The World According To Me

I have missed all possible episodes (2) of 'Farmer Wants A Wife' and now I won't be able to watch it at all. Don't judge me for wanting to.

I want to live in a cosy apartment by myself and have everything I need within reach of the sofa. I want to live in a cosy apartment by myself and have my whole home heated, negating the need to turn on the electric blanket on my bed two hours prior and run the gauntlet from overheated lounge room to bed-warmed-on-one-side-only through the freezing house when I want to go to sleep.

It is nice to hear the message tone on my phone beep nowadays. There is a 65% chance the text is from a boy in Adelaide and if so, there is a 80% chance the content could be described as 'sweet' or 'interested'. If the message is received after 9pm on a weekend then there is a 97% chance that said content could be described as 'reflective', 'flirty' or 'hopeful'. On a mostly unrelated note I have booked flights to go back to Adelaide in 6 weeks time for another mini holiday.

I posted here a few weeks ago about how slobbish one of my housemates was. I was angry. I took the post down a couple of days later. A couple of days after that we had a booked-in, sit-down 'house meeting' where over wine I called her a slob and she called me moody and now we're the best of friends again. She is coming to Adelaide with me.

I am booked in to have a fitness assessment with a personal trainer on Saturday morning. As described to a friend in an e-mail, I need a "massive kick to the box" to get me back on the wagon. I desperately want to look and feel better this summer than summers past. Desperately.

I like using the word 'box'. Don't judge me for doing so.

If one has 'feelings' (what are they again?) for a boy with whom one has made the sex with on a number of occasions and thinks one actually has a connection with and then said boy wants some advice and warm soothing words because he's accidentally going to become a dad and is scared it is perfectly acceptable for one to tell him he is a dirty whore and to get your fucking hand off my leg while you tell me about your impending parenthood, fuck you. It is then required that as one walks out of the bar with a head full of wine stemming drunken tears while muttering 'I can't believe I held out for him' that your best friend puts her arm around your shoulders, makes clucking noises and declares that you are far too good for him anyway. Even if deep down you know that you are not good enough and that is precisely the problem.

I want to go to Spain.

Riddle me this - why the fuck would I accept a friend request on Facebook from an ex-boyfriend who had done the dirty on me and I have had absolutely no contact with since we broke up (aside from screening calls) and do not ever want to hear from again? In the event that he is reading this blog, which I am fairly certain he does: Fuck off and leave me well alone, yeah?

I like the taste of chardonnay too, too much and this disappoints me. Why can't I like drinking a slightly non-bogan wine, say a Sauvignon Blanc or a Pinot Gris?

The answer, my blogfriends, is that as much as I hate it, I am more than a little bit of a bogan.

If all was right in the world I would be having a baby this week. Not all is right in the world.

I am booked in to have a sore, probably infected, wisdom tooth pulled tomorrow. In the chair. I only go to the dentist when I can eat no longer, but fear of pain does not influence my decision. Fear of having my bank account emptied rules it.

The reason I don't take my car to the mechanic as often as I should is based on the same reasoning.

One thing I love about winter is observing the obsession that Agnes and Esme have with the gas heater in the lounge room. They jostle for the best position and start out like snuggly little kitty-loaves, paws tucked in and tail wrapped firmly around, but as they get warmer they stretch into the most wonderful positions. Esme does one on her back, with all fours in the air, not a care in the world . As they get warmer they get more pliable and placid. By 9pm I can arrange Agnes like a doll. It is most fun.

I am not enjoying my job.

I have cooked 'balanced' meals almost every night for the past week. Except for Friday, when I ate warm bread and yoghurt based dips. It floated in my belly atop the wine. How's that for a curdling visual.

When I walked to work this morning the air was so cold and sharp it felt like it was slicing through my throat. I took in the deepest breaths I could and it was the most alive I have felt in a long time.

# posted by Kymmy : 12:19 pm