The Postman is a Bastard

This is the video I am currently watching at work. He may not look like it, but the host is a big ol' barrel of laughs (not). Do you remember in the playground when every sentence that came out of your mouth ended in '...not!' ? Those were the days. The monkey bar days. The chip bark playground days. The sharpie graffitied green slide days. It was all so simple back then. Nobody cared if you wore a legionnaires cap. I drew pokemon for fun.

Today it is really pouring down outside. To be honest I quite enjoyed the walk to work (replacing sparkly flats with docs) despite the bitter cold and the cars driving too close to the gutter and raining gallons of water down upon me...

I am currently despairing that I will never get to the Spring Hill post office to collect the two parcels that the post man did not think appropriate to leave on my verandah (or even front stairs in the rain like he normally does ((the postman is a bastard))) because it means literally rising before the sun to get there and back in time to get ready for, and catch the train to, work.

But I have to keep it in perspective: all this is nothing compared to my soul crushing loneliness :D

On Trains

It is like this: obese people can be divided into two categories. The first of these is the type of fatty that is embarrassed, and unhappy about their weight and sits apologetically next to you on the train, trying to keep as much fat away from you as they can. The second type of fatty is embarrassed, and unhappy about their weight, and so, sits defensively next to you on the train, spreading their legs a little and taking up more space so you know not to mess with this fatty and that this fatty has as much right to sit down on the train as you. As is the way of the self-righteous, there is something about this kind of person that makes you want to wring their fat neck, or dump a load of fresh donuts onto the ground and derisively stamp them into the carpet of the train to see if they cry.

In the future all cats will be able to talk

Sometimes I like to imagine what life would be like if my cats were more like human children and could talk and tell me what troubles them and what they like. I imagine whole days spent blowing raspberries on their tummies with them giggling away and telling me how much they love me and how that dry food is horrible Liz and do not feed it to me anymore please. I can almost hear what a kitten's giggle sounds like...

On cats and current affairs

It never ceases to amaze me just how many sources of irritation there are in my life. Today for example I missed the cat's bowl after having stumbled out of bed at the ungodly hour of six o'clock, and slopped a mess of the gelatinous fish guts on the floor; I didn't sleep well last night because the baby cat jumped on my head then proceeded to move every item that was sitting on my dresser onto the floor by way of chasing it until it fell off the edge in a loud fashion; my other cat is bordering on obesity and is a rare sight at the house, most likely because one or several people are frequently feeding him, intravenously I like to think (If I ever get my paws on them..). There was a strange man at the train station this morning who got it into his head that he was going to stare at me. The strange part about him was that he did not look very strange at all, but was wearing a pink pair of feminen-looking thongs. There may have been a story to him but I didn't ask and he didn't tell, but neither of these facts discontinued his staring at me.

Today I have effectively sent variations on the same email to a man six times who replies with "Thanks" but half an hour later replies with something interchangeable with and equally as baffling as "From the phone bill I will need also the pair pages otherwise I couldn’t quote." Most nights I am home alone while housemate one is at work and housemate two is having a social life and I sit in front of housemate two's television and watch Office Space and eat a banana that hasn't been stolen by the possums that live in the roof. Sometimes I think how alike my life is to the story and how very much I would that I could destroy the pc load letter spewing nazi fuck printer that I have spent a very close and personal few years with.

In all likelihood I will probably be at this same desk in five years thinking about how I will go home that night and watch Office Space and compare my life to it. "I was a pussy five years ago and I am a pussy now," I will think to myself. There is nothing distinctly bad about my job - I am paid well and treated with respect and the staff are invariably kind and caring people - I just hate working.

I wonder sometimes if I was meant to, instead, go out and get myself pregnant four years ago (at the tender age of 16) and be on shows like A Current Affair with my friend Tamantha who has an eyebrow piercing and a bub in one hand with a fag in the other. We would complain that the government does not give us enough money then we would go home and tell all our friends how we were on the telly. I am from Queensland after all and this stinking heat has a tendency to breed a certain type of person.