Wednesday, 10 March 2010

It's Only Just March

I feel like Beatrice Lacey. Cast in Glee. Wishing this episode was more like The Hills than Bold & the Beautiful. Waiting around like Anne Boleyn knowing I would be safer as a turtle. So bored with my alter ego of Ellen Page I mask it with that chick in some book I just read.

Dribble that manages to sum up everything in my head perfectly.

London round 2, pt.1

No BS, I woke up to a documentary on the sun. It was my first morning in London and exactly what I needed. A Cullen-esque little Brit telling me despite my suspicions it still existed. His eyes bulged with wonder taking pictures of it with his camera. It was a condescending look covering the points of where it existed and how important it was we had one or we'd be 'very very cold'. It was pretty clear this show was aimed at kids and the British. I turned to the BBC news where despite my email, it still hadn't hired better looking presenters. I was not impressed. It had been over 6 months.

Spending today searching for cheap, edible sushi. If I don't find anything soon.. I don't even want to entertain that thought. The sushi place across from work spoilt me. Come lunchtime it's all I think about. Sushi contains on average only 4 things. It disturbs me the amount of places that get it wrong.

My body is an amazing thing. I put it through over 30 hours of no sleep, 2 inch square space to fit in and a diet very little beyond cheese and crackers in that time and it still wants to run a marathon when I reach london. I haven't found a better way to feel as refreshed. Which is frustrating, when a less expensive and time consuming way would be nice. The only thing that can rival it is a big night out, drinking way too much. I can't begin to describe the therapeutic benefits.

It's not all good news. As soon as I treated my body to a good night sleep void of DVT and screaming babies it turned against me. I couldn't keep anything down all night. That was until I had some vegemite toast. I'd like to know how vegemite toast can cure anything. Well, admittedly not everything, but the list is growing. From back ache, PMS, heartbreak and now jet leg. It's not that good that it can cure cancer, but it does prevent it.

Thursday, 4 March 2010

Can't Read My Poker Waist

Two days until I leave for London. A well wisher at work told me about her trip last year and how the cold and long dark days of spring sucked the life out of her. But she said I’d have a great time.

I went shopping for clothes the other day but hadn’t a clue what would be suitable for London at a 2C high. Deep down I know the answer is pants. Problem is I don’t wear pants. Pictures of Lady Gaga coming through from London assure me my No Pants policy she adopted (stole) may be humanly possible at the moment. I'm still scared for Gaga is the closest thing to human I can go by.

My aversion to pants came about over a few things. Having a female body for one. When eating half a rice cracker can make us go up 2 dress sizes, squeezing into what half an hour ago was falling down around our ankles can be devastating. Not so much on the body image for me, but in being the cheapest person around. I think Warren Buffet’s house is still too big for someone in his position. And for someone who has to weigh up and justify every time whether or not to buy essential items like toilet paper at the shops, facing the idea of having to buy a whole new wardrobe is soul crushing. Skirts you can get away with a few calories either side. Dresses you can go through PMS and back in. Pants on the other hand show no mercy. Hence, no pants.