We bought the house today. Well, we technically exchanged contracts. This means that we are legally obliged to buy, and the vendor is legally obliged to sell. So – touch wood – everything is set. We officially will own it on the 21 of next month.
WE BOUGHT OUR OWN HOME.
Niiiiiiiiiiiiice.
6:45 pm. Despite the fact that I have been home since 5pm, I have not started essay. Opening Word now.
6:47 pm. Okay. 1865 words written. If we apply maths to the situation, it might help. It is given that I need to write 3500 words. So 3500 – 1865 = x.
Can anyone guess what x is? No?
x= a bunch of shit about homophobia, sex education, and pointless rambling.
6:54 pm. 
I may start a new mission to find all grammatically incorrect flair on Facebook. Because I love flair and I hate bad grammear, when the two are combined it does something bad to my brain. (1936 words. Half of which are quotes.)
6:59 pm. 2032. Have you typed ‘heteronormativity’ lately?
7:00 pm. If one monkey typed for six hours, he might finish his essay before I finish mine.
Still, 7:00 pm – 6:45 pm = 15 minutes. And I have written 2032 – 1865 = (my calculator has no batteries)
7:13 pm. Jesus, time flies when you are not writing your essay. I will write until 7:30. I promise.
7: 25. 2335. I’m checking Facebook/email/other website. I don’t CARE. Just until 7:30, though.
7:32. Did I say 7:30? I meant 7:32. And I need to go change out of my jeans now. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’ve been home this long and not wearing pajama pants yet? What is wrong with the world?
I do really want to have hit 2500 words by the time TMD gets home. We have decided that is when I will have ‘broken the back.’ I anticipate a point when I just continually mutter, ‘I’m gonna break your back, motherfucka. For real.’
9:31. Have hung out with TMD, eaten dinner, cried my way through an excellent half hour of television, and given our notice to our landlady. I have 2901 words written and don’t want to keep this diary entry open anymore. I don’t know why. It’s annoying me.
I’m fairly certain that the examiners will see me as some militant homosexual, but you know – I think people are afraid to fail self-acknowledged queers. Political correctness twisted and manipulated for my own gain, I suppose.
I have more big news for today, but it deserves its own post.
My mother is a fairly cool lady, with a kickin’ sense of humour. I never saw or appreciated her humour when I was a teenager, and now I wonder how I missed it.
We have been sending emails back and forth about The Missing Package for weeks now. Mine are always blunt and to the point – ‘I hate the postal service, they SUCK, the sweater is still not here.’
Meanwhile she’s sending shit like, ‘Reporting for duty. I have found the tracking number, and am awaiting my next instructions.’ It’s all 007 type stuff – ‘The plot thickens, it left the country on March 31.’
Well, I’m happy to say I now have that package in my flat, and the sweater in it is BEAUTIFUL. I decided to try to be at least as fun as my mother, so I sent her a text saying, ‘The eagle has landed. Package in my possession.’
I know, I know.
In other news, I notice other blogs do giveaways. I am really into this idea and am thinking about what could be my free give-away to one lucky person, and how to be fair about picking that person. I will never be someone to send heavy packages, diamonds, or puppies. But perhaps messed up postcards and photocopied body parts is good enough in some parts of the world.
I cannot wait to manipulate people at work into giving me some Amazon certificate goodness for my leaving do. I really want Opposite Gender Soulmate’s camera – alternatively known as Canon Powershot SD750 or Canon IXUS 75. I have always wanted a digital camera, particularly one I wouldn’t need to be precious about. I’d like to carry it around sans case and just have a good time. Cookie, OGS, and Blondy all do this. I WANT TO, TOO.
When I was a child and teenager, I had slight kleptomaniac tendancies. It’s been a long time since I’ve stolen something, and nowadays the only things that excite that sleeping monster are expensive electronic devices. Mobile phones, cameras, and more mobile phones and cameras. Note: I have NOT taken any of these things. In order for my soul to remain pure, I feel like I need to buy this camera so I won’t be forced to knock someone over the head, kick in their kneecaps, grab the camera and run.
Every once and awhile I have a twinge of misgiving. Like, I should totally have just tried a life of private practice. Tonight I had one for about a half second, when a client asked if she could please continue to see me privately after our contract at the agency ended.
I really fancy not living a life where I work full time and do all sorts of crazy extra-hours shit. I dream of maternity leave and putting up ads for private practice, and just living a life of writing and private practice. That is my dream. Half writing, half private practice – and a whole lotta family time as well.
Aaaaaaanyway. Back to the Essay of Doom. Feel free to judge me for not having completed it yet. In the meantime:
The end.
For now…
Oh, God, I can’t bear it. It’s like agony not posting pictures – or videos – on this diary. I think this visit from OGS may just crack me like the nut I am.
In university, on my first whirl as a vegetarian, our roommate stopped it with a simple offer of a free breaded chicken sandwich. Now, these photos are so good it makes me weep. And videos. I don’t know if OGS has put the videos online yet, but sweet jeeeeeesus.
Still, while I agonize, there is one REALLY GOOD THING I can tell you about. I have created a new form of art. Glasses art.
See below:
This can hit the next level of deep when you look ‘through your eyes’ at your friend. We also morphed this into bizarro world by layering our eyeglasses, wine glasses, and everything else.
Yesterday was good. We saw a Druid parade, ate ice cream, and danced in the middle of public. I interpretted some Chinese street performer’s music and took it to the next level.
Weird to think today we are still in the same place, and won’t meet again till Wednesday. We are going on a haunted walk. Corporate T, will you come??
And one from behind my eyes:
I saw his passport. Apparently they have changed A LOT since I got mine. We’re talking quotes from the national anthem and the country name in gold sparkling letters. I wonder if this is ALL passports from that country now, or if he got some gay special.
Every single page has a picture of things of national interest – or not. I have just spend ten minutes photographing them all.
I can’t wait till 2010 when I renew mine. (Is it me, or does typing 2010 make you feel like you are a spaceman?) OGS says that the country is switching to passport cards next year? I’ll be massively pissed if I don’t ever get my hot little hands on this trashy, unforgiveable style of passport currently being used.
Okay. I’m in OGS’s hotel room while he washes the despair of travel off of him. We couldn’t figure out how to turn on the tv (I know, don’t judge), so I’m here instead. At my exit, I had a voicemail from him saying his room wasn’t ready and he was going to Starbuck’s. I should mention there is a Starbuck’s approximately every 50 feet in this city, and a LOAD of them in the area of his hotel.
Quirkily enough, I never ever come in this area. Except that my Tuesday Employers are based just down the road, so I used to come here for supervision. And where did I hang out if I was early? Starbuck’s.
So I’m outside my Starbucks, on the phone with TMD in a whiny voice. I’m explaining to her that I can’t dial OGS’s phone because it just does not like being called from within this country. I say, ‘I will never find him. What the fuck. I’m just going to walk past my old Starbuck’s just in case…oh, he’s here.’
I walk in, and it’s like we just did this yesterday.
Except it’s in a foreign country (to him, anyway), in a part of the city I have been to about twelve times in my ENTIRE life, in the ONLY Starbuck’s I have ever set foot in. (AND on a road that was the wrong road to get to his hotel, as I had no clue where I was going.) What are the chances?
If he was not my friend and I was a vaguely different person, I would totally just grab his Blackberry and run. He would never find me.
Well, it’s official. Opposite Gender Soulmate is in the same country as me. And while he flounders around the airport trying to figure out how to get to the hotel he has no address for, I am here messing around online. You could hardly tell I had a best friend in the country, now, could you.
Elaborate plans were hatched with my trousers around my ankles, shit reluctantly leaving my body. Old plan: meet him at the airport. New plan: meet him at the hotel. The trick is to meet him after he showers but before he decides it really is too much trouble to stay awake. I offered him the chance to sleep for a few hours and he didn’t want it, so now that motherfucker is going to stay awake whether he wants to or not.
I did tell him he was underestimating what travelling overnight in this direction does to your body. Jetlag is truly a whore, though he will be working so I suppose he’ll be forced to try to adapt. But today? I picture him being really bleary, perhaps slap-happy.
I, in the meantime, have woken up during the 5 o’clock hour and am now fully dressed at a time I am normally still sleeping through. I suppose I’m going to work on the essay. No, I’m not kidding. Yes, my life sucks a little bit.
Still, I’m all packed up with a map, camera, and umbrella. I feel like I get to be a tourist soon, and that’s pretty fucking exciting. I remember when a McDonald’s over here could make me gape with wonder, because I was sitting in a 400 year old building eating fries and looking out at a bunch of other 1000 year old buildings.
Here’s how a chain of destruction works. It’s Saturday, late morning. It’s the first day the sun has really properly shown itself in about three weeks; you can feel the heat even when you’re sitting indoors, in shadow. You haven’t written an essay you have had two months to complete.
Yesterday you decided to ring the tutor and ask her if you could change from an interesting topic to a shitty-shitty-bang-bang one because, well, it would be a lot easier. You’ve got six months work of journal articles, studies, and pictures of human genitalia spread across your bed. You spent seven hours online yesterday and did not write one word.
This morning you and your partner went feverishly through clothes – ‘too big!’ ‘too ugly!’ ‘GET RID OF IT!’ (She, too, has an essay to write.) And you dusted because some lady was coming round to see your flat and value it.
You’ve now been online for about 1.5 hours. You logged into WordPress before doing anything else. You checked if there were any new comments (sob), looked at your stats (Google search: ‘stalkers instruction book’ brought someone to your page yesterday), looked to see if anyone had updated their blogs (fuck, no), and then went to tag surfer.
And there it began. A stranger’s diary intructed you to go to a page called ‘Typeracer,’ so you went. You know, trying to be amicable.
The next thing you know, you are feverishly inputting words at a rate of like 100 words a minute. You don’t stop to consider that at that rate, your 3,500 word essay could be finished quite quickly. No, you don’t think, you can’t think, because the only thing that matters is beating random strangers at typing quotes.
When you finally tear yourself away from that banal pleasure, you start writing this diary entry. A few minutes into it, you realise your mother has sent you an email with the tracking number for the package you’ve been waiting for. You have a personal grudge against the main postal service in your adopted country, and prepare to ring them with something that can only be described as gleeful rage.
Oop – update. You just got off the phone with them. You had a very polite rage fest at the nice lady, and are now on the phone line with the parent company. You realise you cannot wait until you move to your new place, because there is no tricky locked front door and the post office has no excuse for not leaving a ‘while you were out’ slip.
Okay, the main postal service says they do not have it. This is no surprise, as the post office in the country it was sent from said it was sent by Those Bitches In The Red Trucks. TBITRT told you that if the postal service didn’t have it, you could call them back and have an investigation launched. You plan to do this because TBITRT are, truly, bitches, and they have fucked you over one time too many.
You call back. The robot lady says, ‘I’m sorry. The office is closed. No one can talk to you until Monday.’
RAAAAAAAAAAAAAGE.
You are now on the phone with your mother. You have still not written a word of your essay.
Okay, I think I am back from a hyperventilating mess. My flair is back. Oh, flair, I heart you. So that’s two good things that have happened in the last two minutes. (The second is that a man I LOVE and have never met has friended me on Facebook.)
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