In the Male's handwriting, "Party, Mat's place" looks an awful lot like "Darth Nazplaie".

(This isn't the cask of goon you're looking for...)

"When you get right down to it," my mother philosophised, "Coeliac isn't all that bad. I mean, it just limits your diet a bit. There are lots of worse things you could have. Like cancer, or multiple sclerosis, or gall stones."

"Suppurating ulcers," I offered. "Y'know, if we're going to get really unpleasant."

She laughed. "Chronic halitosis. Then no one would want to be near you."

(The macabre humour of the Evans family. Honestly, it's a wonder I turned out as normal as I did.)

Nothing cheers me up, though, like hitting an error in between songs on my "Loud 'n' Angry" playlist, and having Pippin's voice suddenly declare: "Ooh, that was close!"

Just went to see the supervisor, always an exercise guaranteed to leave me feeling good about myself and life in general.

What I need, what I really need, is something to kick.

Or someone.

What I really, really need is for this fucking thesis to be over already.

Fuck it all. I'll settle for a beer.

Everything in moderation. Especially sobriety.

In other news: Kylie Minogue has almost exactly the same horoscope stuff as me. Her birthday's 28th May, 1968. Which makes her a Gemini, like me, and a Monkey, like me. Weird, huh?

Long version or short version?

Short version: We went. Bec got wet. There was much sleeping. There was the Holy Trilogy. There were, unfortunately, no pillow fights in our underwear. There was, however, Gilbert and Sullivan. Then we came home.

Long version: Highlights:

I had rifled through my old music collection for some cassettes, having established that Bec's car had a tape player. Now, see, my tapes come from when I was young and impressionable and didn't have a CD player. So our selection was, basically, German boybands (Die Prinzen), girlie groups of the 60s, girlie anthems of the early 90s, Supergroove, Gilbert and Sullivan, or the Doug Anthony All-Stars. So, we all relived our high school days with the early 90s stuff (Mr Vain, Rhythm of the Night, other stuff with a dance beat, a male rapper and a female vocalist who gets three surreal and inane lines) as we barrelled along the highway towards Sydney. DAAS got us along the coast road, and I discovered that I do actually remember the words to it when I'm sober.

By the way, there are two McDonalds on the way from Canberra to Sydney. We know this, because we stopped at both of them. There were more Golden Arches once we got to the Big Smoke, but we talked Bec out of stopping at them.

Bec got wet precisely three times in the entire weekend. And she was the only one. I have a prejudice against swimming in the Tasman Sea. (If it makes you NSWers feel better, I don't swim in Bass Strait, either.) I don't know what Jen's excuse is. I did go for a very long walk and scamper across the rocks, though, and sang Gilbert and Sullivan at the top of my lungs. (Foooorrr I am a Pirate Kiiiiing!)

And it is, it is, a glorious thing to be a Pirate King.

I learned how to play darts. Jen and I had a long, intricate, highly philosphical discussion about the merits of the two Methods - left or right foot forwards. It was decided that, regardless of Method, the blue dart hated Jen, and the green dart hated everybody. Jen scored the shot of the night, when she stuck the blue dart into the doorframe. Though later, Bec would give her a run for her money by missing the wall altogether, and sticking darts into the floor.

We MST3Ked the Holy Trilogy. ("And if your hands were metal, that would mean something." "Hey, his hand ismetal!") Over two nights, because we're soft. Well, I'm soft. There was ice cream too. And I finally got to see the bit where the Stormtrooper smacks his head. No, I'd honestly never seen it before. Greedo still shot first, thus proving that George Lucas is a schmuck without any chutzpah.

I taught the other girls a few words of Yiddish, too.

Northern Exposure was a really good TV program. They should show reruns.

Back to the point. I think that's about it. Did I miss anything, Jen? To sum up: the weekend in numbers.

Orange/red lights run: at least 6.
Twits on the beach with their pants falling down: 1
Times Bec wanted to turn right when we said left, or vice versa: Too many to count (No, Bec, your other left.)
Iron-man wannabes: 4
Lizards on the carpet: 1
Bookshops stocking the book I wanted: 0
Ambulances: 2
"No Loitering" signs: 1

But we loitered anyway.

I'm back. My intestines hate me. More when (if) I wake up.

Right, so, we're going away for the weekend. At least, we are if Jen ever gets finished packing. *ducks*

Your orders:
Don't set fire to anything.
Do something amazingly random, and tell me all about it.
Use the word 'ulterior' in a sentence without the word 'motive'.
Have fun.

See you all later. I'm off to the beeeeeach!

I say, old chap, it's a friday five. Wonders will never cease.

1. Would you say that you're good at keeping in touch with people?

Hell no. I forget to call, emails languish in my inbox, and I've owed my grandmother a letter for the past four months. I have trouble keeping in touch with people who live fifteen minutes walk away. (That said: Shauny, I'll get to your thing as soon as possible, promise!)

2. Which communication method do you usually prefer/use: e-mail, telephone, snail mail, blog comments, or meeting in person? Why?

I hate using the phone. I would much rather converse in person, even if it requires walking for half an hour to get there. I hate hate hate phones. It's OK for unimportant chattering with close friends, but for anything else, I just hate the way you can't convey emotion and body language. Everything else is fine. Email, especially, is great. Love email. Oh yes.

3. Do you have an instant messenger program? How many? Why/why not? How often do you use it?

I use AOL IM, because when I first came to college, it was the only instant messenger that worked through the firewall. Plus, ICQ annoys me for unspecified reasons. I like chatting to people on IM, it's fun. I don't go surfing for randoms, though, and I tend not to form random IM acquaintances. But I do use it for talking to my friends (even when they're only two rooms away) and for getting to know internet friends from other places. I sign on most days.

4. Do most of your close friends live nearby or far away?

My closest friends live nearby. My 'second tier' of close friends, as it were, are divided between "real life" and close, or internet friends. I recently calculated that I could probably do a pretty good world tour, just staying with my close internet friends. That'd be fun.

5. Are you an "out of sight, out of mind" person, or do you believe that "distance makes the heart grow fonder"?

The former. I readily admit it. The Male is living in another city, and it's hard not to come to the conclusion that yes, I can live my life happily without him in it. But that just means I'm not sitting around pining. I still love him. He's just not right there in my life at the moment. I like to think of it as sort of in stasis.

But I'm weird like that. We all knew it.

GAmbiT Xr3k: you r u g a y i g jk
titania fae: Excuse me?
titania fae: *poke* I beg your pardon? Can you try that again in English?
GAmbiT Xr3k: nihf ubre quer jeriquas jeln
titania fae: Apparently not.

(Why do people always expect me to know how I came to be on their IM list? You added me, muppet.)

Things I would like to have on a T-shirt:

• You could do so much better.
  
• Join my cult! (Thanks, Rysie for both of those.)
  
• You don't know me. (Control Corps witness protection program.)
  
• Satan wants me for a sunbeam.
  
• No.
  
• I don't do cute. (This one is readily available. I want to add to the back: "But I do everything else.")
  
• I hate democracy, and I vote.

Things I already have on a T-shirt:

• Spank me.
  
• Wench (with Evil on the back and all!)
  
• 23

It won't save you, it won't save you,
Swim for the shore just as fast as you're able.
(2 points)

Dear people using every single computer in the computer lab when I want to print off my document, and extra-especially to the girl playing tetris,

You suck.

Love, Dee

Brain freeze in the conclusion:

That a strategic [cow] so demonstrably narrow in focus, troubled in logical application, and [sexy in pants] could hold a position of such unquestioned authority was what Rapoport and other authors of his ilk were [chucking a hissy-fit about].

I do a quiz on which of the Nsync boys is my soul mate, and the tiebreaker question at the end is:

If you could have dinner with one of these dead historical figures, which would you choose? Cary Grant or Winston Churchill.

Fucking hell! Give a girl a tough choice, why don't you!

I went with Winston and got Joey. Like, eewww!!! So I went back and switched it to Cary, and got JC. That's more like it.

Right, so, my brain has now officially melted.

I hate my desk chair and I think the feeling's mutual.

I name all my shoes. And not just "the fuck-me boots" or anything like that. I name the individual shoes. That way, see, when I'm looking for an individual shoe, I can call it by name. There's my everyday sandals - Harry and Sally - and my strappy formal heels - Evangeline and Beatrice - and my red sneakers - Jean and Maddie - and my heeled boots - Bonnie and Clyde. Not to mention the new, incredibly cool boots, which are called Loki and Bartleby. The only pair to not have individual names are the God Boots, but that's a long story all by itself.

I don't like my thesis and my brain hurts.

Finally, I got to see Mulholland Drive. David Lynch is a very interesting person, who makes very interesting movies. What's possibly most interesting about them is the reaction they engender in audiences.

"What the fuck was that about, then?" seemed to be the general consensus.

There was also a healthy helping of: "Oh, I get it, she's schizophrenic, right?" (Why is it that the usual reaction to anything two steps away from the mundane is to assume schizophrenia?)

Plus, my personal favourite: "Well, see, it makes so much more sense if you think of the first half as a dream." (Well, yes, it does, but it also takes all of the subtly, nuance and intricacy out of it. In fact, it completely eviscerates the movie. But, by all means...)

I considered telling people that they shouldn't watch David Lynch movies with their brain.

Instead I said: "Well, he doesn't tell synoptic, narrative stories. He explores thematic images."

Which, as Jen said, just sounds like a wank.

I enjoyed it. Once it got going.

The Male's brief history of Mongolia:

TM: for mister oceanic (Editor's Note: Genghis Khan), war was an end unto itself.
TM: his people had no skill in farming, or in learning, or in building, or in anything
TM: taking was what they did
TM: thievery on a stupendous scale
TM: and, eventually, you run out of banks to rob
TM: you burn baghdad to the ground, because everybody who's anybody does that
TM: and then, before you notice, you become some piss-ant monkey state sandwiched between, and in fact entirely rolled up in two big, fat, commie world powers
TM: and you go, "fuck."
TM: "i liked it better when we was raping and pillageing and steppeing out in style."
TM: yay. mongol pun.
titania fae: lol
TM: "world feared us then," you say.
TM: "now they just think we eat lamb."
TM: so, from mass thievery and war for the fuck of it, to soy sauce and irrelevance in two easy steps
TM: three, if you count baghdad.

I'm getting really nasty and picky and crochety in my old age, obviously. Every time I see a movie these days, my immediate thought is: "Hmm, yes, has potential, now let's do a second draft, shall we?"

Everything's just so slapdash. Stuck together with string and chewing gum and a spiffy soundtrack and posted out to the masses. Doesn't anyone care about the stories they're telling any more? There's no finesse, there's no style, there's no sodding artistry. There's just good-enough.

Bah humbug.

(Saw Kate and Leopold tonight. Saved from complete mediocrity by the ever-delightful Hugh Jackman, and my rampant infatuation with the 19th century.)

I got paid today. About 9 hours ago, to be precise. It's now all gone. Instead, I have:

• Comic books. Planetary, the first two collections. Very cool.
  
• Books. Sailing to Sarantium by Guy Gavriel Kay, which was too good to pass up, and Faerie Tale by Feist, because I want to get something signed by him when he's here.
  
• Clothes. Supre were having a closing down sale. Given that, I figure walking out with a ratio of three useful items to one extremely useless item of clothing was pretty good. Brown pants, tartan skirt, black singlet, and a purple mock-PVC Emma-Peel-on-acid catsuit.
  
• Ticket stub. Bend It Like Beckham. Mediocre movie, but delightful. Silly girls behind us. And Jonathan Rhys-Meyers has a remarkably pretty mouth. I remarked on it. A lot. Also: Giggsy appeared on screen. For, yeah, like, half a second. But I cared.

It was, earlier, and for a whole day, Friday the 13th. I do hope you all noticed this. And, in parts of the world where it isn't past midnight already, are still noticing it.

Be nice to black cats. No, really.

I'm getting fucking garden ornament spam now. Someone is spamming me with 'whirligigs'. Good Lord.

(When I was a whippersnapper, we got high-quality spam, I tell you.)

I just stuck one of the pink spangled star stickers I got in my Kirkaldy Package of Random in the front of Herman Kahn's On Thermonuclear War. It just seemed right. Blame it on thesis stress if you like. I certainly will be.

I am currently sitting here, wearing a cream scarf and rainbow toe socks, and fanning myself with a beautiful black and blue lace fan, making some strange little yellow thing nod its head at my punk baby twin. There is star glitter all over my room.

Thank you, Kirkaldys. Thank you so much. It's all wonderful.

Am I ignoring, or ignorant of, what today is?

Of course not.

I cannot be. I never will be. But the way it is carved into my awareness is in ideology and academia, in vital shifts of meaning, in a redrawing of the lines of international relations in blood and rubble. It haunts me in the form of the blurring between certainty and floudering. I stared at the television screen late into the night, and felt everything I understood come tumbling down. I live my academic life in international relations. Before this time last year, I knew the way the world worked. Afterwards, nothing made any sense.

Mine is not the personal, mine is not the moral, mine is not the emotive. At least, not emotive in the strength-gathering, heart-rending way. I wasn't there, and I don't know, not really, anyone who lives in New York. Mine is emotive in a cerebral way. And no one wants to read about that, not today of all days. It seems callous. It seems flippant. So I'll just shut up.

(This time last year.)

Too much fun not to share with the world:

Pub Golf
Rules:

• The course will consist of 9 holes, each being represented by a different drinking establishment.
  
• Each hole has a pre-designated par.
  
• Each player will be teamed up with another player.
  
• Your partner will mark off each drink on the scorecard on the front of your shirt.
  
• Each player will be given a score at the end of each hole based on the scoring system.

Scoring system:

• 1 point per drink is taken from the par at that hole. ie: 3 drinks at a par 3 establishment gives a score of 0 (or par) for that hole (and that is a Good Thing).
  
• 4 drinks at a par 3 gives a birdie for that hole (-1)
  
• 2 drinks at a par 3 gives a bogie (+1)
  
• The best score for any hole is an albatross (-3) and any additional drinks don't count.

Additional rules:

• Throwing up incurs a 1-stroke penalty.
  
• If you must throw up, you must shout "Fore!" before doing so, otherwise it will be a 2-stroke penalty.
  
• Bunkers will be decided by the course organisers, and negotiating the bunker requires the consumption of a shot. Failure to negotiate incurs a 2-shot penalty.
  
• Downing a drink in one scull represents a Hole In One, and will take two strokes off your card.
  
• Missing a hole is a 2-stroke penalty.

(Alternatively, a variant version.)

After offering to make me bustier, thinner and hornier, my spam is now offering to make me taller. Is there anything spam can't do? Could it write my thesis, do you think?

Anyway, I don't need spam to make me taller. I have four-inch heels to do that.

...with two commas and a full-stop, in the usual way.

More Fnording. I'm on a roll now. A white roll, no margarine, with some mild mustard, if you've got it.

This post does not exist. Fnord.

Amusing IM conversations:

The Male: nonononnonono
titania fae: ?
The Male: mine
titania fae: ??
The Male: !

Aren't we eloquent?

After a few hours reconsideration, I have to back up my initial assessment: I desperately need cat therapy.

I'm climbing the walls here. Literally. I know what the world looks like when I lie on top of the window and stick my head out through the screen. People look at me funny. But the new perspective didn't help me write any. And I'm still in the first chapter. In a month's time, I will be a Scary, Scary Woman(tm).

In a new world record, Diana Evans spent ten minutes straight this afternoon playing with the Microsoft Word autocorrect. Inside sources reveal at least half that time was spent watching it delete the final 'e' from 'develope'.

However, she now doesn't have to write neo-Clausewitzian in full all the time.

"Hey Johnny, what are you rebelling against?"

"What you got?"

When I first started this blog, (way back when I had little to say, and was still getting the hang of it, and all in all, was not entirely the blithe, witty spirit I currently seem to be) I could safely say that no one in my "real life" knew it existed. I could say that, because at the time, my site was maintained under an alias, and I told no one I even had a website, let alone what the alias might be.

I was paranoid. I'd had run-ins before.

And now, some two and a bit years later, it seems like there's only three people I know who haven't read my site. Of those, it's possible only one actually is ignorant of its existence altogether.

This makes me uncomfortable. Not because I'm going to change what I have to say to cater to this sudden influx of "real" readers, but precisely because I'm not. And I know from experience that at some stage, someone's going to take offense at something I have to say. It always happens. Guaranteed.

So, if you know me in real life, just bear this in mind. If you know me, you know I really don't have a problem speaking my mind. But you might prefer not to hear it. That's your choice.

(Incidentally, I went searching for ways to find this site, and I came up with a big heap of nothing. Even the ways people tell me they've found the site, like searching for 'JB HiFi Woden' and stuff like that. I went looking for Dee Jen blog and found a whole heap of stuff involving other people called Dee and Jen, who apparently are also excellent friends, and talk about the Lord of the Rings far too much. I even found a link for which the search text read: "Even Jen liked it and she hates Galadriel..." Hah. Jen? Hate Galadriel? Never!)

PS: Cool. We are a Lego toy.

I seem to be some sort of weird gossip queen. I tell one person, and suddenly everyone in the place knows. (Of course, I hadn't factored in the Ball factor when I allowed my irritation to run away with my tongue and reveal matters that weren't really mine to reveal.)

You know, just randomly, there are lots of interesting, fun people around the place this year. Of course, I say this after a fairly solid weekend of ex-ressies - drinkies on Friday, evening at J²'s yesterday playing all sorts of stupid games with an old-skool bunch - but still, there's lots of fun people around. If not for this stupid thesis thing, I'd be having a ball this year.

No, not a Ball, just a ball. Non-capitalised, less pretentious, and frankly, a lot more fun (with odd moments of Nsync-ness).

The Male bought me satin pillowcases. They're gold. They're really quite beautiful. Of course, he bought them for me because he doesn't like sleeping on my pillowcases. I don't have a problem with them. But hey, now I have satin ones. Rock.

"The US adopted the policy of Massive Relation..."

(Yeah, that's where they sent their large aunt around to tell you off.)

Very tipsy. I may have confessed to a certain someone that I think he's a darling. But I certainly didn't ask why he doesn't like someone because he's a soft bastard and he piked.

Yes.

Too drunk for this. Oh dear.

First ducklings of the season spotted. Five fluffy little things, mimicking their parents. So cute.

Frankly, y'know, I just never get enough of seeing a woman holding her costume on with her nipples.

J² asked me what I wanted my superpower to be. I was going to say I wanted to be like Jakita Wagner, but that was probably just because I'd only just finished reading the Planetary book that my dealer (P^h) supplied me with. ("Let me hook you up," he said. "This is the good shit.")

Anyway, I'm thinking I might go for something of old, like the powers I gave my XET character Pris. She was so much fun to play. And obviously the holding-up-the-costume-with-the-nipples thing is a facet of being a superhero, because they can all do it, so that's not an actual power.

Or maybe it is, and they just all have it. I'll read the fine print, make sure it's in my contract.

But, see, the thing is, the coolest girls - like Jenny Sparks and Domino - aren't cool because of their powers. They're just motherfucking cool, and would be even if they couldn't get all weird on the bad guys' asses.

(See that? That was some hardcore linkage, there. Whew!)

"I remain at your service, should anything further be required to expedite the process."

(I need to stop reading Austen.)

I just typoed 'cancer' as 'Canberra'. What do you think I'm trying to tell myself?

My mission for the evening is to learn all the words to Modern Major General. Easy.

In other news, people are wankers. Message ends.

Not only am I listening, I'm singing along.

I'm on a link whoring trip, or something. New webring joined (like Jen said: Why weren't we a member of this one already?) and lots of worthy 'Berrans added to the people we like to read, where they should be.

I'm not procrastinating. I'm not. I'm beyond procrastination now, I think.

(Still listening to Nsync. Fast songs are almost worthy. I like "Space Cowboy", which I insist on calling "Space Monkey". Plus, there's a song about cybersex. I kid you not. Dirty, dirty boys.)

Sure, why not? I mean, it's Tuesday, but why should that get in the way of me posting a Friday Five?

1. What's your favorite piece of clothing that you currently own?

At the moment, I think my 23 shirt. A) Fnord. B) It's big and comfy. I used to have a lot of big, comfy clothes - everything used to be mens and a size too big - and I'd forgotten how cozy it was. I also, however, love my long, full black skirt. Which comes as no surprise to anyone who knows me, I'm sure. (Plus, do shoes count? Loki and Bartleby, the mfing cool boots. Yes.)

2. What piece of clothing do you most want to acquire?

A corset. No contest.

3. What piece of clothing can you not bring yourself to get rid of? Why?

Hmm. Well, for starters, I'm a squirreller. I never throw anything away if I can help it. With that in mind... in particular, I can't bring myself to throw my old jeans. Even though there's a sodding huge rip right in the posterior, I just love them too much. I can't wear them, because of aforementioned rip, but I just look at them, and remember how comfortable they were, and... yeah.

4. What piece of clothing do you look your best in?

Go on, feed my vanity. My long skirts, I think, make me look all long and slender and elegant.

5. What has been your biggest fashion accident?

Fashion accident? I don't know. I flatter myself I don't have them. That said, I guess the Really Little Red Dress wasn't the best fashion purpose. It's simply too flashy and showy (we're talking skin-tight crushed velvet not much longer than my underwear) to wear for any serious purposes, which means I've only worn it about twice in my life. Which is sad.

What do you want to do with your life?

I wanna rock!

I've decided to start writing steampunk, surreal, slightly-dirty stories involving inexplicable entities and random props. Stark imagery. M John Harrison-esque dialogue inhabiting the grey area between highly significant and totally pointless.

Yesss.

Or something.

Through a freak sequence of events, I now own an *Nsync CD.

So, yes. How about that.

Back to my big, bad, commenting-on-movies ways: A Beautiful Mind.

I'm finding myself increasingly uninterested in watching movies bearing the appellations of "gripping" or "moving" or "thought-provoking", because I know that what that's really going to translate into is "uncomfortable" and "tiring".

Yes, I'm getting old and boring. I want my movies to be fun. Cool. Matrix Reloaded is looking really good.

So, yeah, I didn't really want to watch this movie. But the opening bit was talking about maths winning wars, and fired with early Cold War zeal, and I remembered that Nash was revolutionary in Game Theory (and whaddya think the first chapter of my thesis is all about?) so I stayed.

There was very little Game Theory. What there was, applied to the mating habits of university males, was very interesting. The rest of the movie was also good. It was moving and thought-provoking and very well made. Russell deserves his acclaim. He was brilliant. And the depiction of his schizophrenia was superb. When reality broke down for him, it broke down for me as well. When he doubted, I doubted. Nothing was ever certain.

I wouldn't watch it again, but it was good. The touches of humour were nice, too. Very dry. Appetising.

I just totally out-fangirled myself. What with X-Men 2 script reviews (more Storm! more development! but less Cyke...) and info about minor-role casting (Colussus, Jubilee, even Siryn), and then going on to info about The Matrix sequels (ohmygod - trailers! And how good do they look? I am totally swooning in fangirl glee at the sheer damn coolth). I'm reeling. I had a quick swing past some more Two Towers info, but I couldn't take it in.

How the hell am I supposed to get any work done today? Crap.

Annoying internet phenomenon test gacked from LiveJournal friends.