I have changed my hosting. So weird shit might be happening to the site soon. Bear with me. It'll all come good. Promise.

My new toothbrush is orange. So there.

Staggering up the stairs half a step ahead of collapse. But what an important step.

I saw a guy riding a bike while talking on his mobile phone. It took everything I had to restrain myself from sticking out a foot. Sometimes I wonder why I bother.

Good things about this sandwich place:

• They're paying me. Yay.
  
• The people are nice, even if the owners natter away in Arabic and confuse me.
  
• It's really not too terrifying.

Bad things:

• The radio. Mix 10-fucking-6.3. Do they swear to play the best songs from the 70s, 80s, 90s and today? What they really mean is that they'll play all the songs from three and a half decades that sound exactly the sodding same. Wrong, bad, ugly.

In the end, we didn't have to format. Phew! After two hours of backing up all my important things to H^m's harddrive, we just fiddled around with Partition Magic, played Pass the Free Space Parcel, and whammo: I have 200meg free on C again. Much better than 14.

Good computer. Wonderful computer. Thank you.

PS: Opinions of the Buffy/Spike sex scene on last night? Not that I actually care, but no one seems to be able to talk about anything else, and I'm starting to zombify, or something.

Hangover update: feeling better. Almost human, even. Vague, though.

Meanwhile, I'm just preparing to reformat and repartition my main harddrive. What peculiar breed of idiot am I? If you never hear from me again, you know why.

So hungover I've got the shakes and I'm really not sure the coffee helped.

I was going to go and talk to Dr Mac today. Hah.

I do, however, have to start work training. Oh DOUG.

Um... yeah.

Hungover. Oh yeah. Right here baby, that's where the pain is.

Actually, I'm not sure if I'm not still drunk. I don't think so, but I could be wrong. But my head feels about as heavy as a bowling ball. Suffering. As in, I am. I think the beer might have been a bit over the top. The gin and coke I had after that certainly was. Should have just stuck to the vodka and schnapps. And Kool Mints. Always with the Kool Mints.

Whimper. I'm going to have a shower, I think.

Underwear straight out of the dryer. It's the little things in life, yanno?

Resident Evil. Rah! Oh yeah, that was fun. Go Milla, you rock. Nicely eerie opening; got to the point I was thinking this was going to be Event Horizon all over again and I was going to hate it. But just then, *bam*, Milla transcends, kicks a dog in the head, and it was on for young and old.

Plus, some semi-acceptable man-candy with a nice character appended who unfortunately really went downhill once he got his memory back. Damn. Oh well, there's always Milla kicking zombie ass.

How much of a teeny geek do I sound here? No, please, don't answer that. This is a movie designed to bring out that part of all of us. If you've mislaid yours, you probably won't enjoy it. Sorry.

Picture this hypothetical situation. You're getting into a taxi, in which you will be the only occupant. Ignoring the environmental ramifications of that hideous waste of resources, where do you sit? In the front, with the driver, or alone in the back?

Admittedly, this is probably only an issue in places like Australia where it's an option. I mean, I gather that it's pretty much illegal to sit in the front in New York, and who'd want to pass up sitting in the back of a London Black Cab? However, it occurred to me as I just put the Male in a taxi to take him to the airport, and he leapt straight into the front. I always sit in the back. (And wear my sunglasses, and stare out the window, and pretend I'm in a movie or at least a filmclip, but I think that's really beside the point, don't you?) I just wondered who did which, and what sort of grand trends you can pick out of that, and the reasons.

Just idle curiosity, really. Not going to change my thesis topic, or anything. Although that might be easier than trying to wrestle one out of the mass of reading that is both acceptable to me and the supervisor. But at least I know he's back in the country now, since I saw him at the pub last night. At that stage, we were trying to get together enough of a kitty to get Mike to stand up and perform his Fat Bob impression, so I didn't think it would be quite right to go and say hi.

I have a dozen red tulips, and they're beautiful. I have a Male, and he's wonderful. He's also graduating at the moment.

Do you know that there appears to not be a single Aragorn fansite out there? Six billion Frodo, Legolas, and Eowyn ones (Eowyn?? She hasn't even been in the movie yet!) but no Aragorn. What are people thinking?

Actually, they're probably thinking that they're fourteen years old, and Viggo Mortensen is an icky old man. Sometimes I feel so old. Shut up, gil.

Friends read your essays. Real friends read your fanfic, even when it squicks them.

And tomorrow, I'm going to help J^e move a body.

So, Dead Man. What the fuck was that about, then?

Actually, having gathered tidbits about this movie for the past four years, I could string together some sort of sense, but I still don't really understand. Weird. Very weird. Blink-twice bizarre.

I took an etiquette quiz. Apparently, I rock - 90%. My mother would be so proud. But it's all business etiquette, and I personally think that my role in the world is to make the lives of boring business people more random and interesting. Shake their settled little worlds. Make them giggle in embarassing places. Stuff like that.

Reading Nietzsche while listening to Marilyn Manson. I'm not sure if this is a good idea or not.

"Thus spake Zarathustra, and issued forth from his cave, glowing and strong as the sun at dawn coming forth from dark mountains."

How on earth does a vegan pizza happen? I mean... buh?

It is far too easy to MST3K Star Wars. Spent most of last night lolling on J^e's bed, eating dark peppermint cream chocolate and saying things like: "Yeah, now I'm big Mister Jedi you wanna my father."

Plus: tickets to midnight preview screening of Episode II. Rah. This movie needs to be good, to help me get through until Christmas and The Two Towers.

(I'm not a total film geek. Occasionally I'm a fantasy fiction geek as well.)

Happily I stagger out of bed at whatever hour I damn well feel like on this, the first holiday morn. Lazily, yea verily, and apathetically too, I turn on the computer.

And great is my wrath when I discover I have only 2MB of transfer credit left. What the fuck can one do with 2MB? And what does one do when one has to wait until sodding Monday to get into the office and put more money on internet account?

One comes downstairs and uses the computer lab, that's what one does.

Last night was a pint of stout and catching up with old friends. For various reasons, we have our J¹ back again, though he was never physically away. I still missed him. I really did. It was hard, living last year more or less without one of my Brute Squad. Catching up will be fun. But I might do it with a bottle of schnapps and some Kool Mints, because he didn't seem to truly appreciate the stout. Not as much as me, anyway.

Me: Shakespeare while drunk! Much more interesting.
H: methinkest definitely improves comprehension of all his random analogies
Me: More serious chemical assistance might be necessary for some of his work.
H: or a big gun
H: all those words would wither in sight of gargantuan cannon
Me: "Alas, poor Yorick, I knew him- uh, actually, it's not important..."
H: Mmm. Hamlet with less rambling by Hamlet
Me: Edited at gunpoint.
H: the invention of the dot point form

It was breathtakingly beautiful, a sky to make you pause, and gasp, and stare until your eyes water and you have to blink despite not wanting to miss a second. Deep, rich blue above my head, fading into the darkness of night in one direction, and brightening to the last whispered remembrance of the sun disappeared over the hill in the other. Heavy clouds hung just above the horizon, rendered malevolently grey by the lighting, save underneath where they were hilded faintly, a counterpoint to the intense blueness of the sky. To the right, in a cerulean space free of cloud, a perfect crescent moon hung, magical.

It was a sky that made me wish for a camera, knowing that I had not the words to do it justice, that memory would never capture it, that - and this with the certainty that colours all such incidents - that I would never see a sky like that ever again.

What I need, what I really need, is a wading pool full of hundreds and thousands. Yeah. That's what I need.

"...so I nuked all six of his major cities, and then Transcended."
"How zen."

Come the revolution, fucking "letter size" paper will be first against the wall. Enough of this hippy crap. A4 all the way. Comform, bitches!

In Adelaide, a man dressed in a bikini and toting a whip tried to steal a taxi. He was taken to a psychiatric hospital. Sounds to me like he should have just been taken back to his college.

The class: Superpower Interventionism. Specifically, Vietnam.

The line: "They didn't want the nationalist ho to come to power."

The thought process: "Yeah, damn that slut spreading her filthy lies and STDs. Oh, Ho. Ho Chi Minh. Yeah. Right."

To what extent should we be allowed to do what we want?

This is getting dangerously close to arguments about rights and the protection thereof, and that's a rant for another day when I don't have reading I should be doing and can type for an hour about it. What I'm talking about is certain lifestyle choices.

Let's start with my bitching about the goth night the other day. So we all dressed up goff-like, and we got stared at, glared at, flinched away from. Why? What prompts that sort of knee-jerk recoil? Fear of the unknown? It seems to be the accepted answer, but... well, it doesn't seem to be enough to me. Need to conform, I dunno. They think we're 'weird', but do they ever stop to think how, or whether it's necessarily a bad thing?

Probably not.

I'm witnessing an on-list discussion regarding sexuality, appearances and responses. It's interesting. While I am, and appear to all the world to be, practically an old married woman, I am of the opinion that everyone is bisexual. Kinsey scale, and all that. I mean, we love people, not equipment.

(I don't think I'm going anywhere with this. Maybe I should just end it here, and go back to the Vietnam War.)

Should anyone else be bothered by any choice I make about how to live my life? Should I be bothered by anyone else's decision? Shouldn't we just be a conglomeration of people and their individual choices? The beautiful diversity of life in all its glory.

I tell you, a cynic is just a frustrated optimist.

Due to the myriad little mistakes, cock-ups, accidents, slips, things forgotten, naps taken, time wasted, knocks, bumps, and general lack of cornflakes, I would like to suggest that today has just been a rough draft, and I can try again, this time with spell-check enabled.

Please?

The Super Mario remix of Nine Inch Nails' "Closer" is the funniest thing I've heard in a long time.

I had such a good night out last night. My outfit worked first time (which never happens). There were two extremely good sets of music, and lots of little bits in between, and I spent lots of time on the dance floor. And then the walk home brought me to sad, lost hatred of mankind.

So, to the whole bloody mass of boundless human stupidity, but specifically to those who think it's OK, or a good idea, or fucking expected to spit on my friend just because he's wearing make-up, and you're drunk, and a sodding wanker:

Fuck you.

Oh so sincerely,
- Dee

I have an inner toddler. It wants to pout (I'm very good at it) and sulk and throw things, preferably at other people, but at the walls if no one suitable eventuates.

I think the answer to this is to take it out and get it drunk. That'll fix it.

I find it amusing that the first time I visit my own site every day, my CD drive boots up, and asks me if I want to play Alpha Centuari.

Today, I'm going to the Inward Bound endpoint. For the first time in my five-year college career. Could be amusing.

Inward Bound, for those who don't know, is an interesting event where we bundle all the silly fit people into a car with bags over their heads, drive them out into the wilderness in the middle of the night, and leave them there.

Unfortunately, they then run home.

Sometimes it's just that easy; one little thing happens, and suddenly today makes sense.

Finally, finally, finally - how long have I been suffering for this? - a new fantasy book actually worth the time it takes to turn the pages and devour the words.

The Curse of Chalion by Lois McMaster Bujold. I understand she's a sci-fi author, but she appears to have seen the light, and this is wonderful fantasy. Marvellous main character who I never got tired of following around. Diverse and interesting support characters, none of whom annoyed overly. Actual, like, innovative concepts, and a tight plot, and prose that reached the delightful in patches.

It's not world-changing, or jaw-dropping, or anything drastic like that. It's just nice, solid, decent fantasy, and I've been waiting so long for some of that. Thank the gods. (All five of them.)

This morning, walked past two guys, shirtless, standing absolutely still on the edge of the creek, fishing rods in hand (no, that is not a euphemism). Not something you see every day.

This afternoon, read Frederick the Great's vituperous, though elegant, attack on Machiavelli. It was, apparently, proof-read by Voltaire. You'd think he could have ironed out some of the petulant arguments. So much of it reads as: "I'm going to be a prince, and we're good, yes we are!" Should I use it in my essay, the author will be referred to as Freddy.

Head spin... dizzy... lack of food... gah!

One of the most pressing reasons to leave college is the toaster.

If I moved out, I wouldn't have to share the toaster with fuckwits who speed it up to do their stupid bloody fruit toast with careless disregard for the toast of others, which comes out going: "What a pleasant sun tan I have!"

If I moved out, I wouldn't have to worry that some git had turned the actual temperature down, when it's practically carved in stone that Thou Shalt Not Touch The Heat Dials. Another incident of happy-white toast. Bah!

If I moved out, I wouldn't be stuck with unexplained incidents of toaster malfunction, such as the conveyor going clank, or the top heater not working at all.

And what's more, if I moved out, I wouldn't have to stand around the toaster waiting for my abused toast to be spat out while trying to avoid conversations with all the aforementioned fuckwits and trying to suppress the urge to stab them with my butter knife.

Breakfast table soundbites:

• "I hate to say this about anyone, sorry, but you'd fit in really well in a boyband."
  
• "I really don't find midgets that amusing. Some people seem to think you can just put a midget in any situation and it's automatically funny, but I'm not one of them!"
  
• "Mushrooms do grow, you muppet. Not in the kitchen, though. At least, I hope not."

Reason for living in college #15:

Fantastic friends with whom you can make T-shirts. J^e, B^k and I now all have T-shirts with "WENCH" stamped on the bust, and our wench names on the back. Vindictive, Perky and Evil, respectively. They look so damn cool. We rock!

Reason for living in college #14:

Gorgeous, built, edible males wandering past your room in worn jeans and white singlets.

Sometimes I really feel like I come from a different planet from everyone else. Some people less so than others, but everyone, sometimes.

Not that this is necessarily a bad thing.

Why is this publishing the second-last, but not the last comment I enter in?

So, it's coming up to the point where I'm going to have to decide what to do with this place. My 90-day reminder notice for viscerate.com is sitting in my inbox, and I need to make a decision soon, so that I have time to move, should that be what I end up deciding to do.

It goes like this: come next year, I won't have much internet access. Much at all. I'll still be around, pottering, toiling... if they tried to cut me off altogether, I'd most-like go mad. However, will I have enough access to warrant a domain? This huge big site? And all the money I'm paying for it?

Options:

1. Renew viscerate anyway, with the cheapest bunch I can find.
   
2. Get a different domain, which could allow me to make it a cheaper bunch yet again.
   
3. Beg for hosting somewhere, and move my stuff. But after living on my own, am I sure I want to move back in with my parents?
   
4. Ditch the site, move guts and garters to blogspot, move all my fanfic junk to livejournal, and subsist. Eek.

For some reason, I hate eating at the moment. I truly, deeply begrudge the time taken to raise the food from my plate, chew, swallow. I chafe at it, wonder if I can make it shorter, leaves bits out, get out of the dining room and on with the show.

Note to self: Words are not sacred, they are not special. They are the most egalitarian of all, available to all, regardless. They are the same, common-as-muck letters joined together. They are just fucking words.

One of the trivial pleasures of Canberra is J-walking in front of the Australian Federal Police Headquarters.

Giggling-inspirational quote of the day: "I'm a writer; I give the truth scope!" (Geoff Chaucer, A Knight's Tale)

Hilarious out-of-context sentence of the day: "The Cure: playing league for Burgmann".

We've got Fat Bob on our team? Rock! With Robert Smith, we're sure to win. For starters, with that hair, no one's going to be able to get near enough to tackle him.

I don't have a life at the moment, I just have a succession of social incidents strung together with tiredness.

I think my definition of 'life' might be different to everyone else's.

Just went to see Fellowship for the fourth time. Following a tip from Meghan about the Two Towers trailer being appended now, I dragged my mother to see it for the first time. As predicted, she loved it. Lots of fun.

Maybe it's just because I've read the books since last I saw, and can now appreciate more detail and stuff, but I really picked up more, especially about Aragorn, this time through. Lots of complexity, and depth, and ye gods and little fishes, what a stunningly gorgeous character. Yes, I am changing my allegiance. This little elf-swooning girl has recalled her roots, and that she likes the guys with a bit of rough (ruff, ruff), and has become a Strider gal.

And oh my DOUG, but doesn't Two Towers look good. Oh, oh, oh. Lots of fun, lots of Aragorn, lots of development that never happened in the sodding, blind, boring, bloody books and isn't that just grand? I can hardly wait until Christmas. I wants, precious.

In the meantime, I'll just have to make do with Episode 2. There was a trailer for that too. And I'd already seen the Swoon Trailer (the one that's all Anakin and Amidala and "Oh, we mustn't!" and stuff), but this one was the Kick-Ass Trailer. Shit going down all over the place and damn! it looks good. Oh yeah. Midnight preview of that, I think.

In the LiveJournal community, there is more interest in lesbians than there is in the band Stabbing Westward.

Can't argue with that myself. Their last album really bit the big one. I'm actually surprised the difference isn't bigger.

My week away in statistics:
Hours on trains: 20
Number of relations engulfing me in effusive welcomes: 3
Easter eggs: 12
Bottles of wine by household over Easter weekend: 14
Books read: 4
Porsche-count: 3
Visions of profound, jaw-dropping, traffic-stopping male gorgeousness: 1
Mad-women on the journey home: 2

Plus!

Went to see a footy match. The Male insists that it must be termed at least 'footy', but preferably 'fuddy'. We wanted to see Essendon and Geelong, but that was a night game, so we trekked over to Docklands just in time for the kick-off of Carlton and St Kilda (I want to be a St Kilda supporter just so I can have a hat with St. K. F. C written on it). It was hilarious. Simply hilarious. Lots of random violence - yay - and people screaming abuse at anything that moved. I laughed for the entire game. Especially when the Male gave me binoculars so I could gawp at the players butts if I felt like it.

Saw movies. Gosford Park is a wonderful couple of hours of delightful British fluff. So pointless, so silly, so lovely. And Clive Owen can lounge on my bed any day. Also saw something strange and French. Ah, here we go. DOUG bless IMDB. Les Enfants du paradis. The French Gone With The Wind - long, with strange yet compelling characters and a tragic and unsatisfying ending. Good fun, if just for how commpletely batty all the characters were. But watch it, and gain some sort of new respect for mime. No, really.

Meanwhile, am back. Yess, precious. And I wants to see the Two Towers preview, I does, yesss. Just finished reading the book and am now more sure than ever that David Wenham is going to disappoint me as Faramir. He's sodding blond, for starters! But it's going to be so damn good. *bounce bounce*