All men are addicted to porn. Except Eugene who claims total indifference, but you know, who knows. And don't ask how we found ourselves amidst such a discussion because I'm not quite sure I want to remember.
Quite fair to say that most women are in various degrees of disapproval regarding their partner's pornography habits. I categorise my level of reproach as "moderate". It may have been "low" had I refrained from venturing far enough to comparatively study the importance of porn and, well, me.
For the sake of my self-worth I'm going to assume that I'm not the only female who finds herself more disposable in her partner's eyes than videos of bigger breasts or tighter vaginas. Although porn habits remain largely beyond my understanding, I'm not one to deprive a man of the luxury. However, understandably, I hope, losing to porn doesn't sit extremely well with me. My bad, though, right? Serves me right for succumbing to curiosity. But surely a man's self-esteem would shrink like a flaccid penis if his girlfriend would sooner sacrifice him than visuals of other, better-endowed boys?
I have a couple of friends in long-term relationships, who decided that it was easier to believe their boyfriends' promises to quit porn and push the issue to the back of their minds rather than ponder endlessly over whether such promises were kept. I have no doubt that every woman has seen and ignored the contents of C:\Documents and Settings\Guest\DRIVERS\SnD_User\system23\temp\Country Music and has trained themselves not to question what lies under that loose piece of floorboard. We'd rather not know, but we know. The epic battle of woman vs. porn has been fought. We battled bravely, but alas ... a small consolation prize finds itself in the form of reduced guilt when fantasising about bedding other men.
You might dismiss my little issue as "just a guy thing". Well, it is. And we won't take it away from you. We would just like to remind you that you're lucky man-fest features in Cosmopolitan rarely exert the same - and, if anything, quite the opposite - effect.
10.30.2008
10.29.2008
Day Ninetytwo
They say that when you meet ten people, two won't like you, two will, and the rest won't care. With regards to the person about to be discussed, I'm one of the former.
She works for Corum Health Services. I found her among her colleagues in the dispensary when I arrived at work on Monday morning. She was a hefty woman with arms circumferencially equivalent to my thighs, and hair of a most unnatural tangerine. The chirpy, simpering qualities of her voice was juxtaposed with the testosterone-infused vocals of her colleagues.
Several chairs were moved into the dispensary to accommodate four extra arses and one hot-air balloon in a pencil skirt. Mirjana was furious about the mass invasion of her personal space.
I observed these people curiously. The men smiled back politely and the woman sneeringly looked me up and down, and it was then that I decided I did not like her.
A few hours later, our network remained non-existent and the Corum team remained idly lounging around displacing air. The woman was chatting about shopping. I was dispensing, but spared an ear.
"Every three weeks my girlfriend and I get together for our manicure and pedicure." She squeaked. "And once in awhile we'd go to Melbourne, bringing nothing except maybe an extra pair of jeans and a top, and then come back with a suitcase full of new clothes."
What's the point, I thought.
She then threw in "one sixteenth" into conversation, and John remarked that only a true geek would use fractions with denominators larger than three in smalltalk.
"Oh, well, you know, I'm geeky!" She gushed. "But I'm not all brains. I used to be a hairdresser, you know. How's that? I've got the best of both worlds."
Mirjana leaned over and muttered: "She's so full of herself."
For the past two days, she had been coming to the pharmacy alone to train Ismat on the new program for ordering and stock monitoring. Apart from being condescending, she had failed to answer most of Ismat's queries, because the answers were not given in the manual out of which she read. It reminded me very much of lecturers whose knowledge did not carry them outside the square, and when a question was directed at them that didn't quite fit within the learning objectives, they hastily changed the subject and in reply said something correct and completely irrelevant.
Of course, the unsmiling looks she directed at me made it marginally more difficult to hold back the cattiness.
Lunch-hour at Greenwood is more like lunch-30-minutes. We in the dispensary (i.e. me and Mirjana) don't have a break, and are usually found with a fork in one hand and a script in the other. Corum lady, on the other hand, took off at 12:00 pm for "a bite" and was still nowhere to be seen two hours later, leaving Ismat waiting at the training computer. I said she'll probably be back soon, probably just ravaging the last morsels of her spit roast.
It was closer to the truth than I expected.
At 2:30 pm I clocked off. Jez had been waiting for me at Greenwood but had toodled off to EB Games. I asked him to meet me back at the pharmacy. As I walked out of the shop, I encountered a couple of FUPAs doing what people usually do when they're horizontal and naked. My eyes were glued on them like a passer-by stares at a car accident.
I watched as the two of them ate each other's faces, and finally, with a glance so devastating, as if they would never exchange saliva again, they parted. In slow motion. Holding onto each other's hands until the combined lengths of their arms could not extend the distance between them.
The woman turned around and my jaw dropped. Corum woman walked back into our pharmacy, smirking to herself. So that's where she waddled off to. To have fat sex.
I doubled back into the dispensary and in whispers distorted by hysterical giggles told Mirjana what I had just saw. Top laugh!
And yet another riveting tale :)
She works for Corum Health Services. I found her among her colleagues in the dispensary when I arrived at work on Monday morning. She was a hefty woman with arms circumferencially equivalent to my thighs, and hair of a most unnatural tangerine. The chirpy, simpering qualities of her voice was juxtaposed with the testosterone-infused vocals of her colleagues.
Several chairs were moved into the dispensary to accommodate four extra arses and one hot-air balloon in a pencil skirt. Mirjana was furious about the mass invasion of her personal space.
I observed these people curiously. The men smiled back politely and the woman sneeringly looked me up and down, and it was then that I decided I did not like her.
A few hours later, our network remained non-existent and the Corum team remained idly lounging around displacing air. The woman was chatting about shopping. I was dispensing, but spared an ear.
"Every three weeks my girlfriend and I get together for our manicure and pedicure." She squeaked. "And once in awhile we'd go to Melbourne, bringing nothing except maybe an extra pair of jeans and a top, and then come back with a suitcase full of new clothes."
What's the point, I thought.
She then threw in "one sixteenth" into conversation, and John remarked that only a true geek would use fractions with denominators larger than three in smalltalk.
"Oh, well, you know, I'm geeky!" She gushed. "But I'm not all brains. I used to be a hairdresser, you know. How's that? I've got the best of both worlds."
Mirjana leaned over and muttered: "She's so full of herself."
For the past two days, she had been coming to the pharmacy alone to train Ismat on the new program for ordering and stock monitoring. Apart from being condescending, she had failed to answer most of Ismat's queries, because the answers were not given in the manual out of which she read. It reminded me very much of lecturers whose knowledge did not carry them outside the square, and when a question was directed at them that didn't quite fit within the learning objectives, they hastily changed the subject and in reply said something correct and completely irrelevant.
Of course, the unsmiling looks she directed at me made it marginally more difficult to hold back the cattiness.
Lunch-hour at Greenwood is more like lunch-30-minutes. We in the dispensary (i.e. me and Mirjana) don't have a break, and are usually found with a fork in one hand and a script in the other. Corum lady, on the other hand, took off at 12:00 pm for "a bite" and was still nowhere to be seen two hours later, leaving Ismat waiting at the training computer. I said she'll probably be back soon, probably just ravaging the last morsels of her spit roast.
It was closer to the truth than I expected.
At 2:30 pm I clocked off. Jez had been waiting for me at Greenwood but had toodled off to EB Games. I asked him to meet me back at the pharmacy. As I walked out of the shop, I encountered a couple of FUPAs doing what people usually do when they're horizontal and naked. My eyes were glued on them like a passer-by stares at a car accident.
I watched as the two of them ate each other's faces, and finally, with a glance so devastating, as if they would never exchange saliva again, they parted. In slow motion. Holding onto each other's hands until the combined lengths of their arms could not extend the distance between them.
The woman turned around and my jaw dropped. Corum woman walked back into our pharmacy, smirking to herself. So that's where she waddled off to. To have fat sex.
I doubled back into the dispensary and in whispers distorted by hysterical giggles told Mirjana what I had just saw. Top laugh!
And yet another riveting tale :)
10.26.2008
Day Eightynine
Sitting in UNSW computer lab. Craving sushi.
I grudgingly admit that UNSW comp-labs are awesome. I also grudgingly regret the outrageously early closing-hours adopted by USyd. Lastly and irrelevantly I grudgingly accept the reality that no sushi is going honour my digestive tract any time soon. Because as much good a study environment as this is (though at the moment the goodness wanes due to reasons I'll disclose soon), I'm in the middle of nowhere, as is the Maccas branch across the road in which I hold absolutely no interest.
One thing that I find unconditionally irritating is fobs that feel as if a quiet word is a wasted word. The girl sitting in the row before mine is begging for my fist through her face. Understandably she can't help her accent but she can help her volume and despite being told to shut up a short while ago by a row-mate of mine she maintains her vociferous bleats like the other 30 people in this room weren't here.
Long afternoon ahead.
I grudgingly admit that UNSW comp-labs are awesome. I also grudgingly regret the outrageously early closing-hours adopted by USyd. Lastly and irrelevantly I grudgingly accept the reality that no sushi is going honour my digestive tract any time soon. Because as much good a study environment as this is (though at the moment the goodness wanes due to reasons I'll disclose soon), I'm in the middle of nowhere, as is the Maccas branch across the road in which I hold absolutely no interest.
One thing that I find unconditionally irritating is fobs that feel as if a quiet word is a wasted word. The girl sitting in the row before mine is begging for my fist through her face. Understandably she can't help her accent but she can help her volume and despite being told to shut up a short while ago by a row-mate of mine she maintains her vociferous bleats like the other 30 people in this room weren't here.
Long afternoon ahead.
10.24.2008
Day Eightyseven
I have the drug song stuck in my head.
I'm somewhat embarrassed not so much because I liked it, but because I was delighted to find that I knew the indications for nearly all drugs mentioned, and had they adopted a slightly slower pace perhaps I would have had time to ponder contraindications and adverse events too.
I'm somewhat embarrassed not so much because I liked it, but because I was delighted to find that I knew the indications for nearly all drugs mentioned, and had they adopted a slightly slower pace perhaps I would have had time to ponder contraindications and adverse events too.
10.20.2008
Day Eightythree
Swoon!
I'm often thinking, if Jez and I have babies, I hope they inherit his grin and my eyes.
What if I could pick bits and pieces out of everyone I know and put them on my baby? Granted, the baby will probably turn out looking retarded because it'll be chock full of features that despite being attractive don't fit together. One can still dream.
So I'm thinking ... my eyes. Jenny's lashes. Abhi's nose. Jez's lips. Mylinh's skin. Sameer's teeth.
If you think this sounds odd, wait until I'm bored enough to compile the above into a mangled photo.
I'm often thinking, if Jez and I have babies, I hope they inherit his grin and my eyes.
What if I could pick bits and pieces out of everyone I know and put them on my baby? Granted, the baby will probably turn out looking retarded because it'll be chock full of features that despite being attractive don't fit together. One can still dream.
So I'm thinking ... my eyes. Jenny's lashes. Abhi's nose. Jez's lips. Mylinh's skin. Sameer's teeth.
If you think this sounds odd, wait until I'm bored enough to compile the above into a mangled photo.
Day Eightythree
HAPPY ONE-MONTH-TO-GO-UNTIL-1.5-YEARS JEZ BABY BEAR BEAR BUNNY BUGGY MOO MOO KITTEN <3
After painstakingly summarising 80-something-pages (or 1.3 MB of) obs-gyn lecture notes comprised of deliberately-baffling diagrams I was peeling my eyelids back to fight sleep.
However, after the very last page I've come to peace with it.
"WHAT DOES NOT WORK
Need elaboration on cling wrap. If they had added "and elastic band" I'd know exactly what they're talking about.
Taking an antibiotic pill after sex is funny, but probably only to the intelligent few privileged to the fact that bacteria are not what gets you pregnant. And antibiotics are in fact often responsible for the failure of oral contraceptives.
Showering is a good idea, especially when your sexual partner, like mine, suffers terrible body odour. But again, body odour does not impregnate.
I like the last two. Will try them out tonight.
After painstakingly summarising 80-something-pages (or 1.3 MB of) obs-gyn lecture notes comprised of deliberately-baffling diagrams I was peeling my eyelids back to fight sleep.
However, after the very last page I've come to peace with it.
"WHAT DOES NOT WORK
- Jumping up and down after sex
- Standing on your head after sex
- Using cling wrap
- Taking an antibiotic pill after sex
- Taking a shower or going for a swim after sex
- Thinking that if you don't want it, it won't happen
- Wishing/praying"
Need elaboration on cling wrap. If they had added "and elastic band" I'd know exactly what they're talking about.
Taking an antibiotic pill after sex is funny, but probably only to the intelligent few privileged to the fact that bacteria are not what gets you pregnant. And antibiotics are in fact often responsible for the failure of oral contraceptives.
Showering is a good idea, especially when your sexual partner, like mine, suffers terrible body odour. But again, body odour does not impregnate.
I like the last two. Will try them out tonight.
10.19.2008
Day Eightytwo
Yoza says (9:12 PM):
Can you imagine if you died on a bus.
Yoza says (9:12 PM):
And someone tried to like hump your penis.
Yoza says (9:12 PM):
That would just be quite funny.
Annie says (9:16 PM):
But it wouldn't be hard
Yoza says (9:17 PM):
Rigor mortis? XD
Annie says (9:17 PM):
Oh god
Can you imagine if you died on a bus.
Yoza says (9:12 PM):
And someone tried to like hump your penis.
Yoza says (9:12 PM):
That would just be quite funny.
Annie says (9:16 PM):
But it wouldn't be hard
Yoza says (9:17 PM):
Rigor mortis? XD
Annie says (9:17 PM):
Oh god
10.15.2008
Day Seventyeight
I'm deleting emails from my hotmail inbox. I must have felt that 5 GB was synonymous with infinity, because despite the fact that about 2 out of 3000 emails were important enough to keep, I left the other 2998 lying idly around. Granted, 3000 took up only 5% total space, and took 2.5 years to accumulate. Nevertheless, at this rate by the time I'm 71 I would've run out of space.
A vast majority of them was due to group reply-alls, most of them consisting of an extra 2-3 words in addition to the original email.
The emails dated back to February '06. It was around the time my ex and I broke up, and the inbox retained what I think might be the very last email I received from him (I only think because there was no way I could go through the other hundred pages to make sure). He asked me to help him with a report for uni and I remember yelling at him later about always having to write reports and essays for him and why can't he spell satisfactorily enough to produce his own piece of work.
I also came across an email from Jez in April '07 with a song attached. I'm quite sure it's his guitarless version of Slide but couldn't verify because of dumb library computers. I saved it. There was another one that went something like "I'm going out now, but I cleaned my room and I attached the photo so you can see it". I deleted that one without thinking, then regretted not keeping it, then thought it was probably unlikely anyway that I'd go back and read it any time soon.
A vast majority of them was due to group reply-alls, most of them consisting of an extra 2-3 words in addition to the original email.
The emails dated back to February '06. It was around the time my ex and I broke up, and the inbox retained what I think might be the very last email I received from him (I only think because there was no way I could go through the other hundred pages to make sure). He asked me to help him with a report for uni and I remember yelling at him later about always having to write reports and essays for him and why can't he spell satisfactorily enough to produce his own piece of work.
I also came across an email from Jez in April '07 with a song attached. I'm quite sure it's his guitarless version of Slide but couldn't verify because of dumb library computers. I saved it. There was another one that went something like "I'm going out now, but I cleaned my room and I attached the photo so you can see it". I deleted that one without thinking, then regretted not keeping it, then thought it was probably unlikely anyway that I'd go back and read it any time soon.
10.12.2008
Day Seventyfive
I have this pair of white pumps. I haven't worn them in awhile. They're not too high, but are fairly narrow and very pointy. So pointy that my feet look a great deal bigger than they actually are. I don't remember what made me, but I tried them on last night and they weren't as bad as I remembered. They made my legs look nice. And I'm kind of leg-conscious, so I'd probably be willing to wear Hello Kitty print shoes as long as they compliment my pins. Jez however didn't approve of the pointiness, probably secretly afraid they'll find themselves between his legs the next time he upsets me. Throw them out, he said. I mentally noted that far from throwing them out, I'll be wearing them again tomorrow. Then I walked down the stairs at the train station and nearly tripped over the long pointy front part of the shoe. I think I might retire them after all.
Riveting story, no?
Eugene is turning into a menace. I wouldn't say he was ever nice, but he used to be such a docile guy. Sleeping at the dispensary desk. Reading the Sun Herald. Dozing off at the computer. Resting on the couch. Slowly he has become grumpy and cranky and refers to me and my friends as "Generation X, always about me, me, me", despite the fact that he is only about a fifth of a generation ahead of us.
Today I put on Plastic Tree on Youtube to substitute for the radio which wasn't playing anything particularly interesting. I minimise the window thinking that the old man might complain about the androgyny and I was right.
"What is this shit. Who is this guy? Is that even a guy? That's not right. I'm turning it off."
Later, we stood outside the front door to get a glimpse of the good weather and I asked him what's up with the new mean streak. He said it was my influence.
"I hope I never bump into you out of work. That would be so wrong." He said.
"I don't think I'd want to see you outside of work either, it's like seeing an animal out of the zoo." I shot back.
He was greatly offended and swore that if we ever ran into each other on a day other than Sunday he'd pretend I didn't exist.
At 2:00 pm I was in the middle of vacuuming and he kicked me out.
I went to Jez's house after work to study, but didn't get to until 6:00 pm. Because see the thing is, we're always having sex, which is cool, but what's not cool is the sleeping that comes afterwards. I'm normally a little tired, but don't have a problem or difficulties in getting up and dressed, especially with motivators like completing my antiepileptic drug table and Coco Pops. Jez on the other hand is a rock. I could insert a pineapple into his rectum and he'd sleep through it. I knew he hated waking up three hours later to realise how much time has been lost, so this afternoon I try to nudge and push and slap him awake.
He pulls me next to him and doesn't even open his eyes.
"Spoon." He commands and I grudgingly oblige. "Sleep."
We wake up hours later and he blames me for lack of persistence. I forget what I was going to say next because we bought Sueño and there was some left and I was thinking "I want to take that with me to drink on the train" and I forgot and now I'm craving Sueño.
Riveting story, no?
Eugene is turning into a menace. I wouldn't say he was ever nice, but he used to be such a docile guy. Sleeping at the dispensary desk. Reading the Sun Herald. Dozing off at the computer. Resting on the couch. Slowly he has become grumpy and cranky and refers to me and my friends as "Generation X, always about me, me, me", despite the fact that he is only about a fifth of a generation ahead of us.
Today I put on Plastic Tree on Youtube to substitute for the radio which wasn't playing anything particularly interesting. I minimise the window thinking that the old man might complain about the androgyny and I was right.
"What is this shit. Who is this guy? Is that even a guy? That's not right. I'm turning it off."
Later, we stood outside the front door to get a glimpse of the good weather and I asked him what's up with the new mean streak. He said it was my influence.
"I hope I never bump into you out of work. That would be so wrong." He said.
"I don't think I'd want to see you outside of work either, it's like seeing an animal out of the zoo." I shot back.
He was greatly offended and swore that if we ever ran into each other on a day other than Sunday he'd pretend I didn't exist.
At 2:00 pm I was in the middle of vacuuming and he kicked me out.
I went to Jez's house after work to study, but didn't get to until 6:00 pm. Because see the thing is, we're always having sex, which is cool, but what's not cool is the sleeping that comes afterwards. I'm normally a little tired, but don't have a problem or difficulties in getting up and dressed, especially with motivators like completing my antiepileptic drug table and Coco Pops. Jez on the other hand is a rock. I could insert a pineapple into his rectum and he'd sleep through it. I knew he hated waking up three hours later to realise how much time has been lost, so this afternoon I try to nudge and push and slap him awake.
He pulls me next to him and doesn't even open his eyes.
"Spoon." He commands and I grudgingly oblige. "Sleep."
We wake up hours later and he blames me for lack of persistence. I forget what I was going to say next because we bought Sueño and there was some left and I was thinking "I want to take that with me to drink on the train" and I forgot and now I'm craving Sueño.
10.10.2008
Day Seventythree
So last night I was chatting to my friend, let's call him Muffy, and somehow sex came up. I was a bit horrified because Muffy was nowhere close enough a friend to be open about something this personal. But he was desperate, and decided to ask for my advice possibly because we have just about zero mutual friends with whom I could gossip about his embarrassing predicament, or because we nearly never meet in person and it was entirely possible for him to hide behind his computer for the rest of the friendship, however long that might be.
In a separate window I was talking to another friend who will be known from this point as Buffy. Buffy is quite sexual, and was happy to give pointers.
I was initially going to brush Muffy off in case my imagination starts imagining things I don't want imagined. But he begins by telling me that his situation is "embarrassing", and I was too curious to cut him off. Then he said that while his girlfriend has had other sexual partners before him, she, wait for it, had never orgasmed. I hurriedly type "OMG ME TOO" and hurriedly delete it and substitute with "oh serious?".
It's a scary statistic, but I've read in an old issue of Cosmo that 90% of Chinese women do not orgasm, ever. I'm hoping that this ridiculous figure is as false as it sounds, but unfortunately I'm quite sure that it's not, because I remember out of incredulity I re-read the passage five times and then cried. No, not really. I didn't cry. But I was scared, somewhat.
I assumed that Muffy's girlfriend is only unable to come during sex, but can probably climax orally or digitally (and Muffy has informed me that he looked up the definition of "digitally" and found it to mean "relating to the hand" and not electronics). I only assumed so because that was my own predicament about a year ago. And then through the conversation I figured out that she had never orgasmed. From anything. Poor girl.
I threw Muffy a series of tips I've accumulated from various magazines over the years that I've never really consciously tested myself. Just the standard importance of foreplay, breathing techniques, experimenting with positions, etc etc. Drone drone. Yada yada. Muffy has heard it all and tried it all and still failed and is becoming increasingly frustrated.
"She's ticklish everywhere." He said.
I thought of a few days ago, when Jez and I were petting his neighbour's cat. I picked her up by placing my hands under her front legs. Then for some reason or other we went inside and Jez decided to mimic the picking-upping with me. When I'm expectant or afraid or caught off guard of tickling, I'm unbearably ticklish. But that time when I was lifted into the air by the armpits I was fine, because as dumb as it sounds I told myself to relax and that it wasn't going to tickle. So it didn't.
I told Muffy all of this, and that his girlfriend should follow my example and tell herself it won't tickle and when you talk to her please don't mention me or my boyfriend or the cat because she will be FREAKED OUT.
He was still doubtful, and everything Buffy suggested turned out to have been tried and failed, too. Buffy ended up saying something useless like "all girls are different". I went offline in pretense of being disconnected and then realised I haven't used dial-up in 6 years.
I don't think it's going to work out. Muffy is worrying himself stupid over it and thought of giving up the relationship just to avoid further embarrassment. I exasperated myself in telling him that if his girlfriend doesn't have a problem with it, he should chill. I also said something dumb along the lines of "if she has never tasted chocolate, she won't crave for it". Despite the "yeah" and "mmhmm" and "okay" I have a feeling he was having none of it. A boy's ego is the biggest thing in the world.
In any case, he reminded me of the old-times Jez, except less persistent and more whiny. And much more worried over what me and that Cosmo article think is no biggie. I wonder what he might have done had his girlfriend lay on her back and mindlessly gazed at a poster of Edward Norton instead. I'm sorry :)
I was reading an article on Times Online about "can an affair save your relationship?". I had a mouthful of water and nearly spat it onto the keyboard. What what? Despite its conclusion that no, affairs cannot save relationships and in fact generally do exactly the opposite, it featured three kooky couples whose relationships were revived after fucking other people.
The first woman was Catholic and only 19 when she married and equally Catholic man who knew as little about sex as she did. As a result, their sex was "rushed, unsatisfactory and occasionally even painful". Unhappy, she started an affair with the delivery man, who being more skilled in the bedroom, taught her a trick or two that she passed onto her husband. With these new techniques, their sex life improved and eventually she stopped sleeping with the delivery man. Now she describes her marriage as "very happy".
I'm a firm believer that if you cheat on your partner under any circumstance, you're an unforgivable slut. So what this woman did doesn't sit well with me. What kind of Catholic are you anyway, first abstaining from sex until after marriage but then realising you haven't got a clue how to do it and find out through adultery? GG. Porn is educational. Possibly more educational than her delivery boy. She should have known. I used to be starfish and Jez used to be very instructional and sometimes I'd be thinking "what the fuck, this is odd" and then go online later to find a couple of pornstars doing the exact same thing and realise where he had gotten all those ideas from.
Back to the article, the second couple consists of a woman who "was never that interested in sex", and after having kids "seemed to go right off the idea". The man, sexually frustrated, slept with any women he could get on business trips and followed his personal motto of "find 'em, bed 'em, leave 'em". He loves his kids and his wife, and refers to sex as "like a bodily function, it doesn't mean much".
How stupid. Despite the fact that his wife is naturally celibate, she doesn't think sex unimportant and "like a bodily function", and was devastated when she found out about his affairs, which he treated like the glue that held his family together. Sex is a significant part of the relationship for him, but isn't for her, so they should decide whether they value the marriage enough to make sacrifices - him by giving up sex, and her by having sex. It might have been another story if she was okay with it. But she wasn't. And he shouldn't be buying a cake and eating the icing off the ones he didn't pay for. Me and my food analogies. I think it's time for lunch.
The husband of the third couple cheated on his wife with the mother of one of his children's friends. He cheated for no apparent reason. It was something of a wake-up call to the couple to examine their relationship issues and problems they've been hiding under happy happyn nuclear family.
Except the thing is, when there are already problems, an affair is more likely to seal the divorce than make the couple go "oh, I guess it's time we work things out". The wake-up call concept is true, but is such overkill. I suppose if the only way to make his wife listen to him was to have his pickle tickled by someone else, then whatever. But some severe, well-directed threats should work for most, right? Like, "I'm confiscating your Hermès scarves".
In a separate window I was talking to another friend who will be known from this point as Buffy. Buffy is quite sexual, and was happy to give pointers.
I was initially going to brush Muffy off in case my imagination starts imagining things I don't want imagined. But he begins by telling me that his situation is "embarrassing", and I was too curious to cut him off. Then he said that while his girlfriend has had other sexual partners before him, she, wait for it, had never orgasmed. I hurriedly type "OMG ME TOO" and hurriedly delete it and substitute with "oh serious?".
It's a scary statistic, but I've read in an old issue of Cosmo that 90% of Chinese women do not orgasm, ever. I'm hoping that this ridiculous figure is as false as it sounds, but unfortunately I'm quite sure that it's not, because I remember out of incredulity I re-read the passage five times and then cried. No, not really. I didn't cry. But I was scared, somewhat.
I assumed that Muffy's girlfriend is only unable to come during sex, but can probably climax orally or digitally (and Muffy has informed me that he looked up the definition of "digitally" and found it to mean "relating to the hand" and not electronics). I only assumed so because that was my own predicament about a year ago. And then through the conversation I figured out that she had never orgasmed. From anything. Poor girl.
I threw Muffy a series of tips I've accumulated from various magazines over the years that I've never really consciously tested myself. Just the standard importance of foreplay, breathing techniques, experimenting with positions, etc etc. Drone drone. Yada yada. Muffy has heard it all and tried it all and still failed and is becoming increasingly frustrated.
"She's ticklish everywhere." He said.
I thought of a few days ago, when Jez and I were petting his neighbour's cat. I picked her up by placing my hands under her front legs. Then for some reason or other we went inside and Jez decided to mimic the picking-upping with me. When I'm expectant or afraid or caught off guard of tickling, I'm unbearably ticklish. But that time when I was lifted into the air by the armpits I was fine, because as dumb as it sounds I told myself to relax and that it wasn't going to tickle. So it didn't.
I told Muffy all of this, and that his girlfriend should follow my example and tell herself it won't tickle and when you talk to her please don't mention me or my boyfriend or the cat because she will be FREAKED OUT.
He was still doubtful, and everything Buffy suggested turned out to have been tried and failed, too. Buffy ended up saying something useless like "all girls are different". I went offline in pretense of being disconnected and then realised I haven't used dial-up in 6 years.
I don't think it's going to work out. Muffy is worrying himself stupid over it and thought of giving up the relationship just to avoid further embarrassment. I exasperated myself in telling him that if his girlfriend doesn't have a problem with it, he should chill. I also said something dumb along the lines of "if she has never tasted chocolate, she won't crave for it". Despite the "yeah" and "mmhmm" and "okay" I have a feeling he was having none of it. A boy's ego is the biggest thing in the world.
In any case, he reminded me of the old-times Jez, except less persistent and more whiny. And much more worried over what me and that Cosmo article think is no biggie. I wonder what he might have done had his girlfriend lay on her back and mindlessly gazed at a poster of Edward Norton instead. I'm sorry :)
I was reading an article on Times Online about "can an affair save your relationship?". I had a mouthful of water and nearly spat it onto the keyboard. What what? Despite its conclusion that no, affairs cannot save relationships and in fact generally do exactly the opposite, it featured three kooky couples whose relationships were revived after fucking other people.
The first woman was Catholic and only 19 when she married and equally Catholic man who knew as little about sex as she did. As a result, their sex was "rushed, unsatisfactory and occasionally even painful". Unhappy, she started an affair with the delivery man, who being more skilled in the bedroom, taught her a trick or two that she passed onto her husband. With these new techniques, their sex life improved and eventually she stopped sleeping with the delivery man. Now she describes her marriage as "very happy".
I'm a firm believer that if you cheat on your partner under any circumstance, you're an unforgivable slut. So what this woman did doesn't sit well with me. What kind of Catholic are you anyway, first abstaining from sex until after marriage but then realising you haven't got a clue how to do it and find out through adultery? GG. Porn is educational. Possibly more educational than her delivery boy. She should have known. I used to be starfish and Jez used to be very instructional and sometimes I'd be thinking "what the fuck, this is odd" and then go online later to find a couple of pornstars doing the exact same thing and realise where he had gotten all those ideas from.
Back to the article, the second couple consists of a woman who "was never that interested in sex", and after having kids "seemed to go right off the idea". The man, sexually frustrated, slept with any women he could get on business trips and followed his personal motto of "find 'em, bed 'em, leave 'em". He loves his kids and his wife, and refers to sex as "like a bodily function, it doesn't mean much".
How stupid. Despite the fact that his wife is naturally celibate, she doesn't think sex unimportant and "like a bodily function", and was devastated when she found out about his affairs, which he treated like the glue that held his family together. Sex is a significant part of the relationship for him, but isn't for her, so they should decide whether they value the marriage enough to make sacrifices - him by giving up sex, and her by having sex. It might have been another story if she was okay with it. But she wasn't. And he shouldn't be buying a cake and eating the icing off the ones he didn't pay for. Me and my food analogies. I think it's time for lunch.
The husband of the third couple cheated on his wife with the mother of one of his children's friends. He cheated for no apparent reason. It was something of a wake-up call to the couple to examine their relationship issues and problems they've been hiding under happy happyn nuclear family.
Except the thing is, when there are already problems, an affair is more likely to seal the divorce than make the couple go "oh, I guess it's time we work things out". The wake-up call concept is true, but is such overkill. I suppose if the only way to make his wife listen to him was to have his pickle tickled by someone else, then whatever. But some severe, well-directed threats should work for most, right? Like, "I'm confiscating your Hermès scarves".
10.09.2008
Day Seventytwo
In this month's Cosmopolitan, one article announces "We found DUDETOPIA!". On its side line it goes "Sex and the City: Where are the boys in the big smoke?" and lists one suburb in every major city with a high single-men-to-single-women ratio. First up: "Auburn, Sydney. Odds: 2.1 single men to 1 single woman".
Um ok, because Auburn's where all the eligible bachelors at.
Not that there are no decent men to be found in Auburn. Of course there are, but they probably weren't the contributors to the impressive ratio. No seriously though, what did Cosmo expect us to do? Surely not flock to Auburn right this minute?
This morning I left my stockings in Jez's sock drawer and warned him not to put them on when he gets home. I didn't know whether to laugh or be scared when I realised I didn't know whether or not I was joking. Later today I was reading Hamish's column in Cosmo and the guy has stumbled upon e-mancipate.net. A bit late. Mia Freedman found it months ago, and my feelings about it pretty much mirrors hers. Hamish, being Hamish, thought that he couldn't legitimately criticise the idea without having first experienced it. So he mail-orders some and "to my horror, I realise I've ordered 'full support opaque thigh-high stay up stockings', not one-piece pantyhose". I don't know which is worse. "Then it occurs to me it's the middle of the day and I'm standing in my bedroom stroking my stocking-clad legs".
There's a man from Kirribilli who buys a pair of satin stay-ups and red lipstick once a week. Eugene and I are sure they're not for a lady-friend. I'm still puzzled about the lipstick, but have alluded the frequency of stocking-purchase to the cruddy quality of Voodoo.
Anyway, the whole thing is mad. Just wear them at home in secret like man mentioned in above paragraphand Jez. Please.
Um ok, because Auburn's where all the eligible bachelors at.
Not that there are no decent men to be found in Auburn. Of course there are, but they probably weren't the contributors to the impressive ratio. No seriously though, what did Cosmo expect us to do? Surely not flock to Auburn right this minute?
This morning I left my stockings in Jez's sock drawer and warned him not to put them on when he gets home. I didn't know whether to laugh or be scared when I realised I didn't know whether or not I was joking. Later today I was reading Hamish's column in Cosmo and the guy has stumbled upon e-mancipate.net. A bit late. Mia Freedman found it months ago, and my feelings about it pretty much mirrors hers. Hamish, being Hamish, thought that he couldn't legitimately criticise the idea without having first experienced it. So he mail-orders some and "to my horror, I realise I've ordered 'full support opaque thigh-high stay up stockings', not one-piece pantyhose". I don't know which is worse. "Then it occurs to me it's the middle of the day and I'm standing in my bedroom stroking my stocking-clad legs".
There's a man from Kirribilli who buys a pair of satin stay-ups and red lipstick once a week. Eugene and I are sure they're not for a lady-friend. I'm still puzzled about the lipstick, but have alluded the frequency of stocking-purchase to the cruddy quality of Voodoo.
Anyway, the whole thing is mad. Just wear them at home in secret like man mentioned in above paragraph
10.04.2008
Day Sixtyseven
I'm sick. It could be worse. Nothing really annoying like painfully sore throats or coughing or fever, but I feel like there isn't a single joule of energy left in me. Like seriously. Jelly. Spaghetti. If only I was that thin.
I do have this batshit crazy mix of hayfever and headache. My eyes have stopped watering now but the nose is going nuts secreting stuff and I feel like my neurons have turned into little firecrackers.
It's the damn air-con at work, set to bloody 16 degrees or at least that was what it felt like. It was twice as hot outside yesterday. I already felt hayfeverish in the morning and by the tenth hot-cold transition from walking back into the shop after being out running an errand I wanted to crumple up and eat my head.
Glenda messages me. She took my Kirribilli shift today because of my unfulfilled Canberra plans.
"You didn't tell me that all loops live in Kirribilli. Or was there a convention there?"
I tell her they're probably all from Greenway. Government housing. I ask her what happened.
"Nothing happened as such. I was just not expecting quite so many nutters, even from Greenway!"
I wonder who she encountered, the transvestite or the addict or the thief or the dealer or the man who comes in every hour to tell us the specials at Aldi.
Speaking of work, Sameer mentioned at Copa that he worked with a pharmacist named Sally, who happened to have been blonde, and a babe. He said she was Norwegian but I had never asked Sally where she was from so I didn't know. Other than "blonde and hot" and "a nice ass", he couldn't tell me much else.
I asked Sally yesterday whether she had worked with someone called Sameer at Rozelle. She said yes, and that he was a nice kid who always got told off. I opened my mouth to say "he thinks you're a babe" but instead said "he thinks you're really nice". Sameer later accused me of making him sound like a tool.
I wonder if Sally knows she's attractive. If she owns a mirror, she has to know. She has two 21-year-olds swooning over her. One of which might I add is dating another extremely hot 21-year-old. I suppose it's hard not to crush on her. She hides a cockroach under paper before stepping on it. When a customer commented that she looked tired she spent the next half hour behind the dispensary putting on make-up. She talks to herself when she does scripts. It's quite cute.
Jez came over this afternoon. I thought we'd study together but I felt too sick and wanted to take a nap instead. So he perched his laptop on my parents' bed and typed notes while I slept. I was tired but not sleepy so I feigned sleep and peeked at him from behind the pillow. He was copying his lecture notes straight from the slides, and stopped typing every now and then to stare at my breasts. I wanted to giggle but didn't. It wasn't until he shut off his laptop and joined me that I fell asleep and was then promptly woken by my mum's phone call.
I wish Jez hadn't taken away the two cans of soup he brought over. I'm deathly hungry and there's nothing to eat in the house and my parents won't be back for another 1.5 hours.
I do have this batshit crazy mix of hayfever and headache. My eyes have stopped watering now but the nose is going nuts secreting stuff and I feel like my neurons have turned into little firecrackers.
It's the damn air-con at work, set to bloody 16 degrees or at least that was what it felt like. It was twice as hot outside yesterday. I already felt hayfeverish in the morning and by the tenth hot-cold transition from walking back into the shop after being out running an errand I wanted to crumple up and eat my head.
Glenda messages me. She took my Kirribilli shift today because of my unfulfilled Canberra plans.
"You didn't tell me that all loops live in Kirribilli. Or was there a convention there?"
I tell her they're probably all from Greenway. Government housing. I ask her what happened.
"Nothing happened as such. I was just not expecting quite so many nutters, even from Greenway!"
I wonder who she encountered, the transvestite or the addict or the thief or the dealer or the man who comes in every hour to tell us the specials at Aldi.
Speaking of work, Sameer mentioned at Copa that he worked with a pharmacist named Sally, who happened to have been blonde, and a babe. He said she was Norwegian but I had never asked Sally where she was from so I didn't know. Other than "blonde and hot" and "a nice ass", he couldn't tell me much else.
I asked Sally yesterday whether she had worked with someone called Sameer at Rozelle. She said yes, and that he was a nice kid who always got told off. I opened my mouth to say "he thinks you're a babe" but instead said "he thinks you're really nice". Sameer later accused me of making him sound like a tool.
I wonder if Sally knows she's attractive. If she owns a mirror, she has to know. She has two 21-year-olds swooning over her. One of which might I add is dating another extremely hot 21-year-old. I suppose it's hard not to crush on her. She hides a cockroach under paper before stepping on it. When a customer commented that she looked tired she spent the next half hour behind the dispensary putting on make-up. She talks to herself when she does scripts. It's quite cute.
Jez came over this afternoon. I thought we'd study together but I felt too sick and wanted to take a nap instead. So he perched his laptop on my parents' bed and typed notes while I slept. I was tired but not sleepy so I feigned sleep and peeked at him from behind the pillow. He was copying his lecture notes straight from the slides, and stopped typing every now and then to stare at my breasts. I wanted to giggle but didn't. It wasn't until he shut off his laptop and joined me that I fell asleep and was then promptly woken by my mum's phone call.
I wish Jez hadn't taken away the two cans of soup he brought over. I'm deathly hungry and there's nothing to eat in the house and my parents won't be back for another 1.5 hours.
10.02.2008
Day Sixtyfive
I was reminded of one of Yoza's earlier blogs about pharmacowords.
Here's another one: pharmacognosy - the study of medicines derived from natural sources.
Here's another one: pharmacognosy - the study of medicines derived from natural sources.
9.28.2008
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.
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.
"Jez is Gay
No, really. For the following reasons I can prove that my boyfriend has higher homosexual tendencies than the average man.
- He once dreamt about being part of an all-male threesome
- Last night he dreamt about Eugene and Jason, although he and Eugene have never met
- He plucks "under"
- He had a crush on his cute gay hairdresser
- He often makes suggestive comments about his male friends, especially Felix
- 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."
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.
9.27.2008
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.
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.
9.24.2008
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".
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".
9.22.2008
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.
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.
9.18.2008
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.
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.
9.13.2008
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.
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.
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.
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