I'm not an idiot, but sometimes I do a very good impersonation of one.

The weekend was spent doing very little. Beloved and I lounged. We snuggled. We cuddled. We snorkelled. While I wish I could say it was the standard typical version of snorkelling (involving water, fish, and obscure breathing equipment) it was more like the odd-ball human version of snorkelling. That was a pretty crap description of something that is just so weird and funny and totally obscure.

Ok. To snorkell you must have a willing partner.
Got one? Right...
First, you seal your mouth over there's. Airtight. It's kind of like kissing with extreme enthusiasm.
Then you inhale sharply, causing the wind to get sucked from the other persons lungs and also sucked backwards through their nose.

This backwards involuntary suckage usually provokes the nostrils into creating strange little snorting sounds which, to two sleep deprived crazies, is the funniest sound in the whole freakin world. The hillarity that follows usually induces a heavy barrage of "Shut the hell up"'s from your neighbours, but is generally well worth the effort.

I find this mildly amusing, and also slighly disturbing. Some people just have TOO MUCH TIME on their hands.

Eric Conveys an Emotion

In regards to the above link, I believe I shall start a new blog very shortly.

Dunny Blog.

Chronicles of all the dunny's I find. Comparing Train dunny's to plain dunnys and household dunny's all over the world.

Savvy?

I'm so into Harry Potter at the moment. It's unbelievable. I spent the whole of Friday's train journey giggling, gasping and ooooohing over the latest edition from J.K Rowling. When I get going, it's like the whole world disolves into the small details about Quidditch. I want to throw things at ickle firsties with Peeves, and I sure as hell want create trouble with the Weasley Twins... After so many years reading about Harry, Hermione and Ron, it feels so familiar and yet so exciting to be reading about their new adventures. I was making happy noises, while anxiously awaiting my stop. Hogwarts is amazing but I had somewhere better to be.

Nottingham.

I arrived, then put Harry swiftly away. I know that Potter would probably get a bit jealous if he knew that I packed him up and forgot about him for the whole weekend. But I have my reasons:

Reason #1 - Beloved.
It's difficult to pounce on somebody while reading. It's impossible to kiss and snuggle while your nose is buried in a book.

Reason #2 - Beloved.
Cant turn the pages when you're holding hands, either.

Reason #3 - Beloved.
Do I need to justify this any further?

Every time I see him, I fall just a little bit more in love with him. I get this overwhelming feeling of happiness to think that he loves me, too. His happiness has become far more important than my own.

Harry can go to hell. I've found something that's even more magical than a school full of wizards.

These questions about Australia were posted on an Australian Tourism website and obviously the answers came from a fellow Aussie.

1. Q: Does it ever get windy in Australia? I have never seen it rain on TV, so how do the plants grow? (UK)
A: We import all plants fully grown and then just sit around watching them die.

2. Q: Will I b e able to see kangaroos in the street? (USA)
A: Depends how much you've been drinking

3. Q: I want to walk from Perth to Sydney - can I follow the railroad tracks? (Sweden)
A: Sure, it's only three thousand miles, take lots of water. ..

4. Q: Is it safe to run around in the bushes in Australia? (Sweden)
A: So its true what they say about Swedes.

5. Q: It is imperative that I find the names and addresses of places to contact for a stuffed porpoise. (Italy)
A: Let's not touch this one.

6. Q: Are there any ATMs (cash machines) in Australia? Can you send me a list of them in Brisbane, Cairns, Townsville and Hervey Bay?(UK)
A: What did your last slave die of?

7 . Q: Can you give me some information about hippo racing in Australia?(USA)
A: A-fri-ca is the big triangle shaped continent south of Europe. Aus-tra-lia is that big island in the middle of the pacific which does not...oh forget it. Sure , the hippo racing is every Tuesday night in Kings Cross. Come naked.

8. Q: Which direction is North in Australia? (USA)
A: Face south and then turn 90 degrees. Contact us when you get here and we'll send the rest of the directions.

9. Q: Can I bring cutlery into Australia? (UK)
A: Why? Just use your fingers like we do.

10. Q: Can you send me the Vienna Boys' Choir schedule? (USA)
A: Aus-tri-a is that quaint little country bordering Ge! r-man-y, which is...oh forget it. Sure, the Vienna Boys Choir plays every Tuesday night in Kings Cross, straight after the hippo races. Come naked.

11. Q: Do you have perfume in Australia? (France)
A: No, WE don't stink.

12. Q: I have developed a new product that is the fountain of youth. Can you tell me where I can sell it in Australia? (USA)
A: Anywhere significant numbers of Americans gather.

13. Q: Can I wear high heels in Australia? (UK)
A: You are a British politician, right?

14. Q: Can you tell me the regions in Tasmania where the female population is smaller than the male population? (Italy)
A: Yes, gay nightclubs.

15. Q: Do you celebrate Christmas in Australia? (France)
A: Only at Christmas.

16. Q: Are there killer bees in Australia? (Germany)
A: Not yet, but for you, we'll import them.

17. Q: Are there supermarkets in Sydney and is milk available all year round? (Germany)
A: No, we are a peaceful civilisation of vegan hunter! gatherers. Milk is illegal.

18. Q: Please send a list of all doctors in Australia who can dispense rattlesnake serum. (USA)
A: Rattlesnakes live in A-meri-ca which is where YOU come from. All Australian snakes are perfectly har mless, can be safely handled and make good pets.

19. Q: I have a question about a famous animal in Australia, but I forget its name. It's a kind of bear and lives in trees. (USA)
A: It's called a Drop Bear. They are so called because they drop out of gum trees and eat the brains of anyone walking underneath them. You can scare them off by spraying yourself with human urine before you go out walking.

21. Q: I was in Australia in 1969 on R+R, and I want to contact the girl I dated while I was staying in Kings Cross. Can you help?(USA)
A: Yes, and you will still have to pay her by the hour.

22. Q: Will I be able to speak English most places I go?(USA)
A: Yes, but you'll have to learn it first.

Today was a really horrible kind of day. The winds were gusting upwards to 80kmph, and a dust storm had blown in from the bush. In other words, it was a surreal kind of day, where visibility was reduced and trees were creaking with the bluster. Washing on the washing line flapped noisily, while the eerie scarlet sunshine filtered through the horrid haze. (oooh! who said engineers cant use illiteration, huh?)

It was one of those days where fair maidens trembled and superhero's were needed.

Enter: Bedsheet Boy.

Thats right. The boy-wonder who flapped around in a bedsheet had now become a super hero.
Using the terrific gale winds, Bedsheet Boy inflates like a balloon, to the amazement of all.

The gusts lifted up our favorite superhero...

Natures force fuels his great ambition.... to fly!!!

WARNING: Kids - do not try this at home. This man is a professional idiot.

God I love my mates. They're all just a little bit cracked... Bedsheet Boy is also studying my degree. (ie: the engineering degree, the IT degree, and the PhD in Idiocy.) Gunna miss 'em when I'm gone.

Today has been a very strange day. In effect, its really been two days.

Friday version1, and Friday version 2.

Friday v1.0 started pretty badly and just got worse. I had 4 hours of Bruce, and an assignment to complete by 5pm. By the time I was on my jouney home, I was sneering at the world and I had developed an affinity towards calling the whole world "nuthin' but a pack of fuckers." Cath popped over for a brew and a chat, which swifly morphed into a laughing/crying episode.

"People's reaction times are much slower which has nothing to do with the speed of chemistry." Seemed to be the most hilarious thing on the face of the planet. Needless today, after very little sleep I was more than just a little bit stupid in the head.

Friday v1.0 ended when I decided that I needed to read more of "War of Evernight", which I have been neglecting in my recent stress attacks. I think I read a paragraph before my eyes closed and my face fell flat into the crease of the open book.

Friday v2.0 began 5 hours later. After a hot shower and a coffee, today is shaping up to be a shitload better than the dress rehersal. so what if it's 12.30 at night. I'm awake for a change!

I've avoided watching the news, and all the hyped up Bali-Incident whatnot. I'm afraid the world will have to cope with this on its own. I dont have the emotional capacity to deal with it at the moment. After the laughing/crying fit today, my brain made it quite clear that I'm walking upon a knifes edge of stressed-up fucked-up thesis tension.

Hopefully, this newfound wakefullness will extend long enough for me to get a few thousand words written.
Jac.

My heater just committed suicide.

It went Pop! Sizzle! Flash! Fizz! Bang!
I went Holy Shit! And beat out the sparks that were sitting on the flammable carpet with a text book!

It then made some really ugly noises and then filled my bedroom full of smoke!

I kissed my savior, the textbook, then had to spend another five minutes pulling the heater apart to try and figure out what happened. My conclusion? It decided that life was no longer worth living. Either that, or the element was fried by the extreme amounts of dust that had gathered within my poor little heater's chassis.

Crikeys. This serves as a lesson to all people who have heaters in their bedrooms.

Make sure you have a text book handy to beat the living shit out of any flames that come pouring out of your depressed heater.

Dear Diary.

Why am I an insomniac?
Throughout my childhood I was always a fantastic sleeper, falling into deep comatose slumbers as easily as pressing a button. My mother was blessed with a child that would sleep all the way through the night, not waking even if the house collapsed around it. I was a priority driven system, and sleep came at the top of the list. I'd find myself asleep in all sorts of different positions. In the car. Leaning against the fridge. In class. On the floor in the middle of the lounge room. There were no slumber issues. I was a happy camper. Sleep was a commodity that I had plenty of. Life was good.

Until now. Why then, Oh diary, has it become necessary for me to stay awake for such long periods of time? If had meant for us to live 38-hour days, the world would be spinning a lot slower. The sun would not rise at 5am and poke me in the eyes, and birds would not sing out their daily morning rituals before their time. In a 38-hour day, people would have 14 extra hours per day to organise themselves and get a whole lot more things done. In a 38-hour day, I would not feel like a homicidal maniac wishing that I had a gun so I could shoot down every last twittering fucker that sings to the rising sun. This, however, is not the case. The world revolves every 24 hours, leaving me wondering what the hell I did to deserve such a whacked out body clock.

Did I accidentally walk through a cosmic fuckup ray?

Did I thoughtlessly offend Captain Snooze, the all-powerful god of slumber?

Does it have anything to do with alien experiments or voodoo?

If so, is it at all possible to reverse these effects before my world completely rips apart at the seams? The rope of my life is thinning to the brink of snapping. I'm not asking all that much, really, seeing as sleeping was an ability that I seemed to excel at. I have the potential to be a very good sleeper. I slept through my last Chemistry Exam at highschool and still managed to get an A. Truthfully, I am a born sleeper. It is simply cruel to withhold my birthright from me in such a manner.

Now, I am finding myself assessing the various hues in the sky as the sun rises, wondering if I'll ever get any sleep. I lay there in the dark, which is really quite boring when I'm alone, thinking all about the day and the tasks I have to complete. It seems that my bed is the complete cure for narcolepsy, as it is virtually impossible for me to get any rest while near it. Living like a zombie is not healthy, nor is it helping my thesis to get written and completed. Diary, I have seven weeks left of University ever. I'd like to actually remember some of it clearly.

Please then, Diary, if you have any compassion in you at all - Grant me the ability to sleep? I promise to be a good girl, and respect the sleeping habits of others. I vow that if my sleeping patterns normalise, I shall endevour to spread the word of your almighty power and kindness to all who lay sleepless. Oh, Diary, please help me. Grant me the ability to pass out without the help of concussion or alcohol.

You sleepless companion.
Jacqui.

Blogging Crisis. I've run out of stuff to talk about.
Anybody who knows me in person will know that this is dire. Extreme.
Scramble the Fighter Jets, this is a CLASS A situation. Repeat: CLASS A.

So... I'm going to ask myself a question, and then try and answer it. Not all that difficult you might hasten to add... but better than sitting here staring at a blank screen when I could be procrastinating properly.

Ok. Question is: What is your favorite cartoon, and why?

Ooooh... thats a tough one. Can I phone a Friend?

My favorite cartoon would have to be Pinky and the Brain. I can associate with both of the characters on a very basic level. Brain has ambition and drive, purpose and clarity of mind, while Pinky appreciates all the little things like life, like navel lint.

Right there is a solid definition both sides of my personality. I can adapt TCP/IP protocols to achieve my goals, yet sit here on the computer at 2.30am talking to myself about navel lint.

I'm not talking to myself on any random topic, either. No... I find myself talking to myself, and asking myself questions. On a philosophical level, I suppose this is very healthy. Only through asking questions can you truely find the answers.

So.

There you have it.

Achieve a heightened philosophical status.
Watch Pinky and the Brain.
And give your navel some attention. Its lonely down there.

Did you know that my local store has over 50 types of ladies stockings?

50 at least.
50 different varieties of how you can wrap your legs in damn near invisible coverings.

Talls. Shorts. Longs. Extra Talls. Extra Longs. Knee High. Ankle. Opaque. Satin. Control. Shapely. Silk. Invisible. 15 Denier. 30 Denier. Elastane. Reinforced Toes.

And thats not even considering the colour.
The colour then comes in a mammoth variety of Blacks, Browns, Greys, Nudes and Tans. If I wanted to go nude, I wouldn't be buying stockings, surely....

Standing there, leaning against my wonky shopping trolly I pondered over the seemingly endless variety of women's stockings. It became somewhat of a personal crusade, to define myself according to what I wanted to wear on my legs.

Was I a Tall? Or a Long? Did I even know the difference?

I stood there, clogging up the aisle for more than 15 minutes picking each packet up, looking for a tiny sign that would tell me what I was looking for. Other, more experienced, stocking shoppers had to reach past me to retrieve their intended purchase.

When one lady reached accross and stole the last packet of "Medium - Khole - Satin Sheen - Control Breifs" I wanted to shout at her.

How dare she take away an option when I didn't even understand what she had taken away. In one swift movement she had snatched something that could have been exactly what I was looking for. I hadn't got up to that packet, to see if it had my name written on it.

I felt like diving after her, rugby tackling the bint and stealing her pantyhose. What did she know that I didn't?

But. I didn't tackle her...
Wistfully, I watched the last pair of "Medium - Khole - Satin Sheen - Control Breifs" leave the store. We could have had something special.

Alas.

But life had to go on. I needed to find a pair of suitable stockings to make myself look Pro-Fessional at the next presentation I made. I needed something shmick. Something classy that proudly said "This broad knows her stuff, Yo."

Thankfully, I managed to find a pair of pantyhose that had enough attitude for me to be happy with.

There weren't no brazen "Satin Feel" hussy.
No no. These were "Silken Feel".
*impressed*

So there.

I really hope that my darling stockings, "Soft Tan - Large - Silken Feel - Comfort Briefs" do the very trick.

I had the weirdest dream last night.

The strangest thing is, it was a continuation of the dream I had 2 nights ago... which is a little eerie. Its like somebody pressed the pause button, and I just fell straight back into the same situation.

I dreampt that Mouth was getting married.
She got married on saturday, and I FORGOT. So, cue my dreamself feeling guilty and wretched for the two entire nights. I felt like utter shit. How do you just forget something like that, as if it was a set of keys?

The thing that makes it worse, is that on the morning before the wedding, I had gone over to her place to borrow a damn wrench. Then left. Didn't go to her wedding. One of my closest mates in the entire universe, and I didn't go to her wedding because i ~forgot~.

Please, can somebody tell me what this dream supposedly means? I dont often dream, nor have I ever drempt about wrenches before... I have a dream interpreting ebook somewhere, but I think it got trashed in my last upgrade.

OKAY.

Mouth: I'm sorry I didn't get to your imaginary wedding. I can assure you that if/when you do get hitched, I shall be there. UK be damned.

Sometimes in this life, we have moments of utter clarity that both stun and amaze. They're like a ray of sunshine that pierces through the storm clouds to poke you fair in the eye. These usually occur when you dont have a pair of sunnies handy to sheild your delicate peepers from the violent glare of understanding.

The virtual lightbulb goes *DING* in a big way, causing the obligatory head-slap and groan of understanding. Rarely do these side effects cause any long term damage, however they do tend to cause people to back away slowly while shielding their young children from you.

"Come away Jimmy. The strange lady has finally cracked."

Today, I had one of these moments. In Target. While browsing the chart CD's. Amazingly, I managed to put the CD down before I head-slapped, but the groan could have been easily misinterpreted as something entirely different.

Was this CD as good for you as it was for me?

Perhaps not. But I did manage to sort out my autorun.inf problems while staring at the front cover of Machine Gun Fellatio's latest album. Who'da thunk it? So, after scaring the begeezus out of some poor old dear, I wandered away from the CDs wearing a dumb grin. Of course my autoload CD wasn't going to work... I forgot to write a *.bat file... dur

I must write MGF a thankyou note.

Hey Guys.
Well, I've had an interesting 48 hours, if nothing else.

My computer, the faithful beast, has decided to grow an attitude and spit metalic
objects at me. The COM port (used for modem, and my thesis program testing(!!)) died last night in spectacular fashion.

It spat the broken pins into my motherboard which then shorted one of the buses
which brought the whole system grinding to a halt, and crying like a girl.

After swearing, cursing, and making futile threats against its family, the computer is STILL broken and I'm working toward getting a replacement as soon as physically possible.

Thus, for the next day or so, my connection to the net is going to be virtually
non existant.

On the upside.... 1.7GHz, 256Mb , 40Gb are some nice specs to have. Now I cant wait til i have a non-broken modem cable so i dont have to sit hunched up trying to keep the connection together with my fingers. typing with only my right hand is painful for the shoulder.

Doyle.

Bad Breath

At the moment I have bad breath. I have smelly-cat breath that smells really rather foul when I burp. In fact, I damn near suffocated when I was driving home from the resteraunt. Even had to wind down the window. I disgusted myself, as up until that point, I had always maintained that only boys could smell quite so horrid.

The reason?
Of course there's a reason!

I have disgusting breath at the moment because it was a girls night out on the town. We all decided to eat at the local Korean BBQ joint that smelled fantastic. A shitload better than what my burps now whiff like. We decided to eat there simply for the fact that the three of us had been living in town for a good 5 years, and had yet to try it. Plus, it had cool twinkley lights in the window and neato looking tables.

Seemed like a good idea at the time?

In any case, it was Miss Mouth's first experience with a 'chopsticks only' meal. After coaching her through "Chopsticks 101" Bear and I decided that there were no hard and fast rules about using the tricky implements.

I simply gripped one like a pencil, and used the other to waft around and secure the object of my attention. I was a self-taught master of all things chop-stickery. I had earned this knowledge after experiencing several hungry minutes as a child wondering how I was going to get the rice in my mouth without inhaling it directly from the bowl. After going hungry for about 10 minutes, I learnt quickly.

Bear had things mastered a completely different way. Her fingers acted like pair of pliers, somehow manageing to secure the sticks with her third and fourth fingers. God only knows how she managed it, as I tried it and almost flung my sticks accross the table to the group of disapproving ladies, all who'd mastered chopsticking at a very early age.

Snob Chopstickers.

Still, Miss Mouth did very well and the teacher demonstrated her learning capacity by eating her whole spicy camalarie without demanding the waitress retrieve a fork. I think she learnt the same way I did.

Look at the food.
Smell the food.
Want the food.
Learn very quickly how to relocate the food to mouth.

So, after a shakey start, we had a delightful meal at the local Korean BBQ place. Very pleasing. The only drawback to this charming little adventure is the hideous smell that seems to be originating from my tongue. Who knew that Soy Marinade would smell so good in the wok, yet smell so damn gross in the mouth?

Oh well. I guess its yet another thing to chalk up to experience.

Chopsticks 0
Soy Marinade 1
Chicks 537

LOTR Junkie.
And you thought I was obsessive!! According to the latest linkage, apparently I'm not. HOLY SHIT but she has too much time on her hands.

Thats some serious long-term therepy that girl is after.... Holy bejesus....

Doyle.

All I can say is holy shit.

My Life as an Idiot

Sometimes I feel like the smartest person alive.
Sometimes I feel like my brain has been replaced by Cottees Lime Green Jelly.

Today is one of the later.
So, the Graphics Assignment was due at midnight last night. As my luck would have it, my program stopped working about... 2 hours before I was supposed to submit it. This means that on the USQ database, I have been recorded as submitting a program that does NONE of the requirements, with very little chance of actually compiling.

Great.
Just fucking Peachy.
To make matters even better, my body conspired to give me all the symptoms of being female.

I'd kill myself, if I wasn't so attached to living.

So, after pancakes, maple syrup and a quantity of icecream at 3am, I decided that... no, this was not going to beat me. No, there was no chance that I was going to let this PATHETIC excuse for a problem stop me. I vowed then, that I would redo my program from scratch and get at least a passing mark.

My determination kicked into overdrive and I actually planned my attack.

Sleep. Wake up. Program like a crazy person. Hand in. Bask in the glory.

I'm now in the "Program like a crazy person" phase, and its going better than I'd planned.
I can now draw textured cubes all over my openGL window.

Just need to do a few extra things, to get my mark above the required 50.1%

Jac.

Drunk Memories?

I dont smoke. I've been a swimmer for all of my life, and so, I know the value of having clean and healthy lungs. I dont care if other people smoke, just as long as they dont blow the smoke in my direction.

I have tried smoking, indeed, the first time I ever puffed on a cancer-stick was when I was 14. I was at a mates place and she was in the process of getting plastered. She pulled out a pack, handed me one, and lit the end.

I was curious. I tried it out. Knowing that if I inhaled too deeply I'd choke and puke, I puffed at the festy tasting object earning riddicule from my "cool" friends. They called me "Bumpuffer", and "chickenshit"... I didn't go to any more of their parties.

Now, however, every year or so I get the insane desire to reaffirm my opinion, and accept an offer. Without doubt, I take one drag, cough my head off, and pass it back. My face usually turns an unbecoming green tinge and then I can resist the temptation to smoke for anther few years. This has been the ritual since I was 14. Almost 10 years. It seems to work, as I'm not a chain smoking nicottine junky... but a twitchy caffiene addict instead.

So, now, you'll all realise how frightened I am when I suddenly recall a vivid image of me puffing back several cigarettes on my last drinking bender. I do not remember the whole night, so it is highly possible. Just thinking about it gives me a horrid taste in my mouth, and the idea that I voluntarily had SEVERAL of these hideous things really disturbs me. I remember taking a deep breath thinking "surely, I can tolerate it now", failing dismally, and coughing like an emphasiemic retiree.

I'm not too sure if this actually happened, or if I'm confusing a drunken fragment of memory with a really twisted dream I once had... perhaps I should ask somebody who was with me that night...

..."hey matty... you know when we were propped up at the bar drinking Sambucca for hours on end... "

Jacqui's Golden Tip of the Day.
Keep your arms and legs within the moving vehicle at all times.
Do not pass GO.
Do not collect $200.
Do not get drunk and do stupid shit.

I overcame my incredible fear of spiders and went to see the Smash Hit Phenomenon that is "Spiderman". I loved it. Loved every single minute. Tobey McGuire was the very image of the Marvel Comicbooks Character, and earns my deep grattiude for not mangling a childhood icon. Well done.
*standing ovation from the cheap seats*
Well done, indeed.

Fractalistic

Wednesday, Philisophical Discussion Day.
Today is the day you will realise that nothing in your life is going to plan. Nothing is as it should be. Your life resembles a mathematical Fractal. The closer you look, the more complex it becomes, the more imperfections you begin to notice. The detail overwhelms the theme.

Today is also the day that you remember that you have been blessed with many good things in your life. Family. Intelligence. Love. Ambition. Humour.

Your life then starts to resemble a Monet Oil Painting. Full of dark swirling emotion, dotted with bittersweet sparks of colour that draw your eye, and tell the story. You are more than your shortcomings and you are more than your sucesses. You are something that is totally unique.

Once you realise this small problems diminish, you can see life from a higher perspective. You are free, you are strong, you have the potential to become the person who you wish to become. Even the greatest blaze always starts from a humble spark of light.

Join a choir, or hum a tune in an elevator.
Be who you want to be, despite the flaws.
Life your life the way you chose.
Promote world peace, or smile at a stranger.
You might just make them smile back.

Out of Control

I dont know how I managed to live through tonight. I was sideways. I was going WAY too fast, hit a gravel stretch, spun out... I zigzagged accross the road two or three times before finally getting the car under control... Dual Hiway... you know... nothing to worry about... Finally found myself stationary, resting under a tree (!!!).

Needless to say, I'm now a little shaken and thankful to still be alive.

I'm fine. The car is fine. The world looks brighter. And I do believe that road will think twice next time it see's me coming...

Whoa! Watch out! Its the crazy bitch who left jaggies all over us!!! ARGHHHH

When Superhero's turn bad.

I'm frightened of public toilets. Its a little known fear, of which I try to keep under wraps. I dont go shrieking about it, nor do I jump about as if there were a spider on the floor. However, I'm still terrorfied. I know why I'm afraid of it and I believe my fear is very justified. It all goes back to my Schoolies Week...

*floating harp music, as the screen blurs to a memory-like vision*

Well, it was the week after schoolies, at a place called Great Keppal Island. A great place when you're underage and have a mad urge to sleep in sandy tents with four other people. The most important thing was that we were all under age, all keen to get spasticated in the name of celebration. And we did. Oh boy, we really did.

The night started with drinking games. As I'd never been privvy to the Drinking Game Phenomenon, I really had no idea just how quickly it would hit me. After playing "ahhh fuckya", "The Animal Game", and doing copius amounts of "Body Shots" the whole group was well on the way to Incoherent-ville. We were swiftly learning how to speak fluent Braille, learning the difficulty of navigating gravity while under the "affluence of incahol". Typical Schoolies.

The trouble came when we ran out of alcohol, and we were kicked out, onto the beach. "Whoahay!"
From there, mayhem ensued. I vaguely remember hitting the sand. I remember not being able to breath, because I was laughing (and because somebody had dropped me flat on my arse). I can only describe what happened on that beach as total anarchy.

We all found ourselves in the Public Toilets From Hell singing and dancing, thumping on walls. Thankfully we were in the middle of nowhere. The problem came when Hides locked herself in the toilet. She was locked in there, because I was leaning on the door. I didn't understand this, and started to panic. Time for Engineering Girl to try to become a Super Hero. (always a bad idea)

With a supersonic karate chop, I tried to smash down the door to rescue my trapped friend. The plan sounded fantastic in theory, but in reality, it hurt like hell. The toilet door was made with 9 layers of plywood and didnt' really want to argue with me. I smashed two bones in my hand, and fell over into somebody elses spew. All I could do was laugh, and cry, and laugh, and tell the sober people to remind me not to use my hand cuz "id hurss like hell *teeheehe*"

Yes. I really did giggle like that.

I woke up the next morning without a hangover (I was 17, afterall) but had to cradle my now blue and purple hand. I had no recollection of the previous night's antics. In fact, I arrived in the campsite picnic area demanding answers. The only answer I got was "Doyle, you idiot." The door was remarkably unmarked, leaving me to deal with the consequences of trying to be a super hero.

So, now, each time I walk past a public toilet, I am reminded of my own mortality, my own non-superhero status, and more importantly, my own idiocy.

More Human, Now.

Ok, so I'm still in my PJ's, and my stomach cant decide if it wants to be hungry or violenly ill... so I'm here at the computer trying to ignore the rest of the world. And wondering how I learned to type so loudly.

Scanning the web through a series of weblog links... the true spirit of cyber surfing. Anyway, I guess you could say that I've spent alot of time looking at websites thinking "Oooh... at least I'm not as crazy as them." In most cases, I'm just trying to convince myself of my relative sanity... however, today I stumbled upon this Absolute Pearler of a log.

"One time I lay in bed, in ambush, for forty minutes with glow-in-the-dark vampire teeth in my mouth - I had to recharge the damn things with a torch a dozen times while I waited for her to turn up. Can anyone explain this behaviour to me? I'm wasting half my life lying in wait to scare Margret, in the full knowledge that, if I succeed, all that will happen is she'll hit me really, really hard. What am I thinking? "

I may be suffering from Post Inebreated Stress Disorder (PISD) but I can still laugh (softly) at other peoples sociopathic tendoncies.

Going on an interesting soundbite bender at the moment... its a good use of the bandwidth while I'm stuck in codeland. You see, the thing is, I dont cant listen to the radio, as, the radio plug got mangled on my last big housemove. So... the only way I hear new music is when somebody I know tells me about it...
Not all that great for discovering new tunes.

So... huge call out to the WWW. I'm looking at finding out about some new bands, to keep my ears busy while my mind goes AWOL. My taste in sound is fairly eclectic... 70's, classical, dance, rock, pop, alternative.... not really into heavy metal...NO COUNTRY.

If you could please leave a message with your latest listening craze, I'll go off and download one or two songs to see if I agree with you. If I do agree with you, then you've just helped your favorite artist(s) by selling another one of their records. Yay.

If anybody posts a country song, I'll personally blow up their email box.
Doyle.

Warning: Any Librarians, or people related to Librarians, or anybody who knows a Librarian personally, or anybody who's considered becoming a Librarian must stop reading now.

Where do they find those wankers?

Statistically, it would be impossible to find 5 people who all qualify as Thoroughbred Fuckwits. However, if the employers of the USQ library are anything to go by, the human race is doomed.

100% Fuckwittage factor.

The story starts when I approach the inappropriatly named "Help Desk" to ask how I put credit on my print quota with the new fandangled Smart Cards that the University has been issuing since the middle of last year. As it stood, I had $0.30 on my card, which would definatly not cover printing off a 100 page LaTeX help document that I needed.

I was greeted by a middle-aged guy who ranked pretty high on the Sleaze Scale, who then told me that I could put credit on my Smart Card by a vending machine looking thing that was hidden behind the wall beside the photocopying room. Lovely. I toddle off in the direction that he points out.

So, seeing as I'm in my final year, I figure I'll need a hefty print quota to survive the rest of the year. I have thesis's (thesii?), Lecture Notes, Assignments and other Miscellanious Stuff to print off throughout the year... So, I spill out all the shrapnel thats been lugged around in my wallet, and whack it all into this vending machine.
The final total was $27.80 - A very hefty print quota, which would make any geek proud. I could already smell the ozone of the printers....

So then, I head back to the "Help Desk"

I greet the same Pseudo-Sleaze with a winning smile.
"Okeydoke! So, now the credit is on my card, how do I get that credit onto my Print Quota?"

Mr Librarian simply looks at me with big round hollow looking eyes.
"Oh... Well... you see, you just CANT."

*blink*

"Excuse me?"

"Well... you see, ITS doesn't have the right card reader yet."

*sigh*

"Ok, well, do you know when they will have the card reader available, as I really need some credit on my Print Quota! I need to print off some notes."

"Oh... well... we dont know... It could be the beginning of next year...there's no time frame, you see? "

NO I DONT FUCKING SEE!
"So, you're telling me that there's no way for me to increase my print quota?"

"Yes. Thats right."

"Are you kidding me?"

"No. Well. You see, you can still do it with the old cards, but not with the new ones."

He then continued to fuss about, asking everybody else on the desk with him if they knew anything about the new card reader... No Luck. 100% Fuckwittage.
They've just remodeled the Library, and so, I think in the relocation these idiots must have got mistaken. They were plainly sitting at the help desk when, perhaps, they should have labled it Painfully Unhelpful Desk.

So now, I have a Smart Card thats useless, and now worth $27.80, and yet another Old Card that cost me $2, that has no value, and my Print Quota is still $0.30....

What is it about snooze buttons that is so attractive? What is it, about that small round button that draws our fingers to it whenever the buzzing sound rings out? Is it a form of subconscious behaviour, taught to us by watching too much television, or is it because we have the insane desire to fall asleep and be harrassed every 9 minutes by a sodding little sound that makes your teeth vibrate?

getouttabed! getouttabed! getouttabed! getouttabed! getouttabed! getouttabed!

*snoooze*

getouttabed! getouttabed! getouttabed! getouttabed! getouttabed! getouttabed!

*snoooze*

getouttabed! getouttabed! getouttabed! getouttabed! getouttabed! getouttabed!

*snoooze*

getouttabed! getouttabed! getouttabed! getouttabed! getouttabed! getouttabed!

Until finally, when you're nerves are twitchy, and every side is the wrong side of the bed, you're pissed off enough to turn the bloody thing off and get up. You scowl in the shower, and sneer as you try to feed yourself breakfast, swearing at that sodding little snooze button.

I think I try to delude myself.... If I can just shut that annoying beeping sound up, then I'll go back to sleep, and we can forget all about the early morning class... Its the "quick fix" that doesn't fix anything... I'm sure the Nazi's used this tactic to wear down the allied spies... Set a bigarsed buzzer to go off every 9 minutes, so just as they start to fall alseep an irritating sound causes them to sit up and fumble stupidly on their bedside table. Within 3 days of this 9 minute ritual, even Ghandi would snap.

Its like Incy Wincy (that sodding spider) climing the waterspout just so he can have a drink of water, when he gets continually battered by vast amounts of liquids trying to achieve his goal.

Ok, so its nothing like Incy Wincy, but you get my point dont you?

Totally pointless, and ultimatly irritating.

I'm calling for a global ban on Snooze buttons. The alarm is either ON or the bloody thing is OFF. None of this cruel and unusual torture.

I'll speak! I'll speak, already!

Just turn the fucking alarm clock off!

Ah geez. I hate me sometimes!!
I had yet another 21st to go to last night, out of town. Was pretty good, however, I had to do a cinderella and vanish as the clock struck 12. Pah. Not such a big fan of assignments... really am not. But, I needed to sleep in my own bed, surrounded by my own blankets, rather than rocky lumpy cold dirt to camp on.

Even though I left early, the night was really great. The feed was awesome, the trailer full of beer/ice was amazing, and I got to see alot of people I hadn't seen for a while. Got to speak to Justin, Wrighty, Cody, Kimlin(s), and heaps of other people that I hadn't had a chance to catch up with, for ages and ages.

Even though, last night was all about how to act around your Ex, while still trying to be normal, and have fun with your friends. I dont think I got that memo, or else, somebody forgot to clue me in. There were just too many awkward moments, and too many times where I wanted to go talk to somebody... yet... couldn't due to the conversation they were curently in. Bah. And then there were the throwaway lines that I caught.
"Yeah, better go or else you'll turn into a pumpkin."

Lines from the Ex where, had they have come from anybody else, I'd have turned around and flamed them. I guess its hard to do with the Ex who knows all the chinks in the armour, and could reduce my confidant facade to a smouldering heap within about 3 nanoseconds.... dahfuckit.

In any case, Cinderella never turned into a fucking pumpkin anyway. *hmph*

So, I made a hasty retreat. I drove home at 12.30am, by myself, muttering under my breath about wankerfaced turdheads and how I suck at facing up to my problems. I'm my own worst enemy sometimes!!

Anyhow...
No news from Bikeboy, and I'm not really holding my breath, as I wouldn't be too interested in a girl who took me home, only to feed me vast quantities of water, either. Bugger.
Oh well. If nothing else, I gained another 'friend', and avoided another "Ex" factor. All good. Ex's suck.

A particular dickhead decided to try and email bomb me with many instances of his own ugly mug. Needless to say, after the first three instances of this, I began to cry. And then deleted the other 30 copies from my server as fast as I could.

To this I respond: NO COMP.ENG.3 NOTES FOR YOU!!!!!
*bahahahaha*

My current tasks are to deal with a Project Appreciation report, and also to deal with an Advanced Digital Communications assignment. Both kinda due on Friday.
Oh... why cant they invent a 10 day week?

Phone Calls from Hell.
"Hi, This is Jacqui Doyle speaking"

"Oh, Jacqui, this is Trevor from the D*mumblemumble*O calling, regarding your request for information"

cannot hear over stereo in the background
"Oh Great!" *thinking... who? what? information what?*

"Would I be able to grab your birth date?"

Stalker? "Sure! 29th November 1979"

"And do you have a postal address?"

..the fuck?" Uhr... when are going to post something?"

"Sorry?"

Who the fuck is this?
"Well, I'm planning on going home for the holidays, and don't want to miss your mail!"

"Oh... right, well, in the next comple of days?"

Dickhead Doyle, you aren't going home for another 7 weeks. DICKHEAD
"Yup, 40 Clementine Street, Back of Burke"

"And what course are you doing at the moment?"

hold on... this isn't....?
"Computer Systems Engineering and Information Technology"

"And you're planning on graduating this year?"

This is the DSTO Graduate Employment Liaison. OH FUCK.
"Ohhh yeah!"
too much enthusiasm, Doyle, back it up.

"You're an Australian Citizen, born in Australia?"

"Sure Am!"
Can you sound any more like a Girl Guide, you fuckwit
Praying to the gods that the spiteful stereo doesn't start playing Britney Spears, or N-Sync

"Right, well, I'll get this information in the post for you!"

"Great! That sounds Awesome!"
Again, do you have to sound like a vapid cheerleader?

"Ok, bye"

"Thanks again! Bye"
Give yourself an uppercut.....

- - -
Ok, so I'm pretty sure I wont be working for them next year.
J.

The Homerfactor.
Now, I'm not trying to anger the gods, nor am I trying to sing and dance about my IQ... but... wouldn't it have been easier if I was born with the brain the size of a goldfish? They have a superior lifestyle, and lead lives that are free of stress, and free from the hassles of bill-paying and assignment-study.
(admittedly not ~MY~ goldfish, as they tend to kark it before adulthood)

All fish have to do is swim around, and ... do nothing! I admit, it would be a bit difficult to work the remote control without thumbs, but it's not the biggest loss. Fish are happy. Fish get enough sleep, and they have peaceful lives. Fish don't have Computer Graphics assignments to keep them up til 3.30am.

Any way you look at it, being a goldfish seems unbelievable compared with the drudgery, the stress and the nightmares associated with having brains.

It has been hypothesised that life as an idiot would be so much easier. Nobody would expect you to do anything, and you could live your life on your own terms. The hardest decision would be "Oprah, or Jerry?", and a complex algorithm would involve the complex task of getting a beer from the fridge.

To be "Homer Simpson" is the epitamy of human existence. It is the zen, and is the state of Nirvana that all Hindus strive for. It is the pinicle of evolution, and the dreams of many.

I wish I could be an idiot.

I wish I could be too big and stupid to realise that I don't know anything, to thickheaded and dull to realise that I'm not going to get this assignment finished, and too brain fried to care.

*raises a glass* To Homer Simpson. You lucky son of a bitch.

Another day, another idiot.
I have a problem.
Its not a big, nor complex problem, and I doubt it'll ever make the evening news... but, my current dillema is all about my "Idiot of the Week" award.

Quite simply, I'm stuck.

I'd hate to declare a tie, however, I'm afraid that this week, there's just no other option. I simply have to do it.

The three winners are as follows.

Myself: for saying the craziest things, and the stupidest times, and then spending the next ten minutes trying to stop myself from laughing all over the computer room. Put quite simply:
"This is much like knocking on a door. It becomes alot harder with no hands."
At the time, I believed that I was communicating one of the worlds fundamental truths, one of profound meaning and depth In reality, I was saying alot of words, picked at radom, with no thought to their coherance, or meaning.

The second nominee has to be the wanker with his mobile phone. Not content on showing all the phone-groupies his new, flashy red mobile, he had to demonstrate his communications abilites by sounding off ever single fucking ringtone that has ever been invented.
There were a few places where Cath and I wanted to stow his new phone, none of them were appropriate for audiences below the age of 18. Resigned to the fact that Phone-Boy would still ring, even with his phone rammed up his quoit, we sat discussing the freudian meaning behind his actions.
In summary, his phone is obviously a fallic representation.
He has a very small phone, and an even smaller brain.

Third, and last, is a very strong competitor. He has had years of training, and years to perfect his vacant looks, and flimsy excuses. He took about 10 minutes to stutter, and stammer, pondering the consequences of moving faster than a dead hampster, before finally shaking his head, and telling us that we were right all along. He only took a week to decide. Almost a record.
He's only had 4 months to finalise our enrollments, but had to wait until AFTER the Drop/Add date had flown by, to start vaguely declaring that:
"Yes, that seems reasonable. What was I supposed to do again?"