Note to the world: the top of the escalator is NOT a good place to pause for some reflection on the meaning of life. Especially not when the girl behind you is carrying six bottles of wine. Get the fuck out of my way.

*gets a rage point*

*wishes she really was an Ahroun so she could spend rage points*

*geeks out like whoa*

In only slightly less geeky news; Nick Cage took away his SWAT van before we could clandestinely stick a "Blood donors save lives" magnet to it. Doh.

And today I actually thought the line: "That arse is just a physical manifestation of your karma, bitch." Getting catty in my old age. And also, apparently, Buddhist.

I can't stop staring at people's bottoms, and it's all Jono's fault.

In other news: plastic spoons: 0, caramel fudge slice: 1.

Note to self: don't read books that make you cry while working retail.

I'm in a bit of a creative sulk at the moment. Everything I write is unmitigated crap. I manage a few sentences and then despair at the mediocrity and occasionally go so far as to throw my pen across the room, because a girl should never pass up a golden opportunity for melodrama, and anyway, I only use cheap biros.

I don't have these fits very often, so I'm wallowing not entirely sure what to do about it. As a stop-gap measure, I'm reading a lot. This isn't necessarily a good idea, because I'm noticing how brilliant everyone else is. Stunning, superlative genius! Oh woe, for I am unworthy, etc, etc.

Specifically, I've been re-reading Catherine Jinks's Pagan books. I did a class presentation on Pagan's Crusade, and got the other three out of the library to give people something to fidget with while I was rabbiting on. Of course, I might as well read 'em while I got 'em...

A joy. I love Pagan. His ferocity, his wit, his bite, his scathe, but also his heart, his stubbornness, his love, his compassion. How he is the strong one, because he hasn't been blessed, but how Roland is the rock upon which he is built.

Also, the history, because it's beautiful and accessible and viscerally important. Pagan is where I first learned about the Cathar heresy and its bloody, stupid end. Earlier this year, while browsing Guy Gavriel Kay's website regarding the Lions movie, I stumbled across the historical notes to A Song For Arbonne (which, at second reading, eclipsed aforementioned Lions as my favourite Kay EVER). I was stunned and fascinated. I had, of course, correlated the appropriate parts of Europe in Arbonne, but hadn't realised that it was about that particular Crusade (possibly because of the vast difference in outcomes).

Also, possibly, because there's very little of the Languedoc of Kay's imaginings in the Pagan books before Pagan's Scribe, which, being the last and also not narrated by Pagan himself, I didn't read for ages and had (until today) only read once before. It does show something of the beautiful, advanced-for-its-day gentleness and artfulness of the south of France. It's the more poignant for the ephemery of its depiction, the fleeting glimpses, and then the rampant destruction. But since the Pagan books are, if nothing else, gleefully unsqueamish when it comes to historical detail, it's not really as beautiful as Kay's creation.

Guy Gavriel Kay romanticise something? Perish the thought!

My coffee pot is trying to kill me.

Er, Nikki Webster is FHM's cover girl this month. Is part of the sex appeal of this the whole world of wrong aspect?

In non-squick news, I actually found myself defending Christianity in my Myths and Symbols class today. We were reading the writings of Saint Theresa (she of the dodgy "ecstasy") and someone got on the feminism high-horse about it. (Specifically a line where Theresa begs God not to bestow such favours upon her, because she is "only a woman, and not even a good one, but wicked".) I pointed out that, actually, the Christian belief that to be human is to sin is not depressing and self-mortification, it's quite liberating. You don't have to be perfect; it's impossible.

Can one actually apply the label "Devil's Advocate" to a position you take just to argue, but that involves defense of the faith?

(Help, help, Anthony's threatening me with a length of green rubber pipe.)

Things I like:

• Australian fast-food hamburgers;
• Macs saying "It's not my fault" with very loud and not-quite-right diction;
• popping into the pub.

I don't particularly like:

• Blood under my fingernails;
• strange Kiwis with strange bits of paper in their pockets;
• being hemmed in by life, work, school, etc.

(And now he's threatening to tie me to the chair with it. I don't think this is what his physio had in mind...)

Easter chocolate is better than normal chocolate, because you can bounce it around the kitchen saying, "Ha! Ate your head! Now who's an elegant fucking rabbit?"

You can try this with a block of Cadbury's, but it doesn't quite feel right.

In non-chocolate news, today I wore one of those swathe-hip-belt-dangling things. It just seemed to go with the outfit. But I figure that since it was black leather, and the dangling bits had knots in the end, I can call it a "cat-o-nine-tails" belt, and declare that it's not a fashion statement, it's a celebration of both sexual subculture and Australian history. At the same time. And you thought it was just to keep my pants up.