Slinky completes the sentence

I got tagged by April. Girl, you tag me every time! I suppose it's not a bad thing this time though. I have a lot to say but no real enthusiasm to blog right now.

I am: deeply excited about going home in less than a month and the fact that I need to pass some rather important exams first seems to be a rather inconsequential blip when for days I catch myself daydreaming of the sound of my gate opening and one seriously happy GSD bounding out to say hello, where have you been?


The Fuzzster. My Fuzzster.

I want: more money. Oodles of it. Then I don't have to watch every single bloody dollar that I spend, or to not have enough warm clothing because it’s just not within my budget to buy a winter coat right now. The time has not yet come where I must resort to stuffing my sweaters with newspapers like a homeless person, which is good, because I have no desire to leak newsprint in lectures ("Mites infest WA homes!"). But it is close. Also, I can buy that sexy-as two-door coupe which someone offered to sell me and stop being victimized by the useless motherfucking public bus service here. Go run your goddamn buses at whatever times you feel like so that other hapless commuters miss their classes three days in a row, see if I care then, ha! *mutters imprecations under breath*

I wish: it were easier, I wish I could have my cake and eat it too. I'm rather sick of sacrificing one or the other, I just want it all. So says the 7-year old in my head.

I hate: that what I want can only be found in two different countries, and that they are each exclusive to the other. And that washing my face in the cold morning feels like one of the less sophisticated torture methods in a Japanese POW camp. Bah.

I miss: prata, Milo dinosaurs, teh, fags by the reservoir, road trips with The Boy, lazy Sunday afternoons, not having to worry about money, clubbing with Miss C and Miss J, Merlot, spending time with all of you, shopping that does not end at bloody 5 p.m., having my family around me, sleeping in my own bed, roughhousing with Tesh, waking up to The Boy, and the feeling of endless potential.

I fear: that I'm making one of the biggest mistakes I'll ever make. Which is rubbish, but fear is not always logical. Jump and fly.

I hear: that there are these things called movies. And restaurants. But since I am damned near a pauper, I wouldn't know about these things.

I wonder: where I'm going to be in five years time, and if I will be happy.

I regret: not knowing, and knowing, staying and going. And not having rocked the world as part of a killer band. I'm complicated like that.

I am not: studying when I really should be. But I am out of practice. Nothing can be as bad as when I was working, so exams seem rather piffling in comparison .I mean, please - if it won't stress my system so much that I get a mysterious life-threatening disease, why bother panicking? (Someone needs to press the panic button in my head, please.)

I dance: when I have the opportunity, and when the music gets my blood pumping. Save your bloody techno for the little boys with the orange hair. Watch out, Singapore. When I get home, I have new skanky outfits and I'm not afraid to use them.

I sing: enthusiastically but without, I think, particular skill. Probably one of the reasons for one of the regrets stated above.

I cry: infrequently, and grudgingly. And, I wll admit, snottily. Yes, ew, gross, whatever, you do it too, don't deny it.

I am not always: as strong as I'd like to be.

I make with my hands: eh? This doesn't make sense. I make with my hands the dinners of death, maybe? I still haven't quite gotten the hang of cooking vegetables. It's like there's a soft green salt lick in the pan after I'm done with them.

I write: less often than I should to less people than I should.

I confuse: my lack of driving ability as mere endearing speed-demonesque recklessness rather than a horrifying sort of danger to all of humanity.

I need: a whole lot of feeding up, love and attention when I get back. A bit like a human bonsai.

I should: quit smoking. Eventually.

I start: wondering if Punky will ever take off his shirt before he leaves when I am procrastinating on doing any real work. Sadly, I must conclude that the answer is likely to be 'no'.

I finish: doing this shit when I am way too old. It depresses the hell out of me.

I love: my dog, my family, The Boy. Djarum. House (ohgodHousewherehaveyoubeenallmylife)And right now? Dungeon Keeper and THC's "Need to Destroy". And this guy over here. I am hip-deep in love with him and drowning. I wish he could be mine.


Who's a beautiful boy then?


I remember: damn near nothing if it happened more than an hour ago. The hamstery memory of the Slinky is truly a phenomenon.

I'm not tagging anyone. Do this if you want.