Day Sixtyone

Haha, I wanted to see what my oldest post was, and found this:

"Jez is Gay

No, really. For the following reasons I can prove that my boyfriend has higher homosexual tendencies than the average man.

1. He once dreamt about being part of an all-male threesome
2. Last night he dreamt about Eugene and Jason, although he and Eugene have never met
3. He plucks "under"
4. He had a crush on his cute gay hairdresser
5. He often makes suggestive comments about his male friends, especially Felix
6. And how did I manage to forget the fact that he spent one particular night in the distant past making out with Yoza when I was right there

I'm not worried. I'm sexier than Felix. I'm hot. I'm spicy. I'm not your girl next door. I'm the girl on the next block in your hood, nigger.

Edit: As for Yoza. Well, I can't live up to that."

Now what with Ken and Clementdryhump, all of that looks kinda tame. But Ken is no longer competition because he prefers my nipples over Jez's. I know it bothers you deep deep inside.

I feel unpleasantly nostalgic reading back. I feel as if our relationship has been divided into two portions, and it always makes me uneasy thinking of that portion. The dividing line is whenever "Day One" started. When we broke up and were serious about it. When we spent many nights on the phone even when we said we wouldn't, chewing over why it didn't work why it can't work why it doesn't work now why it might work later why it could actually work now after all. When I thought fuck it I'm going to get a tattoo and slut it out and illegally distribute pseudoephedrine and now I'm glad I didn't. Stupid awful times.

It's funny how, with any given popular song, I'd start to like it when the radio tires of playing it and other people's ears have crusted over from listening to it. Like I Kissed A Girl and like Freestyler. And now I'm looping Mraz and Colby Caillat's Lucky after having ignored it for the past few months or however long it has been since Yoz sent it to me.

Today was the last Sunday I worked with Sally. Well maybe not the very last one ever, but Eugene is back next week and we'll be returning to our monotonous Mario Karting and endless gastronomical debates. I wonder whether he'll be interested in Cooking Mama or Drawn to Life (I had given up on the latter after having played the same stage about 5 times because the idiot game doesn't automatically save and I never seem to have enough battery to last me through it).

Not that working with Sally means actually having to do work. Unless Janet gets lazy and leaves me a shitfuckingcrapfuckingfuckfuckload of stock to be put away - and I use such vehement descriptors because last week it was literally a MOUNTAIN. It was as if they had accumulated a month's worth of deliveries and saved it for me. Me and my measly four hours which was far from enough to finish the job at hand.

Today, however, no mountain awaited my arrival. So we had the lunch discussion. I ordered som tum which I could really spend the rest of my life eating. Sally ordered massaman beef.

I've always wondered why Sally wasn't married or engaged or even dating. She's in her thirties, and is extremely pretty not just for her age, but for everyone else's ages too. She has to show ID at pubs. She's absolutely the nicest person I've ever worked with, and she's a pharmacist which in itself is enough reason to be loved right right right? Mirjana always said she was the reason Jim spends most of his Tuesdays at Kirribilli and dumps all of their unsold-and-near-expired stock in Greenwood.

We were talking about Jez this morning. Sally thought Jez was cute for bringing her a donut last week. I told her I wanted to go to the beach today but he was reluctant because he insisted his body was still a "work in progress". She thought that was cute too. I mentioned that his name was Jeremy. No surprises she thought that was cute. I told Jez all of this and he was grinning like the Cheshire cat.

Since we were talking about it anyway, I inquired about her love life. She told me about a guy she had known since primary school. They hadn't been close friends, but have been to the same parties and weddings and whatever throughout all these years. Recently he called her and asked her to dinner and drinks. She thought it was casual until he took her to The Boathouse on Blackwattle Bay, where an entrée would cost me two hours of work. Since their dinner, he had been calling and asking her to more dinners. She wasn't attracted to him, but didn't know how to communicate her disinterest. She sounded like she was glad to get it off her chest.

So you'd probably be all "why don't you just tell him you're not interested" but it's hard it's really really hard. There are no openings for this kind of thing. Especially when your rejectee is a friend. Although I've never really had that dilemma because no friend of mine had ever wanted to be anything more.

Being the optimist, I wore my swimmers under my clothes even though Jez and I had decided earlier that we were opting for Warhammer instead of beach. We ended up going to the beach anyway, which turned out to be a horrible idea because by the time we arrived the warm weather had completely vanished. We shivered for a few hours and left.

I still smell like salt and sand, which is sort of pleasant and sort of dirty at the same time.

Day Sixty

I'm tired and I have blisters, but it was very worth it because the COMSOC ball was awesome. I've made the happy discovery that I like champagne. More importantly I can reap its central depressant benefits.

Pre-ball wasn't so awesome. I made an appointment at Planet to have my hair styled. I was sure of what I wanted down to the very last strand, and it was something like this. It turned out like this. Like a black poodle perched itself on my head. The hairdressers were very firm on what they believed looked best, and very determined to ignore my increasingly persistent protests. I ran to the nearest bathroom as soon as I was out of the salon and took out all 20 bobby pins securing poodle in place. In some sort of rage and mental debate over whether I had sufficient time and funds for Pierre Haddad I pulled the fringe loosely back and stabbed bobby pins in random places to hold my hair up. The result was surprisingly good, as it usually is when I don't know what I'm doing.

We arrived hours early and Jez was busy bustling around poking candles into candelabra and sprinkling rose petals over tables. I tried making myself helpful but it turned out I wasn't really of much use. So I followed Jez around and felt stupid for my lack of purpose. I decided to stroll around the harbour to kill time when I ran into Ken and jumped at the chance of fetching him the hair product Jez brought for him. I helped an elderly Chinese couple withdraw $800 from an ATM, and was a bit too happy to help when Jacinta needed make-up but didn't have any. A manicure and green tea frappucino later Jez noticed my pointed absence and sat with me at the table holding my hand comfortingly like I was a little kid and I felt even more stupid.

It was probably the champagne, but people were amazingly easy to talk to. Which was great, because my previous social pinnacle involving the boyfriend's friends was standing very still and politely smiling. Last night made a new record. I smacked Clement in the face (scriptedly). Except I slapped too hard and was quite intensely worried for awhile that he didn't like me anymore and I feel really childish for putting it this way but I don't see how else I could have put it and at my drunkest I insisted that I find him and apologise and I did and he said it was okay.

In fact Jez and I did a lot of things at our drunkest. Like dance, of which neither of us is really capable. Like Jez serenading me in front of everybody with Katrina except replacing "Katrina" with my name. Like having sex in the disabled toilet, after which I leaned against the door with my dress at my waist trying to put my underwear back on only to fall through it into the hallway because it wasn't locked. Jez didn't get enough and tried to dry-hump Clement five minutes later.

At the end of the night we just about died. So we went home instead of the afters. I left Jez's in the morning and we met up again in the afternoon to go to the gym. I thought we had postponed it about enough. I wanted to spend half an hour running, but as soon as I started to jog I was pwned hard by a stitch.

We had the rest of the evening to ourselves, and Jez had this absolutely brilliant plan of buying me Warhammer and going to a PC room. We made new characters, both dark witch elves, called Yoshi and Bowser. They were both pretty much naked and I felt a little bit lesbian. It was unbelievably fun, except in RvR (which Jez tells me is the same as PvP but what the fuck does "R" stand for) I became increasingly tired of respawning. Jez kept telling me I have to move around while fighting, but I. Just. Can't. Do. It.

Day Fiftyseven

Make-up is good for a very limited number of things. I can think of only one, and that is to even out skin tone. And maybe to provide texture - like some make-up have a powdery matte finish and some dewy. Dewy make-up was completely wrong for me. I just looked sweaty.

I realised over time that make-up looks good only on perfect, smooth, hydrated skin. Bumps are visible under 99% of light angles regardless of presence of make-up. Dry skin flakes horribly under make-up, and I don't know which awful person used the name of a delicious dessert to describe the flaky clumpy stuff. If pores are too big, make-up emphasises them.

So then you have your primers and powders and mousses to try to overcome all of this but I'm never comfortable with piling too many consecutive things on my face. They make my pores sad.

Since I stopped wearing make-up a week ago, my skin has cleared up significantly. I've stopped wearing eyeliner too, which is a big big thing for me. A few days ago I didn't have time to apply it before seeing Jez. The way he told me my eyes were pretty without make-up kept my MAC Powerpoint at the bottom of my cosmetics bag.

Jez was sick today and stayed home. I came over in the morning and played Warhammer on his account. I left in the middle of the day for dispensing exam, for which I thought I was moderately prepared. Except there was one important thing I didn't check.

The formulation went like this:

Paracetamol - 400 mg
Compound tragacanth powder - QS
Red syrup - 1 mL
Concentrated hydroxybenzoate solution - 0.1 mL
Purified water - to 10 mL

The instruction was to make 70 mL of the suspension. The amount of tragacanth to be used was "QS", which meant we had to look it up in the manual and calculate it according to the volume of our suspension. I flipped through the manual and found "compound tragacanth powder: 2-3%". I panicked. Tragacanth was a suspending agent, which meant it was mixed with the paracetamol to help it with suspension in the vehicle. 2-3% of what then, the paracetamol alone or the whole thing? I wrote numbers and crossed them out, and wrote new ones and crossed those out too. Romano yelled out "half an hour to go" and I still hadn't weight out my tragacanth or figured out how much tragacanth to weigh out. And if you were wondering, weighing tragacanth was the second of my 16 steps.

Eventually I guessed that 2-3% of 70 mL would be the more logical answer. I peeked at Hatice's paper while pretending to fetch a fresh pair of gloves which were conveniently stored on the top of the bench directly above her workspace. Her calculations corresponded with mine. I started making my suspension at killer speed, sure that I was being sloppy but surprised when my suspension poured through the gauze, perfectly fluid and pink and leaving not a single trace of clump. Of course, even if I had made a Nobel-worthy suspension of paracetamol, I'd still fail if I forgot to tick the little box at the bottom of my dispensing record that said "check bottle for leaking".

Day Fiftyfive

I walk with Jez to Starbucks. We buy a Venti green tea frappacino. We walk to the bus stop. We still debate over whether or not we should buy a new laptop tonight. We're fickle. Last night we said yes. This morning we said no. We bump into Felix and Jez blurts out a "maybe". Then we say yes again. Then we feel uneasy. I think it's a horrible idea and at the same time I think it's an excellent idea.

Jez gets on the bus. I forget about it temporarily and go to work. I entertain the thought of what would happen to Kirribilli and Greenwood if I suddenly quit. I suppose it's sort of flattering that I'm always needed in two places at once.

Renata's away today. Sally arranged for me to work at Kirribilli from 12:00 to 6:30. I call Mirjana to let her know I won't be in North Sydney. She panics and makes me call Sally to ask whether I could help her with scripts during lunch time and go down to Kirribilli in the afternoon. Sally says okay. I stay on the train and go to Greenwood.

Before I make it to the shop I bump into Eric, who as usual is delighted by this happy coincidence. He tells me he wants to buy a jacket and would like me to help him choose. I have 20 minutes to spare. Why not, I say. He looks so excited that I laugh. He sticks out his arm and I hold it. Bay Swiss guy passes by and turns his head around 180 degrees. I want to laugh again. This guy cranes his neck to stare at me every time I pass the deli, and whispers "looking good, Miss" whenever I'm within earshot, and I've never as much as looked at him. Now he's must be figuring out that I'm into tall, blond, brain-damaged Frenchmen.

Eric takes me to a men's clothing store on the second level, where he tries on three hideous blazers. One of them is an orangey sort of brown, which makes him look like a giant carrot. I recommend the one I detest the least with phony enthusiasm.

I arrive to find Mirjana swimming in used labels, repeat forms and unpacked stock. Everyone is irritable because it's Monday. Before I get much done I have to leave.

Kirribilli has a different atmosphere. Sally is either never stressed or very good at hiding it, and as a result we could have ten people lined up with their hands out demanding their pills and feel no pressure at all.

Serving Kirribilli customers is always amusing for me. They consist mainly of elderly regular customers who are on first-name basis with everyone in the store except me, who most of them have never met. Despite this, they often expect me to know their names anyway. Logic fail.

"Hi, I need my Tritace and Lipitor."

"Yes, and your name is?"

...

"I want Efexor, Xalatan and Avapro."

"Sorry, what was your last name?"

...

"I need my pills."

" ... Who ARE you?!?"

I don't think my future customers are going to love me the way Sally and Mirjana's customers love them. I'm terrible with names. I forget a name sooner than I hear it. Unless I'm happy (like, manic-state happy) I'm not big on small-talk (ha! Oh that was clever). And if you forget to mention you wanted a specific brand after I finish dispensing your medication in its default label, I will yell at you. And discreetly replace your tablets with sennoside.

In the afternoon I develop the mother of all cramps. I suspect my ovaries have sprouted thorns. I nibble on a bit of dark chocolate, and for once it doesn't help at all. I SMS Jez and ask him to bring me something hot and chocolatey. A couple of hours later he brings me hot chocolate. The clever boy. My eyes light up when I spot a Krispy Kreme bag in his other hand, but before I make a snatch for it he announces that it's for Sally. I'm surprised for a second, and then I fight against giggles. Poor Mirjana, Harsha, Ismat, Freda, Glenda and Ting, none of whom are pretty enough for Jez's Krispy Kremes.

I pout all evening because Jez is going to play Warhammer and I'm not. To cheer me up he takes me to Prego. We eat a mediterranean mix plate made for ogres.

Day Fiftyone

I wonder what the public reaction was when the inventor of suppositories introduced this new dosage form.

So I looked it up, and it turns out that suppositories have been prescribed since over 2000 years ago. However, medicinal use of suppositories gained popularity later in 1840. So what were they used for before 1840?!

I also found this lovely photo of a suppository mould. It's almost identical to the one we used yesterday, only the mould shape is slightly different.

I was watching the new Harold & Kumar movie and chatting to a friend. She sounded extremely sexually frustrated. I told her she needs to find a man. She said she has many of them hovering around, but none of them are likeable.

I've always been a bit puzzled by her all-men-are-shit perspective. Is she insane or are my standards frighteningly low? Or maybe it's just a matter of never finding an apple if you keep looking for them in a crate of oranges.

She said boys are sooks, because when she refused to see them regularly they'd say annoying things like "you never have time for me anymore" and "why are you being such a snob". And hanging up on her.

That's my pet peeve. Boys should leave the hanging up to tantrum-throwing girls. My ex used to hang up on me when we fought. It was the most irritating thing in the world, especially when he'd cry before slamming the phone. Then I'd have to call him back. If I didn't, I'd never hear the end of "this is what I mean when I say you don't love me". And the whole "you don't care" thing. God, that gets old.

So despite the fact that Jez has blown up my heart, ground it in a mortar with a metal spiked pestle, juiced it in a blender and then fed whatever was left to his neighbour's cat - at least he doesn't hang up on me. It's kind of cute. He seems to be physically incapable of hanging up without first announcing "I'm gonna go".

Although speaking of "you don't care", I'm reminded of a recent study session at Jez's house where for some reason I can't recall we were both silent and seething. I chucked all of my fireballing energy into my lecture manual while Jez sat in front of his computer blankly and repeatedly slapped his own face. I hadn't noticed, therefore didn't stop him. He was so mad.

Day Fortysix

I have a headache. It feels like I've slept too much but I didn't. I slept horribly. I think my room was too warm, or my bed was too rigid. Every morning when I'm draggged up against my own will the bed feels like a fluffy pink cloud. On the only morning I'm allowed to sleep in it feels like a shitty old bed.

Good news is I feel a lot less stressed. Bad news is I don't know why. Sleep deprivation? Cortisol? Cortisol gives you tummy fat, you know.

Remember Shaun? I've met him once, for no longer than ten minutes. It's been a few months, and I regret bitterly for letting him have my number because despite the fact that I've expressed high disinterest, he calls me this morning. I silent it. Then he sends me an awfully stupid SMS.

"My eyes are dry, I've got some Bion Tears, do you know what they are?"

Well, you'd find out from the USyd library home page, where you click "Electronic Databases", and then "Pharmacy", and then "MIMS Online", then log in and type in the search field "Bion Tears", and scroll down to "Use" or "Pharmacology".

Or you could like, read the label on the bottle.

Or if that doesn't work, feel free to message a stranger.

Day Fortysix

It's 12:40 am and I'm still struggling to finish the '06 paper.

I'm not sleepy. It has been an unusually warm day so I'm not shivering like I do every other night. I'm not hungry. In fact I'm so physically content that I might be subconsciously meditating. My brain, on the other hand, is trying to escape my head. For the past 6 hours I've been desperately trying to ignore the panicked little voice in my ear that screams HOW THE FUCK DO I REMEMBER ALL OF THIS, I'm taking a break now so it can get itself out of my system.

A drunk and very slurred Jez called about 20 minutes ago, telling me he'll be staying out for the night and sounding like a little boy. I suppose the fact that he was in the company of Ken would void anything he says in advance about going home early. I thought I took his plan seriously but amusingly, some deeper conscience called bullshit and I ended up back home with no recollection of making such a decision.

I've done everything within my power to procrastinate. I've eaten a whole tin of Extra mints. I've tried and failed to regain access into my NetBank account after realising I had changed and forgotten my password so I'll have to pay for road trip by cash. I've showered and exfoliated three times. I've read mamamia.com entries from the beginning of the month, comments included. I've blogged twice. I've trimmed my fingernails. I've stripped off all of my make-up, applied it again, and washed it off. I've ping-ponged fifty hundred Facebook messages to I-don't-know-who-he-is-but-he-doesn't-do-pharmacy-so-can't-increase-stress-levels. I've taken photos of my breasts.

I hate alcohol. But when I'm stressed out I crave being drunk. Except you can't get drunk without drinking alcohol. I bet there are other people like me. They should formulate some alternative dosage forms for us. Not parenteral. I'm scared of needles. Maybe a nasal spray or inhalation that totally rapes my blood-brain barrier.

Or some sort of reversible tastebud-inhibitor. Then they can fill my glass with industrial methylated spirit and tell me it's vodka. And I'll believe them. To my own demise.

Just please please kill me already. I've run out of things to say and I don't want to face my stupid hypothetical 36-year-old HIV-infected patient.

Day Fortyfive

Silly Jez, who let me half-arsedly convince him out of work.

I think of studying at med library but decide I'd feel more comfortable at home. It's a stupid time to be catching the train, but the high risks of being trampled on or pushed off the platform don't dissipate until well past 7:00 pm. Who wants to wait that long.

I take my place on the platform next to a geeky sort of boy in business attire. The train arrives. I turn my head in its direction, catch a glimpse of geeky boy's face, and feel my jaw drop.

I haven't seen him for 5 or 6 years. He looks more or less the same. Taller, a little more mature. Acne cleared up. I see my look of shock reflected on his face. Then my very first ex recovers and says hello. I don't know what name he goes by these days, so I say "oh, hi". Then it's kind of awkward, before we launch into the standard conversation between two people who after several years know nothing about each other. I secretly hope that he still lives in Summer Hill, leaving me 7 more stops to be with my one and only Bowser's Castle.

Then it gets less awkward until he says "times goes by so quickly".

"I know, right?" I say. "I've been at uni for three years already."

"Oh, I meant high school too."

I grimace, and wonder whether he's also remembering one afternoon shortly after I broke up with him when Jenny, Jenny and I walked behind him to the station and yelled "Yak, Yek, Yik, Yok, Yuk!" to his back.

Silence. He probably is. I suddenly have an overwhelming urge to laugh.

Day Fortytwo

I'm sitting in Badham library torn between reading Peach Blossom Pavilion (which after 200 something pages has become extremely sexy) and finishing my report. However Morgan is two computers on my right, chatting incessantly to a couple of guys she has just met. None of them are bothering to keep their voices down and every word is drilling into my head.

The girl on my left is packing her bags in an agitated sort of way. She even manages to deliberately make a racket out of saving her document on her USB. I turn and look at her.

"I can't concentrate here." She hisses when she catches me looking.

"I know, right? I can't study either."

She mumbles something like "I don't give a shit about this anymore" and storms out.

For Freda's sake I show up at work this morning. I spend most of my time putting away dispensary stock and the rest yawning loudly.

I'm neither a pharmacy assistant nor a pharmacist. I don't wear uniform and nobody trusts me. I dispense a girl's Diane-35 ED. Freda checks it, and I hand it out. The girl asks to speak to the pharmacist. I suppress my urge to tell her that I could probably help her with whatever she's about to ask, and fetch Freda instead.

"Um," says the girl, "it's my first time taking this. Where on the pack do I start? I have my period at the moment."

Freda hesitates, and then pulls the CMI from the packet to scrutinise the small print. The two of them pour over the handout to figure out how the pill should be commenced. I roll my eyes. I could have told her the answer in two seconds, and warned her that she was about to become a estrogen-fuelled fatty.

A short while later, an elderly woman approaches the dispensary. I greet her. She asks for the pharmacist. It's probably a poly-pharmacy related problem, I thought. Either that or something that requires knowledge of medical states, which I can't confidently say I possess. I call Freda over and am about to return to my pile of stock when I see the woman pull two extremely old boxes of pills from her handbag.

"Would you be able to dispose of these for me? They've past their expiry date and I don't need them."

I take the boxes from her, smile politely, and say: "You'll never tell from looking at me, but I'm very qualified in the art of throwing away trash." I walk to the sink and dump her meds into the biohazard bin.

I'm working in Kirribilli tomorrow. It sucks, because PPF is on Wednesday, and because Eugene and I didn't get much work done yesterday. Between deciding what to have for lunch, playing DS and much pinching of tummy fat on Eugene's behalf, there wasn't a lot of time for anything else.

There was a man who brought in a hand-written script. Another blank script was stuck to it. The doctor probably had really fat fingers. Eugene pried it off and handed it to me.

"Write me a script."

I obliged. Eugene Bae, I wrote. 5/7 Mario St, Yoshi Yoshi, 2053. I crossed out the doctor's name printed on the top left-hand corner and write my own. On the blank part of the script I write Reductil 15 mg, 2 mane for beer belly. 30 tablets. Repeats: none.

I'd pay to see Eugene's expression again. He was utterly horrified. Nevertheless it didn't stop him from polishing off every last morsel of his pad kee mao.

Serves him right, anyway. Just because I like him very much doesn't mean I can't identify him as an awful influence. They could perch a couple of snails in the dispensary on Sundays and the shop will probably be more tidy on Monday morning than it would be if it was left to me and Eugene.

For some reason I think of Sevil. I was an awful influence to her, too. I encouraged everything she shouldn't have been doing - spending all of her money on clothes (distasteful clothes, but that wasn't within my control), making fun of customers behind their backs, binging on cookies, having sex. When she confided that she was contemplating sex, she was 17 and half-dating a guy who insisted she shrink to a size 8 "for her health".

I wanted to tell her that it was ridiculous, but I would have just sounded condescending. Besides, I had sex when I was 16 and she knew it. I wondered whether that played a factor in her decision, if she thought having sex at 16 was normal, and virginity was too ripe one year later. I felt awkward. I told her to go for it if she was 100% sure, and that if she wasn't, it doesn't hurt to wait. A few days later she told me she had done it, and that it was awful. I told her the first time is always awful. Two months later she and her boyfriend broke up. She didn't think much of it and I didn't have the heart to tell her that when she's 20 years old she's going to kick herself.

Day Fortyone

Today was so unremarkable that instead of blogging about it I'm going to make plans for tomorrow.

Might be fun to see if it turns out completely different. Maybe not. Whatever.

6:00 am: Wake up, turn off alarm, go back to sleep
6:30 am: Wake up, turn off alarm, go back to sleep
7:00 am: Wake up, turn off alarm, go back to sleep
7:30 am: Wake up, turn off alarm, go back to sleep
8:00 am: Wake up, turn off alarm, wake Jez
9:10 am: Catch train
10:00 am: Start work
2:00 pm: Finish work, buy strawberries
2:30 pm: Sit on bus, eat strawberries
3:00 pm: Sit in library, read book
3:30 pm: Start studying
6:00 pm: Leave library

I've just realised how meaningless my life truly is.

Day Thirtynine

New crush. Amanda Seyfried. Starrs in Mamma Mia! and Mean Girls. Also appeared in one episode of House as the sick boy's girlfriend.

Favourite quote: "So if you're from Africa ... why are you white?"

Kinokuniya has a 3-day book sale. 20% off all books. 10% off all stationery but who cares because the stationery grossly overpriced anyway. I've just finished the last book from my previous literature shopping spree so after walking Jez to work I browse around for new reads. I end up holding Atonement, Grotesque, Change of Heart and Peach Blossom Pavilion. I don't want to buy all four so I stand around debating quietly to myself.

I've heard great things about Atonement from movie critics and awful things from real people. I put it back on the shelf. Grotesque by Natsuo Kirino is about two Japanese prostitutes with huge potential as young girls. Prestigious upbringing gone wrong. Change of Heart is another presumably heartbreaking typical Picoult, which sadly is my kind of book. I hold on to it. Peach Blossom Pavilion tells the story of a Chinese girl who is sold to a whore-house and becomes an influencial olden-day high-class prostitute. I decided to pick between Peach Blossom Pavilion and Grotesque. Chinese prostitutes or Japanese prostitutes? I'm Chinese, so I go with the former.

After reading such books, prostitution is looking dangerously glamorous.

I make it to the library two hours before my tute. I sit at the computers with Ray and share two packets of Fran over shamelessly photo-surfing Facebook. Then I make some progress on my forensics report which is immediately lost when I click "save", close the document, and realise that I've saved it in the temporary internet files folder which judging by the analness of uni computers destroy its contents every ten seconds. I'm angrily reading wwtdd.com when Sid appears on my other side and audibly drops his jaw at a photo of a near-naked Marissa Miller.

Sid takes out a plastic bag containing a little container of Dettol anti-bacterial gel and Bepanthen cream. He sticks his hand inside his jumper and rubs a liberal amount of each onto his chest. I look at him inquisitively and he shows me a rather large tattoo of his first name in Chinese. I also notice that the epically long nipple hairs are gone.

We open up a gallery of tattoos on Facebook and browse through them. We stumble across a wrist displaying a large ";".

"What's that?" I frown at it.

"A semicolon."

"Why would anyone get a tattoo of a semicolon?"

"Maybe he had colon cancer."

We decide, in the end, that tattoos and I are incompatible. I know it for a fact but I can't quite say why. Jenny says I'm too "cute". Derek says I'm too "white". Mylinh says I'm too "Barbie". Jez says I'm too "pretty". My guess is that a prerequisite of tattoos is possessing some level of outer maturity. I fail because whatever I do I look like a little girl. It's frightening. I'm going to be 50 one day looking like a school-girl with skin several decades too old. I just shivered.

Day Thirtyeight

I finished reading The Time Traveler's Wife.

I've been quietly complaining throughout, forcing myself to persevere even when I was bored and threatening the book that it better give me a satisfactory ending for what it was putting me through.

I was plowing through it at during lunch on Tuesday when Harriet walked into the back room and saw the cover.

"Oh, you're reading that!" She said. "I've started on it."

"Do you like it?" I asked.

"I gave up after a hundred pages or so. I got bored."

"I'm bored too." But I keep reading for the sake of getting $26 worth of literature into me.

I was sitting in bed reading about the day Henry died. I think of Clare meeting him during one of his time travels when she was six. I think of their wedding. I think of Clare's miscarriages. I think of Alba, who Clare finally has after being knocked-up by Henry from the future. I think of the two of them sitting on the porch on NYE when he died. I think of Jez, and then I'm crying. What's the point of loving someone for all of your life if it only leads to them destroying you by leaving? Maybe that's why Jez is so adamant about dying before I do.

Day Thirtyeight

I accidentaly spilt water all over the keyboard and my bookmark, which is actually the tag of my glomesh clutch I bought from Luxe.

Sometimes I'm scared of the future. It doesn't take long for something huge and life-changing to happen, and I don't know what will happen to me. Just because everything has been normal for the last 21 years doesn't mean it will stay that way. I think of accidents and finding out I'm actually adopted, and then realise that the latter is utterly absurd because I have my mum's smile and my dad's ankles.

What if I can't get pregnant when I'm ready to have a baby? Would I fight about it with my husband? Would I leave him or would he leave me or would we adopt or would we be childless? I'm unreasonably worried and I contemplate semi-seriously about mentioning this to my doctor the next time I see him or her.

I don't have to think about it yet. I want to see my eyes and his mouth and my mother's hands on my very own tiny little being, but I want a child like I want a cat. Just something I can cuddle and play with and leave to its own devices at home when I have more important things to do.

I wish someone I knew had a baby I could play with. A prn-baby.

I called Jez at 1:00 am last night, crying because Clare's mother in The Traveller's Wife had died. You might have guessed that just before I made this post I was reading about Clare's 6 miscarriages.

Day Thirtyeight

Except for the quiet tapping of keyboards, it's dead quiet in the library.

I burp loudly.

I pretend it wasn't me.

Day Thirtyeight

Last night I dreamt that it was Christmas.

I've never been much excited about Christmas, having never celebrated it during my first ten years of childhood. I didn't even know it was December the 25th. When I came to Australia and it was December the 25th someone told me "it's Christmas". I said "oh, okay".

I used to be giddy on New Year's Eve. Sometimes I still am, because everyone else is, much like the way I feel drunk among drunks, even if I hadn't drank any alcohol myself. A new year means awkwardly adjusting to using a new suffix when filling in the date field of forms. Means safety-net privileges are reset. Means an excuse to stay up and drink and go out.

Last NYE I was curled up with Jez on the couch. We watched the TV make a list of stuff that happened in '07 and count down the last 10 seconds. When it was 12:00 am we said "happy new year" to each other and went to sleep. It was nice, for a change, not to be stuck somewhere trying to find a way home through the entire population of Australia.

The year before that I spent NYE at Circular Quay, sitting on rock-hard ground for 6 hours and washing down $5 pies that were cold in the centre with $6-a-bottle Mount Franklins. I felt extremely ripped off by the small compensation (in the form of fireworks) of being constricted to 0.5 metres squared of space for a quarter of a day. People kiss through the countdown for the lame reason that they would have kissed through a new year. I got bored and opened my eyes to watch the first bit of fireworks.

I'd like to be somewhere very far away from the city this NYE.

Day Thirtyeight

I wake up at 11:00 am and feel awful about sleeping in. There's no breakfast so I drink some water and sit in front of the computer in a stupor. Bao is also home so I decide to meet him when he goes to uni, so that I could write my report in the library without being distracted by whatever it is that distracts me at home.

I dress up because the Olay launch is tonight and it probably isn't a dressy occasion but I'm making it one. Then I watch Mean Girls while waiting for Bao.

Neither of us has eaten lunch. I'm not much interested in meals during daytime but Bao's hungry so we go to Habib's and have charcoal chicken. I realise I've forgotten both my wallet and keys. I assume I can eat half a chicken so we share a whole one, except after one quarter I can't walk.

We drive to uni and Bao's 10 minutes late for his tute. I go to the bank and beg for money. The girl behind the counter asks for my name, date of birth, address, amount of money in my account, most recent transactions and signature. I pass the test and cardlessly withdraw $50. I only need $5 for a train ticket but without my wallet who knows what emergencies might arise.

On the way to uni we're reminded that Marty still hasn't done his dare from half a year ago. We think of things he could do, mostly revolving around purchasing condoms at a pharmacy or supermarket. I use the smallest-sized condom but it still falls off, is it okay if I secure it with a rubber band? Is this suitable for anal penetration? Will faecal matter affect the integration of latex? I feel like my penis can't breathe in condoms, so I've poked some holes in it for air, it's still safe isn't it?

Or he could do that classic thing where he brings a packet of condoms to the counter. "How much?"

"$7.99."

"GG, can't afford." Two minutes later brings back a packet of rubber bands and cling wrap.

Pregnancy test and coat-hangers might be good too.

Day Thirtyseven

Having slept at 3:00 am this morning I was out of this world upon waking. Between packing my bag and digging my labcoat out of the locker I passed Jez's house where I spent most of some 30 minutes watching the boy sexify his hair.

I'm 15 minutes late when I arrive at the pre-dispensing tute, but as per usual nothing happens during the first half-hour and unsurprisingly people are idly sitting around. I join Bao and Derek and nearly fall asleep.

Romano begins going through slides on the overview of today's schedules and questions us on methods and what not. By some quirky misfortune, he scans the room for someone to volunteer the answer and every single week I very unintentionally look up with impeccable timing to catch his eye and then he looks at me expectantly for an answer and I don't have one so I just stare back like a silent sheepish idiot.

I yawn as Gladys raises her hand and outlines her methods with overpowering enthusiasm.

By the time dispensing begins the consequences of going to bed in the ungodly hours of morning creeps back on me and then I'm completely out of it. I weigh out my salicylic acid haphazardly and it flies everywhere. I feel myself inhale some and it immediately stings my nostrils. A bit of it drifts into my eye and that stings too. Despite the fact that the salicylic acid looks as finely powdered as flour, we're told that it is in fact crystalline and must be ground in a mortar. I do so and it clings so tightly to the sides that it's impossible to remove. I scrape at it with my spatula, send more powder flying, and inhale it all.

A few minutes later I'm mixing last week's aqueous cream into the powders on a giant glass slab, my biceps seizing up with the effort. I wonder mindlessly whether compounding pharmacists are all tanks.

The last item of today's schedule is supposed to be tricky. Romano warned us earlier that it could initially resemble white vomit, but with perseverance the product will be a "very good-looking cream". I absently imagine how good-looking I might be had I been born a tub of cetomacrogol.

To my pleasant surprise it turns out smoothly in every sense of the word. And Romano was right. It's a pure-white, fluffy and incredibly consistent semisolid and I can't stop playing with it. Bao hovers around my bench, frantically stirring a hideous white mixture that has the texture of foundation in vegetable oil. He crawls to Romano for help and a few minutes later produces a cream as smooth as mine.

We print instruction labels off the computer from the Fred dispensing program. Everyone is supposed to type up their own label, save it, and print. Nobody bothers to delete their labels after they're done with it, and as a result there are dozens of them on file.

Bao prints labels for both of us, and tells me that he has been clicking on other people's saved labels and substituting our bench numbers for theirs to save him the trouble of starting from blank. The instruction for our product is apply to scalp at night for dandruff.

"I wonder if other people re-use our labels after we're done with them." I say.

"I don't see why they wouldn't."

"Let's change the instructions."

We sit at adjacent computers and edit labels that others have made and saved. We change the instructions for the salicylic acid cream.

Rub generously into scalp when Venus is aligned with the fifth moon of Jupiter, Bao writes.

Apply sparingly on inner nostrils before snorting coke, I write.

Insert into rectum when required before activity.

We print them and leave them on the printer. A few minutes later someone has removed them.

I'm hungry after dispensing. We go to the city and eat dinner, and on the train back home I fall asleep.

Day Thirtysix

We're waiting for the train at Central and Jez asks me whether CH-OH-OH-OH actually exists. He pronounces it as it is - "ch-oh-oh-oh". I tell him that oxygen can't form enough bonds to make such a compound.

"What about 'ch-oh'?"

"That would be methanol." I say. Wait, no it's not. "Actually methanol has two more hydrogens on the carbon, which would make it 'chhh-oh'." I emphasise the H's with sort of a hacking sound.

"Chhh-oh." Jez imitates, and in the process spit all over my face.

The train comes and we sit upstairs. We race each other on rainbow road. Jez uses Bowser and bumps me into abyss. He laughs too loud and everyone stares.

We go home and curl up on his new sheets, which came in a pack that we wrongly assumed to contain a blanket-cover. As a result his highly homosexual rose-patterned blanket lies on top of an otherwise pleasantly chocolate mattress. We lie in bed for hours. Jez sleeps and I don't because I'm worried about life and his snoring is hilariously loud. It's snoring, snorting and grunting all in one. Eventually I coax him awake and tell him stories about Herbal Essences' cum-shot on my nose. I curl up with my head on his shoulder the way he likes, and it's extremely comfortable.

I'm staying up to make a decent start on my forensics report, which I'm fairly sure Andrew has not yet considered. Looks like I'll be playing brains in this collaboration.

It's been months and months, but Eddie was online tonight. We talk for a little while and realise exactly how long it has been when he assumes that I'm still working in Auburn. We ask each other about uni. He asks whether I'm still dating Jez. I skip the Epic Tale of Jeremy & Annie and say "yes". We talk about work. We laugh about IKEA customer service. It isn't awkward, but it's very strange. For years you think you know someone better than anybody else, and then BAM you're strangers. And then you try to talk to each other, pretending that you don't know where they hide their dirty magazines or the shape of the scar on their arse.

I hope I don't break up with Jez. That boy knows awful awful things about me.

Day Thirtyfive

I sleepily writhe around in bed for a good 15 minutes before deciding that one morning's worth of sleep isn't worth losing my job.

Mirjana is horribly sick. Her temperature is 38 degrees and she continuously coughs a very wet and very hacking cough that makes my skin crawl. She sits at the desk for nearly the entire day with her face in her hands, emerging only to measure her temperature. I feel sorry that there's nobody else to work in her place. Freda is in Melbourne, Jim is sipping long island iced teas on a boat somewhere, and John is gone and won't tell us where he is.

I deal with irksome customers. Everybody seems to be on edge today. I find that we're out of my favourite facewash and there's a single drop left at home. I settle for L'Occitane cleansing jelly which lacks both the foam and the antiseptic properties of the lavender gel that I so totally like can't like live without like.

At 4:00 pm I finally crack and munch chocolate-coated coffee beans.

I bump into Victor and Andrew while waiting for my train. Too much eye contact has been made not to acknowledge each other, so we do, and then it's decidedly awkward. Apparently my alliance to Jenny doesn't sit well with Victor. I slither away as soon as I'm on the train, and he sends me a SMS when I'm home to apologise for being so cold. I tell him I understand, but I don't.

Day Thirtyfour

I've been vague about the reason Shaun has been ringing me intermittently for the past few months. Honestly I thought it had stopped after the last call which took place several weeks ago, when I told him explicitly though politely (insert Jez's snide comment about my lack of backbone) that I wasn't interested in speaking with or meeting him. One would really think that he might be inclined to put someone who he has briefly met only once and has repeated refused his dinner offers out of his mind. But no.

I thought I could pass it off as a secret horrible consequence of recklessness that will have me consult an eight-ball of some sort every time I even think about doing anything at all. But I felt awful that Jez wasn't aware of this slip-up. So I told him that when I explained about Shaun, I skimmed over the bit where in my psychotic state over the previous day's break-up I practically threw my number at the first guy who dared to ask. At a devastatingly annoying price.

Jez was driving. I was idly wondering how jealous I might have been if the situation was reversed (insanely so) while feeling somewhat anxious about his reaction. He quietly said that he didn't blame me. I looked up to check whether I might have dozed off and sleep-walked into the car of someone understanding.

A lot of things have changed since our history-makingly messy break-up. This is just one of them. Others include arms that look like they've been plucked off someone else (because I would have never thought Jez capable of being composed of anything more substantial than matchsticks), increased enthusiasm for uni (translating into tonight's four cans of V) and looking at me through smitten kitten eyes. Massive improvements on his behalf in all aspects.

And Starbucks!

Maybe my own improvements are only apparent to him. Because I sure as hell can't identify any of them. Although I do remember admitting two days ago that he had every right to break up with me on his birthday last year, when for the past 12 months I've been stubbornly insisting that he was a stubborn jerk.

Baby steps.