Bah. Blogger hates me.

I've finally figured out why Outlook was eating all my read messages (and don't I feel a right idiot), so now I can actually start answering them.

Never too late, I guess.

Amusing things found while cleaning out my room:
- All my old letters from penpals. I now have the burning urge to write some letters. Is 22 too old for a penpal? Is it even possible to correspond meaningfully on paper in this age of E-everything?
- Huge pile of old old old posters. Jonathan Brandis. Eddie Furlong looking like a pouty young James Dean. Dean bloody Cain. And a lovely collection of Paul Mercurio. Not sure what I'm going to do with them all. Considering sending them out to worthy homes. Anyone want some mid-90s pretty?
- All my old school work. Including the stuff no one else ever had to see. I can really be a facetious, catty bitch when I think no one's watching, y'know.

Happy Birthday, Jen.

The second Harry Potter was slightly disappointing in all the wrong places, but mostly just delightful. I giggled into my mother's shoulder throughout, delighted anew at Draco Malfoy (and the larger, more elegant version), and cheered on Kenneth Branagh, who was obviously having the time of his life. Rupert Grint (Ron) was obviously in the midst of his voice breaking, poor chap, but he makes it work for him.

Who was the jaw-droppingly gorgeous woman sitting next to Snape in the final scene? I want to be her.

Also, while I'm asking questions: What is with the sudden proliferation of ego-wank rap-artist movies? Be a rapper, get a movie. (On the other hand, be an actor, release a single. Since when could Jennifer Love Hewitt sing?)

Other notes from the day:
- Underwear shopping with mother. Fun.
- Friedrich Nietzsche did not single-handedly slay God, but I'm sure he'd be flattered at the notion.
- Was that a broken toilet or a water feature?
- Either I wasn't built for chairs or chairs weren't built for me. Which is more likely?

Addition:

No sooner had Geoff (my cousin) and I taken our seats in the movie theatre, than the fellow next to me (quite attractive, too) turns to me and holds out a deck of cards, fanned out.

"Pick one," he says.

I do, because as anyone knows, I'm a sucker for card tricks.

"I bet I can tell which one you've got." He flips the deck over, and starts sifting through.

The cards are in suit order.

It still takes him three passes through the deck to tell me I took the six of diamonds.

I love geeks.

Rumours of my demise are, well, wrong.

I'm just in Queensland, land of bugger-all internet connection. And after that, will be in Melbourne, adrift without a connection. We'll see.

Brief round-up:
- Christmas: ate too much, laughed a lot, hugged everyone many times. In the bosom of my family, and loving it. Got the best of Siouxsie CD. Yay. Oh yeah, and a ticket to...
- Boxing Day The Two Towers: Like, wow. A lot. Not perfect, not by a long shot, but still blew me off my feet. And now I have to wait another fucking twelve months. Sigh. (At least I don't have to write a thesis this time.)

That's about it. Lots of travelling. Amusing family anecdotes of times us young'uns have drunk until we puked. Oh yeah, we're a wholesome family bunch.

More news as it happens and I can wrest my mother away from Pinball Deluxe to tell you about it.

I'm in, I'm in, I'm in!!

Finally got the letter from RMIT. Type A[i]. Which means: "My God, you rock, we want you so bad." Or maybe not quite, but certainly means that I've got a place.

Oh thank GOD. I was starting to get a little nervous.

(Doesn't help at all that my gastro-intestinal tract has gone into open revolt and is bent upon making my life miserable. Why, I honestly don't know.)

So yeah. Not only am I going to Melbourne next year, but I'm going to have something intelligent to do while I'm there. Hooray!

Dear internal reproductive organs:

Fuck off and die.
Love,
the Management.

Christmas shopping might actually have been fun if I hadn't been feeling like keeling over at the end of it.

There were nice sales assistants who, although they couldn't do what I wanted, were very nice about it, and told me I should join the diplomatic service and get an overseas mansion with slaves and stuff.

There were tall, gangly teen boys playing on the machines in Target, with a black kitten crawling across their shoulders, pushing it back up when it fell down or got in their way.

There were obnoxious girlies in the toilets, singing Christmas carols and mouthing off. Unfortuantely, by then, I wasn't in the mood to collect stupidity, and they just annoyed me.

But vast number of presents successfully got. And even a haircut.

Only now, at the end, do you understand... (no points, too easy)

It's kind of disturbing to think that I might have been quite good friends with my supervisor all the way through if I'd just stopped being afraid of him. But my terror helped propel me through my thesis, so I think it was actually all for the best.

Just got back from drinkies (which I was supposed to be buying, but he usurped). Conversation ranged broad and patchy, but then I got him started ranting about the discipline, and it was on for young and old. Disdain, contempt, and blistering sarcasm, and I remembered why I like this guy so much. Even those that he likes and respects aren't free from having fun poked.

My favourite: when just finished talking about an amazingly laid-back Californian academic who could still demolish you in five seconds, he moved on to talking about another guy, not as nice. In fact, left you in no doubt as to his displeasure. "Have you read?" he mimicked. "You haven't, have you? Don't you like reading? Do you get blisters on your finger?"

Imagine my glee.

A psycho-manic peewee just strode past my window. I think it was on its way somewhere.

This was almost as disturbing/amusing as the hell-spawn demon-possessed dog in Dick Smiths this morning. All we did was stop by to see Puss, and on the way out we were accosted by a tiny yapping electronic dog, that madly backflipped at us.

The world, I tell you, is nuts.

I set up the TV for my first watching of the year - the half-hour making-of for The Two Towers - but while I was reading - just lying there peacefully, not hurting anyone - I got invaded. Old-skool ex-ressie boys, tipping my bed over and pelting me with stuffed toys. And then they dragged me back to their place. Two six-packs of beer were involved. Which would have been fine, except only two of us were drinking.

That was last night. Only now am I starting to feel human again.

But the night was worth it. More fun than I've had in a long time. Very saddening to think that it's almost over. Far too soon our time will be gone.

Five years seemed like forever. It wasn't.

When they said the packet of dried apricots was "resealable", what they didn't tell you was that once you'd resealed it, you wouldn't be able to get back into it without a crowbar and a firm place to stand.

This afternoon I tidied up my room. Well, I started tidying up my room, preparatory to packing. Well, I at least thought about starting.

I got rid of the flowers, because they were starting to get a little rank. But I kept the goth sticks. Because - duh - they're goth sticks. I think it's actually called distressed willow, but as soon as we saw them, the Male and I decided they were goth sticks.

(You don't want to sell me goth sticks. You want to go home, put on black velvet and lace, and angst about your life.)

"This room looks like a bomb hit it!"

"Close. I had a thesis."
"I fail to see the similarity."

"You've obviously never done a thesis."

(Got the reports on my thesis back. Basically, they said I was brilliant, but my basic structure and organisation was not as good as it could be. As is so frequently the case, I could have told them this from the beginning. Why did I have to suffer through the damn thesis just to be told that? But there were lots of other lovely and thought-provoking comments, so it's all good, I guess.)

Thanks to everyone who sent me warm fuzzy congratulatory felicitations, whether by comment or email or even phone. (The second drink was yours, Gemma. And yes, everyone looked at me funny, but honestly, I didn't care.)

I now have no Wild Turkey. There were also beers drunk, because I am P^h's sister-substitute, apparently. I maintain this gives me the right to beat him up, he maintains it only gives me the right to verbally abuse him. I've been doing this anyway, so I fail to see what I get out of the arrangement. Apart from a free beer. Which is not to be sneezed at, I suppose.

Also, we watched the series of BMW commercials with Clive Owen. Which was an awful lot of gorgeous man for 2 in the morning.

You can't see anything in our floor fridge because the light's being obscured by three sixpacks of beer and eight cans of Coke.

Just another one of the many reasons why I love summer scholars.

Warning: an unnamed file was not found.

Well, thanks for keeping me advised of the situation.

I have first class honours and a third of a bottle of Wild Turkey.

Life, my dear friends, is fucking fantastic.

How much am I looking forward to The Two Towers?

Unless you screamed: "A whole motherfucking lot!!!" with italics and all three exclamation marks, you were wrong.

Notes from a girl with nothing to do, and a gorgeous, wonderful Male for a week to do it with:

(1) Went to see Augie March last night. Did any of ye other bloggers go? I seem to recall Shauny in particular was something of a fan. It was a great show. They went off like a frog in a sock. I've been listening to the Male's copy of their latest album almost non-stop since. Alone in rain-shadowed dusk, I worked myself into a very zen/melancholic state. So I broke that by loading up the player with Marilyn Manson and the Queen of the Damned soundtrack.

(2) Doodling in my Brainbook, I got bored and tried to write "HI" on my toenail with my Star Wars gel pen. But the curve of the nail foiled me, and it turned out looking more like "HO". Which, I guess, is no more than I deserve.

(3) At some stage, I intend to dye my hair purple. "Purple Whisper" to be precise. I expect it to look fucking awful. Woot.

I declare I just love Ian McKellan.

"Since I came out, I keep getting all these parts, and my career's taken off. I want a quiet life! I'm going back into the closet. But I can't get back into the closet because its absolutely jam-packed with other actors."

Having some weird urge to redesign something in a chic, streamlined, lots of white (dark grey) space with small writing close together and those graphics that just take your break away and are ratty around the edges, and there's lots of random bits of really intense and interesting writing that may mean everything or may just be wank.

I put this urge down to the copious amounts of free time I've suddenly gained. It'll pass, and no doubt more quickly that it ought to. (10 points, this is the big one.)

I had a beer. Go me.

Altogether now...

I've handed in; hallelujah!
I've handed in; amen!
And now I'm going to get
Absolutely, totally pissed.

(Sort of to the tune of It's Raining Men, if you needed help.)

I am footloose and thesis-free.

...now what do I do?