Goes Bang Bang Bang till My Feet Do The Same

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These past few weeks have brought some very good stuff, some pretty bad stuff, and some really good news with it.
At the end of the first week I was tired, worn out and sick. The dubious diet of veggies and fruit that I had put myself on was no hit, although my weight did stoop as anticipated. Unfortunately, so did my health and my energy level, and I guess in the end I’d rather be a happy chubster than a svelte sicko. I spent the 3-day weekend in my room, playing new electronica from Dave while drinking tea and reading “Self-Loathing for Beginners”, a book that frequently triggered a sickly chuckle from my sore throat, sending the mucus up and down in a ticklish way. Every laughter ended with me leaning over the bed, coughing heavily in attempts to clear the airways from all the bile that impeded my breathing. It was sexy, but I didn’t quite feel like the epitome of vibrant health and beauty.

Susana moved out a week ago and got on a plane to Mexico. Paule was next in line, leaving my life last Sunday. There goes my family in Sydney, and the quest for a new flatmate immediately began.
After having conducted numerous interviews with random folks all desperately looking for something as basic as a place to live, Mikey and I settled on a cool basketball-playing girl named Vanessa whom I think will work out just fine in our little household. Frankly, I’m just happy I don’t have to sit through any more of those wretched interviews. When Vanessa sat in our couch talking about why she was a great flatmate, I finally just pointed to her and said to Mikey:
“She’s my favorite out of the ones we’ve seen so far. Can we just choose her?”
I felt sort of bad for talking about her as if she was a horse we were considering buying, but I was even more fed up with the whole hugger-muggery around the interviews. Mikey agreed Vanessa was the best one (although I guess I didn’t really give him much choice considering the fact that she was sitting right there), and just like that we had a new flatmate, and I no longer had a thousand interviews filling up every non-working hour of the day.

Tip of the day: If you ever find yourself in a moment of cock-eyed pretentiousness, you could always go and rent “La Dolce Vita” and try your darnest to figure out how on Earth that movie won the Golden Palm along with a bunch of Oscars.
I hate it when the classics let me down, yet this seems to be the case more often than not. At a house warming party that I stupidly attended last weekend despite my illness, I perused the book case like I always do when the company isn’t fascinating enough for a few moments. I found a Film Guide, and nodded approvingly with its review of the movie:
“ nearly 3 hours of Fellini’s relentlessly enigmatic, non-committal approach leaves you wishing for something more than poignant imagery and moody, self-obsessed characters.”
Touché.

My search for a php-programmer who would be able to help me create a website without charging me a fortune an hour was resumed when the last guy who claimed he could help me ended up changing his mind on something as important as the payment plan. Bummed and tired of searching for the right programmer, I thought I’d put this mission aside and worry about it later, but then an orange flash in my gmail-window alerted me to a message from someone, and it turned out to be a Chinese guy named Charlie who had contacted me months back when I had posted an ad looking for a programmer on gumtree.com.au. Back then he was still in China, and I had explained that I would need to sit down in person with the programmer in question, so unfortunately he wouldn’t be of help to me from another continent. Now, however, Charlie had been in Sydney for 6 weeks, and decided to see if I was still looking for someone to help me. The timing was obviously perfect, and when I asked him for his rates, he said he just wanted this job to build his resume, so he would charge between $15-$50 a week. Charlie, my benison.
We met up and talked things over, and I paid Charlie $50 in advance with the promise of a substantially larger bonus once the company starts to generate money.

I’m finding new skills in areas where I thought none were present, this time in pool; I sank 4 balls when breaking the other night. I went on to clear the table off my balls, but then missed a shot on the 8-ball, which allowed Dave to play a few shots before I finally took home the glory. Dave is a far better player than me, and we both know it, so it was with great pleasure I repeatedly reminded him that only a really good player could foozle four balls down their little pockets in one shot. Dave in turn reminded me that even though this particular night ended 2-2, he had beaten me when we played some drunken games at Zanzibar the previous weekend, so he was still ahead. “Yes, but did you ever put down four balls in one shot, Dave darling? No? Just checking.”
If you sense that I am a sore winner, that’s only partly accurate; I’m a good winner, except when my accomplishments are far beyond what I or anyone else expect from me.
I mean, 4 balls in one shot from a novice like myself? Amazing stuff, just amazing. It must be recognized for what it is.

If you remember me mentioning a proposed date with a certain Glenn, I’d be happy to confirm that your brain cells are successfully connecting and retrieving data from your memory bank. It’s always nice to know that the hippocampus is operating as it should.
I did indeed attend the date, and was pleased to find that my memory of Glenn’s attractive appearance was spot on, which is remarkable considering the quantities of alcohol in my system at the time this image was stored in my brain.
We had what I like to call a ‘successful date’, and we’ve been meeting up a few times since, all of which has been fun and good. I think this is called “seeing” someone, but I can’t be sure. Either way, I’m enjoying it a fair bit, as I should.

I resumed running, at least for three days. As soon as my shin was better, illness stepped in as a new obstacle between me and shape, a pair that should never have been broken up in the first place. Once I was feeling good enough to go to work, however, I decided to go for a slow, careful run to finally put an end to the long exercise hiatus. The last hours at work I was giddy with anticipation, and when the clock turned 3.30 I went home and immediately laced up my shoes, equipped myself with the essential mp3-player and headed out. Oh the glory! I made sure to minimize the impact by running almost exclusively on grass or dirt, treating my shin as a princess, ‘cause that’s what you are, a gem, yes you’re a superstar! Nothing nasty flared up, and after my run I laid down in the grass and did crunches and stretched, elated in a way only freshly released endorphins can make me.
The next day I noticed a mild sensitivity in my shin after the run, and by the third day my post-exercise moments were filled with deep distress; the goddamn shin splint was back. Now I’m icing it twice a day, try to not put any stress on it, and look forward to another 2-3 weeks of fat storage. Hi, my name is Anna, and I’m a recovering fatso.
Ugh.

The legend of my fantastical pizza swept over the city like a whisper, and everyone wanted a piece of the goodness, so last Saturday I invited Jett to share the yumminess with me. Jett is not quite as cool as Johan, and was therefore rather skeptical to my suggested pizza toppings. Tuna? he asked incredulously, but looked far more unconvinced when I claimed banana had to go on top of that, together with the more common toppings mushrooms and cheese. Still, Jett deserves some cred for not opposing the idea and refusing such culinary madness altogether, and when we finally started eating he didn’t look displeased with the get-together that was taking place inside his mouth. He said he liked it, and it’s possible that he actually meant it.

A few weeks ago, while walking down King Street in Newtown with Dave, I ran into Emily, a cool chick from my old job at the book warehouse. I chatted with her for a short while, and before we parted I made sure to take her number, promising I'd give her a ring sometime soon to catch up. I meant it when I said it, still I kept forgetting, as I am of a forgetful and scattered nature.
But then a few days ago, as I was about to whimper over the absolute lack of female friends in my life, I thought of the one lady in my phone book and sent off a text message suggesting a beer the following night, to which she enthusiastically replied a whopping ‘yes!’. We met up at Cooper’s for a few beers and laughs, and ended up having a really good time.
As much as I love spending time with my bloke friends, I have to say that Emily was a refreshing divergence from that exclusively male circle of mine.
Yay for Emily, yay for chicks! I now have a friend without a penis (maybe several, I’ll admit I haven’t checked!).
After parting with my newfound friend, I caught the train back to Central, loving every part of that short ride, in particular the fact that I didn’t pay for it (sorry, but $2.80 for two stops? Nah). As I sat there looking out the window at my beloved Sydney, with J-Live performing “Satisfied” into my eardrums, I realized that I am indeed a city girl, an insatiable urban lover. I’m almost starting to dread my departure from here already, 9 months prematurely, but who can blame me? I have a nearly perfect setup here, and knock on wood, Life is treating me so well I can’t help but wearing a perpetual smile. I love my location, love my job, love my friends. When you are the happiest person you know, you don’t want to rock the boat. Yup, I’m a happy happy gal.

The other day I went to a second hand store that I enjoy browsing from time to time, and as I stepped in I immediately saw a red jacket that simply had to be mine. The outrageously low price was $9, a bargain that even I could afford. But wait, it gets better! When I tried it on and stuck my hands in the pockets I found $4 in coins, which means all in all I ended up paying no more than $5 for a jacket that’s the coolest thing since Wacko Jacko’s torso apparel in the “Thriller”-video. Heck yeah.

Work is still so enjoyable it’s bordering on a fetish rather than an employment. Other than having to get up early in the morning, I don’t mind one single thing about my job.
“Do you find me intimidating?” my boss Kit asked me the other day.
“Of course not. How could I possibly be intimidated by someone so much shorter than me? You’re like yay tall”, I said and put my hand level with my chest, while grinning from ear to ear.
This is a bit of an exaggeration, but being Asian, Kit is rather tiny, and I get a kick out of teasing him for his unimpressive height. He and his brother Ming always ask me to take down things from the high shelves, pointing out how useful it is to have a tall person around, so I figure they can handle my jokes.
The cutest regular of them all, Chris, hasn’t been very regular at all lately, and being the most attractive of all customers, I had of course missed taking his coffee order. He came in nearly every day during my first week at the coffee shop, but then wasn’t seen for a few weeks. When he re-appeared last week I softly upbraided him for his absence, and surprised him slightly by remembering how he takes his coffee. He impressed me right back by remembering my name, and in a moment of flirtatiousness I nearly asked him out. He awkwardly mentioned an art expo, and I wanted to ask when we’d be going to it, but I figured it was a bit too forward, even for me, so I kept my lewd mouth shut, just this once. Next time he comes in I won’t be so tactful. I find life to be much more interesting if you sometimes follow your first inclination rather than wait for your good judgment to step in and take over.
Reason plus rationality equals ennui.

Saturday offered a party at Jett’s friend Kevin’s place, which happened to be only a few blocks away from my apartment. After having had a burrito dinner at Crown Street with soon-to-depart Paule and Mikey’s girlfriend Ruth, I went home to change for the party. I looked at the Facebook invitation and found that there was a themeless theme, something that appealed to me.
Because he was flying with only one suitcase, Paule has been donating the most bizarre things to me, one of which was a black clip-on tie. I used this as inspiration to my outfit, and ended up matching it with a black vest, black hat, and long, black, silken gloves. To top it off, I put on my Michael Jackson jacket, and when I headed over to the party I knew I was the coolest shit since Vanilla Ice. Hot to trot, here I come.

The house party was packed, and I was quickly and inaccurately recognized as “the American”. Jett’s Swedish mate Martin was present, and we ended up spending most of the evening together, dancing when the music was good, taking demented pictures with someone’s Polaroid camera, and talking shit in Swedish about anyone who changed the tunes from Kevin’s awesome party-mix to silly house / dance hall / techno / other crap.
The most amusing part of the party was definitely the midget who went around fake-blowing guys through their pants, her height being ideal for this, all the while claiming she wanted to become a lesbian after a girl at the party showed her nipple piercing.

Important information before reading the following rant is the fact that I was sober (Jett, don’t tell Kevin!), and therefore saw everything too crystalline to be able to do anything but tsk, tsk tsk at humanity. I found numerous females whose removal from the gene pool would effectively improve the quality of our coming generations, but since systematic elimination was not my mission this particular evening, I settled for observing them and their ridiculous antics.
The type of girls at this party are so utterly predictable, and so utterly laughable. I’m getting really sick of seeing the same thing regardless of what party I attend, providing the crowd is 25 and under. All the girls gyrate their hips like drunk strippers if a guy happens to look their way, their bodies just barely covered by the dangerously short dress (or is it a long sweater?).
Really? You’re thrusting your crotch against your girlfriend in a pseudo-lesbian moment to get that guy’s attention? Shocker! I’ve never seen anything like that before, and surely it’s a first for the guy as well. Good on ya’ for being so innovative, not to mention tasteful!
It’s a stupid, embarrassing game, indiscreetly performed and without any winners.
You are all losers, you stupid stupid girls.

But at 2 am Martin, my savior in striped button-up shirt, suggested we should blow the house party and go to a pub that showed the soccer game between Spain and Sweden, a proposition I fell for immediately. My feelings for this suggestion only grew stronger as the midget entered the kitchen, yelling once more about how she wanted to suckle on the pierced nipple of the girl previously mentioned. Fed up with the ongoing charade, I grabbed an un-opened bag of chips and urged Martin and the others to leave with me straight away.

After Spain had poked in number two in the 93rd effing minute, I was nothing but a disillusioned Swedish lass, tired and worn out from having had to listen to a deluded man’s comparison between Kafka and himself. Goddammit! I didn’t come to this pub to discuss literature, you fool. My eyes are glued to the screen for a reason, and it’s not because I’m trying to play hard to get. Shut the snap up.

On Sunday night Dave cooked me his famous curry, and we watched “Eastern Promises” by David Cronenberg, the King of Veneral Horror. I stayed the night at Glenn’s, which meant I was a wreck on Monday, but one can’t really complain when the drug of choice for fatigued humans is right at hand in excessive amounts, free of charge, all day long. Being smart, however, I chose to not drink one single cup of coffee during the whole day, which made the 8 hours of work a challenge, but also allowed me to sleep deeply for two glorious hours as soon as I got home after work. Waking up at 6 pm is always disturbing, though, and I only suffered through enough wake hours to ensure that I would stay down the whole night once I went back to my slumber.

Now I’m off to enjoy yet another movie from the Sydney Film Festival. The last one I went to was a Frenchy called “Heartbeat Detector”. I fell asleep during that one, but this time I’m bringing people with me to make sure I stay alert through the whole viewing. $17 bucks is a lot of money for an uncomfortable nap, after all.

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