I'm not Korean...(not that there's anything wrong with that)

Tuesday, July 17, 2007

Not quite Hong Kong, but I wasn't complaining in Port Douglas

Wednesday, July 11, 2007

Am I just being....an idiot?

So Spidey recently added an 18 yo pretty blonde girl to his payroll. She started on Monday as an 'administrative assistant'. Did I mention she also has a set of ginormous mammary glands? I went over to his office to check her out, piss on my turf, fart in my air space and shit in my backyard. You know, the things a 28 year old woman does when a surge of jealousy washes over her. When I walked in, I was immediately accosted by a very excitable mutt. Gawd, she makes me proud.

Me: "Herrrrrowwww baaaybeeee....herrrrowwwwww, gooooooood girl. Herrroooow bayyybeeeee. Mummy missed you...!!!"

Mammary glands (MG): "Wow, this is the most excited she's been today!!"

Me: Yeah. Did I give you permission to talk? Hi, you must be Alicia. Extend hand. Did I also mention I am wearing a damn fine custom-made Armani imitation suit courtesy of Tony's Tailor in Bangkok?

Alicia: Yeah, and you are Swee-eee. Ooooooh, you so lucky you got that right, but just barely, biatch.

Me: And how has your first day been? Have the boys been treating you well?

Alicia: It's been great. They've been really great to me!!! Said with a little too much enthusiasm which really. really. really. shits. me.

And so it went.

Okay, so she's actually quite a nice girl and if she was deadset ugly I could probably deal with that. But she's not. And because she's a country girl, she's super friendly in a too-much-in-your-face kinda way which makes me want to puke-my-guts-out-in-a-comet-style kinda way. Suffering succotash, what's wrong with me? She's EIGHTEEN for crying out loud. She's probably got posters of Daniel Radcliffe all over her wall and sleeps on single bed with flowery pink prints. (Sorry Laura, with all the HP talk, I couldn't think of anything else). Maybe she hasn't even begun menstruating yet!? Then again, she did used to work at Slutsville (aka Supre) before this, and she does like dancing and animals. So maybe she's a stripper by night in a bestiality club!! God help Eva!

I don't know. I think it's because Spidey has no friends who are girls and I've been in this safe and comfortable coccoon where his mother, Eva and I are the only women in his life. The only IMPORTANT women. And then here comes Little Miss Pretty Thang to jolt me back into reality. 5 days a week. 8 hours a day. I hate it. And I don't even know why I am like this because I KNOW that it would be absolutely crazy to think that he'd ever do anything. Fcuk, he's twice her age but. then. again. Does A Current Affair/Today Tonight mean anything to you!? It's me. I know it's just me. In a professional working environment, this is more common that people think. How many partners/CEOs/CFOs/blah blah blah sleep with their secretaries. Secretaries who adore their boss because he's rich, smart, handsome and powerful. How many men love this shit? How many men are horny enough to take it further. Maybe I've just heard too many horror stories or seen it with my own eyes. The fact of the matter is, this should mean nothing to me and to my relationship with Spidey.

I know what I am to him.

Yet.

Why isn't that enough?

Friday, June 15, 2007

This is what happens when you nag, and nag, and nag

I'm on a 7am flight out to somewhere tomorrow for 4 nights, 5 days! I complained to Spidey that he had no imagination at all when it came to planning something for us to do. He couldn't understand why I didn't regard quality time as sitting in front of the TV arms and legs entwined with each other.

Unlike Spidey, I'm a firm believer in spontaneity so I'm not really used to being on the receiving end this time round. So I am completely busting out of my mind with curiosity as to where we're going. I haven't even been told what to pack or whether or not I need to bring my French/English phrase book. Okay, so I may end up having mud hut grub as opposed to croissants but quite frankly I don't flipping care!

Today I am like a child locked in a room with ten different kinds of ice creams! YIIPEEEEEE

(NB. This post is so unlike me. I mean, I haven't even talked about reproduction.)

Thursday, June 07, 2007

I should stop smokin da 'erbs

Some weeks ago, I woke up in the middle of the night sobbing because I dreamt that Spidey had died from a drowning accident. It only took a moment to realise that he was still very much alive, sleeping soundly next to me, deliciously warm and completely unawares of my hysterics. Just to be sure though, I pinched, poked and prodded at him like a pork chop at market. This caused him to stir, which then caused me to deliriously vomit out a scene-by-scene narrative of my nightmare.

When it occurred to me that he wasn't paying any attention, and that I had probably roused the neighbourhood horses, I found a warm nook against his body and ensconced myself there till the wee hours of the morn.

I am writing this now because I couldn't bring myself to do it the day after it happened. I thought I would jinx myself or him. Dammit, I don't even believe in that bubblefuck!

On a much lighter note, I dreamt a few days later that I got in a funky bunch with Marky Mark. Mmmmm....it really is that big!

Friday, May 11, 2007

Going Going Gone

As some of you know, two weeks ago I spent my very last night at 34 Hayberry Street, Crows Nest. When the house was finally stripped bare and I walked through it for the very last time, I was completely overcome with a feeling of melancholy. I choked back the tears while Spidey mulled over what to do with the box of fireworks he had secretly stored away for six years.

Hayberry, which I affectionately liked to call it, was where I eventually called home for 15 months. But for some time, it was nothing more to me than Spidey's abode; your typical bachelor pad decked out in dark wood furnishings, the latest surround sound system and a shaven mutt. Over time and numerous behind-closed-doors action, 'his place' became 'our place' .

Now it is for sale. For some other family, or worse still, some couple with a shaven mutt to occupy it and fill it with their memories and their stories.

And I don't like it one bit.

Also, if I still have a spare key, is it still considered trespassing?

I give you Laura, who really should be a writer.

Have been asked to do a celebrity post, as Ms Lokes is out of action aka not feeling creative. I have agreed to help her out due solely to celebrity tag. Am pathetically flattered. So here goes:

I am lucky enough to *work* (** these will be explained hereafter) with a man from the mother country, a fellow to whom this post is dedicated, and one who almost did not survive to welcome 4pm today. The cause? Call it what you will - insufferable know-it-all-ness, severe case of verbal vomit, unfortunate misunderstanding of one's own importance in the cosmos, but this gentleman is living on borrowed time. And I am here to collect.

I relay to you the topics explained to me by him in the last 10 minutes.

1. Why the sky is blue.
2. Why the sea is blue.
3. Why green water is green.

There followed an exposition re.

4. Yankees, the Unions and the Confederate Army
5. COT being a ridiculous prefix for Cootamundra.
6. John someone or other who was a philosopher 'that no one likes'.
7. Australian's being the new yanks, and how he has called us the 'south pacific yanks' for years.

Now may I interject. Was I talking to this cretin? I was not. Did I ask anything remotely related to any of the above topics? I did not. Was I, strange as it may seem, actually attempting to do that for which I am paid fortnightly on a Wednesday, only to be distracted by his pompous, self indulgent posturing.

Indeed.

And so my rage is such that I am typing with sufficient ferocity to merit my boss coming over and making a stale little joke about wishing his anatomy was my keyboard. It is such that my eyes keep being drawn to my scissors, metallic and sharp, sitting in a little pot, ready to be hurled at a moments notice. I want to cut off all his hair (foppish in the most unappealing Hugh Grant sense of the word), force him to eat it and then remove whatever part of his brain it is that feels the need to wax lyrical about every topic that pops into it. Why when one mentions a carrot, he feels the need to tell you why the Indians first grew them way back in the 18th Century when the Salem witch trials helped pioneer the invention of the first man made rollercoaster.

Did you know the work 'poppycock' comes from the Dutch word meaning 'soft'? Did you care? How about that Sydney is called such because it was named after Lord Sydney, and Brisbane because it was named after the governor of NSW? I don't know the factual veracity of these comments, only that I DON'T BLOODY CARE!!

Which raises an interesting point. How does he know? He wasn't even born here, was never subject to pathetic Australian History lessons, filled with meaningless tat. So he has learned it? All these stupid facts, to what, impress women at the French class he attends? The French class he attends because he is the only male to do so, and at which he excels because he knows what the teacher is going to say before she speaks?

I know too much about this man! I am screaming inside (and almost out) with a rage I cannot express with the written word. Malice aforethought? You better believe it. Lokes, I caution you that I may be needing your professional services, real soon.

No not THOSE services...

Sunday, April 01, 2007

When imitation isn't the sincerest form of flattery

Plagiarism: "the unauthorised use or close imitation of the language and thoughts of another author and the representation of them as one's own original work."

- Dictionary.com

"Dear Fellow Blogger,

If you haven't already tuned into the fact that this is about you, let me take this opportunity to refresh your memory:

Goodbye My Lover

I miss you already. I regret the terrible cursing I've ever said to you. There were signs that things were not going well, but why was I so careless about your well-being? When it did happen, I was frantic and frightened, afraid of what my life would be without you, desperate to salvage whatever I could of our relationship and to tell you how much you meant to me.

The loss is so hard to bear, we've spent so many hours together, shared so many memories. The emails, photos, the music... the music, I want to lock myself in the bathroom and listen to Toni Braxton's "Unbreak My Heart" on repeat mode.

In the end, you left me with no choice but to give up. To start afresh. But this time I've learnt my lesson.

From now on, I will promptly back up all important data onto disk. (26 March 2007)

Now sit back, take a deep breath and listen hard.

I know there is probably not one sentence in any language that has not been previously published, not one bar of music that has not been composed before. But suffering succotash, you've bootlegged off the wrong biatch.

One could give you the benefit of the doubt and put it all down to a freaky concidence but having considered that theory for a whole two and a half seconds, I think it is safe to assume that at the time of committing this flagrant breach of copyright, your brain was about as logical and creative as a blunt garden gnome.

So out of the goodness of my heart, here are some pointers in case you want to rip off someone else's work in future:

1. If you're going to take the 'copy, edit and paste' angle, at the very least change the freaking title. Cutting out a few words is fairly tardy and shows a lack of imagination.

2. If you're going to select a piece of literature to pass off as your own, try searching for older entries so it's not obvious to readers (refer to tardiness point above). I've written better posts so I'm a bit peeved that you've fabricated one of the more boring ones. Who knows, you could have achieved literary stardom had you done your thieving the right way.

3. Be careful who you fleece. I have a team of highly qualified investigators out there whose one and only purpose is to sieve out people like you. The world wide web is smaller than you think, sunshine.

Consider this a strike. I won't hesitate to name and shame you the next time.

Now go and have your heart palpitations elsewhere.

Forever watching,
Lokes

P.S I will credit you for firing up the Lokemotion. Writing has never been more fun."