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.