I appear to have skipped town for the month of April. That’s not true. Even it if was true it would be a completely ineffective excuse coming from the person that once arrived in snow-locked Germany, had her final flight cancelled, got her bag lost in the system, injured herself kicking snow, and still took the time to blog about it from the shivery confines of a friend’s charming little flat in Münster.
To re-introduce myself after over a month of radio silence, I thought I should update you on my life.
|Haven't seen The Princess Bride? Why are we friends? Who are you??|
I got older
You probably already picked that from the wrinkles in my writing. No, I didn’t dive off the deep-end into a pile of self-loathing, liver-spotted, quince paste eating devastation. I’m saving that for 30 (though I’ll probably give myself a head start and kick that shame spiral off when I clock on to 29).
I’ve never loved my birthday, and for that I find it easiest to blame Keira Knightly. I’ve also removed it from Facebook to avoid having my identity hijacked by Mossad. This year I did manage to celebrate with family, friends, and iPod-based karaoke that featured a lot of Celine Dion. And canes. And a range of WW1 and safari hats.
I discovered being a student is harder than I remembered
I got a taste of this last year, but when you ramp things up to full time student-hood and couple it with full time unemployment, you give yourself the chance to feel both stupid and poor in equal measure.
It’s also meant I’ve had the glorious opportunity of conducting business with Centrelink for the very first time. It’s a fine romance we’re having, though they’re definitely playing hard to get. It’s been 2 months, 5 extensive phone calls and 4 office based dates and I’m still not getting any. You know how it is with government agencies, they just don’t like to put out.
I continue to injure myself while dancing
It’s one part Getting Older and two parts Vigorous Conviction In My Absurd Belief I Can Dance.
I got sucked in by Delta Goodrem’s PR machine in full flight (ie. The Voice)*
If you haven’t become hypnotized by So Goodrem’s efforts to emote like her life depended on it then you haven’t lived. You can take that ruling to the bank (where they’ll undoubtedly rip you off on the interest rate front, but smile politely while they’re doing it).
I would once again like to thank the Dutch, arbiters of all things addictive in reality television (that aren’t called ‘Survivor’ or ‘Australia’s attempt at political stability’) for such a brilliant gift.
I had to try and come up with a horror movie idea
Considering I can’t stand horror movies, this is a big deal. I stayed up until 3am the night before it was due, clutching my softball bat and trying to think of something scary without scaring myself. Strangely all my ideas ended with, ‘but it was just a dream’. Then I discovered there’s some classic horror movie in which people’s dreams kill them. Then I had to try and go to sleep.
I got a new bed
This was mostly to solve my unending issues with my back. My existing bed was as old as Jesus (but there’s photographic evidence of its actual existence). It was best described by one of my housemates (Mick) as “Big enough to imply promise, but not so big as to say 'slut'”. Fair call.
I had Brazilian BBQ… and I’m still full
Steak my heart and hope to die, I don’t want to butcher this with puns (or get grilled about this later), but sometimes you do just have to ham things up. I have a bit of a beef with eating so much meat, but it was a rare occasion and it was all very well done.
|If you're a vegetarian, look away now|
So, now that I’ve re-introduced myself, I promise not to leave it so long between one-sided monologues. Yes mum, as the only person to have read every single post I ever put up, that promise is pretty much for your benefit (also, while I’ve got you Mother Painefull, what are we feeling for dinner on Monday night when I come visit? I think I’ll be hungry again by then).
* = Delta Goodrem is Australia’s answer to the vacuum in product placement happy celebrities left by the fact that Pat Rafter is, after all, only one man. She is also a singer.