Telstra sucks dead dogs' dicks

An evening well spent: napping on the couch, enjoying the silence only a 12-foot-windowed inner-city apartment can bring, occasionally revelling in the overheard conversations floating up from the chi-chi, semi-hidden, tiny bar downstairs.

A morning less well spent: on the phone with said phone company chomping dead dogs' parts, arguing about whether I had actually PAID a debt that wasn't mine (I had, nearly two years ago), about whether I was a credit risk (even though I've had my mobile with this company on plan for nearly two years and operated a home phone line with STD capacity for a year of that time) because of said (allegedly still unpaid) debt. Apparently I am unworthy and therefore only deserve a home phone with local calls, virtually useless for two immigrants from other states.

Time generally well spent: unpacking and loving the masses of wardrobe space for all my clothes, which, because I have no other life, are now colour blocked and either hanging neatly or folded neatly, right way out.

Today: as part of my new season resolution, I am off to play my first game of squash in about 15 years. I have a bike now, and have been thoroughly enjoying riding through the city's various parks and gardens and generally swearing at kamikaze drivers. I am eating well, at last - 2-3 bits of fresh fruit a day and a decent breakfast and main meal; healthy snacks at work rather than chips and pizza. And the weight is s-l-o-w-l-y coming off, as it should. Not too much at a time, but off for good. I figured that I really needed another cardio-aerobic type activity to get healthy faster and seeing as I'm too much of a spaz to take an actual aerobics class, squash it is, where acting like a spaz (albeit a semi-aggro one), all for raising one's heartbeat, is de rigeur.

Into heaven

I am finally ensconsed in my new - and rather fabulous, I might say - warehouse apartment in the city.

Tonight, after heaving (well, watching two dudes heave, really) boxes and various loads of Stuff up several awkward sets of stairs, I can actually say that I live in the city.

Said warehouse apartment is composed of two storeys. The first is the living space - resplendent with floor-to-12-foot-ceiling windows and exposed brick. From the kitchen windows you can see all over the top end of Bourke, Collins, Exhibition and Russell streets.

The second storey is the bedrooms.

I think there are a number of things that make this new place so divine:

1. Little Bourke Street and all its yummy temptations are my backyard;
2. Said warehouse only costs me $100 a week, including bills;
3. The UTTER AND TOTALLY DEAFENING SILENCE;
4. The rent is only $100 per week, all inclusive.

Did I mention how cheap the rent is?

Did I mention THE TOTAL SILENCE?

Turn off the clocks, turn out the lights

Devastated. http://www.theage.com.au/articles/2004/10/09/1097261864643.html

She died with a felafel

GOD.

I can handle most things.

Well, that's a lie. I can't really. But I can deal, just with a lot of talking about it.

I can handle the odd party night in a house of four luscious women.

I cannot handle coming home from working 10 hour shifts cleaning up other people's shit like ashtrays and half-full glasses of beer to find said same stinking out the communal living space.

I cannot handle going to take a shower after said discovery and finding a large pile of dog shit in the bathroom doorway and the bathroom floor flooded with dog piss, because the dog's owner got so drunk (again) she forgot to put the dog out.

Later, when I did venture into the bathroom, I discovered that rather than actually mop the freaking floor and yunno, make it all, like CLEAN, the bathmat had been moved verrrrry strategically to cover up said dog piss. Get in shower dirty and grumpy, get out said same.

I cannot handle said same dog barking up a storm from 11am onwards, when I didn't get home until 6am and had to be back at work at 6pm.

I cannot handle people going into my room - with the shuttable door and containing all my stuff - and borrowing clothes and various accoutrements without asking.

And what really, really sticks in my fucking craw is that I have no condoms left, and I'm not even getting laid.

Not very fucking happy Jan.

It's time to move on and get me a homestead that is actually quiet, and clean. Oh, for quiet and clean.

Riding the trains

The. Next. Station. Is ... THORNBURY!!

Like it's a prize.

The clincher: an open letter

Dear [minorMelbourne celebrity comedian],

When you invite a gorgeous girl to a party you're hosting, don't ignore her altogether, but perhaps just ogle her from afar, without actually initiating any conversation whatsoever.

Also, when she does approach to talk to you, it might not be such a great idea to get your mates to laugh at her, thinking she's another one of your alleged groupies. It's also probably not the best of moves to then say, "Oh, did you come up here so you could be in my realm?"

You have no realm.

You are not funny.

It's also probably not going to win you any brownie points when you send her a text message the next day telling her she looked great the night before.

You should have - and could have - told her that very thing the night before, and then, yunno, the conversation could have flowed from there and then maybe said girl could have got laid.

But no, no.

Not funny.

No realm.

Not cool.

No cock.

Not much to report other than the lack of sleep due to the complete and utter partying of my little head off. This is not a bad thing. It means I've been sociable, and that's good.

Am working on a pilot episode of Mavis Appleby - she's off to the Fringe this year and she's none too happy. More on this little project soon!!