alter ego or some shit.

DEAD AIR SPACE.

i know a girl who has almost the same name as me.

we do the same degree.

and like,

more or less,

the same things.

(hyper-dirty writing, josh homme, wearing things.)

but her blog,

its heaps better/cooler/more interesting than mine.

make sure you read her writing. mega. legit.

GO.

Pink Plastic Jesus.

Don't have time to post. Bad instant coffee. New media - burning brain. Waiting for confirmation. Need to get out. Too many Kanji. Work. Matches and Cardigans from W&DB. Thigh high socks. Ankle stockings. Ramen. Leopard print. Too. Much. Clutter. Cockroaches. Crave clean, crave white, crave peace. Restoring faith in females.

New stationary. More coffee. More tea. Yellow teeth. Goodbye windows. Hello Japan? Soon. Another tired afternoon. Fresh fruit. Days lose their warmth. The next instalment. <3

Images are from Knighttcat's amazing inspiration post. Genius.

miumiuagain.

make up+jewels+kitty/naked lady print

Today at work a certain person of much higher significance than I told me my hair was 'untidy' and perhaps I should 'brush it once in a while' as it is a matter of hygiene. Even though I explained to her I had washed, conditioned and combed it not three hours ago I was still guilty of bringing down the image of the brand. In her eyes. You have to feel sorry for people who come into work on a Sunday without being paid, purely to curse the waves in my hair.

I honestly don't know how models take the personal appearance digs. You've got to have thick skin in this little old world of ours.

backstage photos by the official miu miu website

a post a day?

So I'm supposed to be writing everyday in order to feel like a 'writer'. Perhaps this means I should start using correct punctuation and/or spell check. Alas, if only I had shiny white mac. It may just be me, but I don't believe I'll feel quite like a writer until I can open the pages of a physical object and scream "LOOK MUM! LOOK! I WROTE THIS!" Which too, is akin to yearning for a macbook. Currently out of the question. Yesterday, I started a subject called Imagining the Real. Which is basically, a way of saying creative non fiction, in a way that appeals to students. Fortunately, this appeals to me under any giuse and I am now I slave to its requirements. Hence wordy post. Something perhaps more appealing is the fact that my computer stopped being uppity with me and managed to take on a few photos from my memory card. YAY. Back to this later. As now, I must actually attempt to get ready for work. Hating 9am starts. In the meantime, consume some Lula. all images of Lula scrapbook.

an anti social fuck.

I havent written on this blog for ages. For a mix of reasons, sure. Its thats time of year. The time of year through which we drink too much, spend to much, kiss babies, talk shit. Whatever. Aside from that, I don't really know what to do. I can't keep penning meaningless bullshit about things and people I like. Cos A. no one really gives a shit. and B. its not exactly like I am revolutionarily original or cool. If at all. This may be largley due to my lack of motivation to drink myself into oblivion at 3am every morning, my red hair, or the bad taste of everyone else. Labelled as anti social and square is little encouragement to pour onto the internet for everyone to see.

My direction with this post is that I need to change this blog. It needs to be like, focused or something. I thought of a more alternate version of Girl With a Satchel or possibly something anecdotal/rantish.... or Sydney specific. Outfit posts are out of the question cos I don't have the balls. Right now I feel like dressing as above, even though it is grossly humid and writing an angsty story about feeling alone. Whilst appropriating Poe's the Raven. And eating ice cream.

blackcdg-ny.blogspot.com

she was a manic depressive. which was impressive.

Not to sound like a cynic, but every time I come back home I am disappointed. In some way or another. The water wasn't as warm as it used to be. The nights aren't as long or as devious. Unsure if its just a case of the grass is always greener or everything is better in memory but whatever. Figures my time is better off spent mothering my neglected blog than yawning in the newly renovated sleazy pub, waiting for something to happen. Thats the problem with going home. You expect everything to change and it doesn't. You feel disconnected. Then it does change. And its like, fuck. I am not this person anymore. BUT WHATEVER. I don't know how these pictures are relevant but I enjoy them. They are from the Selby, of course, and honestly, I just like to look at them. 

Oh hai there sweet freedom, its been a while.

Uni Students are usually written off as surviving on mi goreng, thai lunch specials and happy hour beer. Now this is not the case for everyone, as with any other predjudice, but those who do live up to the expected have good reason. Mainly to due to the fact that youth allowance is being guzzled up by unemployed, half arsed students who live comfortably in the home and clutches of a parent. To avoid falling below the poverty line (or moving to Punchbowl) we often agree to jobs that induce grevious physical pain or loss of both intelligence and/or self respect. These jobs may allow us to experience some of the greater pleasures in life, such as sliced bread and unprocessed cheese, yet render our lifes completely void of joy. Ironically, the job in which I was unwillingly employed saw me advocating and spreading joy. The joy, no less, of Christmas. I'd like to proclaim right here, I am no such 'grinch'. I enjoy Christmas as much as I enjoy food, wine and gifts (and guiltly, leafing through the christmas edition of assorted house magazines.) Yet, I must admit there is some sort of resistance in the brain against enjoying Christmas carols. Especially in November. I also believe, that sitting in the trunk of some 'magical' (read: peverted) tree and chatting to children, whom you are spying on through a video camera is both morally wrong and grossly degrading. In essence, this job was crushing the dreams of small, burberry clad wankers and their babycinos all over Sydney. How was I doing this? By scaring the fucking shite out of them by pretending to be a tree. A tree named David, which is an interesting way to introduce children to the concept of transgenders, no? Also, by replying to their letters to Santa right before their very eyes, yawning in the face of elves, overcharging for sweets... The worst part is, I was doing all this for a mere $16 an hour! Outrageous! Lets not overlook the fact that I was spoiling Christmas for myself. I never, ever, needed to hear Santa use the freaking facilities whilst I was blowing up helium balloons, unaware he had crept in purely to burn my ears with the sound of his piss. Honestly. I don't know whats worse, the fact that I was paid to blow up helium balloons in a mens bathroom, or the glee my discomfort brough to those bastards faces.

My point? I quit this job. Today. So its back to six dollar lunch specials and blogging. Which I am way more than stoked with. So I beg of you, when offered a Christmas themed job just think of the talking tree, shake your head and cry - "No means no David. No means no."

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