My last days.

So, my life has been reduced to waking up in the afternoon, reading a book for the next three hours, then having a shower and finally reading again while I wait for my fake tan to dry.

Sometimes I iron clothes or something, or cook dinner (to those who know me, I am not what you'd call a whiz in the kitchen or the home, so the mere fact that I'd consider doing those things, let alone do them, should indicate my increasing level of boredom).

But alas, there IS light at the end of the tunnel!! This time next week, not only will I be 21 (woot woot) but I shall also be, once again, embedded within the world of study and knowledge that I miss so much. I miss having a purpose for which to get out of bed for; I miss socialising with random people I have just met in my tutorials. I miss seeing friends, both close and fleeting, and I miss the atmosphere of a world removed from the mindless existence I currently lead at home.

I haven't even been writing in my blog, because literally, there is NOTHING TO TELL. I go out, I come home, I do nothing. I work. Till midnight. And it's boring, unless there's someone stealing or something, like the old lady yesterday, whose efforts I thwarted by my amazing stealth and cunning, stemming from the utter tedium that is work.

But soon, I shall be riveted again!!! I'll have a goal, of not many, to strive to!



I am so effing bored I should cut off my left hand just for something to do.

I heart Chick Lit.

Do you know what would be amazing? To live inside a chick lit book. I'm serious. It would be, by far, the most wonderful existence for a woman, as all chick literature basically follows the same model of beauty, wealth and glamour. Add a hot, rich/adorably poor man and his charm, and you have yourself a guaranteed happy ending.

I'm talking about Jemima J, or Bridget Jones, or Sparkles and Glamour, Bergdof Blondes or Gold Diggers. (Yes, these books are all on my heavily overflowing bookshelf, their colourful and shiny covers proudly displayed amongst my media and journalism textbooks, the considerably deeper writings of Jodi Picoult and of course, the classics.) These are the ultimate pick me ups, provided you don't mind the rather cliched endings and beautifying processes, the endless shopping trips and descriptions of unattainable brand names such as Prada, Gucci, Miu Miu etc (bliss...) and the constant stream of sexy, sexy men. Personally, I am a fan. I love pretending that I have millions of dollars and a million men at my disposal, and if not, at least the long, brown body and silky blonde/brown/chestnut hair, cascading down my back in a waterfall of luscious curls.

Upon opening that golden cover, I know that I am entering a world of romance, Ritz and glamour and that absolutely nothing will make me feel as wonderful as pretending I am the next heiress to a massive fortune, which I can use to further my career as a brilliant lawyer or journalist.

But above all, the best kind of chick lit heroine is the daughter of a happy couple, content within her loving family, facing little to no problems from obstinate family members who are beyond difficult to live with.

I think I shall go and read my book now.

Poor little animals

I just finished reading about the poor possums with burnt feet, and the horrible deaths of many injured kangaroos, baby birds and flying foxes.

It's so sad :(

Like that poor little koala who climbed into a woman's laundry, desperately hoping to benefit from the relatively cool indoors. After having a bowl filled up with water, it happily climbed in, resting from the intense heat of its natural home. At least he was lucky.

So, as stupid as this may sound, this is my tribute to all those little critters who suffered intensely during this heatwave.

So, once again, I have been absent.

Shit going on, emotional crisis, you know how it is. As a friend aptly put it, my life is a drama, and it would be nice to be able to switch the channel sometimes, perhaps to a mindless comedy or even the news.

So, I have finally decided to get my shit together, and actually compile a folder of samples of my writing and DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT. Sure, staring at my published articles certainly evokes feelings of some pride and accomplishment, but let's face it; I'm not going to advance unless I make it happen. So, to risk sounding like all those annoyingly annoying motivational speakers we are forced to listen to at the beginning of year 12, I'm going to pat myself on the back and tell myself I CAN DO IT.

A close friend of mine has just started full time work for the first time. Seeing him all suited up, looking professional, businesslike and ready to move into the next stage of his life has made me yearn for the career I desperately want. Seeing him after work, having a drink, excitedly telling me about his future plans and all the work and socialising that still awaits him, has made me realise that life CAN be moulded according to my perseverance, desire and opportunities, and that all I have to do is simply get off my fat, lazy ass and hand in some well written articles.

On another note, I had a blood test today, which I'm sure everyone who has me on Facebook is by now well aware of. As I have severe 'needlephobia', I was not exactly looking forward to having my arm invaded with a sharp, metallic object, nor having an old, non-sympathetic, grouchy woman masquerading as a nurse tie a cord tightly around my forearm and force me to pump blood by closing and opening my hand in quick succession, all the while watching the veins swell under my skin, pulsating with the richness of my purple blood. EWWW. IT WAS SO GROSS I WANTED TO VOMIT. And the the nurse left the needle inside me for what seemed like HOURS, stealing not one, not two, not three, not four, but FIVE containers of blood. It was so horrific.