My day as a worker-drone - a story of consumption:

Caffiene: one tall marble mocha to go, one vanilla coke.
Tissues: 3 5 8 ridiculous numbers
Food of actual nutritional merit: Nil.

I have "I am not a terrorist" written on the inside of my right knee.

I think it's important to establish these things, don't you?

The bad thing about not having my old permanent connection is that I think of things to blog and then I forget about them by the time I connect.

Like walking through RMIT one day when the socialists were planning some event. It evidently involved Trotsky, because there were posters everywhere with the heading: "Who is Trotsky?"

This came as something of an affront to a little pol sci student like me. The idea of ignorance brought out my inner bitch.

Politics!Dee: Who is Trotsky? Bloody hell. What do they mean, who is fucking Trotsky??
Subversive!Dee: Stalin.
Politics!Dee: (confused) What?
Subversive!Dee: Stalin is fucking Trotsky.

(It all makes sense now! Obviously they were having an impassioned affair but secretly Trotsky wanted Lenin, and once the old man died he felt he couldn't live this lie any longer. So he called off the relationship, enraging Stalin. There is no fury like a communist dictator scorned.)

Drinkies and boardgames with the blonde harlots last night, just to prove that there is nothing sexual about all-night Jenga.

(It's a long story.)

Raucous Trivial Pursuit succumbed to anarchistic Scrabble, with the Male not scoring, but having to play only words that weren't in the English language, but that could have a reasonably acclaimed definition applied to them.

My personal favourite? "Robbits". Highwayman halflings. Kneel and deliver. (Not to be outdone by "Vigogreca", a form of wrestling for hopeful Numenorean Kings and Hellenic women.)

There's only one significant thing I dislike about the job (apart from the peanuts they pay me), and that's the fact that it's self-publishing.

Which means the author is always the last word on what does and does not get done to the manuscript.

Which means that they are allowed to come back with delusional remarks (like: "The right-hand margin doesn't align (on a justified paragraph) and the word 'and' is bigger on line four than on line eighteen.") and utterly stupid suggestions (like: "Add two paragraphs to this page but I don't want it to go over to the next page despite the fact that it's only just fitting now.").

And even when they are just ridiculous beyond the call of duty, I am not allowed to respond with: "No, no, a thousand times no, for verily, thou art an Idiot."

Well, officially I'm not. There's no power on earth sufficient to prevent me from screaming it in the privacy of the office.

I am not cut out for full-time employment. Even a close approximation thereof gets in the way of my serious hard-core leisure activities. The money's nice, though. I should have known this would happen as soon as I rejoined online roleplaying with my 'free time'. If I had thought about it like that, I would have gone back to mushing much sooner.

In the kitchen I murdered bread and scattered crumbs all over the floor that I have swept twice in the past three days. I admit defeat. I need more coffee since the CQ stuff John brought me has all disappeared (yes, disappeared, magically, how did that happen?). We have cold beers in the fridge and that's just the best thing now, when the weather is getting hotter and it's feeling like my sorta thing, and I'm coming out of work with a smile on my face as the warm gusts of wind hit me.

Some (me) like it hot.

Looking forward to Christmas. Looking forward to Boxing Day. Looking forward to seeing CQ again.

The rambling endeth here.

Things I love today:

• The way hot espresso roils when sugar is added.
• The density and delight of Melbourne fangirls.
• The objects of our affection. (Porn and chocolate!)
• That the extended Two Towers DVD comes out tomorrow this afternoon if we're all good poppets.
• The chocolate biscuits I made yesterday.
• That it's the first day of my holidays.
• That it's a beautiful sunny day outside and yet...
• I haven't sneezed once today.

Not that those last three in any way impact upon my declaration of wholesale love, of course. Not at all.

I just got spam from Octavio Ponce. God I wish I could use that name in something.

This morning, on my way to class, I ran into an old friend from high school. On Lonsdale Street. Just... walking past. I was just wandering along and thought: "Hey, that chick having a smoke outside Hudsons looks at awful lot like Alicia. Heh."

And then that chick said: "Diana??" And it was Alicia.

Considering high school is six years and about 2500 kilometres away, I'm finding this kinda bizarre. (In a good way.) I mean, doing an internet search and finding me is one thing. (Heh.) Just randomly meeting up in a huge city three states away from whence you both came... that's like an act of god or something.

So, Matrix: Revolutions.

What a wallowing, Lucas-derived, unintelligent, cliche trip of mediocrity. OK, so that's an overreaction - the first half-hour was good. It's only the rest that sucked.

But I guess it's Star Wars for the next generation, and I'm just too old to get it.

I'd just like to add my voice to the Male's on this frequently misunderstood point:

"Better Man" by Pearl Jam is not a romantic song.

Doi.

(Fanfic writers. Honestly.)

What I love about this country is that you can have a racetrack full of people in their best gear, all dolled up, delicate-feathered hats and heels so high they have to be forcibly tied on to prevent broken ankles, but they're still swigging beers from cans.

As a friend pointed out, what can you expect from a country with its most celebrated artwork hanging in a pub?

Spam of the week: "68% of your customers think..."

(...the rest are powered by the zombie mind-control alien satellites. Kill 'em! Kill 'em all!)