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just spent the weekend at the army barracks
Is Chewing On

Gore Vidal

Listening to:

Everything in Transit
Jack's Mannequin
Lick Those Stripes!
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The Herd
Carresser of Annabelle
Crazy Lone Ranger
Island Sinker
Labert Leopard
Lego Man
Shakin' That Ass
Sloth Min
Uber Bitch Jase
Van Ren


Join One Thousand Bloggers

Songs of the Plains
Family Court

One would be in less danger
From the wiles of a stranger
If one's own kin and kith
Were more fun to be with.

Ogden Nash
Packing Up
Thursday. 6.5.08 2:41 am
Right. Well. It's been almost a year since I last posted an entry. Lots has happened and I've decided to start again.

But not here.

NuTang's been awesome to me and I really enjoyed my time here. But it's time to move on (who knows though, I might regret this terribly and return here!!). Thanks to everyone for reading and I'd of course love to see you at the new blog.


Looking forward to seeing you there!

Later, crocogators!

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Changing Room
Sunday. 10.21.07 5:17 pm
We enter the changing room.

There are a row of benches against the wall. We plop our bags on one and rummage through them for our bikinis. Mine seems to have hidden itself away in a secret corner, determined to remain unmolested. I briefly consider upending my bag onto the cold, wet tiles.

“James,” Liz squeaks faintly.

“Mm-hmm?” Finally! I straighten up, clutching my bikini triumphantly.

“Don’t…don’t turn around.”

Automatically my head swivels around. The layout of the room looks something like this:

“Oh.” I sit down on the bench, or rather fall down into a sitting position with a whoosh.

Oh. From where we are we have a good view of the main area of the room. And what a view it is. An expanse of bare flesh stretches before us. Parading around the room and in the open (OPEN) showers. There are naked women everywhere. Young, taut bodies to older, saggier bits. A veritable feast for the eyes, if one were so inclined.

I am terrified.

For the love of god, why isn’t anyone using the changing cubicles? They're all choosing to strip in the middle of the room instead, some bent over in embarrassing positions in full view of anyone who cares to look.

I am staring. Liz is staring. We are staring. Mostly in unreserved shock (and a little panic on my part), but also because we haven’t quite decided our next course of action. To follow suit and undress along with everyone else or to head for the cubicles and for the comforting snick of a lock closing?

We eye the cubicles desperately. They of course have to be located right in the furthest corner of the room. To get there, we have to weave through the press of naked bodies. If that isn’t agony enough, doing so would also automatically brand us as pussies (heh, pussies).

What to do, what to do? On one hand, the anticipated embarrassment of pulling my clothes off in front of total strangers makes my stomach twist into knots. But on the other, I really don’t want to be a pussy.

Urgh. The guys are waiting outside. I have to make a decision.

“I’m…,” I clear my throat and try again. “I’m gonna use a cubicle.”

With that, I take a deep breath and strike out through the room. I soon regret my decision. I’m so painfully aware of my obvious attempts to avoid eye contact and the accidental touch that I’m shrivelling up with awkwardness inside. But I’m almost there. I finally reach the safety of a lockable door and heave a sigh of relief. Then I quickly change and brace myself before practically fleeing to the exit.

As I wait outside for Liz to join me, I catch the towel girl looking at me. She presses her lips and looks away. She knows, she knows! Pussy, pussy, pussy! You are a pussy, the line of her lips seems to say. Has someone spread the word already? This is too much to bear.

I am mortified. I am miserable.

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Token Nudes
Friday. 10.5.07 10:48 pm
Token nudes are always fun. You know that it promises to be an awesome night out when the token nude rocks up. Everyone cheering, cameras flashing, fingers pointing and stories to tell the next day. It's great to be able to count on someone to take their kit off after a few drinks.

Until that someone turns out to be your other half. At the snick of a zipper, you shut your eyes in despair, praying fervently. "Please please, don't let it be him." No such luck. Oh look, there he is, yanking his pants down. The shirt is long gone, buttons scattered on the floor. You can only watch in growing horror as he spanks himself and pretends (oh god, let him be pretending) to hump a hapless stranger. The same person who only an hour ago promised to treat you like a princess is now attempting to give you a lap dance.

My boyfriend passed me a photo the other night. Some twat on a bar top, thrusting (yes, thrusting) at the camera with his pants down. What an idiot, I chuckled. He was lucky that the shot was cut off at the neck so he couldn't be identified.

Oh how I laughed. Until I recognised the underwear.

A slightly more decent pic

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Rarrgh Rarrrgh! Part Deux
Monday. 9.17.07 10:33 am
Rarrghh rarrgh, rar ragrrrrrrgh. Rgh raaaaargh rar rarrrrgh raaaaaaaaaaaargh ra...rarghh rarrgh! Rar rar rar! Rarghhh rarrgh rar raraaaaargh rgh rarghhh-rar rarrrgh rarghh rarrrgh. Rarrrgh rargh raaaaaaargh rarargh rarararrrrgh rarrrrrrrrrgh rar. Rar rar rar!

(Part Une here)

Andrew Bell

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Conversations in the Key of Mom IV
Sunday. 9.16.07 5:32 pm
I just learnt that my mother was actually in Jakarta at the time of the earthquake that occurred close to it last month. The earthquake had a magnitude of 7.5 so it was a little frightening to hear that. Looking back on our conversation, I can say with utter conviction that it’s best to absolutely forget about depending on her in times of emergency.

Describing her initial reaction to the shaking building

Mom: I could hear horrible creaking and I felt the whole building sway. And when I looked out the window, things were moving in and out of view at its edges. After about half a minute of this, I thought that I had better do something. So I called the reception desk.

Me: What?! Why didn’t you evacuate the building immediately?!

Mom: Oh, that would’ve been a little drastic, don’t you think?

On how she finally escaped to safety

Mom: So I walked out of the room and headed to the lifts.

Me: That’s dangerous! You were supposed to take the stairs!!

Mom: I did think about that. But with 16 floors between me and the ground, I decided that I would rather die comfortable in a lift than in a stairwell.

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Rarrgh Rarrrgh!
Saturday. 9.15.07 12:54 pm
I have returned.

To those among you who cursed the skies and pleaded with the gods every time you checked my blog only to find it still unchanged, I apologise for my absence. To those who didn’t, may the fleas of a thousand camels infest your armpits.

Enough of that. I shall now entertain you with live blogging from the frontlines. Because isn’t that what being part of the media generation is about? Amusing ourselves with news of war from the safety of our couches (or leather contoured executive chair with dual wheel carpet casters) miles and miles away? Yes, it’s war here right now.

WAR?, I hear you ask, pretending to be shocked while in reality you’re rubbing your hands with excitement. Yes, war. It’s the age-old battle between humans and zombies. I’m still alive, thank the gods for that. But survival has been no easy task. Hiding out in bushes, crawling under cars, noiselessly flitting from shadow to shadow. All this while being on constant alert for shambling corpses with a taste for man-sushi (or mushi as Nick Frost calls it).

Brody Heritage, 2007

It’s nerve-wracking being in this much danger for days on end. Risking my life just to get to class and work. Oh, I may be equipped with a veritable arsenal of nerf darts and balled-up socks but I still feel exposed and vulnerable with the bright bandanna on my arm practically shouting, “Come and get it! It’s a running buffet!” to the enemy. The tension is getting to me. Just yesterday, I caught someone by surprise and pelted him with darts and socks. It was only after he shrieked like a girl and ran face-first into a wall that I realised he was an innocent bystander who had unwittingly marked himself out as a zombie by wearing a bandanna around his head. That’ll teach him to dress like a twat.

Brody Heritage, 2007

I wish my boyfriend was here to give me backup. (Do you like how I casually mentioned the sudden existence of a boyfriend? It’s called a teaser, noobs.) With his military special forces training in guerrilla fighting and war strategy, we would take out the zombie faction in no time at all. But alas, he is stranded 600km away and I am left to fight the walking dead on my own.

I will be strong. I will survive. Pray for me.

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Winter in Melbourne
Saturday. 7.14.07 11:55 pm
Having a swingin' good time in Melbourne!


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Noise in the Dark
Sunday. 7.01.07 12:09 am
A noise!

Something is skritching about in the ceiling space right above my bed. Something or someone. I am not quite sure which I’d prefer it to be.

That ‘something’ could be:
  1. A rat

  2. A cat stalking a rat

  3. A dog hunting for a cat stalking a rat

  4. A giant spider

  5. A massive cockroach
To be honest, none of the above sound very attractive. Option 1 would gnaw me to death, Option 2 would claw me to death, Option 3 would maul me to death, Option 4 would poison me to death, and Option 5 would scare me to death. As you would undoubtedly have noticed, they all involve ‘death’. My death. This is most off-putting.

Wait. The noise has stopped. Maybe the something or someone has died.

Nope, there it is again. Still alive. Damn.

Right, let’s have a look at the possibilities for ‘someone’:

  1. An axe murderer

  2. A homeless student

  3. A hot guy whom my housemate kidnapped
Option 1 would murder me to death – tiny, chopped-up pieces of death. Option 2 would slit my throat in my sleep, so that he/she would be able to take my room. Option 3 would thank me for rescuing him (or at the very least, for breaking his fall when he crashes through the ceiling) by performing sexual favours. But my housemate would be enraged. And this particular housemate is in the army reserves and owns a wickedly sharp army knife. So, either (a) he would break my neck with his dragon ninja training from the army; or (b) he would stab me to death. Option 3’s no good either then. In fact, none of the ‘someone’ options are any good since I again end up dead in all of them.

Ooh, the noise has changed. It’s not a skritching sound anymore. More like thudding. Or knocking. Maybe it’s a code.

“H. E. L. P. M. E.”


“I. M. S. O. H. U. N. G. R. Y. T. H. A. T. I. M. G. O. I. N. G. T. O. E. A. T. Y. O. U. R. E. Y. E. B. A. L. L. S.”


“I. M. G. O. I. N. G. T. O. H. A. C. K. Y. O. U. R. L. E. G. S. O. F. F. T. H. E. N. M. A. K. E. Y. O. U. E. A. T. Y. O. U. R. E. Y. E. B. A. L. L. S.”

Oh god.

//I’m covering my ears! LA LA LA LA LA!!! I can’t hear you, I can’t hear you!//

The night promises to be fraught with suspense and danger. Perhaps I should go to sleep clutching the KNIFE! point-up just in case something or someone falls through the ceiling. Hopefully it/he/she will be cooperative enough to kindly impale itself to death.*

I wasn’t even aware that accessible space exists above my ceiling. Why is it even there in the first place? Mark my words, no good can come of this.

* Death that's not mine is perfectly acceptable.

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