Does anyone else get the feeling that the Thio homestead might maybe, just maybe, be built over some kind of fault line that's been spewing out crazy gas? Or does Hearing The Voices pass via bloodline, like royalty?


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...And I didn't scream, cry, faint, throw up, or induce any of the above in others - well, not that I know of. All in all, a cautious mark in the "win" column, methinks. Tentative fist pump!


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An ex and I once had a protracted discussion on whether, when utilising the severed arm of your foe as a weapon, you'd use the upper arm bit or the hand bit as a handle. On the one hand (heh), the logical answer seems to be to hold on to the hand-end and to use the larger, musclier part (we eventually settled on calling it "the wet end") to beat the guy around. However, there is something particularly delicious and satisfying about the thought of gripping onto the wet end and gently slapping the other guy about a bit with his own hand.

I bring this up because today, I came pretty gosh darn close to RIPPING THE ARM OFF OF A CLIENT SO I COULD BEAT THE INFURIATING, WRETCHED HARPY AROUND THE HEAD WITH IT.

But then I went down for a smoke and was hit on by a cute guy from KPMG so all is good in the world again.


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Hm. So. I have had... shall we say, a very interesting CNY weekend. More detail would prrrooobably entail my breaking some kind of obscenity-related law, and would most DEFINITELY be construed as conduct unbefitting an honourable profession, sooo... suffice to say that I had but 2 new year resolutions, and, over the course of this 4-day weekend, I have broken them both.

Did I say broken? No no nonono. I did not merely break them. I slapped those muthas down and reduced them to snivelling snot-nosed little children. My bitches, my hos, my very unequivocally shattered resolutions. They are one and the same.

But my-oh-my, did I ever have a good time. You guys, EVERY MOTHERFUCKING WEEKEND should be like this - 4 days long and eventfulness-maximus.

AKA Borders warehouse sale WOOT!



From left column to right: Paul Theroux, The Blinding Light; Sarah Waters, Affinity; James MacKillop, Myths and Legends of the Celts; Suetonius, The Twelve Caesars; Vladimir Nabokov, The Annotated Lolita; Paul Theroux, The Mosquito Coast; Paul Theroux, Dark Star Safari; Paul Theroux, The Elephanta Suite; Pulp Fiction - The Villains (various authors); Fargo (DVD); Gregory Maguire, Son of a Witch; John Updike, The Centaur; Susanna Clarke, The Ladies of Grace Adieu; The Quest of the Holy Grail (unknown author)
Rough Guides! Marrakesh (directions), Mallorca, Guatemala, First-Time Latin America, England, Thailand's Beaches and Islands

You would not believe how much I had to cull before I even came close to that stack you see there. Thankfully (sorta), TGA and I were in direct competition, snatching up $4 guidebooks and saccharine-sweetly offering to help each other hold the ones we already had in our baskets. He got Cape Town and the Dominican Republic. I blame both oversights on my height, it was really difficult to get at those books at the centre of the island of boxes while struggling with an overloaded basket of my own. Damn youse, tiny genes! *shakes fist*

We popped by the Metro sale next door and can I say holy fucking Christ those aunties are vicious. You know those documentaries where the hyenas descend upon some poor steaming carcass that's already been torn apart by lions and then proceed to rip it to teeny tinier shreds through a combination of crazed feeding and infighting? Now imagine that, but with a pile of seven dollar shoes. By the time we arrived there, the Specials booth was just a vomitous mess of empty open shoeboxes and random unmatched shoes. One would imagine that, at some point, those shoes were not only in their boxes, but paired happily with another shoe similar both in size and shape. To have gone from that benign scenario to what I saw down there on the ground requires a leap of logic that I am simply not equipped to make. I mean, what? Did these ladies approach the display like shoe-maddened Vikings, ripping box after box open and tossing conquered pairs over their shoulders? Were they overcome by the sheer joy of seven dollar shoes - I mean, seven dollar shoes! - and felt they had to express said joy by flinging the shoes ecstatically in the air? How else would you end up with a situation involving people literally on their knees, scrabbling through a pile of shoes and tissue paper shoebox liners, looking for an ugly white sandal, size 6, left side only please?

Metro sales scare me.


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My life revolves around bath time. In a valiant effort to save the earth by using less water and expending as little energy as humanly possible without actively ceasing to exist, I bathe once every 24 hours. This, as you might imagine, is a rather important determining factor when it comes to planning my day. Massage? Only within 4 hours of bath time. Gym? Eh, maybe after the massage - oil, sweat, no one's going to know the difference. Athletic sex? Can I schedule you in during the shower itself, babe?

Sometimes this makes planning my day a little difficult. Like when I am due for a shower by 5pm, but my plans take me to midnight that day. Then I have to fit another shower in before 5. This makes me crabby. And it also throws off my mental balance because when I get back at night, I feel all tired and still remarkably lemony fresh, which tempts me to hop into bed and put off showering until my allocated 24 hours are up. But then the ground-in paranoia that 24 years of parental admonitions and parental tall tale-telling will give you kicks in, and I start imagining itchy little things biting and burrowing into my pillow, and then I cannot sleep.

Maybe I should start blocking out premium spots in my daily schedule. The hours right before and after bath time are peak hours and command a higher price. One because there is more flexibility in choice of activity, and the other because I will greet you smelling like mint chocolate and Clinique Happy.


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When will you people cease with the thoughtless behaviour?? Ye gads, stop committing your crimes for JUST ONE DAY and let the girl enjoy this holiest of days in peace. And you! Your loved one will not die if he has to spend one more day in lockup. Stop calling! GOD. Is anyone suffering more than I am right now? I DON'T THINK SO.

And now they've turned the air conditioning off. OH COME ON.


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Dead journal, I know. What can I say? Happiness makes you stupid.


<3 from Hong Kong



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Spending lunch hour discussing the incredibly poor judgment shown by a pregnant acquaintance, and debating whether or not to send a hamper to the baby shower comprising some condoms, pamphlets from abortion clinics, a wire hanger, and a season pass to the coasters at Six Flags - that's which circle of hell again?


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Whee! Comp tickets are the absolute best. And the seats were pretty friggin' excellent to boot! There's nothing like the smug satisfaction that comes with knowing the people around you paid like, $150 to be where you got for free. I think it actually makes the air smell sweeter. Well... it certainly does IN CIRCLE 1, BITCHES.

The musical itself was... energetic. I briefly entertained the thought of making people call me "Killer Queen" from here on out, but figured I'd give myself a few more years before I actually went the big haired, orange skinned route. I will, however, be adopting the actual Killer Queen's charming wax-time etiquette as my own, and screeching "PULL!!!!" like a crazed clay shooter every time I'm ready for my waxer to take another strip off.

Also, I was insisting the entire way yesterday that the guy playing Khashoggi was pretty decent (i.e., I'd hit it). Dug up this photo to prove my point:



Not too shoddy, right?

Unfortunately, scrolling a bit further down the Google image search results produced this little gem:


I.. I.. I mean, I think it's the same guy? But I can't be sure, because I have gone DUMB and intermittently BLIND from the tragic mess that is his HAIR. Hello spermhead, goodbye libido! The only saving grace here is the muscly feathered guy beside the first picture of dear Neels. I will set forth to Google further.

Aaanyway, naturally after a musical there has to be singing, so later we took to the streets in my pimpin' lowrider (known in this reality as my dad's new Honda Civic Hybrid) and blasted Flo Rida's "Low" on repeat and sang like, the only line from the song we knew. But really, really loudly to make up for it. SHAWTY GOT LOW LOW LOW LOW LOW LOW LOW LOW. Whatever miniscule street cred we might've earned was, of course, cashed in almost immediately with the introductory bars of "Luka" that started up after our song ended.

If that isn't the most excellent way to spend a Tuesday ever, then I don't know what is.

P.S. Look, Jac! I used your favourite colour for the smiley face.


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