather weak opening statement and quite frankly an epic fail on my part considering it is now June 2012.
Yes it's sad but true - it has taken me almost 7 months to write those two sentences. Let's start that again shall we? Ready? Come on... I know you're feeling a little vulnerable and slightly used but trust me... it will be worth it... here we go................................
Gidday Mate - HTF hv u bn?
Yes that's much better...
I'm sitting here at my desk midway through a Friday and looking forward to a long weekend thanks to an awesome company directive... the rostered day off policy. Don't be jelly... its just how we roll.
It's true I lost the gift of the blog for a while [I'm here, I'm lazy, get used to it] my bad - if it is any consolation it hurt me more than it hurt you. I should have kept in touch... its amazing how 'un-mental' you feel when you spew out your guts on a regular basis - metaphorically of course but by golly I put in a marvellous effort pushing the limits on the literal meaning of the phrase just quietly.
One of my favorite punch lines at the moment that always gets a delightful guffaw from an eager audience is "if you squeezed me like a sea-sponge I swear I'd drip beer" potentially flat beer of course and a bit warm but pure Corona none the less - minus the lemon, mixed with a bit of Heineken for good measure, Bourbon [well that's a given] and maybe a couple of ciders - the berry ones. True story. I might have dried up a little in the last month or so but tell you what... I think I consumed more alcohol during the first half of 2012 than during my entire mid-to-late 20's early 30's - consequently I have conveniently forgotten the last two decades - thank you damaged frontal lobe.
Drinking to forget - oh my god does that statement scream volumes. You don't actually forget the pain you were hoping to dull with a dozen Cody's - honest - but its times like the 'remember when' stories that you find you're brain has suffered major anal leakage thanks to someone's brilliant idea of the neurotoxin marinade that is ALCOHOL.
But oh I do remember laughing...
I may have lost days, names, details, stomach contents, undies, friends and dignity but I do remember mostly having a lot of fun on the piss... there is a moment for me during the process of 'getting ya booze buzz on' that I am alive... oozing wit, charm, humour, sex appeal, confidence, talent and control... but all this attention does is get one a little too excited and I drink faster... therefore drowning my previous peak of awesomeness within a matter of about ooh... half an hour, depending on whether they are 5 or 8 percenters of course...
Funny how at that precise moment... your physcial appearance is altered by what seems a ghostlike presence - within a matter of microseconds your mascara has melted down your nose, freckles, zits and wrinkles are blasting their way out of a thinning wall of foundation faster than a bull run in Spain and your hideously expensive frangrance now has a strong funky moonshine undertone to it. The bags under your bloodshot eyes resemble a coupla black puddings (in size, colour and texture) and your beautiful hair that you spent an hour sweating and fighting achy arm syndrome to get it looking just like a freakin Kardashian... now hangs lank over your greasy forehead, droopy, knotty, daggy and makes you look like you live at a trailerpark. The inside of your mouth feels like a used pull-up... and your breath ain't far behind. Not to mention you have to dangerously negotiate (and remember) your way to the loo every 3 minutes due to fear of LBL or BBS..WWIP (burst bladder syndrome.. woops wees in public) and there's never ANY freakin toilet paper left and well that's just gross. If you're on beer you're bloated, top shelf you're chundery and wine... well for me I know I'll be suffering bum wees and its not a matter of maybe but WHEN. It's not attractive and its not fucking fair I tell you.
All of this pales in comparision to the winner of the top gajillion list of "things I can't stand about gettin smashed"...
#1 Dumb shit.
- paranoia
- crying
- aggro
- shagging in a toilet
Oh ALL SORTS.
And would you bloody believe it but THAT's the shit my frontal lobe refuses to evacuate. And when you've got a backlog of about a quarter of a decade's worth... she's a hard road finding the perfect colonic for the psychi.
Flashbacks are a bitch in technocolour baby I shit-you-not.
NB: You know its bloody hard to forgive yourself when some of your finest moments are replaying in HD on series link mode every day from around 11pm to 3am. 'Fear Factor'? More like 'Cringe' factor and epic 'Wipeout' re-runs mixed with a little dose of 'Desperate Housewives' minus the calefornication (but also including it). When all you want to do is bring back 'Happy Days'.
AGE... its not a word I throw around lightly because it makes me nauseous. I still feel in my early 30's and that's about all the norty I can handle about being 40. But I have to admit... begrudgingly... that I have done quite a bit of growing up this year. Not to the point where I'm retiring my girlie bits, embracing upper lip hair and growing fond of second-hand tracksuits... no way man... but I AM trying to avoid the dumb shit... while working on forgiving myself for the fun I had getting to DO the dumb shit.
Because some of it WAS fun... in fact a lot of it was awesome :-) much of it was dodgy and bits of it many of you would have a really hard time believing - shit even I do and I was there! Parts of it were top secret... where even names changed wouldn't protect the innocent...(Noo Zullind is SUCH a small place) not that there was anything remotely 'innocent' about it or it wouldn't be a fricken SECRET - duh! So those ones are best keep in the classified section of my X-files. Sorry to dissappoint.
I don't expect the last time I got inebriated and did something dumb will be my last...I'm hoping for a slightly bigger gap between idiotic episodes. But the last time a huge amount of good came out of a moment of sheer stupidity. Now kids I'm not saying that just because "Monique thinks your dumb" nek minit something choice will happen [first and last time I promise that's why I used them both at once!] - I just happen to have hit the lowest of the low while being the highest of the high and achieving the bestest of the best.
Fuck knows how. That doesn't even make sense really... but it does to me and that's what counts.
Alright you lot - now that I've broken the ice maybe ya'll come back now and for any newbies... have a read and a giggle at me lil stories from yesteryear... you never know you just might enjoy it. I recommend "Don't mention the C-Word", "0 Comments", "Inspiration is the new thin" and "Lightening Crashes an Old Mother Cries" coz they tickle my funny bone.
Luv yaz...
Stylz - back!
Lock up your Woodys :-)
xoxo
I'm sitting here at my desk halfway through the first week back at work after the big Christmas and New Year hoo-haa and there are so many things I should be doing, I could be doing and I'm not. I don't want to, I can't focus or think properly and I feel like I've aged 50 years and regressed 20. By the way...
HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!
I think I missed wishing you this leading into 2010 AND 2011 so consider it back payment for old Auld Lang Syne moments that could have been.
Hmmm... rather weak opening statement and quite frankly an epic fail on my part considering it is now June 2012.
Yes it's sad but true - it has taken me almost 7 months to write those two sentences. Let's start that again shall we? Ready? Come on... I know you're feeling a little vulnerable and slightly used but trust me... it will be worth it... here we go................................
Gidday Mate - HTF hv u bn?
Yes that's much better...
I'm sitting here at my desk midway through a Friday and looking forward to a long weekend thanks to an awesome company directive... the rostered day off policy. Don't be jelly... its just how we roll.
It's true I lost the gift of the blog for a while [I'm here, I'm lazy, get used to it] my bad - if it is any consolation it hurt me more than it hurt you. I should have kept in touch... its amazing how 'un-mental' you feel when you spew out your guts on a regular basis - metaphorically of course but by golly I put in a marvellous effort pushing the limits on the literal meaning of the phrase just quietly.
One of my favorite punch lines at the moment that always gets a delightful guffaw from an eager audience is "if you squeezed me like a sea-sponge I swear I'd drip beer" potentially flat beer of course and a bit warm but pure Corona none the less - minus the lemon, mixed with a bit of Heineken for good measure, Bourbon [well that's a given] and maybe a couple of ciders - the berry ones. True story. I might have dried up a little in the last month or so but tell you what... I think I consumed more alcohol during the first half of 2012 than during my entire mid-to-late 20's early 30's - consequently I have conveniently forgotten the last two decades - thank you damaged frontal lobe.
Drinking to forget - oh my god does that statement scream volumes. You don't actually forget the pain you were hoping to dull with a dozen Cody's - honest - but its times like the 'remember when' stories that you find you're brain has suffered major anal leakage thanks to someone's brilliant idea of the neurotoxin marinade that is ALCOHOL.
But oh I do remember laughing...
I may have lost days, names, details, stomach contents, undies, friends and dignity but I do remember mostly having a lot of fun on the piss... there is a moment for me during the process of 'getting ya booze buzz on' that I am alive... oozing wit, charm, humour, sex appeal, confidence, talent and control... but all this attention does is get one a little too excited and I drink faster... therefore drowning my previous peak of awesomeness within a matter of about ooh... half an hour, depending on whether they are 5 or 8 percenters of course...
Funny how at that precise moment... your physcial appearance is altered by what seems a ghostlike presence - within a matter of microseconds your mascara has melted down your nose, freckles, zits and wrinkles are blasting their way out of a thinning wall of foundation faster than a bull run in Spain and your hideously expensive frangrance now has a strong funky moonshine undertone to it. The bags under your bloodshot eyes resemble a coupla black puddings (in size, colour and texture) and your beautiful hair that you spent an hour sweating and fighting achy arm syndrome to get it looking just like a freakin Kardashian... now hangs lank over your greasy forehead, droopy, knotty, daggy and makes you look like you live at a trailerpark. The inside of your mouth feels like a used pull-up... and your breath ain't far behind. Not to mention you have to dangerously negotiate (and remember) your way to the loo every 3 minutes due to fear of LBL or BBS..WWIP (burst bladder syndrome.. woops wees in public) and there's never ANY freakin toilet paper left and well that's just gross. If you're on beer you're bloated, top shelf you're chundery and wine... well for me I know I'll be suffering bum wees and its not a matter of maybe but WHEN. It's not attractive and its not fucking fair I tell you.
All of this pales in comparision to the winner of the top gajillion list of "things I can't stand about gettin smashed"...
#1 Dumb shit.
- paranoia
- crying
- aggro
- shagging in a toilet
Oh ALL SORTS.
And would you bloody believe it but THAT's the shit my frontal lobe refuses to evacuate. And when you've got a backlog of about a quarter of a decade's worth... she's a hard road finding the perfect colonic for the psychi.
Flashbacks are a bitch in technocolour baby I shit-you-not.
NB: You know its bloody hard to forgive yourself when some of your finest moments are replaying in HD on series link mode every day from around 11pm to 3am. 'Fear Factor'? More like 'Cringe' factor and epic 'Wipeout' re-runs mixed with a little dose of 'Desperate Housewives' minus the calefornication (but also including it). When all you want to do is bring back 'Happy Days'.
AGE... its not a word I throw around lightly because it makes me nauseous. I still feel in my early 30's and that's about all the norty I can handle about being 40. But I have to admit... begrudgingly... that I have done quite a bit of growing up this year. Not to the point where I'm retiring my girlie bits, embracing upper lip hair and growing fond of second-hand tracksuits... no way man... but I AM trying to avoid the dumb shit... while working on forgiving myself for the fun I had getting to DO the dumb shit.
Because some of it WAS fun... in fact a lot of it was awesome :-) much of it was dodgy and bits of it many of you would have a really hard time believing - shit even I do and I was there! Parts of it were top secret... where even names changed wouldn't protect the innocent...(Noo Zullind is SUCH a small place) not that there was anything remotely 'innocent' about it or it wouldn't be a fricken SECRET - duh! So those ones are best keep in the classified section of my X-files. Sorry to dissappoint.
I don't expect the last time I got inebriated and did something dumb will be my last...I'm hoping for a slightly bigger gap between idiotic episodes. But the last time a huge amount of good came out of a moment of sheer stupidity. Now kids I'm not saying that just because "Monique thinks your dumb" nek minit something choice will happen [first and last time I promise that's why I used them both at once!] - I just happen to have hit the lowest of the low while being the highest of the high and achieving the bestest of the best.
Fuck knows how. That doesn't even make sense really... but it does to me and that's what counts.
Alright you lot - now that I've broken the ice maybe ya'll come back now and for any newbies... have a read and a giggle at me lil stories from yesteryear... you never know you just might enjoy it. I recommend "Don't mention the C-Word", "0 Comments", "Inspiration is the new thin" and "Lightening Crashes an Old Mother Cries" coz they tickle my funny bone.
Luv yaz...
Stylz - back!
Lock up your Woodys :-)
xoxo
Sunday, November 15, 2009
To process is a process with a plan
Hello lovely bloggees...
So sorry its been a while but I've been full on... oh baby... drama drama drama I tell you.. on stage and off...
Feeling a wee bit weird tonight.. nooo it's not the 15 pinot gris I inhaled... yeah okay maybe that might have SOMETHING to do with it but mostly I reckon it's just life.
So I've invested a lot into the last couple of months. Professionally, personally and creatively. I've gone through challenges in all aspects of the above and I can say honestly for the greater part it was o for orsum. But some have been (to use my favorite termanology...) ARSE.
My baby is flying the nest. My little boy whom I have struggled through this maze of a world I call my life is going flatting and I'm kinda gutted by it. I feel so ripped off... Did I do enough? Was I a good enough parent that he will exist in this septic pool we call the world safely? With enough life skills to get him by, sensibly and safely? Oh shit... I don't know. I only hope that he survives being I guess a lot like me in the survivor sense but not in the emotional sense. I hope I showed him enough honesty to give him the tools to get through but not too much that he feels he can't be all that he should.
Oh christ this is heavy.
Okay so let's get into the lighter side of Vikki Stylz. Jaysus I've been busy. The months and weeks are blurring into one and I'm quite frankly... farking dizzy. Nope that's the pinot gris. Dammit. And its wearing off so forgive me if this gets boring as arse.
I have to re-visit Mr Chemicals because I know that's been a hot topic for the avid fans of "Condensed and Edited". Alas. As with most of my trysts it fizzed like a roman candle in a hurricane. What did I tell you guys??? Too good to be true, too intense to be for real. Now there is this polite funk that quite frankly pisses me off. Ah fark. What can you do huh? Suck it up and store the vibe away for another time, another place, another chemical reaction that you hope comes your way.
Why? What the fark? Come on guys I knew ALL along this was a fantastical surreal feeling. And I was right. So my question to you all is... why was it there? Why did I, despite the gut feelings, persist with the momentary buzz. Now I just feel like a dick. Especially when you get proudly and unshamedly introduced to the 'partner' and the child whom is paraded in front of you like some performing doll. Fark me. This is a place where I'm supposed to give hilarious anecdots of my joke of a life. Now I just feel like I'm a fraud. Especially after reading through my past posts. I was to be honest... absolutely gutted and so very very embarrased because I FELT IT. I believed it and I INVESTED in it. And true to form... I was completely wrong. OK. Can someone just say something funny before I tear myself another asshole for shits and giggles? Aw well... I do... I promise you... I do vow to make sure that one day I shall enter into a relationship that covers all the weird aspects of my life in a way where you will ALL... COLLECTIVELY... breathe a sigh of relief and say "yeah, that's the one. About farking time". Especially me.
You ALL get me. You all know that I'm strangely free but quietly secretive. I bet not many of you know every little detail of who I am and yet I've heard more than once that you envy my life. How naive are you - ha-ha. And yeah I'm happy to keep it that way. Can't have too many of you knowing that I'm a fruitloop in need of a serious labotomy. I'd much rather you all see that as 'talent' or 'humour'. The truth is... I'm scared.
Now that my baby is leaving home I am entering into a phase of my life that is unknown. There's an element of uncertainty that I just can't get a grasp on. I have no excuses now, life is supposed to start for me and I don't know where, just quietly, to begin.
I run through my past trysts and they seem so... so... adolescent. So... (for want of a better word) skanky. What was I thinking? How... pray tell oh bloggees... do I finally listen to my gut instincts and just, well, AVOID. Oh farked if I know.
To quote a writer that has given me joy for the past 8 weeks but isn't intenstly profound or anything... "I feel so... empty. I don't know what to DO with my life. Do just... CARRY ON? The world is spinning out of control and all I can do is... [insert latest Vikki Stylz momentary craze here]. And that is my life... a series of random efforts to fit in... to someone elses world because it seems just so much better than my own... but I guess that's all part of being me huh?
It's a big deal. Just as my boy is growing up and finding his way, I now feel obligated to do the same. But I'm confidently challenged. I was told the other day that I should train as a consellor... yeah okay granted it was advice given to me by a wonderful friend who, as most of my friends do on a regular basis, was experiencing a moment where they weren't quite in their er... right mind. But apparently I was orsum. I'm not surprised. The one thing I can claim as a talent is the ability to listen, disect and decipher everyone elses issues into a very astute mature piece of advice, that in turn, works out marvellously for them and I'm left trudging home to pick up the pieces of my disshelved world, feeling bitter and pissed off that they get what they want and I am still trawling through my trash. Just like the weekly washing it piles up in the corner of my mind, ignored and purposely avoided... because that's what I do best.
I think I need love. I think I need understanding. I think the reason that even though I have a small but marvellous selection of weird and wonderful beings that I call my besties I still come away from their amazing company feeling slightly short-changed is that... well... I'm alone. I have been for a very long time if I'm being honest with myself. Accepting my life and my world and sure... TOTALLY making the most of every day. But as every day goes by I wish for more. I have my selfish moments... where I take the dream lover fantasy and turn it into a completely self-indulgent time of despair. Forever holding on to the fantasy but never quite believing in the ability.
I am the perfect single female. The life of the party, the quintesential hostess, the picture of a perfect guest (when the woodies haven't catapulted me into psychotic oblivion of course) someones bestest bestie. But they all have their lives, and I'm still me. Still the third wheel, still go home to an empty bed because I choose to, still listen to their problems when inside I am silently screaming. But they don't know because I won't let them - maybe sometimes... Just a little bit... just so they know I'm human but without them thinking I'm not cool. But inside... deep deep inside. I ache. I have for many years and I'm afraid I'm past the point of discovering a cure.
Paracetomol moments.
The temporary relief of pain.
My friends are my nurofen plus. And dull the pain they do but its up to me to find a suitable cure and just quietly... I'm starting to think that perhaps its my journey just to be that pain-killer friend to others, and suffer in silence my own shortcomings.
Sometimes there's a quick blast of internal combustion from me and my god do people freak out about it. It's always a build up of many many things that I've swallowed like a hunk of cardboard because even though I might have gone to a situation with the intention of asking for help... I always divert to the other side. "Enough about me... how are YOU doing?" and those kinds of moments just build up. I guess this is a quiet apology, for all those times where people have thought "holy exorcist batman... where the fark did that 'Regan' impersonation come from????".
It's because I care. About you. About what you think of me. About the fact that I need you in my life for a reason. Like someone who will always be an addict no matter what treatment they get or how reformed they are... I will always need my paracetomol moments. I will always need to be needed by you so that my own problems seem... superficial. So I can deal. So I can continue. So I can get up in the morning and carry on. You have been poinient in my survival. Many many times.
Well none of this was farking funny and for that... I'm truly apologetic, but I'm going through a time in my life of huge change, huge challenge and indescribable lonliness of which I can't articulate, but if you read this, don't feel you haven't done enough or should do more because hey... its not you... its me. And I love you for who you are... I'm just trying to find the love in me.
Aw man.
Life can surely suck more arse than a gay man at a mardi gras sometimes. But tomorrow... I'll wake up and wonder what the fark possessed me to post this shit... but I'll feel better for getting it off my chest and think "well fark... that was SOOO last week".
Today is another day, and make it count I will.
Goodnight my beautiful codeine addicts... and no matter how lonely and unfufilled I feel... I will ALWAYS have your back. Just try and stop me.
Peace out.
Stylz
xxxx
So sorry its been a while but I've been full on... oh baby... drama drama drama I tell you.. on stage and off...
Feeling a wee bit weird tonight.. nooo it's not the 15 pinot gris I inhaled... yeah okay maybe that might have SOMETHING to do with it but mostly I reckon it's just life.
So I've invested a lot into the last couple of months. Professionally, personally and creatively. I've gone through challenges in all aspects of the above and I can say honestly for the greater part it was o for orsum. But some have been (to use my favorite termanology...) ARSE.
My baby is flying the nest. My little boy whom I have struggled through this maze of a world I call my life is going flatting and I'm kinda gutted by it. I feel so ripped off... Did I do enough? Was I a good enough parent that he will exist in this septic pool we call the world safely? With enough life skills to get him by, sensibly and safely? Oh shit... I don't know. I only hope that he survives being I guess a lot like me in the survivor sense but not in the emotional sense. I hope I showed him enough honesty to give him the tools to get through but not too much that he feels he can't be all that he should.
Oh christ this is heavy.
Okay so let's get into the lighter side of Vikki Stylz. Jaysus I've been busy. The months and weeks are blurring into one and I'm quite frankly... farking dizzy. Nope that's the pinot gris. Dammit. And its wearing off so forgive me if this gets boring as arse.
I have to re-visit Mr Chemicals because I know that's been a hot topic for the avid fans of "Condensed and Edited". Alas. As with most of my trysts it fizzed like a roman candle in a hurricane. What did I tell you guys??? Too good to be true, too intense to be for real. Now there is this polite funk that quite frankly pisses me off. Ah fark. What can you do huh? Suck it up and store the vibe away for another time, another place, another chemical reaction that you hope comes your way.
Why? What the fark? Come on guys I knew ALL along this was a fantastical surreal feeling. And I was right. So my question to you all is... why was it there? Why did I, despite the gut feelings, persist with the momentary buzz. Now I just feel like a dick. Especially when you get proudly and unshamedly introduced to the 'partner' and the child whom is paraded in front of you like some performing doll. Fark me. This is a place where I'm supposed to give hilarious anecdots of my joke of a life. Now I just feel like I'm a fraud. Especially after reading through my past posts. I was to be honest... absolutely gutted and so very very embarrased because I FELT IT. I believed it and I INVESTED in it. And true to form... I was completely wrong. OK. Can someone just say something funny before I tear myself another asshole for shits and giggles? Aw well... I do... I promise you... I do vow to make sure that one day I shall enter into a relationship that covers all the weird aspects of my life in a way where you will ALL... COLLECTIVELY... breathe a sigh of relief and say "yeah, that's the one. About farking time". Especially me.
You ALL get me. You all know that I'm strangely free but quietly secretive. I bet not many of you know every little detail of who I am and yet I've heard more than once that you envy my life. How naive are you - ha-ha. And yeah I'm happy to keep it that way. Can't have too many of you knowing that I'm a fruitloop in need of a serious labotomy. I'd much rather you all see that as 'talent' or 'humour'. The truth is... I'm scared.
Now that my baby is leaving home I am entering into a phase of my life that is unknown. There's an element of uncertainty that I just can't get a grasp on. I have no excuses now, life is supposed to start for me and I don't know where, just quietly, to begin.
I run through my past trysts and they seem so... so... adolescent. So... (for want of a better word) skanky. What was I thinking? How... pray tell oh bloggees... do I finally listen to my gut instincts and just, well, AVOID. Oh farked if I know.
To quote a writer that has given me joy for the past 8 weeks but isn't intenstly profound or anything... "I feel so... empty. I don't know what to DO with my life. Do just... CARRY ON? The world is spinning out of control and all I can do is... [insert latest Vikki Stylz momentary craze here]. And that is my life... a series of random efforts to fit in... to someone elses world because it seems just so much better than my own... but I guess that's all part of being me huh?
It's a big deal. Just as my boy is growing up and finding his way, I now feel obligated to do the same. But I'm confidently challenged. I was told the other day that I should train as a consellor... yeah okay granted it was advice given to me by a wonderful friend who, as most of my friends do on a regular basis, was experiencing a moment where they weren't quite in their er... right mind. But apparently I was orsum. I'm not surprised. The one thing I can claim as a talent is the ability to listen, disect and decipher everyone elses issues into a very astute mature piece of advice, that in turn, works out marvellously for them and I'm left trudging home to pick up the pieces of my disshelved world, feeling bitter and pissed off that they get what they want and I am still trawling through my trash. Just like the weekly washing it piles up in the corner of my mind, ignored and purposely avoided... because that's what I do best.
I think I need love. I think I need understanding. I think the reason that even though I have a small but marvellous selection of weird and wonderful beings that I call my besties I still come away from their amazing company feeling slightly short-changed is that... well... I'm alone. I have been for a very long time if I'm being honest with myself. Accepting my life and my world and sure... TOTALLY making the most of every day. But as every day goes by I wish for more. I have my selfish moments... where I take the dream lover fantasy and turn it into a completely self-indulgent time of despair. Forever holding on to the fantasy but never quite believing in the ability.
I am the perfect single female. The life of the party, the quintesential hostess, the picture of a perfect guest (when the woodies haven't catapulted me into psychotic oblivion of course) someones bestest bestie. But they all have their lives, and I'm still me. Still the third wheel, still go home to an empty bed because I choose to, still listen to their problems when inside I am silently screaming. But they don't know because I won't let them - maybe sometimes... Just a little bit... just so they know I'm human but without them thinking I'm not cool. But inside... deep deep inside. I ache. I have for many years and I'm afraid I'm past the point of discovering a cure.
Paracetomol moments.
The temporary relief of pain.
My friends are my nurofen plus. And dull the pain they do but its up to me to find a suitable cure and just quietly... I'm starting to think that perhaps its my journey just to be that pain-killer friend to others, and suffer in silence my own shortcomings.
Sometimes there's a quick blast of internal combustion from me and my god do people freak out about it. It's always a build up of many many things that I've swallowed like a hunk of cardboard because even though I might have gone to a situation with the intention of asking for help... I always divert to the other side. "Enough about me... how are YOU doing?" and those kinds of moments just build up. I guess this is a quiet apology, for all those times where people have thought "holy exorcist batman... where the fark did that 'Regan' impersonation come from????".
It's because I care. About you. About what you think of me. About the fact that I need you in my life for a reason. Like someone who will always be an addict no matter what treatment they get or how reformed they are... I will always need my paracetomol moments. I will always need to be needed by you so that my own problems seem... superficial. So I can deal. So I can continue. So I can get up in the morning and carry on. You have been poinient in my survival. Many many times.
Well none of this was farking funny and for that... I'm truly apologetic, but I'm going through a time in my life of huge change, huge challenge and indescribable lonliness of which I can't articulate, but if you read this, don't feel you haven't done enough or should do more because hey... its not you... its me. And I love you for who you are... I'm just trying to find the love in me.
Aw man.
Life can surely suck more arse than a gay man at a mardi gras sometimes. But tomorrow... I'll wake up and wonder what the fark possessed me to post this shit... but I'll feel better for getting it off my chest and think "well fark... that was SOOO last week".
Today is another day, and make it count I will.
Goodnight my beautiful codeine addicts... and no matter how lonely and unfufilled I feel... I will ALWAYS have your back. Just try and stop me.
Peace out.
Stylz
xxxx
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Don't mention the C-word
Baaaaaaaaahummmmbugggg!
Who was the retard that sent the fricken memo out that the C-word is to be crammed in our faces barely half-way into ROCKtober?
It's just arse I tell you. Now I'm not strictly the cliche 'grinch' but I am over the hype have been since November 2000-and-something.
Now I don't want lashings of criticism over this but I have to admit... last year I didn't even put up a C-word-tree. Nope. Didn't have time. Re-freakin-fused I did. Instead I plugged in a neon Surfin' Santa which kept me mildly amused for a couple of weeks and didn't require burn out on the vacuum cleaner. Ha-ha! Sadly tho he had to be returned to the place I pinched him from. Too bloody honest I am.
Oh holy crap... what to do THIS year to avoid the trappings of tinsel trash and blinking bulbs? I don't even NEED decorations... the flashing blindness of the neighbours' 3 gajillion wattage of C-word bling can be seen from space. So! I shall celebrate vicariously off their exorbitant power bill. However, all I want for C-word is a sleeping mask... it's like fricken Antartica in reverse... 24 hours of daylight. Drinking helps.
So you guys saw the good news huh? Yep... mono-ab, shrinking, rapidly. Bloody orsum. Frigging HARD YAKKA tho! Mind you I do chalk it up to all the exercise I have been doing, and the lack of Angus burgers - nope not a one since my last bitch about them haunting my dreams... speaking of dreams... its amazing how you can burn off calories by just repeating a thought over and over and over in your brain. No, not "think thin, think thin" or "you eat, you explode" or "the fridge is full of maggots" or "chocolate tastes like poo" no, no... not that. One word my friends... obsession.
You wanna lose those friendly rolls that have prevented you from cutting your toenails since you were 19 then GET OBSESSED. Not stalker obsessed... just... loser obsessed. The sad lonely obsession that sits in your brain clogging your ability to do the simplest of tasks with any form of decorum or clarity. Even ablutions take twice as long. You realise, only because you're bum is freezing, that you've been sitting there daydreaming for half an hour. You wonder why there's no hot water... you've been in the shower since Tuesday but you still climb out, all zombie-like, your hair encrusted with the shampoo you forgot to wash out...LAST Tuesday. And quite remarkably... YOU... FORGET... HUNGER.
Gone. Disappeared. That growling empty hole is now a different void and no amount of anything can fill it. Plus of course if you do weaken and decide that maybe a 'Double Lust' might just take the edge off you immediately squash that pathetic epiphany and replace it with mildly psychotic threats of self harm if you break and allow that poison access to your vessel you've worked so hard on... of course 'Double Lust' can also be referred to as a completely different need which is handy - not so with 'Kiwi As Chips' or 'Burger'.
So all in all I see my new found version of weight loss as working pretty bloody well just quietly. Piss on the experts. Obsession is good for the mono-ab. Which is now I am proud to report... more of a 'mini-mono-ab'. I tell you guys... my brain is more interesting since I developed this obsession than freakin SKY and Freeview put together. I've got chick flicks, perfect endings, soft porn, comedy, drama and reality TV playing 24/7. Plus I know the producer, director, writer AND actors quite intimately. Of course the only difference is on MY TV channel I am farking gorgeous. Slight over-exaggeration but hey, what the hell, its my head, my show, my obsession.
So with all this exciting brain activity I am literally shrinking. I reckon I'll write a best-selling diet book... and I think I'll call it ...umm...
"Free from fat through fantasy: A chubber's guide to obsessing your way to styly collarbones"
Chapter One
"Mono-ab Anonymous is for Anorexics"
Chapter Two
"Say no to camel-toe"
Chapter Three
"Defining your obsessive boundaries around your mono-ab"
Chapter Four
"Beware the fake obsession - Mono-ab Sabotage"
Chapter Five
"When mono-abs go bad"
Chapter Six
"The do's and don't's of DIY Obsession"
Chapter Seven
"Falling off the wagon..."
Chapter Eight
"Losing the wagon in your mono-ab"
Chapter Nine
"An obsessor's top ten"
And finally...
Chapter Ten
"Fantasy, reality... the blurred line of the obsessor"
Epilogue
"Thin, but slightly bonkers... who cares, I'm thin"
Fark yeah... I think I'm on to a winner hear folks... hmm... anyone want to finance me?
Peace out my friends
Oh and don't worry... er, no offense but I'm not obsessing about any of you... well maybe just for test obsess purposes but I promise... no inappropriate touching.
Bye!
Skatty but skinny Stylz
xxxxxx
Who was the retard that sent the fricken memo out that the C-word is to be crammed in our faces barely half-way into ROCKtober?
It's just arse I tell you. Now I'm not strictly the cliche 'grinch' but I am over the hype have been since November 2000-and-something.
Now I don't want lashings of criticism over this but I have to admit... last year I didn't even put up a C-word-tree. Nope. Didn't have time. Re-freakin-fused I did. Instead I plugged in a neon Surfin' Santa which kept me mildly amused for a couple of weeks and didn't require burn out on the vacuum cleaner. Ha-ha! Sadly tho he had to be returned to the place I pinched him from. Too bloody honest I am.
Oh holy crap... what to do THIS year to avoid the trappings of tinsel trash and blinking bulbs? I don't even NEED decorations... the flashing blindness of the neighbours' 3 gajillion wattage of C-word bling can be seen from space. So! I shall celebrate vicariously off their exorbitant power bill. However, all I want for C-word is a sleeping mask... it's like fricken Antartica in reverse... 24 hours of daylight. Drinking helps.
So you guys saw the good news huh? Yep... mono-ab, shrinking, rapidly. Bloody orsum. Frigging HARD YAKKA tho! Mind you I do chalk it up to all the exercise I have been doing, and the lack of Angus burgers - nope not a one since my last bitch about them haunting my dreams... speaking of dreams... its amazing how you can burn off calories by just repeating a thought over and over and over in your brain. No, not "think thin, think thin" or "you eat, you explode" or "the fridge is full of maggots" or "chocolate tastes like poo" no, no... not that. One word my friends... obsession.
You wanna lose those friendly rolls that have prevented you from cutting your toenails since you were 19 then GET OBSESSED. Not stalker obsessed... just... loser obsessed. The sad lonely obsession that sits in your brain clogging your ability to do the simplest of tasks with any form of decorum or clarity. Even ablutions take twice as long. You realise, only because you're bum is freezing, that you've been sitting there daydreaming for half an hour. You wonder why there's no hot water... you've been in the shower since Tuesday but you still climb out, all zombie-like, your hair encrusted with the shampoo you forgot to wash out...LAST Tuesday. And quite remarkably... YOU... FORGET... HUNGER.
Gone. Disappeared. That growling empty hole is now a different void and no amount of anything can fill it. Plus of course if you do weaken and decide that maybe a 'Double Lust' might just take the edge off you immediately squash that pathetic epiphany and replace it with mildly psychotic threats of self harm if you break and allow that poison access to your vessel you've worked so hard on... of course 'Double Lust' can also be referred to as a completely different need which is handy - not so with 'Kiwi As Chips' or 'Burger'.
So all in all I see my new found version of weight loss as working pretty bloody well just quietly. Piss on the experts. Obsession is good for the mono-ab. Which is now I am proud to report... more of a 'mini-mono-ab'. I tell you guys... my brain is more interesting since I developed this obsession than freakin SKY and Freeview put together. I've got chick flicks, perfect endings, soft porn, comedy, drama and reality TV playing 24/7. Plus I know the producer, director, writer AND actors quite intimately. Of course the only difference is on MY TV channel I am farking gorgeous. Slight over-exaggeration but hey, what the hell, its my head, my show, my obsession.
So with all this exciting brain activity I am literally shrinking. I reckon I'll write a best-selling diet book... and I think I'll call it ...umm...
"Free from fat through fantasy: A chubber's guide to obsessing your way to styly collarbones"
Chapter One
"Mono-ab Anonymous is for Anorexics"
Chapter Two
"Say no to camel-toe"
Chapter Three
"Defining your obsessive boundaries around your mono-ab"
Chapter Four
"Beware the fake obsession - Mono-ab Sabotage"
Chapter Five
"When mono-abs go bad"
Chapter Six
"The do's and don't's of DIY Obsession"
Chapter Seven
"Falling off the wagon..."
Chapter Eight
"Losing the wagon in your mono-ab"
Chapter Nine
"An obsessor's top ten"
And finally...
Chapter Ten
"Fantasy, reality... the blurred line of the obsessor"
Epilogue
"Thin, but slightly bonkers... who cares, I'm thin"
Fark yeah... I think I'm on to a winner hear folks... hmm... anyone want to finance me?
Peace out my friends
Oh and don't worry... er, no offense but I'm not obsessing about any of you... well maybe just for test obsess purposes but I promise... no inappropriate touching.
Bye!
Skatty but skinny Stylz
xxxxxx
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Short. Sweet. Slim.
6.7kgs in just over a month.
Pretty farking styly.
Monoab fighting its last fight - losing.
Nearly half way there... baby steps, baby steps...
Yay me!
xxx
Pretty farking styly.
Monoab fighting its last fight - losing.
Nearly half way there... baby steps, baby steps...
Yay me!
xxx
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