Blah, blah, fucking blah. (Got you now, you little weirdo.)

This is what I am reduced to. Misquoting obscure BBC productions of politically-incisive Italian plays in an effort to find something suitably witty/blase/erudite/clever/cynical to say.

Ah, society, people, yesss... endless entertainment in my social life.

Ran into Miss Jen Jen this morning, thus shattering all my delusions that I could blithely wander around Melbourne with, say, my underwear on my head confident that I would not meet anyone I knew. Not that I actually had my underwear on my head at the time. Mostly because I've been too apathetic to do washing, and hence don't have enough clean pairs of underwear to be wasting 'em as headgear.

Tonight, I plan on running into all the rest of the Melbourne Bloggers, or at least as many as show up to the meetup. So beware, y'all. Wear padding, or something.

On Saturday, I'm fully booked. Not only am I going to the aforementioned Miss Jen Jen's birthday party, but I'm also making plans to go and be all squee-ish fangirly at the Ned Kelly premiere. Mainly because it's something I've never done before, and I reserve the right to regress to teenagerness any time I feel like it. Particularly any time that might involve a certain Mr Bloom. (Although rumour has it he won't be there. Sigh. Ah well, Heath ain't precisely a horrible consolation prize, you know.)

So now I just have to figure out whether I want him to sign my journal, a poster, my body...

Oh come on, stop complaining. Imagine if this had been a movie with Viggo in it. See, it could be much worse.