This is where I talk about myself

If this blog were a competition between Ruby and I, Ruby would win. I am lazy as. Lazy as what? Lazy as a sleepy hippo. You would think that hippos are quite lazy even if they aren't sleepy. Not true. A hippo can fuck shit up. They're pretty much the most dangerous animal in Africa.

If I were a gamekeeper, I would also be fleeing. 

I guess that hippos are only lazy when they are sleeping. But everything is lazy when it is sleeping. So I should just say 'As lazy as any thing that is sleeping'. Anyway... consistently, Ruby has been waiting for me to post. This time I thought I had better beat her to it.

A friend of mine called Meg taught me that everyone has three talents. "This can't be right" I retorted, with a commanding tone. She loves it when I get all argue-y.

Then I thought about it. I am average to good at some things. Like economics. And dinosaurs. And lighting fires. And baking.

I am average to bad at some things. Like talking on the phone. And playing Risk. Coz I hate losing, I avoid playing Risk at all costs. It ruins friendships. You make an alliance, and then someone screws you over and attacks Kamchatka, and it's like 'why do you even want Kamchatka anyway?' But thank you, Risk, for teaching me that there is a place called Kamchatka.

I am quite simply, appalling, at other things. Like drawing. I could draw better when I was 4. And I can't set up a tent to save myself, so I guess I would get eaten by a hippo in Africa for sure. Unless I lit a mean-as fire and burned the fucker. Yea. Or baked him (it's a male hippo, I just know it) a treat. Using the mean-as fire.

And then I realized that there are 3 things that I am ridiculously awesome at.

1. Sleeping on my face.

2. Holding my breath.

3. Cutting my food with my fork.

Re: Sleeping on my face. For the last 5 years at least, I have been sleeping on my face. People tell me I look like I am dead. I just kind of lie on my tummy with my legs splayed out and my forehead resting under my arm and my face IN my pillow. Why am I alive?

Re: Holding my breath. This could be a direct result of numero uno. I can seriously hold my breath for a fucking long time. Through the Lyttelton Tunnel (1945m). Over the Rakaia Bridge (no idea how long that guy is). This one time, I held my breath under water for 2 minutes and 56 seconds! Sometimes when I'm in my finance lectures and I'm bored as hell I hold my breath for a minute, then I rest for another, then I hold for another minute...so on and so on...and then class is over, and I may or may not have improved one of my talents!

Re: Cutting my food with my fork. I think this stems from a general retardation of myself. I have no fork-mouth co-ordination on my left side. The contents of my fork will fall to my plate or I will stab my cheek. Then it's all over. With the realisation of this, I thought it was time to cut my losses. I ditched the knife, and proceeded to eat one-handed. I can now cut anything with a fork. Seriously. Try me.

BUT WHAT DOES THIS MEAN??? WHY AM I YELLING AT YOU???

Some good has to come out of this. What is the point in having these three amazing talents, just to have them go to waste?

The only thing I can come up with is that if the world suddenly ran outa oxygen, and we could only eat with forks and we didn't even have teeth, it would be survival of the fittest and I would WIN.
That is all.

Here is a triceratops and I want to be that child.

I love you all

From Liz

It's about time one of us talked about Batman

Recently I was caught in an awkward situation. A friend of mine thought that Indiana Jones could beat Batman in a fight.

This, unfortunately, is not my mate,
 but the level of awkwardness is on-par.

Let me bring a few relevant points to the table:

- Batman is angry and he wants revenge. In his fight for justice, he is essentially a man who you do not want to fuck with.

- Batman wears black and it's shiny too. This makes him go faster. FACT.

- Batman has a utility belt. It has utils on it which he utilises.

- Batman has a plethora of experiences to draw on, featuring some decent bad guys, such as Two-Face,     The Joker, Poison Ivy, Mr. Freeze, Penguin, Cat Woman, and The Scarecrow.

- Batman doesn't sleep, he watches.

- Robin can be called upon if the situation requires. They can either tag-team or double-team.

- Batman undertakes high-intensity physical and intellectual training; not to mention the fact that he is possibly the 'most dangerous man on earth'.

- He is a BABE.

This is the kind of intellectual training that
the super heroes of the world require. 

Let's not forget, Indiana Jones has a few things going for him, including a sweet hat and leather jacket. He also has a sense of humor (I like a guy that can make me laugh), deep wisdom and knowledge of ancient civilisations and languages. In contrast, Batman is dark and overly mysterious.

STOP - HAMMERTIME

What is this? The effing Bachelor?

To be honest, I just think Indiana Jones is too much of a pussy. I mean, look at his soft complexion and kind eyes.

Indiana Jones may have a gun, but Batman had dodged bullets on more occasions than you can shake a stick at.

This elderly gentleman was spotted shaking
his stick at Batman, who was busy dodging numerous bullets.

Scholars have analyzed Indiana Jones and have come to the conclusion that he is a 'hardboiled detective' and an 'American patriot'. Fuck America. Fuck egg analogies (BTW who even likes hardboiled?) I want someone who gets shit done. Also, it's common knowledge that if you wear khaki, you are a tool.

It's obvious who would win in a fight. At the end of the day, comparing Batman to Indiana Jones is (unlike comparing apples to oranges), but like comparing milk to the fourth dimension.

THE END

With love,

Liz

Mondays. Caffeine. The Why and How edition.

The only thing, as I’m sure Wilde would have said, through his green teeth*, worse than NOT having a big weekend, is having a big weekend. And bygod Mister, you are so right on! 

I seem to spend my whole week being incredibly diligent and getting up very early (sometimes, and I shit you not, BEFORE 7am! My diary doesn’t even recgonize the existance of TIME before 7am! Before this year I had only the vaguest of mathematical notions of the hours extant between 5 (“kicking girl out of bed”** am) and 7 (“oh my fuck it’s daytime” am)), with the promise of two joyous days of sleep as a consolation prize for getting through it all. The sweet, sweet premise of the weekend.

But then, high as a Chambers’ Street hippie on the excitement the brief spells of punctuality and industriousness that sporadically punctuate my weekdays, I am inspired to schedule “fun activities” over my precious freedom. 
These may include, but are not limited to: 

- Running up hills

- Running around various parks (or, more frequently, sitting on benches at parks)

- Drinking more than four standard drinks on any one drinking occasion*** (cry your fucking heart out, ALAC)

- Illegally appropriating and re-distributing varied garden furniture (sorry mum! But, honestly, some people obviously have no conception of the potential visual nuances and heightened impact that the simple doormat can, with an entourage of similarly absconded doormats, make to the whole “ambiance” of a footpath)

- Hanging out and swearing and taking in and hanging out and fucking taking in and sulking and stuffing in drier a week’s worth of washing

- Other things (see: “sport”, “homework” and “rain” for details)

Which leaves me feeling justifiably rather fatty-gay by Monday.

Ah. Mondays! They tend to follow rather a rigid pattern. 

And that pattern is a spiral. 

Into hell.

First you have the whole “I do not wish to get out of bed.” But you do. And it is... ok. And then you wash your hair and then cannot wear a beanie on the walk to uni because your hair is wet. And your ears get cold, but it is still ok. Then you walk across the park and... your shoes get wet. This is less ok. Then you trip over on the second step (DESPITE all eight signs!) coming in cafe door to get coffee. And a tiny piece of you begins to narrow its eyes and clench its fists. Then you step on a drawing pin someone (you) left point-up in your office (hanging up cat posters) and a small swear word escapes from your pursed lips. Then your ipod dies. Then you go to class... and there is statistics. And it’s like urrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrRRRRRRGHHHH MONDAYS!! WHY DO YOU EXIST TO CURSE ME!!

Once you have reached this point, there is only ever one answer. 

The best answer. 

More coffee.

Coffee is truly dear to my heart, and to that small withered piece of libertarian cardiac tissue that stands in the place of Liz’s.

It is a drug.

The best drug! 

A cheap, socially acceptable drug, responsible for thousands of first-rate third-world job opportunities, marketing degree passes and corporate fat-man heart attacks annually. 

But it is also so much more than that; it is a cure for all the ills in the world (primarily sneans, studylink, and Mondays). 

The Monday jolt of impending deadlines and insufficiency of sleep means you end up drinking so much coffee you start to feel like your hands are very fast and far away. Vicious, headache-inducing, I-got-chest-hair-on-my-chest-hair amounts of caffeine (brewed in a saucepan for extra hardcore-ness and cos I broke my plunger glass last year when it was the only vaguely clean surface in the house and I tried to bake nachos in it (oh, and just for the record, this is not really recommended)).

Coffee. I love you. We should have tiny hyperactive babies together and live in a giant white house by a lake and paddle little kayaks around and have picnics and parties in the woods and really energetic sex. We could have such a beautiful, fast, life together.

It’s Monday.

It’s coffee time.


Byeeeeee Ruby.

* Interesting story actually! So Wilde, epic homo, was arrested for having the criminally faggy affectation of covering his mouth with his hand when speaking. In fact, this was because he ingested vast quantities of mercury (chemical abbreviation, Huge Gay, an obvious clue) which at the time was the accepted cure for syphilis (and, remarkable for the time (when pregnancy was treated with bloodletting and the flu with abstaining from drinking fluid) a functional one. Though mostly because it poisoned the bacteria marginally more swiftly than it poisoned you) WHICH he got from sleeping with a (female) prostitute. LOL.

** This one is for you.

*** I initially wrote coccasion. heh. heh. heh.

The GAME!*

Perhaps it is because I am PMSing (fuck off don’t look at me), or perhaps because I have the most ridiculous crush on a skinny, bouncy, yet resolutely uninterested barista, but I have been thinking rather a lot today about one thing that concerns us all in life, and that is, “the game”.


Now, for those of you who have been living under damp rocks for the last decade or so of popular culture (and I’d just like to add that I completely understand the feeling; I once was abandoned at a retirement village in Mosgiel for an hour), “the game” is what ensues as soon as you decide you’d quite like to have sex with someone.
Now, don’t go jumping to conclusions! This sex could be as part of an incipient relationship, out of curiosity, because you are bored, whatever. (So long as whatever means consensual! Rape is not a joke! At least, not a very good one. More a groan then a laugh, and most probably with negative consequences far outstripping any intrinsic humorous value.) Basically; sex. Got it.


STEP ONE: The first thing that happens is that you spot a person. Being quite gay, mine will be a sexy lady. Alright. Eye contact ensues. Once you have ascertained that the person of interest is aware of your existence, start some sort of fascinating conversation (fascinating = potentially subjective).


TABLE ONE: Topics to avoid:


- Socialism
- Cats
- Sperm (and reproduction in general. Unless you are old. In which   case it is probably ok)
- How good you are at things. Although this can be acceptably emphasised in subtle ways.
- Curious personal physical and/or mental medical issues. Keep an element of surprise.
- How, like, totally straight you are! The erroneousness of this statement will become quickly apparent.


STEP TWO: Now is the part where the game gets sneaky. Entrance your target with your wit and charm, leave them wanting more (or just sleep with them. But I would never do that), and then... ignore them. For a considerable period. After you feel enough time has elapsed that they know you are incredibly busy and important and probably sleeping with much hotter people than them, deign to meet up. Repeat step one.


(A flowchart seemed unnecessary in this instance. But shall perhaps be forthcoming, depending on hormones)


All I have to say is WHY! It could be so much easier if we could just read people’s minds!


Gah!


I do realise that multiple billions of dollars-worth of appalling movies, truly terrible books, and other various pieces of consumer shit of the “perhaps she just isn’t that into you?” flavour transfer hands per annum (the premise being, of course, that the “you” is the response variable in the equation (and therefore open to alteration in favour of a preferable outcome)), but we could all save ourselves 18 Jodi Picoults, 112 Vince Vaugns (spelled wrong? Don’t care), and 17,567 failed alcoholic home and away stars if we all. Just. Didn’t.


TABLE TWO: Sample conversations representing truly honest exchange of views re: having sex with each other.


- "I would love to take your clothes off!"
- "It’s mutual."



- “I’m incredibly attracted to you. However, because of the paradigm in which I have been raised I would prefer to spend several hours exchanging data before putting my hand down your pants.”
- “That is a more than acceptable proposal.”



- “Now that I have bought you a drink, would you like to have sex with me?”
- “No; your elevated loft bed reminds me of the time I was ten and jumped out of a bunk and broke my arm in four places, resulting in extreme social awkwardness in the coming school year and a rather non-aesthetically-pleasing scar.”


The world would be a less stressful place.


Ruby.


*Dedicated to cafe girl. You are cute.