Hamming around

Note to self: don’t wear red fishnet stockings. Ever. EVER. Even if it means going pantless and flashing some tushi. Thighs will just end up looking like glazed Christmas hams.

Little Miss Erection (Of A Topdeck Tent)

Travelling nearly done.

Not ready to return to the daily grind.

Forget how to cook for myself.

No idea how to make a bed anymore.

But give me a tent to put up and I’m a fucking pro.

Can’t. Believe. It’s. Over.

Back on the westside in a few days.

x

It is Nice, yes?

Me. Struggling. With. Keyboard. In. Europe. But. Don’t. Care. Cos. I’m. In. The. South. Of. France. And. It’s. The. Prettiest. Place. On. Earth.

Okay, well maybe one of the prettiest places … but seriously, I should’ve bought a one-way ticket to France. Blowing my mind.

PS: About to head back down to the beach at Nice (aka boob out time!).

What time is it? (Summertime!)

Man, jetlag is a bitch. I think I’ve had about four breakfasts in the last 30 hours – bloody confused, I am.

Fark me, it’s certainly been an up and down couple of days! Besides barfing on the plane and smashing a zillion eppies of Everybody Hates Chris, JT and I have caught up with mates (amazing!), hit up Big Ben, Buckingham Palace, the Eye, hospital … yep, HOSPITAL.

JT got some crazy-ass food poisoning from pork ribs, so he spent today with his head buried in the toilet, stuck with a portable potty as his bestie. Poor bugger. He’s asleep now. I wish I was. I’m too wired-up to sleep. I just had dinner (cheese on toast *sigh*), but my body thinks it’s morning tea and my head feels like it’s 3am. So I repeat – what motherfucking time is it?!

Going to hit the bar. Nothing more Topdeck-esque then drinking yourself to sleep, right?

Paris tomorrow. The Eiffel Tower awaits. God, I hope JT is feeling better in the morning.

PS: London’s a strange place – I feel like I’m still in Australia!
PPS: State of Origin – RUBBISH GAME.
PPPS: Night. x

Italian Prince, here I come!

Me. JT. Flying. Europe. TODAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

xx

PS… hola!

JT and I are going to learn Spanish together.

I’m so chuffed by this, I’m grinning as I type. For me, the Spanish language is passionate, sexy, romantic, sensual … I can’t wait for me and my partner in crime to tackle it, master it and turn the Sweat Den into a bi-lingual home.

Buenas noches xx

 

In the morning I’m going to …

… wake up and go for a long, lengthy walk through the stinky streets of the city. I’m going to watch strangers and mock them in my head. Blast my daggy iPod tunes and sing outloud like a wanker. Attempt to run, then convince myself I “shouldn’t” because of my back but do it anyway because it makes me feel free and light. Have a luxurious shower that will leave me smelling like a delicious tropical flower and my skin soft to the touch. Poach some eggs, then tuck into fruit and yoghurt – because I want to, but also because I don’t have any milk in the fridge, skim or otherwise.

Then I’ll do a whole lot of other things, trivial things, but things nonetheless.

In the morning I’m going to go easy on myself, treat myself and enjoy moving through the early hours.

PS: I’m just about to tuck myself into bed with “2 Days In Paris” and “Into the Wild”. V. excited. Hiring DVDs tonight was the best idea I’ve had all week … even if four new-releases did set me back an arm and a leg (or what will probably be a nice meal in London next week ;P).

PPS: It feels like forever since I’ve woken up on a Saturday morning and eased myself into the day. I hope it’s as blissful as I remember it to be.

“Don’t come lightly to the blank page …”

I used to dedicate a few hours a day to creative writing. I’d take great care in putting together my “reflective journal”, pasting in every hilarious/inspiring/thought-provoking/downright wrong clipping, quote or thought that came to mind. It was brilliant to pore through on a rainy day. A tangible imprint of the writer within.

I was home sick today. Getting up just didn’t agree with me. It could have been the fact that I was up half the night coughing; perhaps it was the fact that the weather was especially gloomy and I had a whopping big serving of SAD syndrome (look it up); or maybe today was just best spent in bed, under a doona, sipping hot lemon water and reading Stephen King On Writing in between extended periods of slumber.

If you’ve never read it, read it. Bloody brilliant. The man reminds me, without even trying, why I used to stay up until 3am typing madly into a Microsoft Word doc while everyone else on ressies got shit-faced and shagged each other.

 

Chop chop with Daniel Mostyn

I got the chop last night.

Yes, as I sit here and type (dreaming of my inevitable bowl of Weet-Bix waiting for me at work) I have SHORT hair. Yessum, I am indeed sporting what could possibly be described as a curly bob. But it’s so much more than a bob. Longer in front, shorter in back, thick fringe having fun up front, naughtily revealing my newish tatt up back. Fark, my head feels so much lighter.

The debris on the salon floor looked like a car crash involving lots of small hairy little animals. Seriously. There was enough hair on the floor for a whole new mane for some other poor sod. I swear it even “woofed”.

PS: Daniel Mostyn forever.

 

Chilled Woman

Chilled Woman

 

My fridge is the ultimate heartbreaker.

 

There’s something arousing about my kitchen. Maybe it’s the icy touch of the sink. Perhaps the heat escaping from the oven. Or maybe it’s the fridge. My tall, strong, broad-shouldered fridge with his six metal shelves, hard white door and special compartment for products needing a touch of cool ice.

 

He toys with me in the wee hours one wine-soaked night. Torn pantyhose ladders chase each other up my legs, each wanting to get to the top first and leave a hole large enough to reveal my panties. I’m stained and lonely. But I know my fridge, my tall, strong, broad-shouldered fridge will see me through. He always does.

 

I fumble in the dark, feeling for his rectangular physique. I trip and smash against his flat washboard door. I keep one hand on him while the other gropes the wall for the switch. Light flickers and he hums when I open his door. I reach for the milk. Its odour fumes at my nostrils. Something isn’t right. I slide my palm over the juice bottle, warm, like it’s been lazing in the sun. He’s not chilled. He’s not even nippy. I step back and listen to him purr.

 

Suddenly, I shake, I shiver, I gag. I lurch towards the garbage bin and clench its sides as I spew into its rotten belly. My fridge doesn’t try to hold my hair back.

 

I threaten to unplug him for his sudden betrayal. He splutters in terror when I slur that I’ll switch him off, kill him. I reach for the cord; teasing, torturing. Nothing like flirting with death to frighten a fridge into cooling himself down.

 

I wake up the next day lying face down on the kitchen table. I guess I’ve forgiven him, after all, we’ve spent the night together. He stands protectively against the wall, my dominant appliance, my courageous bodyguard. But he didn’t last night. I now see beyond his glacial smile.

 

The mind fucking has begun.

 

The next time is worse. He starts to clog, arteries blocked and sickly. He no longer shuts. Ice clings to his metal plates, guarding the treasures taken hostage inside. I drag out a toolbox and chisel, icy flakes erupt from the frosty chunk that’s jamming his door. This is his revenge.

 

I stand before him, tapping my toe on the floor. As usual, no answer. Just a buzzing, humming, purring moan. I run to the power point once again and grip the cord. I’m about to rip when it comes to me.

 

He’s no longer smiling. He doesn’t look so broad-shouldered. He seems to have shrunk at the sight of it. He’s not hard; he’s weedy. I smirk at him and shake my head.

“Unplugging you isn’t enough,” I spit, as I wheel a cardboard box into the kitchen.

“You’re the tallest, the strongest, the most broad-shouldered fridge with six metal shelves that I’ve ever met. Until now.”

I stab through the brown adhesive tape.

“Not only is she taller, stronger and more broad-shouldered than you… she has ten metal shelves,” I say, “And, an extra large compartment for freezing… for that touch of cool ice.”

 

When I unplug him, I can hear him screaming. Shrieking about the dark, whispering about the warmth, hissing about the smell. What a pussy.

 

I have my new fridge, my new fridge with her extra four shelves. My new fridge with her massive frozen cavern, craving food to freeze.

 

She respects. She is superior. A supreme era of white-good evolution. I’m set.

(c) Gabby