I was going to have a quiet, non-alcoholic, early night. And then I drank my own weight in bourbon and coke teaching the first years how to boat-race, and got into an innuendo match.

I do still enjoy living in college. I can make it through the year ahead.

Complete inability to look down. This makes me look like I have very good posture. And an English accent. (Headbanging might just be a bad idea.)

Surely a woman as awesomely streamlined and organised as the one described in "Short skirt, long jacket" wouldn't go to the bank without her own, embossed, perfectly operational pen.

And remember, a hair-dye is for up to 24 washes, not just for Toga.

Market day, where you sign up for a dozen and one clubs you're never going to do anything with during the year, but who are giving you lots of interesting free shit anyway.

This year:
- Film group: the necessity. $40 gets you a year worth of movies. That's 200+ or so. Very much worth it, especially since the crowd is great. So responsive.
- DIRE: the ANU goth club. For many reasons, but mainly, as J^e said, because it's fun to walk up to the people that everyone else appears to be afraid of and joke with them and join their club. Besides, it was free and the President was feeling unloved.
- Camarilla Australia: the Vampire: the Masquerade club. I didn't actually join per se, but put my name down so that they can keep playing on campus. I believe in freedom of role-playing. Plus I might come along and have a go if I have time. Time? What's that?
- U27: Under 27 arts group. El-cheapo theatre tickets and stuff. Rock. And free. Plus they gave us a little jar of lollies and a bag of other goodies.
- LSS: Law students' society. Well, I didn't join, J^e did. I was going to, just to get the fun free stuff, but I couldn't reconcile myself and my philosophical objections to joining anything that might, however wrongfully, label me as a law student.
- Liberal Club: Yes, political affiliation. Because that is my main political affiliation, but mainly because if we joined, they gave us cool stickers that say things like: "Socialism sucks" and "Rack off lefty scum". And that's what a girl needs.
- And finally, the Egyptian Dance club. Because I'm gonna learn to belly-dance, yo. Or something.

Now I have to go and dye my hair and seriously relax.

I'm seriously too old for this shit.

The next time I see someone wearing something with "FCUK" on it, I will do Bad Things to them.

Why didn't anyone tell me about this earlier. This article is hilarious. I'll see if I can actually arrange it for next Australia Day. That way, it would only be a short trip to go and visit all my northern hemisphere online pals.

The girl downstairs is cranking up some dancey country crap stuff. I have a playlist called GAAF. This is war.

Damn, I am far too old to be doing this whole O-week thing again. There are all these damn first years who are all so young and silly and I have to learn their damn names and, like, show an interest.

Bugger all that for a game of soldiers.

Current plan for O-week:
- Tonight: Tutor crawl. Sit in my room playing very loud, very angry-goth music and frighten first years.
- Tuesday: Hawaiian bar night. Dance a lot and show 'em how it's done.
- Wednesday: Toga. Wear a black net toga and dog collar and scare them some more.
- Thursday: Scowl. All day.
- Friday: Go to film group and see The Fast and the Furious.
- Saturday: Retro bar night. This one is almost too easy.

Seriously, am I turning into a bitter and twisted old woman at the age of 21? Is this what five years of college does to you? Am I actually a scientific experiment? More in the next exciting episode. Or maybe not.

Much to my dismay, I am not an Oompa Loompa. Someone told me so. They were very harsh about it. You'd think they could let me down gracefully.

Redesigned the domain section as well. Didn't really change any of the content, but it's pretty and non-pink now. One of these days I'll say something witty again.

My Friday Five: better late than never?

1. Hey, baby, what's your sign? Do you think it fits you pretty well? Gemini. Well... yeah. When people talk about Gemini's, they tend to toss around phrases like: "Brilliant, but flighty." And words like "fickle" and "two-faced". Given to pretense. Creative. Things like that. Mostly, it fits.
2. What's the worst birthday gift you've ever received? Nothing springs immediately to mind. At the moment I'm a bit pissed off about this year's birthday present, because it's a laptop that isn't working for me, and hence I'm getting very annoyed at it. But when it gets fixed, I'll be a happy little camper.
3. What's the best birthday gift you've ever received? Hard to say, really. The stereo was a good present. As was the computer. But for the actual feel-good factor, last year's combined college present, which included a huge swathe of things, but it was the thought and effort that had gone into the organisation, and the obviously large number of people who contributed, that made it such a good present.
4. What's the best way you've celebrated your birthday thus far? My first year, the year I turned 18. It involved a chocolate cake, a room full of balloons, and a great deal of random behaviour. It was just good fun, nothing fancy, just shinanigans in my room.
5. What are your plans for this weekend? Sleep, sleep and more sleep. Plus, I finish work, and there are 117 first years to meet. Hah!

My life is, in this fifteen-minute space, defined by:

• Complete and utter inability to download Linkin Park's "In The End" due to fascists.
  
• Craving for a McFlurry.
  
• The smell of rotting greenery. I think it's time I bowed to pressure and got rid of my Valentine's roses.

Me: I'm still a little tipsy.
G: i'm very tipsy i had the last beer (not including the one that gavan open then resealed
Me: you cvan reseal a bear?
G: no
Me: I'm just going to leave that sentence as the work of drunken art that it is.

Drunk, drunk, bored, sleepy, exhausted and drunk.

Wondering how the hell I'm supposed to (a) work and (b) be pleasant and welcoming to first years tomorrow when I doubt I'm going to wake up until 4pm on Monday.

I am Dee, watch me yawn.

"Where'd you get that?"
Spoils of war.

"Of war?"
Yes. I killed a man and took it from his still-warm corpse. I was going to take his ears too, but the elephant cavalry arrived and I had to retreat.

"What??"
I found it while cleaning.

I am back. The Male has left, unfortunately, and I probably won't get to see him again for at least a month. Cleaning continues to dominate my time, and it's shitting me off. But that all ends on Sunday. I'm not sure I'm ready for this influx of new people, this plethora of first years that is just about to descend upon my head.

Fun is having FTP back. And hence I have started on some redesigns. First up, the personal section. Pretty pictures of me and all. Or something. I think my monitor is set lower than every other monitor in the world; the pictures are supposed to blend to black, but don't do it on the monitors downstairs.

It's not that I don't have anything to say, because lots of amusing and interesting things are currently happening around college, like the fact that there is no MTT (Mystery Twelfth Tutor) in college, and they seem to expect me to take up the pastoral side of it. Buh?

But in any case, the reason I'm not saying anything these days is sudden Advent of Boyfriend. Yes, the Male suddenly arrived. On Valentine's Day. Is the boy good or is the boy good?

So, until my time stops being divided almost exclusively between work and him, I'm afraid I won't be saying much here. In the meantime, listen to Rob Zombie. I will be. Rah.

Yanno, sometimes I feel like a bit of an unnecessary blogger. I don't really give lots of interesting/unusual links. Or many at all, actually. I don't write a journal, dredging the dregs of my soul onto the page. I haven't suffered, nor am I currently suffering, any sort of soul-destroying, life-altering, enlightenment-granting crisis from which I can bestow wisdom. I don't create infectious memes, nor even continue most of them. I don't have a cam, nor to I really belong to a blogger circle of any sort. I don't even display my interesting musical taste, like Melantha.

All I've got is random oddity, useless navel-gazing and the occasional swearword-riddled political rant. And hayfever.

Dee ranteth politically. Take cover.

All right, so there's this stupid bint in The Australian today, writing about the prisoners in Camp X-Ray. (For those with their heads under rocks - I wish I was with you - Camp X-Ray is in Cuba, and is where the US is stashing their Afghani prisoners, in conditions that don't quite measure up to the Geneva Convention.) Now, this is an issue about which simply opening your mouth is a good way to get me to argue with you. The right-wing vigilante hardliners annoy me. The bleeding-heart humanitarians annoy me. But this silly woman practically made me froth with wrath right into my cornflakes. I simply can't believe she's missed the point so entirely.

To details. She was arguing that, from a legal and occasionally logical standpoint, these terrorist prisoners don't have any rights in general or under the Geneva convention. She trots out a lot of evidence (and even some 'evidence' - quotation marks indicating dubious nature) and she might even be right. I really don't give a shit. That's not the point.

The point is not whether they should be classed as true POWs because of the methods they use and intentions they have. The point is about laying any sort of claim to superiority, to the right to persecute anyone in some other part of the world. The United States makes those claims. It claims to be superior, to have the right to be the world's watchdog, its big brother, its protector. If it wants it, it bloody well has to act like it deserves it. That means not pouting, saying "They would have done it", hiding behind legalistic nitpickings of wording or trying to wangle their way out of their fucking responsibilities. Jesus. Grow up!

(Note, here, that I really don't give a flying fuck about human rights, about "building a better world" or any of that tripe. But on that note, the hypocrisy is mind-boggling. Listen, American wankers: when you start bleating about "human rights", you don't get to redefine 'human' to suit your purposes. After all, in mid-20th-century Germany, Jews weren't human, so who really gave a damn about their rights. Are we getting the fucking point yet??)

To round off this uber-rant, I'd like to pick on a few more of the twit's points. Specifically, her problems with sections 17 (under which prisoners are not allowed to be interrogated) and 118 (under which they are repatriated) of the Convention. Her issues with sections are precisely the same as the issues with them in any normal conflict. In any conflict, you'd like to interrogate your prisoners to find out what the enemy's intending. In any conflict, you don't want to let the soldiers go back to the armies they came from. But it's the rules of engagement and that's why there's a fucking Geneva Convention in the first place. You start violating it for "special cases" and pretty soon everything's a "special case" and why bother having the stupid document anyway.

Return to refrain: Grow up, America. Reconcile your role. You can't do precisely as you please and try to be the leader of the world. Either you accept your responsibilities, or you waive your rights. Every teenager in the world realises this eventually. It's time you did too.

I have connection. In fact, I have full and complete connection. I have AIM, and FTP, and telnet, and a million and one other interesting things. I can download music at more than 1.5k/sec. I feel all-powerful. And "Spank My Booty" is playing. This is a sign. Oh yes it is.

It's a sign I need Meghan to come online so we can do a fanfic writing session, is what it is. Plus, it's a sign that you should message me right now. Yes, right now.

When I grow up, I want to be a cam girl. This will require getting a webcam and having enough money to have it connected. Hah!

Plus, in other news, there are way too many attractive, interesting males out there. (Don't let this go to your head.)

Most of the day spent writing "BC" on things, marking them as Burgmann property, resisting the impulse to start writing things like "Help! Help!" and "This pillow protector is the plaything of Satan".

I did this amidst piles of linen so tall they loomed. If they made a movie called "Dark Laundromat", it would look like that. And probably be directed by David Lynch, or maybe Terry Gilliam.

I blame the fumes from the permanent marker for all this. But ask yourself: How have I made the lives of others more random today?

They're changing all the single beds, so after dinner, led by Ugg, we took to the common room, and built the world's biggest cubby, like a great big mattress house of cards. It had a tunnel leading from the cubby to the bar. There was a pile of mattresses for flipping onto. After many discussions on 'structural integrity' and a couple of cave-ins, we all giggled a lot, and settled down to watch Tank Girl. (We certainly built the television into the cubby. What do you think we are?) The staff showed up half-way through, and instead of telling us off like we thought they might, they came in and joined us.

I love living at college.

The page was called How to write Darkly Gothic Poetry, but I think "Grab that thesaurus and rape it" is good advise for just about anything, really. Live by it.

PS: I wrote a darkly gothic poem. I think I could do better with five minutes violating a thesaurus, but I'm a sucker for these online thingy generators.

Alone in Darkness

the night falls without a sound, lost are we.
the salvation for which you sacrifice yourself
flares once, then dies,
smothered by a velvet ebon nothingness.
all hope must sicken and die.

your soul thrives no more.
how could you tear us asunder?
lost souls surround us, crying,
save us from ourselves.

You'd think that instead of saying, "Connection has timed out", my computer could try saying something more useful and accurate like: "Hey, nitwit, you've unplugged the network cable."

See, what I need is total nippular awareness. (It's early in the morning, I'm high on I Eat Cannibal bouncy goodness, yes, I'm making up words. But back to the nipples...) See, that way I'd always know where the buggers were, and I could tell if I was flashing something I really shouldn't be. This is what comes of not having enough cleavage to confidently hold up your dress.

Tonight: conversation in Coles overheard by random guy who now thinks I'm insane - yes, the legend spreads; first decent cup of coffee since New Years; garlic bread and pasta; hysterical giggling and elf eyes; Amadeus well and truly rocking me. Goth nights are like no girl's night out Gina Jeffreys ever imagined.

I could handle a guy who wore skin-tight mesh shirts. Oh boy, could I handle him.

Total shower time: 30 mins
- Getting the water temperature/pressure/direction just right: 5 mins
- Singing/dancing/thinking/having conversation with person in next stall: 10 mins
- Actual ablutions: 3 mins
- Standing under hot water dreading the cold air: 7 mins
- Conversations on way back to room: 5 mins

I jumpeth bandwagons. Sproing! (Translation: Here's my Friday Five.)

1. What's the most romantic thing you've ever done for someone else? Arranged a night at the most decadent, gorgeous, first-class hotel in Canberra, and dinner beforehand.

2. What are your erogenous zones? Is it cliche to suggest the mind? I'm mostly choosing not to answer this for various reasons. But I will state that I'm a big fan of skin-on-skin in general, and over my back in particular.

3. How old were you the first time you had sex? Care to expound? Um... virgin. Yes, 21 and virgin. Yes, long-term boyfriend who I love dearly and virgin. I will not expound; this is my business. But I'm certainly not ashamed or bothered about it.

4. What's the most unusual place you've ever had sex? Given my response to question 3, I believe I may safely skip this one.

5. Do you have plans for Valentine's Day or is it just another Thursday? Well, that really depends on where the Male is. If he makes it up to Canberra, it's a great excuse for a wonderful dinner and other fun things. In general, it's just another Thursday. I am the most unromantic girl in the world, possibly. I don't even remember our anniversary. Mind you, I have an excuse now, since there's three of them. And after three years, the Male has given up remembering them too, since whenever he did, I'd just blink and go: "Oh, really? Cool."

That said, I think having a day purely for remembering romance encourages you to forget it for the rest of the year. Stupid. Have romance all year and fuck Hallmark.

Dear sweet heavenly-descended beings. For the first time since first year my life resembles a soap-opera. And though I am faintly smug about the opportunity to keep up with my far more glamorous hostee, I really don't relish this return to melodrama.

Let's start this from the top, shall we?

Working bar=boring. First element. Second element is the fact that me=honest and open to a bit of fun. In a normal college atmosphere, these elements do not catastrophe make. Normal college atmosphere does not include a table full of first years. This particular table included one fellow wearing a VB T-shirt, who I would later learn was called, I think, Antonio. I kid you not.

Antonio comes up to the bar as I try to figure out the plotline of my latest fic effort, and says that the other guys are daring him to ask me for my number. Like I said, I'm honest and open to fun. I laugh, write it down, and hand it over.

Someone with more experience at being a girl than me tell me: Did I send a false message? Because he came to talk to me again, and knocked on the bar door after closing to ask when I worked there again. I felt uncomfortable. It was all innocuous, though, and no real reason to bust in and say: "Look, buddy, I have a gorgeous, wonderful boyfriend, so you're nice and all, but bugger off."

Of course, I wouldn't actually use the word 'buddy'. I might use 'sweetheart', but there are depths to which even I will not sink.

The Brute Squad are no help at all. They think I should string him along and use him cruelly. All because he lives in Johns, next door. I think I'll just not answer the phone any more. Though that's going to be tricky, considering the Male is back from overseas and wanting to talk to me.

Fuck! (Whimper.) I need a 'taken' stamp. Maybe I should just get married.

That's a bit drastic.

Prompted by H^m, I think I'll have a vowel party. Come as your favourite vowel.

(A guy just rode past my door on a unicycle. Welcome back to college.)

Setting up my room to be pretty is fun. It won't last beyond living in it, and if anyone lives in their room, I do. I live in it so hard I'm practically leaking out the cracks.

(Don't ask, I have no idea what I'm saying.)

At the moment, all my stuffed toys (eleven - count 'em, I just did - if you include the two cushion animals) are posed in the armchair facing the open door, in a family-photo sort of shot. Since this is my room, also included in the 'family' is the gorgeous red sparkly star cushion J^e made me. And Confucius the panda is wearing my beanie. And there's my whip. In fact, the whip is being held by a little teddy-bear dressed up as a princess who I called 'the D Bear' after the wonderful goddess who gave her to me.

J² once told me teddy-bears couldn't be female. I think they can be, especially if they're dominatrixes. Dominatrices?

You know you've been involved with too much X-Men media when you're driving along and think it's terribly comment-worthy to note that Scott Street meets Logan Street.

Ahem.

Hi, all. I'm back in dreay, cold, wet, horrible Canberra. I want to go back to Queensland where it's warm. Mind you, this weather is probably my fault. Due to various packing concerns, I had to wear the Rain Shoes. And since there were stupid Americans in my room and I couldn't get to my stuff, I've been wearing the Rain Shoes for the past two days as well.

So, sorry, fellow Canberrans. But never fear; I'm back in my room, the red shoes have gone far into the back of the cupboard, and tomorrow I will wear my proper shoes.

It's good to be home.

Once again, it might be a while until you hear from me again. I know this is going to make life bleak. But I like to think that you'll all soldier on and make the world a more random place in my absence.

Yes, I'm blathering.

I fly out of Gladstone tomorrow morning heading back to college. Arranging computer and connection may take time.

I suppose I should pack now.

Are Creed only capable of producing heavy, weighty, emotional ballads? Blah.

The wedding was beautiful. Nardia was stunningly beautiful. Justin was stunned. It was simply lovely. And we bridesmaids had fun, rampaging through the mall with stunning hair and make-up, wearing grotty old shorts and shirts, and terrorising, calming and dressing the nervous bride.

It was wonderful. And I'm slowly coming to the realisation that two of my best friends are now married. To each other.

And afterwards, while the happy couple gallivanted around getting photos taken in improbable poses, the rest of the bridal party swigged Sovereigns (It's all sport!) and shouted coarse encouragement.