Monday, June 27, 2005

Maybe I'd be Happier in Asia

Remedy for a boring Hong Konganese film (2046 - oh, I had such high hopes! Yes, I walked out) = good Chinese food.

Dumplings from the Dumpling House and, well I couldn't get Tsing Tao at my local so I settled for a Singha. Racist, I know, but it made me happy.

I am developing a complex because my boyfriend doesn't laugh at my blogs, he only laughs at his friends'. They get "ha ha ha ha ha" and the snorty breath-out-the-nose laughs and evoke such reactions as "brilliant" whereas I get the silent treatment. You know when you've just seen your friend suck arse on stage or in a suck arse film and you just say nothing to avoid lying or saying something down right crippling? Yeah, well I get that.

Am I insecure? Maybe

Definitely sensitive.

Anyway, stuff it, I'm not going to stoop to superficial boy humour. Must stay true to self. Must...keep...writi-

Bugger it, I'm going all silent for a while. I'm going to sit in the corner and sulk. No I'm not, I'm going to drift around the park all Japanese and floaty and ethereal, staring at the sky silently, whispering things and blowing dandelion fairies from my fingers.

I may not be back.

X

Sunday, June 26, 2005

Oh Dear, I Just Got Two and a Half Hours Older

Well, I walked out of a show yesterday. I actually sat there with a look of horror and disbelief on my face from the moment it opened. About an hour in I started looking for my pocket knife but couldn't find it. It was only out of respect and empathy for the actors that I didn't walk out before the HOUR AND A HALF of the first act was over.

It almost killed one woman! I kid you not. She and her husband got up to leave in what I thought was mere disgust but as she reached the door she fainted. Naturally our attention shifted to her as a momentary relief from the abomination that was on stage. Then we all filed past her and left her for dead. Except one kind and clever woman who offered her the age old cure-all; a mint. Brilliant. Why the woman didn't accept, I have no idea. Maybe she just wanted to die in peace.

The offending show, my friends, was Ruby's Last Dollar.

A Pork Chop production starring Jacki Weaver, directed by Jeremy Sims, about...oh don't worry.

Now I know why Simsy collapsed in a Kings Cross lane way after opening night. Shame. And probably excruciating pain and emptiness after laying the world's biggest steaming turd in the Sydney Opera House.

It was like a school play in Dubbo. The costumes looked like they had been sewed by Simsy's mum, the sets built by kids in a remand centre, the lights borrowed from a dentist's clinic and designed by a grade three geography teacher and the acting...oh Lord, where do I start?

Well, let's start with the good bit; Jackie. She was actually fine but had nothing to do other than narrate. For Christ's sake, give the woman something to do! The younger version of her was played by someone who shall remain nameless as I'm sure she's a lovely girl, but shall we just say that when she first came on stage she was playing what I thought was a slightly retarded five year old. You know that cringe making acting where they point their toes in (cause all little kids are knock kneed), and speak in a squeaky voice? Well, turns out that she was "only fifteen" at the start of the story!!!!!!! It just went down hill from there.

Peppered with an ensemble of actors who out did the term O.T.T, the final threshold came when a rather tall and lanky old B.F.G was squeezed into one of Mrs. Sims' hand sewn and padded black spider costumes and asked to play the seductive Russian actor on tour with Ruby - the one who was going to pop her cherry. More to the point, we were asked to believe that he was sexy and charming, whilst trying not to laugh out loud. They were bigger than huge and badder than big. I'm telling you, I've seen a lot of bad shows (and a lot of brilliant shows) but this just shocked me. And hurt me. It was like being slapped over the face with a big wet piece of dead, smelly theatre.

I could go on but I won't. The point I'm trying to make is DON'T WASTE YOUR TIME OR MONEY ON THIS ONE FOLKS!!!!!!!!

Do yourself a favour and spend that money on something worthwhile. Even purchasing a red hot poker to stick in your eye - you'd enjoy it more. Thankfully my ticket was free. Am I ungrateful? I did thank my date ten times for taking me. Luckily he hated it too. He's the one who has to call the producer and tell her what he thought as she was really keen to hear his feedback, poor bastard. If anyone has any diplomatic, clever responses let me know, 'cause I couldn't think of any.

Anyway, it's Sunday now, it's raining and I'm being serenaded by the guitar so it's all cool.

Favourite thing today: M.I.A - the girl's got funk. She's like Missy Elliot meets Bollywood.

X

Saturday, June 25, 2005

Pass me a Marshmallow

Ooh yeah, snuggly yummy winterness.

I have so been digging these 21 degree "winter" days up here but I gotta say, sometimes I forget how much I love the cold til I'm in it again.

I am loving this rain. And guess what I got to play in in the Blue Mountains? Snow!!!!! Yeah baby, I was in Winter Wonderland. Driving through it is like being in a Star Wars space ship, hurtling through galaxies of stars. Walking through it in the bush, watching it fall and gather on the ferns is magic. And hiding in it in the pub, curled up on big, dark, consuming leather couches is just sexy.

Plus, I love winter clothes; layers of warming fibres and barriers to protect us from the wind and rain. Hats, boots, big woolly socks, scarves, mittens, lederhosen, bubble gum stretch jeans...oh no wait, I'm heading off track here. Everyone looks hot! The supermarket is a veritable den of pick up potential and the streets are teeming with people huddled together, shoulders around ears, hands rubbing together in a complicit defence against the cold. It's like we're all on the same team for a day.

Bring it on!!!!

Make my nose cold and my cheeks red. I want to drink Guinness by the fire. I want rain on my eyelashes. I want to see my breath in the air. I want to put my new $5 umbrella to good use and see how long it lasts. I want to steam up the windows at night. I want to rub myself up and down on bus drivers and wee on poles on the street...oh sorry, there I go again.

Anyway, you get my point. I've got a lot of Irish and Scottish blood in me. What can I say?

x

PS (Check out Paddy's Porter stout. Unbelievably delicious!)

Wednesday, June 22, 2005

Big Disaster

I want to pour acid on every single one of those cunts on Big Brother and watch them writhe around in agony.

Then set them alight. Love a good fire.

Yes, every single one of them. Even Tim.

I was going to waste a long winded blog on them but why bother?

I'm going to the Blue Mountains for a few days so I'll leave you with that and come back from the fresh air and REALITY, refreshed and with a little perspective.

See ya guys. Don't do anything I wouldn't do (you've got heaps of scope now that I have so many habits).

x

Tuesday, June 21, 2005

Peaches

Look out readers, this is going to be a movie review/personal outpouring about the state of the Australian "film industry". I doubt it will be in the least bit amusing so tune out now if you just want cheap thrills.

Ok, so maybe not a review as such, but a bit of a response to Peaches.

I loved it. It wasn't perfect but it was the first Australian film I have seen in a loooooong time that I thoroughly enjoyed. The first Aussie film I've seen in God knows how long that I haven't walked out of and hung my head in shame, wanting to slash my wrists, or, if I had the luxury of a DVD player, simply switched off. It takes a seriously shit film to make me switch it off. I generally like to give a film a damn good go and ultimately want to like it so I hang in there with hope. I switched Travelling Lightly off. We sat there in stunned silence for some time then injected heroin into our veins. Well, wouldn't you?

But I could watch Emma Lung and Jacqueline McKenzie for hours. Finally some women on screen who are worth two hours of my life, who are not merely wives/nurses/secretaries/super heroes/whores/gun toting killing machines in tight lycra suits/tits and arse. Finally! Finally a film which is lead by women but is not a "chic flick" and not about how strong and perfect women are; women who claim back their power, who stand up to men, who take control, who are mothers, leaders, victims turned champions...who basically make me want to puke.

Not cause women aren't heroes. Not cause these films and stories aren't important, but because I hate having our faces shoved in it and because men never want to see those films. No need preaching to the converted. Yes women need a little uplifting and confidence boosting from time to time in this crappy state of affairs that we have settled for but it's men who need to see women as people just as interesting and capable as themselves. We all do, but the blokes aren't going to sit through films that are pointedly about heroins. They somehow think it's not interesting. Not without chics kicking someone's teeth in, in the lycra. But I don't blame them really.

What we all need, or certainly I thirst for, are more films that are about people. Not men being legends, not women being inspiring but humans being human. People we can relate to. People and stories that we give a shit about. Films where you don't have to endure stereotypes. I am so bored with them, so desperately bored. We should be able to watch anyone's story regardless of their age or sex or sexuality for that matter. It should be so interesting that we care. We shouldn't even have to notice how good looking/young/whatever the characters are, the story should transport us.

I love a good doco. I could watch a doco on just about any subject in the world if it's good. So why do film makers think that we are all so stupid that we will only go and see time worn formulaic crap?

BECAUSE IT'S TRUE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I so often forget that I am almost alone in this world. The vast majority of our Big Brother addicted nation are thick as shit. Or if not thick, the only culture they get is if they eat yogurt. Real yogurt.

I pray that Peaches will get an audience and make some money. But it probably won't. It is a beautiful film. Like I said, not perfect, but pretty awesome.

Whilst I'm on the topic of Australian Films, it's such a shame that there are no other middle aged actors out there other than
Colin Friels and Hugo Weaving. There are only two middle aged white guys out there to put in our films and TV series. Who would have thunk it, with a population of seventeen million, there are only two of their age group. Strange that. Strange that there's no-one else who can act, no-one better looking. Oh well, what can you do? Just work with what you got.

With full respect to Hugo, who can be quite extraordinary (but not all the time) I will say that I never want to see him kiss another younger woman ever again. That's twice now I've had to endure it. The first time was bad enough.

Anyway, bla bla bla, I'm sure there'll be plenty more where this came from.

Please note, not one F word or list.

PS I didn't like Batman Begins.

Saturday, June 18, 2005

Sydney

I am having the raddest time in Sydvegas, I truly am. I have yet to be convinced to move here though and this is why:

-Attitude. So much of it. Not everywhere but enough to hurt. Can't you just fucking smile when you hand me your change? I smile at you.

-All anyone does here is drink. You'd think it was cold.

-Sydneyites are hard nuts to crack. Once you crack 'em though, you're in.

-Fashion. Sydney lacks individuals. There are about three looks in this town. It's like walking through a catalogue. And they are doing the eighties like no other place in Aus. Boring. The eighties should never have happened in the first place. (Eighties "fashion" that is. The music rocked! Some of it anyway.) I tried desperately to forget that decade. Why revisit it? Especially if you weren't there in the first place. Sadomasichists. 'Should be made illegal like smoking, it causes such offense and brings back nightmares.

-Incest. How many partners can you swap/steal before you start to feel truly weird?

-Prices. Everything costs more here: coffee, swimming, theatre, food that's anything above take away/cafe standard, public transport, even the music. I can't believe that most publicans rely on their punters to create and PAY FOR their entertainment and ambience by choosing music on the shitty selction on the juke box. Highway robbery. Get off your fuckin' lazy arses and take the profits from your spensy drinks and buy a CD or two or hire a DJ. Scum. And turn those bloody TVs off while you're at it. I wouldn't have come out if I wanted to watch TV.

Gee, getting a little upset here.

Here are reasons why I would move here:

-The weather. Need I say more?

-I have some wicked friends here.

-It's really, really pretty.

-I actually do have tonnes of fun here. Being an alchy is working for my new image anyway.

-I dig the surf.

-Got a great view. Wouldn't be able to afford it if I moved here though.

-Ummm...I'm struggling here.

-Just 'cause why not?

I'm boring myself to death here. Not in Sydvegas, in blog world. I'm going to endeavour for a while to write without lists and stop using the F word. Wish me luck.

I'm also going to sit on a deeper observation of Sydney for a while, 'cause this just sounds like a cheap slag off and I think highly of this fair (tanned) city. So I'll get back to you on that one with some insight.

Don't get over him/her, get even.

Ah, sweet revenge. Nobody ever attatches other adjectives to revenge like bitter or green or wrong. Because it is sweet. Sweet like chocolate mousse sucked off a nipple. Sweet like tropical fruit salad in Thailand. Sweet like sweet sweet things in a sweet store.

There is something deeply satisfying and cleansing about revenge. Strange, coming from a tree hugging pacifst, I know but it's true. I'm not talking violence here. I'm not talking tying them up and making them eat dog food whilst watching you strip naked and fuck their best friend. I'm not talking cutting them up into tiny pieces and burying them in the forest. I'm not some kind of sicko. I just get a little kick out of making them suffer a bit. It kinda makes me smile.

Here are some suggestions that I have heard of over the years:

1. Borrow their car whilst they are "away on business" and drive it back and forth through the red light camera"

2. Unscrew the bed posts on their four poster, fill them with prawns and screw the brass knobs back on. They will never find the source of the smell and it will only get worse (better) over time. (I once did something similar to my sister when we were kids. Tired of her always having the last word or last kick in the stomach or scratch to eyeball, I thought I would steal the priviledge by pissing in one of her shoes and returning it to her cupboard. Brilliant.)

3. Stick his/her toothbrush up your arse or down then toilet, take a photo and leave the photo somewhere where he/she will find it AFTER brushing his/her teeth. Make sure you have left first and taken all your possessions with you.

4. Destroy his/her entire CD collection. (I almost did this once but missed my chance. Kicked myself for days but am pretty glad I didn't do it now or I wouldn't be back together with him now.)

5. This one is a beauty. Wait til he/she is out, bring the hose in the house and saturate his/her entire wardrobe, carpet, bedding and furniture, sprinkle the whole house with alfalfa seeds, turn up the central heating full blast, close all the doors and leave.

I'm telling you it works.

I take no reponsibilty, however, for any outcomes should you choose to try any of the above at home.

Good luck and may you not have any reason to seek revenge.

Wednesday, June 15, 2005

A Day Off on Pain Killers With Nothing to do Except Think About Stuff

Some Things I Love:

-My new drug problem.

-Stationery and therefore newsagencies or office supply stores. Pens, notebooks...oh yeah, give it to me.

-Socks.

-The sea.

-Intelligence. Wish I had some.

-Old men. As in post 70. (Spare me the crass sexual inuendo please). They make me stop in the street and sigh and sometimes cry. I just adore them.

-My boyfriend.

-Free drinks.

-Love.

-My salty toothpaste.

-Sales at Alice Euphemia. Wish I was in Melbourne right now.

-Sleep. So good!

-Good dreams. Don't have many of them though.

-Italy, Ireland and India.

-Australia.

-Being so, so, so, so lucky - blessed from the very first day I arrived on this earth. I know I'm getting a little serious here but it's true. I couldn't ask for more and I am grateful for everything I have, daily.

-Pushing over old ladies on the train. Oh no, hang on, that was an accident.

-Lists.

-Myself.


Some Things I Truly Dislike:

-The fact that I can't work out how to change fonts etc.

-Rude people.

-Tom and Katie. Angelina and Brad. Spare me your fucking Hollywood teeth and love affairs. Who cares that you root like animals in African jungle bungalows. So? Me too.

-Bad journalism.

-The fact that I spend far too much time on my pooter now that I've been introduced to the Bloggesphere.

-Our "leader".

-Going to the doctor to get pain killers for my neck and having to get the same doctor who poked and prodded at my anus the last time I went in complaining of an itchy bottom. As if that wasn't humiliating enough. At least, I thought, I was never going to see him again.

-Fungal infections in my bottom.

-When people don't return phone calls.( Which means me sometimes).

-Television commercials.

-Most of everything on tele actually.

-Being disliked. Wish I didn't but I do. Still trying to come to peace with that one.

-Being threatened with a gun and more or less held captive by a psychotic, grandma and child bashing freak in Africa. Great stuff that is.

-When you pull over to give way to someone on a narrow street and they don't give you the wave.

-The word "fuck". Whilst I love it, it has been in my vocab since the age of two when I screamed accross a supermarket car park, "Look at that fucking old man!" much to my mum's utter embarassment, who covered me in her arm pit and hid me in the car pretending that a) I didn't exist and b) she didn't teach me that word in the first place. It is a beautiful word but has robbed me of the knowledge and use of many more interesting alternatives. I am endeavouring to learn a few new adjectives, adverbs, nouns and verbs 'cause somehow the f word has infiltrated all four areas of the English language and I am a victim.

-Waitressing.

-Procrastinating.

-Myself. Sometimes. Deep down. But not really.

Tuesday, June 14, 2005

Talent

Do you have to be fucking crazy to be a genius?

I can't think of any brilliant actors, musicians, painters, sculpters, chefs, masseurs, bank clerks (scrap that one) who aren't/haven't been a drug addict, alchy, freak or just plain eccentric or hasn't at least had a serious nervous break down.

I think this is my problem. I truly believe that this is why I'm just mediocre (which is my worst nightmare - I despise mediocrity) and not incredible. I just can't crack the brilliant gate open. So I just sit here and kind of suck.

So, I think I need a crutch. Or a few problems.

I thought I'd start with smoking. I dunno if I'm brave enough to go down the smack street so maybe I'll start drinking more, like for breakfast and stuff and perhaps start taking other more filthy drugs like speed or crystal meth cause I can't afford coke. Or just go out into the desert and take stacks of acid. That oughta do it. Not too pricey either. But I'd surely lose it and could come back all intense and interesting and incredibly employable.

I say good bye to moderation. I want to be edgy and dangerous. I want to behave badly in public and get away with it. I want people to worry about me. But, more importantly, I just want to be brilliant. I want people to watch me and lose their breath and cry and shit. I don't want to be doubted. I don't want to be one of those cheesey fucking Secret Life of Us type actors.

I want to be a genius.

See yous cunts on the other side. x

Sunday, June 12, 2005

Porn

I hate porn.

There, I said it.

I have no time for it. I have no problem with people watching it or enjoying it, I just don't myself.

For a number of reasons;

a.) I just don't need to watch people having sex in order to get hot myself. My attractions and desires are strong enough and my imagination wild enough. I have a rich fantasy life which ranges from the cleanest, most romantic scenarios to the filthiest. I'll spare you the details (sorry) but let's just say that not one of those mentioned by Sass in her recent posting is foreign or unappealing to me. It's not that I don't like to watch people having sex; I do. Love it. Love a good sex scene (a good one), love a good voyeuristic perve on a bit of live action - it's all good. Just not porn.

I hate fake stuff!!!! Except a few of those fake colourings in cheezels and red liquorice. But fake people? Fake action? Yuk! Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit. Saw a live sex show in Amsterdam and it couldn't have been less sexy. Touching and panting and penetrating by numbers, all in time to music. Yeah, I saw cock in cunt and boob on boob but there was no feeling there. Who cares? It made me so angry that I found myself stomping through Amsterdam just wanting to fuck someone, the words "I'll show 'em how it's done!" tearing through my head. Nothing going on down there but - totally unaroused.

b.) It's never turned me on.

c.) I'm an actor and there's nothing less sexy than bad acting. I can't get into it when I'm laughing at them. I can't get past the "puh-leeease" factor.

I also think porn has a lot to answer for. Breast enlargements, Brazilian hair removal, Viagra (performance anxiety), the cum shot, to name a few. Oh, and that old general expectation that women are there to please and we love it. We love it all...(here I go again. Just see last blog). Let's encourage a few time worn portraits of women being mindless pussy.

I also think there would be a lot of better lovers out there if men (and women for that matter) were allowed to discover their own sexuality rather than have it dictated to them by the poor teacher that is the porn. There's nothing worse than finding yourself in bed with someone who's learnt the routine from porn - and expects the reciprocal porn star action from you. So bad.

Ironically Darcy is my porn star name. Darcy Beaconsfield to be precise. My first cat (yes, ok, pussy) and first street. (I discovered this some years ago and later realised that Moubray was infact my first street name but it just didn't have the same ring to it, so I stuck to Beaconsfield.)

It might appear that I am a little preoccupied with sex and all things sexy and sexist at the moment. I am. I'm doing a lot of research for this fucking play I'm doing later in the year (sorry Roguey), which may be an utter disaster. But these topics are an endless source of fascination for me anyway.

Friday, June 10, 2005

Gentlemen

Have just spent my lunch time in a "Gentlemen's Club" in the city and I must say it has left me very confused as to the definition of the word gentleman. Not to mention the role of women in the lives and minds of said gentlemen.

It seems to me that gentlemen can be identified by the following characteristics:

1. They wear suits or at least suit jackets.

2. They talk business whilst being entertained by writhing naked women, whom they frequently ignore, sometimes watch and occasionally applaud for a feat of athleticism or a nice rack.

3. They eat expensive meals and order expensive (only because they are over priced) alcoholic beverages.

4. They like to be served their drinks and food by scantily clad women, who will eventually strip naked for them on stage and whose breasts they are permitted to kiss and bottoms fondle as said scantily clad women sit on their laps and play the gracious hostess, as every woman should...apparently.

These four points seem to be the only ones that I could detect that set them apart from your common man. Apart from the expensive drinks in point 3.

It's interesting that the term "gentleman" doesn't quite describe the man that I had always imagined when I heard that word as a young'n'. So I guess I have been fooled all these years into thinking that a gentleman is something akin to what he used to be in ye olde days. I even thought I knew a few but perhaps they are something else. Perhaps there is another word for them..."special"? No, that has been appropriated by retards. They are rare however, and somewhat unique, these men. But certainly not retarded. However I'm sure there are retarded gentlemen - damn, I misused that word again. I'm stuck.

So a gentleman today, is not what he used to be. No, we have come a long way, from amoeba to amphibians to prime mates, Neanderthal (I'm jumping, obviously), Homo Erectus (still loads of erect homos around), through all ages of man: pre-Christian animal worshipping heathens, The Dark Ages, The Renaissance, Edwardian, Victorian...all the way through sexual revolutions to the sophisticated present day. At last, we are all grown up and equal.

For a while there we kid ourselves that "gentlemen" were respectful of all people, regardless of their sex, race or social status and that they viewed the world with an educated and well balanced mind and went about their day performing kind deeds and behaving in a generally gentle manner, hence the name. Not that they were pussies. Oh no - they would defend your honour in a duel to the death if push came to shove.

But now, in our post post modern world, we realise what a silly joke that was. A gentleman, in fact, is in everyway the same as who he was before he started walking erect on two legs, apart from the fact that he wears a suit and all that other stuff mentioned in the four above points.

Most men, however, regardless of whether or not they fit in to the above category, seem to like the same qualities in a woman. They don't always tell you that they do, but in secret, they do.

They seem to be:

1. Boobs. Doesn't matter if they are real or fake, as long as they are relatively perky, preferably above A cup and have nipples.

2. Long hair that you can fling around.

3. Pussy. Preferably not too hairy or not hairy at all.

4. Arse. Preferably perky, hair free.

5. Smiles. Big ones. Gotta love doing things for the gentlemen.

And she should perform the following functions:

1. Serve food and drinks at the beck and call of the gentlemen, wearing little and being available to be touched.

2. Smile all the time and make sure he has everything he wants.

3. Touch herself erotically.

4. Spread herself, thrust herself and shake herself in his general direction frequently so he knows she is up for it all the time.

5. Pout so it looks like she can suck cock.

6. Suck cock.

7. Be wet and hot for it all the time.

8. Root on cue, whenever he wants and don't expect a root when she wants one.

9. Be groomed, hairless, odour free and disease free.

10. Only wear clothes that accentuate the parts that gentlemen like, ie/short, tight, high heels, strappy everything, less is more etc. Comfort is a right reserved for gentlemen only.

11. Stay fit and slim and keep up to date with how gentlemen wish her to look.

12. Fuck, suck, shake, jiggle, dance, mount, lick, take it, clean, cook, say "thank you", shave, moan, sit, roll over, shut up.

13. Generally be subservient at all times, except when being dominant, which is being subservient anyway because it is what the gentleman wants (she must realise that her sole purpose is to make him happy) and generally attend to his every need with glee.

So, thank God I worked that out, 'cause I have to admit (and this is embarassing but I am naive) that I was under the impression that things had changed and gentlemen appreciated other qualities in women now. That the above were no longer an essential part of the equation. That women no longer had to fulfill all of the above criteria, but not so. I kind of suspected it from the age of about 12, but never really wanted to believe it. So I sort of pretended it wasn't true so I could feel safe in the cocoon of my comfy shoes and self respect. It's a bit like weening yourself off Santa. You know. You know you know but it was such a good story, you don't want to let go.

Strangely though, it is like a secret with gentlemen. It's code. Things are unsaid in these sophisticted times. So if they're not getting it at home from their wives/partners, they're going in secret groups to get it elsewhere. These such needs are catered for by Gentlemen's Clubs and other lesser versions of the same for the not so gentlemanly but still male. And if they're not attending such clubs they are watching it on DVD or looking at it in magazines or on the net. And if they're not viewing it in any of these widely available publications, they are having wet dreams about it. But they do want it.

So anyway, I'm getting with the programme. It's time to get ahead. I'm going to keep growing my hair long 'cause it doesn't flick so good yet and I'm going to get everything else below my nose waxed. I think I get it now.

Thursday, June 09, 2005

The View is Beautiful Out Here

We have talked about having sex on the balcony of our apartment ever since we got here but haven't done it yet. It will happen though. There are only about 700 windows in the surrounding high rise apartments, a shit load of boats on the harbour and a boat load of passers by on the street, so it's a little risky, yes. But risk is sexy. The cold is not. We got close one night...ah morning, just before sunrise. My boyfriend stripped down and challenged me to join him but I refused to expose my flesh to that cold, cold air. My body temperature had plummeted after the long hours of alcohol consumption and I was feeling like a pussy. But it will happen and I will be able to add it to my somewhat substantial list of public places where I have...

Why can't I get a decent coffee in this fucking town? Sydney that is. And why is it that when I complain about my second coffee after finally working up the guts to return the first my boyfriend tells me I remind him of his father and we don't talk for the next day and a half?

I have noticed that just because your mouth feels minty after eating half a pack of mint slices, it doesn't mean your teeth are clean.