To listen and judge

A few nights ago I had an amazing night and I totally forgot to tell you about it properly - I think it only got a brief mention in a previous post full up of other irrelevant crap. You'll have to excuse my complete inability to stick to a topic with any conviction - I did warn you. In my mind, it has officially been dubbed the stoner rock night. It was after my epic day full of rallies, warehouse sales and all too many trams. So getting home was a beautiful moment.
Somehow CC and I ended up in her room, which was empty for the weekend because all her roomies took a siesta home (home home, not boarding house home:d Soz), draped over chairs, desks and beds respectively with the lights off, blinds down, door closed, and basement indie obscurity turned up loud. You know when you get those surreal moments when you feel like you're floating in limbo between physical reality and something slightly beyond that? Lying there in the dark was just like that, listening to Birds of Tokyo and Cold War Kids. Like being stoned, without the weed. It was just a crazy, self-realisation moment. Extended moment - it went on for about three hours.
Hayesy walked in at one point, light spilling in from the hallway when she opened the door. Awakward much - you could hear the unspoken WTF??? in the air. But who gives a fuck? If she doesn't gel with the music, her loss. :D
We ended up with a bit of My Chemical Romance, metalling out. Like I said: epic. XD

This would all sound so much cooler if I had a nifty British accent.

Back again. I'm mulling over my plummeting ability to write accurate, interesting pieces of text. Used to be good -have taken a nosedive. Now I know how the plane that landed in the Hudson feels. And sinking... I used to be organised, too, you know. You wouldn't believe it, but I was. I used to hand homework in early (yes, geek, we've established that), used to always have my permission forms in on time, used to be neat and organised to the point, embarrassingly, of being anal. It's called OCD. Don't be mean.
I don't actually have OCD (except for price tags - I always have to rip them off as soon as I see them. Something about them just makes me crazy. Maybe because I'm broke? Freud could have afield day with me.) Life might actually be easier if I did have OCD. Then at least things would get done. Problem is, I don't, and I'm too laid back for my own good. The Queen of Procrastination returns with an even bigger, shinier crown. Example 1: this year I'm supposed to do work experience. This shit takes a long time to organise, apparently. I'm not giving myself much leeway. I now have nine days in which to call several places, get their permission, fill out/hand in the forms, complete a workshop and generally psyche myself into getting off my fat ass and actually doing something. Of course, since this is me we're talking about, I'll end up being one of those people that has to work for my dad for work experience because I left it so late that i have no other option. I just always seem to have something better to do - wash my hair, watch Supernatural, sing very loudly and very badly along with My Chem Rom, officially the best band to metal to in the history of the universe. Painting my nails also takes precedence over getting my future in order. In fact, the rest of my life is rather low on the priority list. I can't seem to get out of the rut of living in the moment. Sounds fun. Is actually extremely inconvenient. The way my whacked out logic works, I could get his by a truck whilst walking to Corner with CC this arvo. Hell, I could get both legs broken by an anorexic daddy's girl on a moped and never walk again. Make the most of the moment, I say.

Power to the People

It's the middle of fifth period english and I'm not entirely sure why the inspiration has struck me to write to my fishies now when I have a free period next, but hey, it's almost the end of the school day, so the sooner we share the love, the better :D I have found (courtesy of CC - arigato gozaimasu!) the official Most Awesom Band Of The Year (So Far): they're called Biffy Claro and they are the ultimate Scottish rock. How can you hate that adorable accent? And I swear to you they do not run around commando in kilts. We are beyond that now. They sing the song Mountains, with which I am currently enamored - blame the lingo on the vocab list being written on the board. I am almost that big a geek, but proud to say, not quite.
This is also the perfect opportuinity to share with you my perplexity here. I've discovered a pattern and I can't for the life of me figure out what the basis of it is. Has anybody else noticed that almsot every P.E. teacher they've ever been bossed around by is a sadist of the highest degree? I mean, ten minutes of lunges and burpies? Where does that get fun?
Which is exactly why I have made a pact with myself. The moment school is out, every afternoon, I am throwing off the mantle of monotony and doing whatever the fuck I want. In case you hadn't noticed, I have authority issues. Don't laugh - it's a serious affliction, and can cause some very drastic complications when you have a terminal case, like mine. It's a disability. So tonight, I have plans. Who cares if it's a Monday night? It's my Monday night.

Procrastination has its upsides

Sunday night: the time of regrets and reflection. You know when you finally sit down after like, a huge weekend and think, well,actually, shit, I haven't done anything I actually set out to do. But what the hell. I did a truckload of other random crap instead. And life goes on. It's all good. Par example, I started out my weekend with my Friday night hope post. Strange, now that I look back on it. I think I was kind of tripping out. On Saturday I got up at nine o'clock (on a saturday morning! Sacrilege! Blame Sazzle - she wanted to leave early, so we all had to get up. Don't you hate that?) to catch a tram for 40mins out to a warehouse sale in Brunswick. Retro. In true RJ fashion, I bought a pile of junk that seemed like a good idea at the time... but has since crashed and burned like the aftermath of a really good party. The three of us then returned to the city - Sazzle, CC and yours truly. The gay marriage rited rally was on, so what the hell? Why not join in? I think Sazzle could give us several reasons to that effect, but we were on a roll, so I spent a large part of my Saturday surrounded by men in wedding dresses, Priscilla Queen of the Desert wannabes and men whose vocal cords have never adapted past puberty. Fun times. Ate altogether too much pizza and ice cream, relearnt how to ice-skate (badly) at Docklands - and paid the price with severely bruised knees today - and ended up in CCs room til the wee hours of the morning, lights off, tripping out on obscure basement punk and random Scottish rock. My idea of an effin good day, actually.
Of course, after that, my Sunday was bound to be a dud - you know, the balance of karma and all. And I have a maths test tomorrow - which I haven't studied for (please, God, don't let Mr Neeson be reading this). I'm counting on maths not having any place in my future, because otherwise, Sweet Jesus I am fucked.
I do have a really cool photo collection on my wall though - the side effect of a day's worth of procrastination.

It's the freedom, people

You know what I've decided? the best day of the week, by far, by leagues, has got to be Friday. I mean, I know everybody says it's Saturday or whatever because there's this great party and he got smashed and she fell down the stairs and that random guy that nobody knows ate every cupcake in the kitchen and munted on the doormat. But see, Friday is the day when anything is possible. Once school's out, it's suddenly all there, laid out beofre your eyes like a carpet of sequins leading up to the nightclub door and the hot bouncer therein. It's like, you don't have reality to sully your dreams. You can fill your heart to bursting with shiny happy hope because the party has yet to turn out to be a dud where you spend all your time trying to keep your wasted friend from spewing up yesterday's sandwich all over the DJ. It hasn't happened yet. So you can sit there and dream the fabulous dream like all the starlets in Hollywood. your turn is just around the corner, and you have yet to find out that what lies around there is actually the overflowing Dumpster behind the scungy Chinese restaurant.

Don't laugh at karma

I'm writing to you in the kind of slaphappy joy that comes at one o'clock in the morning when you realise that your first two periods tomorrow are FREES! The Lord exists and He has mercy. I've just watched three episodes of Supernatural in a row - Season Four, when the angels start coming out. You can probably tell. Hey, a girl can dream, right? I'm cultivating the ability to pull all-nighters without passing out or taking caffeine shots the next day. It's proving to be a useful skill (especially when you have a science assignment the next day that you haven't started yet. Not that that's relevant in any way, Ms Lee. Ahem.) I'm still getting the hang of it. Last few nights I've had to rely on midnight milo refuelings but tonight, I'm in for the long haul - cold turkey. I feel like a sniper in Beirut or something. Diggin' in for the night. Hoo-ah. Today - yesterday, as of an hour and twenty ago - was one of the harder functioning days. I didn't sleep nutil four thrity a.m., the absolute no-go-zone hour for all-nighters. Too early to still be revved when you bounce upagain a few hours later, too late to get even a half-assed contingent of sleep under your belt. It's all or nothing, and four a.m. is smack bang in the middle: nada. The dead zone. It was a fatal mistake - especially considering we did ice-skating in P.E. Does anybody else find that suspicious?

Hola mes amigos!

I'm listening to Kiss And Make Up by Funeral For A Friend while I write this and deciding that it is a very good song, for the record. I'm having a fad with band merchandise atm. I bought a New Found Glory badge from Retrostar, which is officially the coolest store in Melbourne :D Anyway, back on track... I'm just writing to warn you that if this blog post ends in a long line of unintelligible letters and punctuation symbols, it's because I've fallen asleep with my head on the keyboard. It's my own fault, I suppose, if we're going to be honest, though I'd much rather blame someone else for it. It's a bit hard this time though, since it was undeniably of my own volition that I stayed up until four o'clock last night, writing my music guru a frickin' novel (although it was supposed to be a letter) and watching Supernatural. In the morning. What a rebel. Shucks.
I'm slowly learning Spanish by watching Supernatural (Sobrenatural) on TuTV. Lol. Tu mi preguntas, carino? Has anyone ever been so pointlessly oriented? It's a hobby. I like to think of it as an endearing quirk. Like learning Hamlet's soliloquy off by heart. Completely irrelevant, because aside from random trivia nights which sane people avoid at all costs in the first place (bad experiences, don't go there), it's never going to serve a purpose in reality.
But thenpracticality's never been my strong suit.

One can only hope

I've been reading. Again. Big shock. In case I haven't mentioned it, I'm the biggest book nerd that ever walked the planet. Not useful stuff either. Random fiction books that have little or no impact/relevance to my life atm, but they make me feel better, and I've decided that, seeing it's my life, I'm entitled to do whatever the fuck I want with it. So I will. On this note, I've read two books in the past two days: Maureen McCarthy's A Rose By Any Other Name, and Melina Marchetta's Looking for Alibrandi. Technically I've already read Looking for Alibrandi (eight times - oops XD) but it's worth it. Anyway, they've made me think. The one thing that everyone strives for above all else in life is happiness, right? We scramble for money because we think that if only we were rich, we could have everything that we ever wanted, and that would equate to happiness. We sell ourselves short in relationships because we think, if only this person will love me then I am worthy of happiness. We starve ourselves and run ourselves into the ground because if only we were so fit and so beautiful then we would be happy. Of course we would. Unequivocally. Right?
It's struck me that I am an unambitious person. Or maybe I'm just not desperate to be overwhelmingly happy. Maybe because it always seems to me like that level of elation is so strong that it's going to fizzle out, and everything will seem darker afterwards.
Don't get me wrong. I'm very into the sparkler kind of happiness. I know that even though everything gets plunged into twilight for a bit, you're always going to light up another one, even at the most unexpected moments. Maybe it's just that I don't expect it to last forever. All those people out there who gamble everything on that kind of happiness and then it fails, they're left with nothing. Everyone always says that I am too laid-back for my own good. I am the epitome of going with the flow. Not always a good thing. Especially when exams are a week away and you've decided your time would be better spent trawling deviantart for amazing inspiring photographs instead of studying. But it also means that I've never wound myself up really tightly, never pinned every hope that I have on one thing. Like my best friend from my old school, Cloudy, has set his sights on being a paramedic. That's great, and if he gets there, kudos for him. But I've always been one of those people whose life would be absolutely perfect as long as I have a good supply of milo, a house with more than one room and a car - no matter how much of a bomb it is. I'm going to end up in a backwater town in a shabby shack house with garage sale furniture and a crapped-out lemon of a car twenty years past its use-by date and a cat that eats more than I do because I'll have spent my food money on a CD. And this would sound completely abhorrent to most people, exactly what they're trying to avoid. But to me it sounds perfect. As long as I can write, and it rains and there's an evening breeze, I'll be - maybe not consumed with happiness. But if there's one thing that's better than happiness, it's hope. Having something to look forward to beats happiness every day of the week and twice on Sunday. Long as I've got hope, I'm sweet on life. Chuu.

The (dubious) joys of twenty-first parties

Did I mention I'm in love? I've had all day to harp on it, because it's not like I've had anything else to do... So I'm going to call him Technicolour, because the first time I met him he was munting in the garden bed four hours later. Not exactly a rousing endorsement for him, but in his defence, he was the most coherent drunk I've ever encountered. Maybe I'll call him Techie for short. In any case, he's outsrtipped Yellow Shorts Boy, because I've at least had a conversation with him. he probably doesn't remember me at all, since he was rip-roaring drunk for a large part of the time I spent with him, including the hour or so I spent in conversation with him. Shame - that hour is a very precious memory on my part. Oh my God, I'm turning into a soppy high school girl. Shock horror. Still, I can't help it. He's hot, so sue me. And although our conversation was a little left-wing - it's difficult to have an entirely on-the-rails conversation when one half of it has temporarily lost a large part of its reasoning - it was nonetheless a very fascinating conversation.
The twenty-first was not a flop on all counts.

This is why they don't let you take knives to boarding school:

Have you ever had one of those days where you just don't know what to do with yourself? It doesn't sound like a big drama when you put it that way, but it's one of the most debilitating things I can think of. It's not boredom, boredom is easy to fix - just find something to do. It's more like you have stuff to do, but all of it is equally tied as the Last-Thing-I-Want-To-Do-Right-Now.
I'm having one of those days.
I have a shiteload of homework, no joke - to take this shit to the tip I'd have to hire a lorry. Unfortunately I'm broke (literally - I have fifteen dollars and change with which to survive another five weeks) or I might do just that. Another unfortunately would be that most of it is due on Monday/Tuesday, and most of the assignments are orals, which means that if I don't do them I'll look like a douche in front of the whole class/teacher. Right now, though, I'd rather die than research blood diseases for science (??? What kind of person sets that as an assignment topic?) Anyway, the real problem is that there are things I want to do,I just can't do them because man-kind on the whole is a very uncooperative race. CC has vanished off the face of the earth, S is out for the weekend with her rents, and L is being exceptionally cruel and ditching me in favour of maths homework, despite my literal begging. So much for undying loyalty and friendship. And I'm not allowed out by myself- they have someone stationed at the door. Seriously.
So I'm sitting here, cooped up, trapped, contemplating whether I can starve myself to the point where I'll fit through the narrow window opening to throw myself four stories down onto the tennis court floor. I have renewed sympathy for chickens. If they had a concept of suicide, I'm sure they'd have taken the out when they could.

Fish Fingers

I feel guilty for not writing for so long. I have this awful habit of quitting everything I start. When I was ten I started horse riding. By the time I was thirteen it was over. Singing lessons - age nine to twelve. Swimming: age five to fourteen. Not so bad, actually. All my stints at hockey, poetry, obscure punk rock, dancing, manga, gypsy clothes, even being blonde... down the drain, sometimes slowly but surely, sometimes doomed from the start. Like the time I had a goldfish when I was eight. I loved it dearly for a week, standing over it while it ate, watching it for minutes at a time (watching a fish for minutes straight is the equivalent of watching cricket for hours - so mind-numbingly boring that its like taking a dose of knockout panadol). Then, gradually, our relationship began degrading, rolling gently downhill - until it plunged over the edge of the cliff at the bottom. That was when I became so disinterested that I forgot to feed it, let my friend's little sister wash its bowl, and came into the kitchen for cookies just in time to watch it make one last, fateful flop for freedom down the plughole.
Maybe that's symbolic. i'drather not dwell on the possibilities. I just hope that the Fingers the fish found happier times wherever he ended up.

What to do when there are people sitting atop tram stops and hanging off traffic lights? Cheer on

Amazing times, my darlings, amazing times. I've officially been at boarding school, stuffy, crazy, senseless whirlpool of madness that it is (interpret that however you will), for a little over three weeks and Hallelujah! salvation is on the horizon. Weekend after next is the exeat weekend - home sweet home. Sad to say, having swallowed all my excessively humiliating tears which I feel free to share with you only because you've never actually met me, I will miss Melbourne when I scuttle home to the big empty bush. It's going to feel mighty uneventful. Rest assured, there'll be more posts than you can handle then, only because I have you to complain to as much as I like :D you're probably going to want to pick another blog to follow after that revelation, huh.
Today CC and I attended the Save Live Music SLAM rally in the city, Over a thousand people, all sweating and chanting and screaming together all the way from Swanston St up to Parliament House. We spent most of the time about four feet away from our music gods, which is possibly - probably - okay, I'll just admit it - totally the most amazing experience my sad, underdeveloped life has undergone so far. But it was a-fuckin-mazing. We were right up beside the musicmobile - the big van with all the musicians and emcee activists piled on top playing and screaming and leading the chants - and then we were literally right next to the speakers when we reached the steps of Parliament. No wonder I've lost all the hearing in my right ear. I may never feel the full effect of Breaking Benjamin ever again.
May I just point out that music activist guys are hot enough to warrant the temporary deafness.

Chocolate is the devil's advocate

You know those awkward parties that you go to where everyone knows everyone else and you just kind of tagged along for the heck of it and spend the whole eight hours hanging around the punch bowl, scarfing sushi and cupcakes? Everyone's been to one. This one was my cousin's twenty-first. Okay, so I have an obligation to be there. I was there. Obligation fulfilled. With much damage to me, may I just add. I am owed for this. It's been an Eating Weekend, capital letters. Much much food equals very very bad idea, but when the only other thing you can do to pass the time is swipe shots of forgetfulness from the Alcohol Bowl in tacky plastic cups, marshmallows from the edge of the fruit platter is a step up from munting in the bushes.
It does give one a wonderful opportunity to commune with the intellectual hub of society. After a few drinks (and then a few more), they clear out with a Berocca, and then you've officially made a new friend. People on the whole are much friendlier when they can't see straight enough to tell if you're that girl they pashed last night behind the broom closet or the party girl's kid cousin. XD

Our computers are turning on us

Well, fishies, it's been a long day - getting up at six o'clock in the morning to play tennis is so not worth it - but here we are, sitting at my cousin's faulty computer that WON"T LOAD THE GODDAMNED ITUNES and FOR ONCE I MIGHT HAVE ACTUALLY BEEN ABLE TO GET NEW MUSIC because the boarding house blocks it and writing to you about my impatience, my irrational rage, and my random outbursts of unconditional wrath that is likely to offshoot and vaporise anything in the near vicinity. Maybe it's just because technology hates me. It's true - I hate it, and it loathes me right back. I once broke three computers and a mobile phone in the space of four hours, just by being near them. Well, one of the computers belonged to my friend, Mike, who lives over eight hundred kilometres away, but he was on the phone to me at the time, so I consider that counts. So it's a proven fact: I am a technological Antichrist. I am the AntiBillGates. It took me eight months to figure out how to use Facebook, and everyone says that that's self-explanatory. That is not self-explanatory. Call me technologically disabled, but I had serious trouble with that. Go on. Laugh all you want. I found it very frustrating.
Btw, Aldi is officially the best place to shop for food. Everything is so good, and yet so cheap - which leads you to wonder what it's made of. Some things are better not considered.

Love Hurts!

I have ten minutes before I am to embark on an undoubtedly awkward phone lesson with my Japanese teacher. Such are the joys of doing a subject by Distance Ed. What are we supposed to talk about? I've been copying out kanji characters. Controversial stuff.
Today is Friday, which makes it official Eat As Much Junk As You Please day, because on Saturday you have all day to procrastinate working it off. It's an intricate and convoluted plan, but one I've had years to perfect. It's also the Boarder Barbecue. Don't worry - it's not as cheesy as it sounds. At least I hope not.
All it means is, at eight o'clock my parents have finished mingling with all the other authoritative-type people, and I get whisked away from the penitentiary for the weekend. Cousin's 21st - maybe I'll finally meet some boys who don't have to wear a collar and talk with a stutter whenever they encounter girls. You can probably tell we had the fortnightly dinner swap where we all went to have dinner with the boys' school, most of whom have not had female contact with anyone but their mother for longer than I care to contemplate. Not that I can complain - it's not like I've been inundated with steamy dates either. I've reverted to chocolate, the old unrequited love: I love it, but it does not love my thighs.

Welcome to Monday afternoon, home of the bored and the lost. So far today I've half-slept through all of my classes (a very useful talent to have), dreaded my six am tennis lesson tomorrow - how awful is that? - listened to a shiteload of music and watched an hour-long episode of vampire diaries, not to mention the tons of chewy I've worked my way through. A very unhealthy addiction, but one I can't seem to shake.
Has anybody ever noticed that it's a maths teacher's prerogative to be balding? Is there like a rule about that, or something? Even the women are balding. Do they have a course at uni where they teach you to pluck the hairs out at your crown or something? I always thought being a teacher would be drag, but seriously. That's taking things a bit far.
Well, I was supposed to go running this afternoon, but somehow in the scheme of things that seems to have spiralled irreversibly down the proverbial plughole. On the up-side - we're doing a Valentine's Day dinner swap, even though technically the big VD was yesterday (which I spent with a block of snack chocolate, the new CD by the Fray, and a season of Vampire Diaries). After three weeks of nothing but female contact, not counting the guy who offered to buy me coffee when he nearly knocked me over on Sunday (that might have been a pity vote) the dinner swap where we go to the boys' school which would normally be worthy of at least a couple of hours of moaning has morphed miraculously into something, sad as it is, to be excited over. Maybe I'll finally get to meet Yellow Shorts Boy - although I might have to ask him to take his shirt off for me to recognise him. No great loss. My nine-year-old self would be disgusted.
Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

It's a Sunday night and I'm taking advantage of a lull in the continuous ebb and flow of the occupants of this room to write you all a message: if you ever go to boarding school, take a teddy bear. No joke. I really am that soppy. I love my teddy bear. I just wish I could take him to class with me. He's the only man in mylife at present - at least the only one who's sleeping with me. Maybe I should take a vow of ultra-feminism so I don't feel so bummed about going to an all-girls school? No, that won't work. Not when I run every evening at five forty-five so I can surreptitiously sneak glances at the current love of my life (next to my teddy bear - don't worry Meow, you'll always be my number one): Yellow Shorts Boy. Yellow Shorts Boy is the as-yet unidentified guy who runs at five forty-five every evening wearing nothing but a pair of yellow shorts - all the better to showcase his HOT ROD body. I'm not stalking him. Scouts honour. It's a total coincidence that we run at the same time. I'm a trustworthy person... in a sense.

In The Beginning...

I suppose I should begin by introducing myself.

My name is RJ. I'm fifteen years old, and I have a drinking problem. Nah, I don't really. It was just such an AA meeting introduction, and I'm trying to be myself here, which means what I say probably won't even make sense half the time. So to anyone who feels compelled to read my awesomely scrumptiously fantabulistically boring blog, sorry in advance.

Anyhoo, I'm here to document all the drama and angst of my life at the moment and probably write a lot of things in the heat of the moment that are going to come back and bite me on the ass later. If I'd been writing this blog when I was nine, you would have been able to come up to me now and laugh in my face about my fierce vow never ever to associate in any way, shape or form with the male species. Thankfully I've moved on since then.

Well, the closest I've come to a blog so far in my worldly fifteen years is watching Julie and Julia - a 3-hour-going-on-3-year movie that I have no trouble not recommending. Anyway, the point is... don't expect great leaps of interest or intrigue or any sort of writing skill. Sorry. We're going tohave to fumble our way through it until I get my sea legs. That analogy does not bode well, considering I never did manage to not face-plant every few steps aboard a boat.

But you have my solemn oath that I will do my best not to send you screaming mad with my constant patterings about music, people you've probably never met, nail polish, and the various humiliating labyrinthine mistakes I make. The dangers will be many, and multi-hued. Sorry, you'll also have to cope with my obscure movie references. That one was Kids In America, probably the Ultimate Movie of All Time.

Oops, this has been something of an epic introduction. Ttyl. :D I promise not to mimick Gossip Girl either. The only good character is Chuck Bass anyway.