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[rondua]

Shit. Over halfway through, she thought, as the stopper made it’s satisfying pop while being twisted from the neck of the bottle. Actually, no it’s ok, she conceded. It has been shared. There’s been at least five drinks for other people that have been poured. You’re ok.

It was January. The Christmas celebrations had died down, New Year’s no longer loomed over everyone’s heads as the ‘funnest day ever that you’re definitely not going to have fun at’ and there was absolutely no excuse not to go back into work. It was time to start the year with all of those pesky made up resolutions in mind, the one’s that you never put down onto paper because good god then you might have to keep them. You chuckle at the people who proclaim these things on Facebook. “Hah! I will definitely see you in three weeks with a fag hanging out of your mouth and I will laugh, but, but see, I wouldn’t have, had you not announced it to the world.”

No, it was far more reasonable to keep these things to yourself, so then no-one can be disappointed in you.

Actually, she retaliated, why did you share it? It’s bloody yours. Why do you share things?

Because it’s a nice thing to do, said rational brain, back from it’s clutches of selfish reasoning. I’m aware of that, thank you, but does it ever come back to you?

Does it matter?, retorted rational brain. And it does come back to you, for the record, so how about you stop being a twat?

Rational brain made a compelling case. She shrugged, and poured her drink to a reasonable level, (not half and half as was popular with a few of her friends) and put her barely lit cigarette between her fingers. She chuckled at herself. Not four days ago, she’d decided to quit smoking. She’d foolishly announced it, which perhaps had compounded her disdain for new year’s resolutions. She justified this change of heart with the idea that things were very stressful at the moment, and it was not a good time to go and quit because of the stressful things, and I mean really, it’s a terrible time to quit because it’s still summer and things are going to be happening in the next few months so perhaps it’s best to do it another time. (Rational brain was not on form that day.)

She was aware these were empty excuses.

But they were also excuses she couldn’t shake.

[rondua]

CATFACTS.

[rondua]

Sex, by its very nature, is an incredibly basic instinct. It’s rough, it’s dirty, and it is undertaken, a lot of the time, for pure, unrestrained pleasure. After playing a 24 hour long round of “Who would you rather” with a friend, I realised how easily we would put ourselves into a position of choosing one over another for sexual fulfilment. And a lot of the time, it’s based purely on shallow qualities; “he’s very hairy”, or “she’s a bit bigger than I like” or “no way, they look like a haggis.” But is it possible to truly separate physical qualities from personality?

If you make a judgement about someone it seems your subconsciously taking into consideration what you already know about them. Any past experiences you have with them, if they’re a bit mental, or if you know their sexual past. It’s like this strange combination of raw attraction (or, often the case, unattraction) and true thought being put into whether or not, given the choice, you would sleep with them. And as a result, you gain a rare insight into another person, given their preferred option. What they like in a person, what they like in sex and what their inherent concerns are about the act of sleeping with people.

I am no sexual goddess, but it’s still very easy to know what I like. And quite frankly, by working on the basis of choices, you learn a little more about yourself. The fact that I’m heterosexual, but one of my best female friends placed high up on the pyramid, suggests the subtle way in which I am unable to distinguish between the two levels of physical attraction v knowing the person well enough to envisage what they’d be like in bed. In fact, thinking about it now, my closest friends were placed among the higher echelons, excluding the odd few who people who are just plain attractive.

So is there a difference between relationship sex and casual sex? It is still tapping into the base nature of sex itself, surely. I suppose here, we’re talking about the distinction between fucking and making love; I guess relationship sex has more emotion behind it? Or perhaps it’s simply a different kind of emotion.

That’s all bullocks, actually. If you meet someone at a pub/club/bar/whatever, you take them home with you because you need to fulfil some untamed desire that you have for them. If you’re in a relationship, the desire that makes you choose between spending an evening in front of the telly and having sex is still the desire element. It’s not often that you’re going to have sex with your partner because you feel as if you should. (Though, it does happen.) Therefore, based on my wild, fleeting assumptions, it’s the same emotion, the same desire that drives people, a couple, a pair of singles, etc.

There’s simply something that intrigues me about the levels of attraction. Are you just feeling a little horny or is it because of another person that you feel this way? Am I going to see the people at the top of my pyramid and instantly feel a desire for them? No. Because they’re your closest friends. But the hot guy at the bar, yes. Maybe it’s the semantics of the name of the game itself; would you rather; well, yes I’d rather you, but let’s be honest, it terms of how likely that is, it’s going to be that guy. When it comes down to it, would you really, honestly rather?

[rondua]

A proper weekend is rare for me. And when I say a proper weekend, I don’t mean that Saturday and Sunday rubbish, but instead, the two-days-off-in-a-row bliss. I’ve become very used to having a singular day off, and cramming everything I have been putting off for the week into that one day. And now, suddenly, I have one day to do productive and fun things, and then another right afterwards to recover in time to go back to work.

While not necessarily productive, I have certainly had the most fun day I’ve had in a while, despite its ominous start. From visiting a second hand book stall, I meandered to the copy centre to get my friend’s book printed in preparation for another luxurious evening of reading, sparkling and pure relaxation. (The night before I had somehow 'wasted' two hours in a candlelit bath, as a lady of leisure.) Feeling like I had achieved something inherently important, I moved from there to my workplace, to see if my friend wanted to join me in an afternoon with beer, cigarettes and sun. Unable to resist such a temptation, we spent a delightful hour catching up on our respective weekends. Followed by an invitation to lunch with one of my book-collector idols, the day was incredible.

And it looks like the faux-Sunday is going to be similarly brilliant. While filled with the stress of house-hunting, it’s also incredibly relaxing to just drive around Hobart, looking at places, speaking to people and pretending I’m far more responsible than I actually am. Especially when I have brand new glasses in tow, which aid in making me look like an intelligent creature who does nothing but read historical texts.

Now, it is the evening of the kinda-weekend. I have fallen in love with a house, caught up with two friends in a pub (that I had previously fallen in love with) and spent a good half an hour looking at a book that I desperately want but cannot justify paying over a grand for. And if there has ever been a time when I’m not looking forward to work tomorrow, it is now. Aside from the fact that not half an hour ago, I was bored out of my mind, all I want to do is spend the next few hours smoking, writing and listening to the Smiths.

All I want when I finish Uni for a semester is to spend days on end in bed, watching trashy television shows and reading endless books. Avoiding human interaction, and spending (what I think) is deserved me time. These holidays have been a complete contrast to this. Granted, I have spent my fair share of days in bed (though they’re usually due to being so incredibly hungover I can’t move.) As far as brilliant summers go, to have such a week as I have had thus far is a delightful end to it. I’ve ticked many things off the checklist, and while there are still many to go, it’s nowhere near the draining feeling of “Good god, I have to go any do those million things now” that is was four months ago.

Could I say it? Here? Of all places? Here goes. I’m looking forward to going back to Uni. I know, right. I must be mad.

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I’m doing that thing again where I want to be Carrie Bradshaw. I watch Sex and the City and marvel at how brilliant their lives are; the amazing sex they’re having, the nights out that they experience or the fundamental New York breakfast with friends. While I realise that no one can *actually* replicate that (and quite frankly, in reality it would probably be dull to do so) there is still this odd jealousy that I feel watching the show. This is why I bought Sarah Jessica Parker perfume, and pay twenty dollars for a Cosmopolitan.

When you have that feeling of lust directed towards you, it’s a powerful thing. It has also never before, been as prominent. I am more conscious of how I look, act, and feel now than before. I feel the need to appear desirable and perhaps, I can walk into a pub/club/bar and an attractive man will approach me, a la Samantha Jones. Though I trust that I won’t be sleeping with them. It’s simply the need to be desired. Which, by the sounds of my weekend and consecutive weekdays, is the case.

I’m lying to myself when I say I am uncomfortable with the fact that I *know* two males are attracted to me. I adore it. It is confidence boosting, and it is merely an unfortunate turn of events that the attraction is not reciprocated. But there is this element of guilt that I feel for the fact that I am filled with rejection. The fact is though, personality wise, these people are wonderful. They’re smart, funny and have a clear definitive area in which they know a whole lot of shit about (and I am able to bluff my way through knowing enough about it too.) Though I do wonder as to how shallow I am, and how much I consider other people’s opinions in order to make my own decisions. The fact is, they’re not attractive. But is that enough for someone to reject another?

Surely you’ve got to find someone physically attractive in order to have any form of relationship with them. And surely, that is the basis of any future attraction. “Wow, he’s hot,” you may say to a friend when you see someone from afar. You’re hardly going to remark on how great a sense of humour they have when you see them laughing. No, it’s basic, human attraction, based on looks, their hair, their eyes, their physique. And if this doesn’t do anything for you, then it doesn’t make a difference how lovely they are. Surely.

Perhaps the reason why this seems so wrong for me to say is because nobody says it. Nobody has the guts to appreciate the fact that exterior appearance matters. Or, perhaps I deluding myself, and perhaps it is simply one person attempting to get to know another better, because, despite appearances, they seem to be cool. Maybe they even have something worthwhile to say.

If I were able to drive (all the wine, and all the vodka makes this impossible), a part of me might make the drive to the Duke and make a surprise appearance at the thing I was invited to. Specifically invited. Someone else wanted to spend time with me. And that’s rad. And a part of me wants to say, sure, another time indeed, but I’m terrified of the repercussions.

Hrm.

[rondua]

Almost a week ago now, and I still feel infinitely more awesome than before.

[rondua]

There’s something unparalleled about the noise of evening entertainment. I’m usually the one creating it, and I have missed being able to hear frivolities going on the kitchen, usually in the form of card games. I’m incredibly excited about living in a sharehouse, so that this kind of thing can continue; the process of saying your polite goodnights (despite knowing full well that you’re not going to bed) but simply lying inbed listening to people laughing, drinking and now and then, yelling at another’s social faux pa.

I remember when Dad would invite a couple of his friends around and they would do just that. Tonight, I was able to experience participating in the game, but it is a rare occasion that I feel the confidence and stamina in order to join. I used to delight in the fact that it was Bathurst race day, or some kind of drinking based public holiday, because I knew I would be able to go to bed and listen to people talking. There’s nothing louder than absolute silence, which is why I find it incredibly difficult to sleep when there isn’t some kind of background noise. This is also why I am terrified of staying over at people’s houses; you can’t exactly request to have the telly on simply so that you can fall asleep easily.

We’ve just reached the point where the people who have been invited over as guests feel compelled to clean up after themselves. There is the clanking of glass bottle upon bottle and the sound of the rubbish bin opening and closing as a clump of newly found crumbs are swept away. Following this, the shuffle of feet along the corridor, culminating in the familiar close of the front door as the house is suddenly empty again. It’s strange though, (and I do it too) as I can now hear Dad pacing around the kitchen, as it is a different environment to what is was not fifteen minutes ago. He feels the need to survey the area, to feel comfortable with the now gaping void that has been left by his sons and grandson.

I miss random visitations by friends; whether they be your own or simply people you know because you live with the person they’ve come to see. I miss being able to hear a myriad of parties going out on the street (as much as it used to horrify me when they came too close to the window). I can only hope that other people enjoy this as much as what I do. It’s simply the sound of voices I think. You can be physically alone, but still have the comfort of having other people in the house. I know Iread a book once where the girl’s comfort was the sound of her Dad snoring. I guess it’s the same thing, in a strange way. (Though not snoring. I will never be comforted by the wheezing, guttural sounds that people can make when they’re sleeping.)

Now I’m left with gin, the whirr of the laptop and the ringing in my ears that occurs only in complete silence. Hurumph.

[rondua]

[rondua]

I am getting another tattoo tomorrow. It is impossible for me to express the excitement, pride, nervousness and downright awesome that I feel at this moment. Though it always amuses me the way in which people tend to feel about tattoos. I’m not saying I’m any kind of connoisseur, but after already having one, I feel as if the reasons why people disregard them are foolish.

Having one of our book reps come in today and pull the judgement face, I realised I could argue against all of his reasons for disapproving. There is this great importance placed upon them, as if you have to be 100% sure that this is the thing you want on your body because of the permanence aspect. My first, was a picture I found on the internet a day before I had it done. Some would see this as reckless, but I love that it’s there purely because of the permanence. The other thing that appears to make people recoil in horror is the idea of having something that you can’t hide. Being female, I am told to “think about how it will look in a wedding dress.” Thank you very much, but it will look much the same in a wedding dress as it does when I am spending a day in bed, in trackpants and a scraggy old t-shirt.

This is why the only people I tell about my upcoming tattoo are those who are already inked themselves. This is not to say that I don’t consider what I want on myself for the rest of the life. I am not as whimsical as I am making myself out to be. But I do adore the element of ‘recklessness’ that can be associated with it. One day, you are as fresh, clean and unadorned as you were the day you were born. The next, you have a whopping great picture on the side of your arm. It is a self defining moment, and quite frankly, I give very little consideration to the disparaging comments that are received.

It is no less self-defining and permanent than key moments in your life. Losing your virginity, getting married, growing up or the masses of times when you get so incredibly drunk that you make a fool of yourself (yet remember everything.) Are these not simply memories, permanent instances, that simply leave no visible trace? As an aficionado of stories, a tattoo can provide a story in tangible form, one that can be asked about without  requiring a deep delve into someone else’s circle of trust. If you want to hear about stories of people’s past, you need to find an appropriate opportunity; a certain smell reminds them of when they were young at their grandmother’s house, or the sight of someone they went to school with reminds them of the time they shat themselves in class. This way, a person can come up to me in ten years time and ask what the latin on my arm means. I will remember when I got it, who I got it with, and why I got it.

There are limits, of course. I don’t intend to get all Memento-esque, and start tattooing names, places, dates and what I had for breakfast on my body. But it’s nice to know that there are some things that won’t be forgotten in the recesses of time.

[rondua]

They’ve been very bad, Mr. Flibble. What are we going to do with them? [Mr.Flibble whispers something in Rimmers ear and he looks at the crew, shocked] We couldn’t possibly do that. Who’d clean up the mess?

Red Dwarf, Quarantine.

[rondua]

Wish I could stop sniggering.

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Sometimes all you need to recognise how incredibly appreciative of your life you are is a brilliant, infallible day, like the one I was lucky enough to have yesterday. And often, we’re talking a full twenty-four hours worth of fantastic, wherein you feel compelled to write it down so that it doesn’t get forgotten in the mists of time. I don’t enjoy writing down a chronological list of things that happen (it’s often more comfortable for me to voice such things), but I think that when you hit a point during a given day when you realise how many good, or at least, pleasant things have happened to you, you begin counting. It’s like when you start a morning off by seeing three people walking their dogs; suddenly the day becomes the day of seeing dogs, and before you know it, your tally has reached 5 dogs by lunchtime.

The day began at 3am, where I woke to a message from my friend telling me that he had written creatively, and it had been sent to my email. The previous day, I had been waiting, (im)patiently for such a message, so upon receiving this, I was suddenly awake. I made myself a coffee (decaf, as I still wanted to be able to sleep at some point) and sat myself outside with my laptop, a packet of cigarettes and the wind blowing something chronic. I read, and was metaphorically blown away (though the wind was trying its best) by the feeling of reading something written by a close friend. It’s completely different from reading a book by an author you love. You can tell the author you love their work, yet it means a lot less as you and the rest of the population are doing the same thing. As I have experienced the feeling of receiving compliments on my writing from friends, I could almost feel the personal pride and sense of accomplishment swelling up inside of my friend as I sent a genuine, complimentary message.

Falling back to sleep a couple of hours later, to the dulcet tones of Stephen Fry reading Harry Potter, I awoke and began to prepare for a visit from a friend who I usually see about twice a year (given that she lives in Queensland.) Thankfully, knowing someone for fifteen years gives you the ability to still be natural with this person, and it is a rare thing for us to run out of things to talk about. I tidied the house slightly, and then traipsed into town to pick up the remainder of her birthday present. I listened to Girl Talk at a high volume on the car ride there and back, and prior to picking her up, I picked up some ingredients for the epicly brilliant sandwich I was to make her when we arrived at my house. The sandwich has consistently been a success; I have not heard complaints as yet. We talked, and became nostalgic and disgusted at the people we used to be, as we considered the stupid things we used to do in high school, and the way in which the evidence of such stupidity is way too difficult to throw away. Upon her departure, I began to make plans for my evening.

Three of us were to go to the Brisbane, to spend time with a friend that lives in Melbourne, and was spending her last night in Hobart. Strangely enough, we were successfully able to problem solve when the Brisbane turned out to be closed, and make plans for a dinner date at the Republic in which we were somehow able to communicate all necessary information to what turned out to be four of us. Waiting for the perfect time to begin getting ready (there is nothing worse than being ready to go, but not needing to be anywhere for another two hours) I found myself on the internet, discovering a) that the housemate problem may be solved and b) the househunting problem may be solved. Stupidly excited by this, I messaged the necessary people, and finally, things appear to be working, happening, and if everything goes to plan, I will have a house soon, with rad housemates, and awesome party-times ahead. All too much for me already, I discover that my first review that I’ve written (and am proud of) is published online, and is doing the rounds of twitter, making me (obviously) the most famous person on the internet.

Flashing forward to the evening, where I was lucky enough to have an amazing time with friends, talk about everything from what to do if you’re raped by a woman to more serious issues, regarding relationships, life, and everything we’ve up until this point, neglected to tell each other. I like to think of it as a catch-up of huge proportions, for there were more than enough times that each of us expressed surprise and exclaimed that “You hadn’t ever told me that!!” Which means that I have the rest of the week to look forward to, given the potential awesome it may hold, and the way in which it begun. Though the strange thing is that I need to get past some actual brain power before this happens. Task one involves the creation of a Futurama/Red Dwarf themed costume, while task two (foreboding at present, but I’m sure once I think of it, will be exciting) involves writing 500 words, creatively and most importantly, eloquently.

While I am always sceptical about the ‘new year, fresh start’ thing, I beginning to come around. Now that there has been a landmark point where things will improve, there appears to be at least more appreciation for how well things happen to go. Whether or not it is 2012’s fault, or perhaps simply an implicit internal perception, January is officially my favourite month (and we’re only ten days in!)

[rondua]

We walked through it like art connoisseurs at a showing of motel room paintings. She continued to talk about her life, about the men she had known, about the way they had loved her, the ways in which she had spurned them, and about the trivia of her past existence. I continued to talk about my loves, about all the women I had held dear in my heart for however long each had been linked with me. We talked across each other, our conversation at right angles, only meeting in the intersections of silence at story's end.

Harlan Ellison, On the Downhill Side

[rondua]

There’s a fine line between ear raping someone about everything you know and simply wanting to impress upon someone a piece of information that they may forget, discard, or actually, genuinely appreciate. Part of the reason I go to Uni is due to the satisfaction of coming home after another day and knowing one more thing, even if it may be completely insignificant.

One of our customers at the bookshop has gained a reputation for being able to talk. He’s not abrasive about it, yet he also has a tendency to be unable to pick up on basic body language. However the only good thing about working on a Saturday is that I know that at approximately half-past 4, he will saunter through the door and reveal something new that he has acquired for his collection, or some memory that he has regarding something I’ve told him. Today, I learned about some of the rarer pieces of his Calista Flockhart collection, including a book of poetry given to a drama teacher from her students, signed by the students themselves. Of course, one of these students was a Miss Flockhart. (If I’m honest, the account of his collection proceeded to become a little obsessive, but impressive nonetheless.) While I can’t imagine spending more than half an hour talking to this customer (mostly because I think there is a high chance that my ears would being bleeding), he reveals more interesting and honest answers to my questions than many of the conversations I have with others.

When you ask “What have you been up to?” He tells you. Anyone else? “Oh, not much. Just working.”People can’t be bothered to put the thought into answering a simple, polite question. I realise I am also at fault here, but there’s something to be said for actually taking consideration in your response and remembering some small detail of your past week. I also find that the dull responses are far more frequent with friends that you haven’t seen for a long period of time, when there is theoretically more to say. It’s the people you see regularly who know full well what you’ve been predominately doing that are looking for something more.

This is why I tend to take the opening icebreaker as a demand rather than a question. I want to hear a story, because that is how people work. We want to know something that the other person considers to be exciting in their life, because that’s why we’re friends with them. Even if it happens to be a story about that time they went to the supermarket and they saw a can of tinned baked beans that had crashed on the floor and was making a right mess; it’s still a story that is something out of the ordinary.

So when I say, “Tell me a story!” I really, truly mean it.

[rondua]

It’s probably nothing to be proud of, but I think my favourite part about going out is the drive home, where I either channel flick until I find the perfect song, or I have a specific cd currently on repeat. I find myself taking the long way home, simple so that I can continue being in an incredibly happy place, periodically lighting up a cigarette and enjoying the fact that the people I drive past can hear, with perfect clarity, my chosen music. Although I only remember how much I love this part of an evening when I am actually in the car and driving. I had a perfectly enjoyable night tonight seeing TinTin (In gold class, no less), devouring my first meal of the day (popcorn and a choc-top) and then chain-smoking during a necessary post-movie de-brief. Yet the moment I was alone in the car, I instinctively made plans to go home at least 10km out of my way.

Part of the appeal of the radio option is the simple fact that you’re able to listen to songs that you haven’t heard in ages. The other night, I was lucky enough to come across Cyndi Lauper’s ‘Time after Time’ though, unfortunately for my future passenger, the volume was still at a high level when she got into the car. I think the nostalgic, songs you would never listen to normally feeling is why I adore Girl Talk so much. While most of the albums tend to be repetition of the words ‘pussy’, ‘fuck’ and ‘shit’, it’s actually enjoyable to be able to laugh at yourself singing along to completely vulgar lyrics but knowing that after Lil’ Jon has finished being featured, Ace of Base will no doubt make an appearance.

Luckily for me, Girl Talk will soon be arriving in my state. And while I know I usually get bored at live concerts, the constant changing of my aural and physical environment will allow for the gig to be ever exciting. Unfortunately, I have two weeks to wait, though this gives me plenty of time to adore, sing and appreciate the latest album that I didn’t even know was out. I was absolutely devoted to ‘Feed the Animals’, largely because of the memory-based connotations that it conjured up. I remember with fondness spending the week that it was feature album for Triple J in the basement at work with a former co-worker, attempting to guess each song while simultaneously trying to concentrate on a given task at hand. Needless to say, the days often consisted of grooving around in our own little basement party.

I’ve realised I’m on a downhill slide to becoming Patrick Bateman here. All I need to do is start quoting the dates of release and the struggles that the artist went through both during and after production. I should be picking out specific songs that have reached a high chart-topping status, and possibly considering which ones mean the most to me. Though I do hope that I am unable to relate to going to a strip-club and getting my ‘dick rubbed.’