I hate those fucking 'inspirational/spiritual/what the fuck ever' quotes.

"No man or woman is worth your tears, and the one who is, won't make you cry."

This is bullshit, because if you never cry, really, you never grow. And if the person you're 'with' isn't making you grow, isn't stretching your boundaries and challenging you and keeping you moving and developing, then you're stagnating. Booooring.

"Never frown, even when you are sad, because you never know who is falling in love with your smile."

Right, so we should be catering to the masses instead of living for ourselves? This is possibly the most demeaning thing I've heard since I read Jen's copy of 'The Rules'.

Blah.

(This essay is eating my brain. It will spit me out the other end, and I will be a broken mess. Very much looking forward to this weekend, meeting Shauny, lots of alcohol, and sleeping in. In no particular order.)

quiz created by glitterevil

Which Cure single are you?

See, I think I'm "The 13th", or maybe that's just my favourite.

(It's good to know that whenever I need that Procrasti-fantastic feel, the internet is there for me.)

The great unsaid line of the day: You know, she spends a lot of time with him, for someone who apparently makes her weep bitter salt tears.

My monitor's feeling better today. That's nice.

I desperately need to redo my sidebar links because I'm hopelessly disorganised and apathetic, and people keep moving.

I did finally get the Yowie capsule open, by the way. It was really hard, though. Took me an hour and eventually I had to sneak up on it. Wasn't even really worth it; I got some sort of dinky little green and orange stream-roller. I think he's supposed to be the bad guy.

I can't get the toy out of my Yowie. *sulks*

Me: Sorry, I would have been here five minutes ago except I got hi-jacked by hobbits.
Staff Tutor: Does this happen often?

Me: With alarming frequency, actually.

Me: I'm not sure if I'll buy Fellowship in, like, October with extra footage, or wait until all three are out and get them then.
Jaffy: But then you'll have to wait three years!

Me: Yes.
Jaffy: But what if you die?!

Me: Well, then, it really won't matter, will it?
Jaffy: But it'll be a missed opportunity!

Me: Yes, but I'll be dead, and not really in any position to regret it.

So, my monitor's fucked. Yep. There's now a centimetre at the left of screen that it simply refuses to admit exists. The screen won't move any further left into it, no matter how sneakily or determinedly I push the little monitor scrolling buttons.

Sometimes this machine's really more trouble than it's worth.

People who fucking talk during movies - don't whisper to their friends, don't recite lines along, but actually out-and-out speak, just like that, "So, yeah, have you, like, seen that other movie he's in where he rolls across the table covered in flour?" during the fucking tension-filled climax of the fucking movie - won't even wait until the first set of purges; the ruthless, efficient slaughter of every single one will herald my rise to power.

The Corruptor is a fantastic movie. Shame about the first half-hour. If they'd beaten it into a bit more shape, made it as slick and impressive as the rest of it, not wild and unruly and flailing all over the place like it is, that would be a high-quality flick.

Training Day, on the other hand, needed to rethink the last half-hour. Good damn solid performances there. I was particularly impressed with Ethan Hawke, actually. Then again, his role had more meat to it. But the ending... sagged. I was cranked up, I was jumping with anticipation in the lead-up. It was solid. But then... it was average.

And that was really damn disappointing.

But I really, really mean it about the talking in movies.

Dee's lessons for life #6: Don't wear strappy shoes to dinner when dinner is roast. That just leads to gravy between the toes, and that's never good.

Plus, let me just say that 22 feels no different from 21. I'm still tired, I'm still hideously busy, and I still have an essay due on Friday. I was hoping that a birthday might miraculously change these things. It didn't.

My birthday lunch yesterday, held in the half-hour I had off from the Fantasy Writing workshop I was attending (which was really quite good) turned out somewhat surprising as the Male showed up, with a huge, gorgeous bunch of roses so dark red they're almost black. It's the most beautiful bunch of flowers I've ever seen.

Hey, look, it's a Friday Five. Now we know the procrastination's getting intense.

1. What's the last vivid dream that you remember having?
Vivid? I dunno. Vividity is relative. I had something weird involving Obi-Wan a few nights back. Maybe Monday night. Hardly surprising, really. Just subconscious reshuffling.

2. Do you have any recurring dreams?
I used to have (way back in childhood) this recurring dream about glowing white ghost snakes invading my back yard. Then I heard that if you have a dream more than once it means it's going to come true. I decided that was bollocks, but just to be on the safe side, I never had that dream ever again.

3. What's the scariest nightmare you've ever had?
I had this way back when I was about 13, and it still makes me shiver. At the time, it made me wake up gasping. Set in my primary school, where I'm playing on the oval or something like that. It's a sort of twilight, and suddenly there's no one else around. I turn around, and there's an old-style, like, 1920s car, all black, and a tall, thin man in black overcoat and hat (this was well before Dark City, let me add, but maybe my memory is adding the detail of its own accord). He holds out a hand, and I go to him, put my hand in his. And then, with a knife in his other hand, he scrapes the skin off the back of my hand like he's peeling a potato.

4. Have you ever written your dreams down or considered it? Why or why not?
Yep. In fact, they're scattered all through this site. (Oh, this one was a doozy.) I write them down because I have the weirdest dreams of anyone I know, and I like to share random shit like that. Haven't you noticed? There really is no other reason. I don't particularly think there's some deep insight to my soul, and I haven't noticed any recurring themes that aren't recurring themes in my real life, and hence highly explicable.

5. Have you ever had a lucid dream? What did you do in it?
Note: 'Lucid' being a dream in which you know you're dreaming. See, here, I have a problem. The dreams I remember upon waking, I always know I'm dreaming during. Conscious enough to commit to memory=conscious enough to realise it's a dream. So, effectively, all my dreams are lucid. Normally, I just go wth the flow. Occasionally, I say: "Enough already!" and either consciously perform an action, or decide to wake up. (And no, I've never had a fantasy dream-like moment where I go: "I'll wake up now" and then don't. Honestly, if you can't have control of your subconscious, what can you have control of?)

Every single time I watch Fellowship of the Ring, it gets to the point, right at the end, where Aragorn summarily lops the head off the Uruk-Hai - thwack! - and then sags, just a little, glad it's all over, really.

And every single time it gets to that point, I have to restrain myself from saying, quite loudly: "Buy that man a beer!"

Too Aussie for my own good, sometimes.

Opinions: Does Justice Michael Kirby make a good pin-up boy?

I mean, so he's a High Court Judge. So he's gay. So what? He's also one of Who Weekly's 25 most beautiful people, and I thought Jen was going to have kittens when she saw that. She idolises him. So now she has him and Orlando Bloom, and I have Viggo watching me with those sinful eyes, and Storm- uh, I mean, Halle Berry smirking at me from over by the door.

She might just be smirking because she's next to Lestat, though.

Bwahaha! Too goth for thou!

(I'm so easily amused.)

Post-firedrill hot chocolate is always very welcome, but always, always too hot.

"We need milk," B^k declared. "Shall we go on a quest?"

"Yes," I answered. "Let us go in search of the White Milk of Coolth."

Because everyone knows you have to go on a quest for the Adjective Noun of Proper Noun. If you're going to do it properly. And who wants to be a part of half-assed quests?

Our first setback was quick in coming. "There's no milk in the dining room!" they told us gaily, hurrying past. "It all went into the hot chocolate!"

Entirely undismayed, we changed our direction and climbed the stairs. Or mountain, whatever. Yea, verily, unto the first floor we ventured, being too lazy to go all the way to the top. Besides, you need these little sidetrips to make the story interesting.

In the 1B kitchen, we found three young adventurers already hard at work, torturing the fridge. (Well, they say they were defrosting it, but we had our doubts.)

"Is there any White Milk of Coolth?" B^k asked.

"Have you tried the dining room?" they replied.

And so we shouldered our chocolate and climbed the long weary way to the top of the mountainous stairs, there to discover... White Milk of Coolth! All hail.

But wait! This wasn't real White Milk of Coolth, I cleverly noted. It was, in fact, milk which had gone off some five days hence. Luckily, we were true and intrepid adventurers, not to be fooled by cheap imitations.

And so, with all other avenues tried and failed, we were left with no other alternative but to brave the Dragon's Lair (also known as Jen's room), sure that the Dragon would always have some White Milk of Coolth. After all, the dragons always have the good shit, right? We crept along the corridor, unto her door.

"I'm glad you're with me, Dee," B^k was heard to utter.

"God, that was awful," I responded. "That's just wrong, is what that is."

As we poured the blessed White Milk of Coolth into our hot chocolate (which, despite all the farting about, was still hot), the Dragon returned!

So we offered her some milk for her chocolate too.

(I love living in college.)

Saw advertisement on TV for Life as a House. Movie looks shit. Hayden Christensen in eye make-up looks good enough to eat. It's all good.

Saw ad on TV while being forced to watch Charmed. Rose McGowan is giggle-inducing. Program is crap. Jaw-dropping, obvious, mind-boggling, mesmerising crap. Maybe all isn't good, after all.

Jen: Football is just Ricki Lake with mouthguards.

(Um, yeah... so, what the fuck was that about, then?)

Summary of this afternoon: Gossip is fun, people are stupid, I hate being watched over my shoulder, and Viggo Mortensen is gorgeous.

Too cool not to share with the world:

TitaniaFae: You be responsible. I'll be the vicious attack-ferret. Do not fuck with us.
Nemetoma: Together we will rule the world..?
TitaniaFae: Something like that. Or you'll rule it, and I'll terrorise it. That might work.
Nemetoma: Sounds like a plan.
Nemetoma: When do we start?
TitaniaFae: How about Thursday, just after Lord of the Rings. Good for you?

"Don't hate me because I'm beautiful."
(OK, can I hate you because you're a fucking arrogant, annoying bitch, then?)

Mostly, I'm just too apathetic to be intolerant.

Mostly.

Notes from my Superpower Interventionism class today:

[At the time of the Soviet business in Afghanistan] Egypt had turned its back on Soviet support, and was buying its arms from the US. It hence had a stockpile of Soviet weapons lying around, gathering dust. The CIA bought these weapons from the Egyptians, then channelled them through Pakistan, to the Mujahadeen in Afghanistan.

And then they denied all involvement.

"Have you found a single US weapon?" they asked, innocent-eyed.

"We rock!" the Mujahadeen boasted. "We captured all our weapons from the Soviets!"

Thank you so much to all of you who have offered your sympathy and understanding regarding my father. I have spent the past few days alternately ignoring the issue, and having it completely clog my brain. It's so much, and so distant to me physically, that it really is unwieldy to deal with.

However, your well-wishes have helped me a great deal. It's so strengthening to have such a widespread, diverse, but equally caring network of friends.

Thank you so much. You're wonderful.

One little typo, and suddenly the course of history is changed, and Russia's losing the Black Sea to potential invaders.

There's nothing quite as random as spam entitled: "Herpes: Good News!"

Mum: "Well, it's not good but it could be worse."
Me: "How bad is not good?"

Mum: "They rate these things from 1 to 5, one being the best and five being the worst. He's a four."

My father is my hero.
My father is unstoppable.
My father could take on Superman one-handed.
My father has had cancerous cells discovered.
My father has to undertake a six-week course of radiation therapy.
My father is seventy and I'm still his little girl and I don't want him to die.
Ever.

Notes from my Machaivelli class today: "Politics of difference" is just a polite, academic way of saying: "Fuck off; you don't get to decide what's best for me."

Which I thoroughly agree with, I just wish the term didn't sound like such an intellectual wank.

Pay in my pocket and I hit Impact Records for my Ultimate X-Men fix. Latest issue is great, continuing what I think has been a fantastic story arc. Even if I really don't like what the stand-in artist has done to Cyclops. Everyone else looks cool. Possibly cooler, but probably not, but Cyke... argh! Make it stop!

Meandered on to Revolution, with the intention of purchasing either Placebo, or White Zombie, or maybe some NIN. Ended up coming out with Marilyn Manson's "Holy Wood", which makes it three MM albums now, and not a cent to the man himself.

I did, however, listen to some White Zombie, and also to some random German metal group called Steel Prophey. I almost killed myself laughing over that one. Pure late-80s big-hair old-skool heavy metal, complete with wailing contralto and biblical references.

Stalking down the street in leather pants and flaring black overcoat: great.

Finding ten bucks in pocket of said pants when you're skint: even better.

Nerdiest joke I've ever made:
B^k: (reading Empire article about how maybe Anakin goes to the dark side because he can't get it on with Amidala) But they have to shag, don't they? To conceive Luke and Leia. Will they shag in this one or the next?

Me: I think this one. Because they'll have to end three with separating the twins, and if they're conceived and born in the same movie, that's a lot of stuff happening.
B^k: Maybe they don't shag at all, and Anakin gets pissed off about it and just impregnates her anyway. Use the Force! Hah!

Me: These aren't the sperm you're looking for?
B^k: What about: "These aren't the eggs you're looking for."?

Me: Jedi contraception!

So, the Clones have Attacked.

And I, for one, am very happy about it.

Yes, the acting's wooden. It's supposed to be. It's a Star Wars movie. And boy is it. A good, solid, hefty, tongue-in-cheek, light-sabre-waving, ass-kicking, rollicking Star Wars movie. Which Ep I definitely wasn't.

All is forgiven, George Lucas. Now get to work on Episode III already.

(There'd been people waiting since 2pm. That's a little psycho, I thought. But the audience was great. Fantastic atmosphere. General applause for Yoda and his ass-kicking-ness. A wonderful feeling. And Hayden Christensen still reminds me of my cousin.)

So, childer, should I dress up for the Star Wars Episode II preview screening tonight?

Actually, by the time most of you read this, it will be a case of "Should I have dressed up". Five hours, thirty minutes and counting until I get to see whether I have to dedicate my life to hunting down George Lucas and killing him in a painful fashion.

I'm thinking not. The previews, the articles, everything just looks so damn good. I am a giggling bundle of anticipation.

Who is probably not going to dress up, but only because I don't own enough white.

Count of Monte Cristo: fucking fantabulous! So good! If you have any appreciation whatsoever for adventure, epic romance, dashing action, swashbuckling, delicious characters and dastardly scheming, get thee to a movie theatre right now and watch this baby.

If, on the other hand, you lack any sort of interesting personality whatsoever, feel free to give it a miss.

But seriously, wow. It's been a long time since I enjoyed a movie that much. I was constantly convinced that the character on screen was the coolest character ever, only to change my mind in two seconds when another character came on. Guy Pearce was so great he was only upstaged by the magnificent Count himself. There was not a character that was not beautifully realised and rendered. Even the chick was cool.

Sumptuous visually. And the action! Brisk, energised, filmed in a crisp, delineated way that made it that much better. It was all wonderful. A great package. Two hours of my life that I relished every second of.

And now I have twenty-four hours to get over that before I go into Episode II.

Once more I do my "walk into room in the silence between songs" trick, and am slightly surprised when the music starts. But it's "Soylent Green" and that rocks. Sometimes I wish I still had long hair just so I could toss it around when I mosh.

Gee I'm posting some irrelevant shit these days.

If I was as cold-blooded as evidence suggests, wouldn't I not be so chilled by this weather?

Or maybe I just wouldn't be able to move at all, so sluggish and lethargic. That idea has a certain appeal.

At least I get to wear the Big Black Coat and go all Matrix with the flapping and stuff. Pretentious? Silly? Childish? Me? Never!

Hell yes.

That is all.

People. Just... fucking people. Sometimes I am so far out beyond caring that it would amaze you. I simply do not give a flying fuck because it's all so fucking stupid and life would be so much easier if no one cared. No one cared about anything and life would be lubricated with apathy.

And then the moment passes, and I'm simply weary to the bone.

A violin and a guitar and a handful of excited residents and there's a full-on jam session going on in convo. I love living in this place.

I simply love cold, rainy weather when I can stay inside at the computer with all the fluro lights on or cuddled up in bed with the covers up to my ears and a good book. Love it.

But I hate cold, rainy weather when I have to put my boots on and go out in it, skirt trailing in the mud and frigid fingers clamped around an umbrella handle. Hate it.

The lecturer I previously referred to as a well-dressed anarchist is also a vegetarian.

He's a South Australian, vegetarian, academic, well-dressed anarchist. For some reason, I find all this highly amusing.

IASBM: How can someone vote for "Eomer" as best character in the Lord of the Rings movies? We haven't even seen the bugger yet!

And not just someone, but some 35, apparently. Gah. I hate silly people.

Is it a sad indication of my apathy that even though my pyjama top buttons up the front, I just pull it on and off over my head?

European History with J^e; putting the 'fun' back into 'dysfunctional'.

("Are we there yet?"

"Be quiet, or I'll turn this war around and go straight back home.")

I spent last night dressed up in leather pants and fuck-off make-up, terrorising a poor innocent chap with the other wenches. We did this in the Pancake Parlour so, as you can imagine, we got quite a few strange looks as we were doing it. The staff were very helpful, though.

One of the lovely girls here at college was doing a character photography shoot, and we wenches were the 'characters'. Specifically, female gangsters out on the town for a little light entertainment.

It was far more fun than people our age should be having, I'm sure. Photos as soon as I get them. Promise. Early prints are in, and look fantabulous.

How to post like a conspiracy theorist. Fantastic.

"NASA, the same organization that says the face on Mars is *not* a sign of intelligent life, also used Tang on its early missions. Tang is a product of General Foods, which owns the candy bar manufacturer Mars, Inc. COINCIDENCE?"

Though my personal favourite is number 3: "Insist that the experts know nothing, and that all you need is the Bible, the Constitution, Black's Law Dictionary and a handgun to prove your point."

Today I saw a girl stop right in the middle of the mall and put her change in her shoe. I wondered what the hell she was doing, making a David-Bowie-filmclip-esque leg in front of her, like a courtly, florid bow. She dropped a coin in the process, and it tinkled on the cement.

And I thought: "Isn't that just fucking uncomfortable?"

At dinner, fairybread was made, and someone said: "I'm reliving my childhood, right here."

I think it would have been more amusing if she'd then dropped the fairybread in her lap, and sworn a blue streak.

What the fuck is this?

The things you find when you go looking for Noah Hathaway, who incidentally played Atreyu in The NeverEnding Story. You find that he also starred as "Harry Potter Jr" in some 1986 movie about a Troll.

Well, that was random.

Someone once said that the sun never set on the British Empire because God didn't trust the bastards in the dark.

Whoever it was, buy that man a beer.

The drive-thru kid had been so helpful anyway, telling us that yes, they did have Tinkerbell in for the Happy Meal toy so when he asked us if we wanted to buy a Helping Hand, we said yes. We wrote "Genghis Khan" in the name, and gave it back to be put up in the window. Then we took our Tinkerbell toys and left. J^e is currently painting her Tinkerbell's hair and dress black. The Gothing of Tink. She's going to give her fishnets too.

If you saw the girl who'd made your sandwich in the street, would you say hello? Smile and nod? Even recognise her?

I don't think I would. I never pay attention to the person behind the counter. I mean, I give them the minimum attention necessay to get the order done in the most pleasant way possible, but then they're gone from my mind two seconds later.

Now I'm on the other side of the counter. I kinda like the anonymity.

How pretentious do I feel, running around wearing my pyjamas and high heels?

Pretty damn pretentious.

I hate it when I break my sandals.

ROCK!



Which movie heroine are you?



And I didn't even cheat or anything.

Phew! I stink. I smell like a Manly Man, which is a bad thing, because I'm a Pansy Girl.

We appear to be back in working order. Your guess is as good as mine.

My lower back feels as though it's been compressed. I need yoga. Or to hang by my toes from the ceiling for a while. Lacking opposable toes, I guess yoga will have to do. Anyone know any good spine-stretching poses?

In completely unrelated news, I want a corset. Really, really, really.

I got my short Machiavelli essay back yesterday. I'd put in a second footnote 23, just "Fnord". He'd picked up on it - it was circled and there was a question mark beside it. That made me giggle, and run down the corridor just to find that J^e wasn't in and couldn't appreciate it.

Two Bex and a good lie down.

JAFFY wanders into my room, peers around with interest. Spies poster on the wall: "Who the hell is that?"
Me: "Rammstein."

JAFFY: "No way. They look too... peaceful."

(For the record, it's the poster from the Mutter album, where they're all floating in goo, serene and pickled.)

JAFFY now starts looking through the pile of CDs in front of the player. Rob Zombie, Marilyn Manson, you know the sort. "Ah!" he says, as one who has seen the light. "I get it; you're a freak!"

And proud of it, kiddies.

I left them at the breakfast table bitching about the fact that the cast of "Secret Life of Us" are thirty-somethings, but act like they want to be uni students. They just indulge in random shit and don't take responsibility and basically, haven't grown up.

I finish my cornflakes, and think of my American friend who just broke up with her boyfriend because they want different things for the future. She wants a stable home, he wants to travel, so even though they love each other and have been together for years, they've decided it's not going to work, and they should move on. Which just hit me as such an amazingly grown-up reason for ending a relationship that it renders me speechless.

I don't want to grow up. I don't want to get staid and boring and responsible and no random fun any more. I want to continue to indulge in random shit. Not because I fear responsibility or anything, but because I fear - fear with a riveting paranoia - mundanity.

That is all. Have a nice day.

The weird shit I get in my inbox, I tell you. Naked elves and Russian spam and all sorts of other goodies.

My upstairs internet is working again. This is a Good Thing.

Meanwhile, how was everyone's weekend? I spent my playing something called Actraiser on my Nintendo simulator, and making rude gestures at the bad guys on the screen, much to the amusement of people walking by. One of whom was, I think, some guy who was an actor on an Australian drama series years ago called "GP". My mother loved that show. And the character this guy played. I think it's him anyway. He stopped in the doorway and asked if I'd moved in the past five hours. I told him yes, sometimes I went and sat in J^e's room and drank coffee. He was suitably impressed.

My brush with fame. Plus, apparently there was someone from "All Saints" (TV show, not group) here as well, but I never watched that silly program, so I care not.

Procrastination, thy name is Dee.

Melincour: I think your user info should, after "Goth. Not a goth.", go on to say "Intelligent. Not a intelligent."
TitaniaFae: Any particular reason, or just plain whimsy?
Melincour: My whimsy is never plain.
TitaniaFae: OK, your pink frilly whimsy, then.
Melincour: That's the one. So, what have you been up to, m'dear?
TitaniaFae: Procrastinating. I am currently making sure all my MP3 files conform to the same naming system.
Melincour: Ha-ha! What merry hell you are raising.
TitaniaFae: Oh yes indeedy. And what about yourself, Lord Lucifer?
Melincour: Cooking ratatouille in the nude, once more.
TitaniaFae: Practicing for the Olympics?
Melincour: Exactly. I'm going for the Steven Bradbury approach though: hoping they'll all spill hot sauce on themselves.

Meh.

Hate fucking email and fucking helpdesks who don't fucking respond.

Fuck.

All email please directed to titaniafae@mail.ru, not any of my ANU addresses because they suck ass. Professionally. And preferably not viscerate addresses either, because I think I fixed the forward, but I'm not sure.

Basically, I'm going to cry. Pull yourself together, Evans.

I now appear to have four email addresses at the ANU. One may or may not actually be mine, one is having all my mail sent to it but can't actually be checked, and two are just fine, but not having any mail sent to them.

Love it. Love it. Really.

Note to self: When you're wondering what that little button on the keyboard with the moon on it does, pressing it may indeed be the quickest way to find out. However, that does not mean that it's necessarily the easiest, and it might be a good idea to know how to wake the computer up from standby mode before instituting this experiment.

Look, guys, I just schlepped all the way down to the computer lab just to check my internet shit, and there be not enough shit to check. Be more productive. Be fucking plentiful. Begat creative genius unto the world and stuff.

Yeah, so I'm one to talk. Life and, in particular, my brain just aren't very interesting at the moment.

Rough generalisation of my current thought-process: "Work is too much, I'll quit. Should I buy that? Oooh, Episode II in two weeks! Maybe I could just cut down my hours. Gibber, gibber, what the hell am I going to write my thesis on. I need coffee."

Rinse, repeat.

Idle thoughts at work: Ooooh, look, he's going for the International Roast. No, don't do it, you're a young man!

Did a sexuality quizzy thing that confused the hell out of me, but then told me that I'm 40% asexual.

Truer than you may think, I'm sure.

H^m asked today why on earth people feel the need to measure themselves up against some arbitrary stick. It's a very good question. I blame curiosity. Or maybe mustard.

Today, I completely failed to stage a coup in Puerto Rico. Oh well, there's always tomorrow.