All Posts Filed in ‘wait what?

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‘Wait, what?’ sums all of this up.

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Guys, if I might advise? Get yourselves a nurse flatmate. Not only is there fun with sharp objects

[Sequence of events:
Nurse flatmate: Can I practise cannulating you?
Me: SURE! [long pause] Wait, what?
Nurse flatmate: Can I practise sticking needles in your veins?
Me: SURE!]

–but this happens:

Me: Ahh, I have a headache!
Nurse flatmate: Step into my office.
*THUNK*

The *thunk* is a giant box of magical, hospital-grade drugs landing on the floor at my feet. “Here,” she says, “try this. And maybe take some of these. Eyeballs hurt? Lost a limb? Concerned about your kidney function?”

Okay, that’s an exaggeration — she didn’t ask about my kidney function. But she DID just cure a headache that’s lasted almost a week in seconds. (To be fair, I could have cured it days ago, since she gave me the drugs on Friday. But she told me I wasn’t allowed to take them with alcohol, so hard choices had to be made.)

—–

A workmate came over to my desk. “Can you look up what season of Supernatural had the episode with the Scarecrow?”

Me: “Season 1. It’s episode 11.”

Her (backing up): You scare me.

I REMEMBER THINGS, you guys! It’s not my FAULT! I probably also know your birthday and your phone number and the title of every episode of Buffy. I know your Twitter handle and your email address and how to spell your name correctly, and the fact that it’s taken me three days to remember what Crank was called has been driving me NUTS. I’ve pretty much been obsessing about it, while also refusing to look it up, because I don’t FORGET STUFF. Not details, anyway.

I can forget whole conversations, months of my life, appointments. Numbers? Names? That shit sticks.

—–

You know how some people have lucky underwear? I will sometimes become convinced that a pair of my knickers are lucky, but I am never sure WHICH pair. So I’ll waste 20 minutes sifting through my drawer, asking my gut to tell me what FEELS RIGHT. I find it VERY STRESSFUL. My gut is kind of indecisive, and if I feel like I’ve picked wrong, it can throw out my entire day.

Or, like, yesterday on my run, I decided that where I crossed the road was going to MATTER TO THE UNIVERSE. Like, if I did it in the wrong place, then everything would go wrong, and the oceans would boil, and innocent children and dolphins would perish.

Should I stop talking?

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This got aborted right before any good bits.

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I’m really failing to get this whole blog-work-live-write balance thing down. I’ve been sick for a week and attempting to ignore it – tomorrow, the gloves come off. My immune system can hop on the train or get off the tracks, because I’m done molly-coddling its lazy ass. Next time we speak, I will either be cured or dead.

It’s been a weird week. I thought, for a while, that I’d forgotten how to walk properly. I kept thinking about HOW TO WALK while walking, and fucking it up. Eventually I realised that my shoes were just too big, but it took several days of secretly fretting over an imaginary degenerative disease and/or brain tumour.

(And a lot of comical duck-stepping and tripping over things.)

Walking, like chewing and typing and being awesome, is screwed up by effort.

Maybe it’s a March thing – this week last year I was blogging about breaking stuff and pouring coffee on my cereal. (My life remains a thrill-ride.)

Crap. Someone just gave me a paper hat and a beer. The live and work parts of the great pyramid have sensed my attention was briefly elsewhere, and conspired to rope me back in. TTFN, friends who live in the internet. TTFN.

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I’m a creep. And, yes, also a weirdo.

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I’m obsessive. Let’s just put that out there. I think you have to be to write a whole novel — so at least there’s a practical application for it — but I take everything I like WAY TOO FAR. Like, way too far.

I’ve never had the capacity to SORTA enjoy things. I’m either mildly interested in stuff or UTTERLY CONSUMED by it. There is no real middle ground.

I like to think this quality makes me loveable and interesting. YMMV.

I mention this for two reasons. The first is that my thumbs hurt. My Scrabble fixation has, if anything, deepened since last we spoke. On Christmas Day, as my family snoozed in the sun, I played four hours of Scrabble against my phone. Words with Friends is still eating much of my time and concentration. This morning I was at the SPCA completing the adoption papers for my kitten WHILE PLAYING SCRABBLE. I have a problem.

The second reason is that my friend Jeffrey has been doing the 30 Days of Me challenge. This strikes me as a) WAY too hard and b) super cool. Finding the middle ground between these, I think I’m going to steal some of the topics but write them without a time limit. In your face, rules! I do what I want.*

The challenge calls first for 15 interesting facts about yourself. I thought I’d do 15 weird situations I’ve ended up in by being a creepy fangirl. It has a better ring to it, right?

15 weird situations I’ve ended up in by being a creepy fangirl

(Or… probably way less than 15. I think I’ll get bored before 15. Or distracted by Scrabble.)

ONE.
Everyone who knows me knows that I love Hanson. It’s weird enough to be memorable, and since regular humans think they died or are still 12 or whatever, people tend to be shocked enough to remember this fact — and to use it to judge the rest of my taste in music, which is ACTUALLY VERY GOOD, THANKYOUVERYMUCH. (Mostly because I overcompensate.)

Nowadays, I love Hanson enough to go to another country to see them live (Australia, America, Canada), but not enough to pay for the special editions of their albums. By my standards this is pretty weaksauce. In my youth — sometimes known by its other name of 1997 — I would have cut off my left arm for Hanson. Sometimes it sincerely surprises me that I didn’t.

When I was 15 (aka WAY TOO OLD) and at the peak of my obsession, Popsicle held a competition to win a meet-and-greet with Hanson. They printed letters on the bottom of their sticks, and to enter the competition you had to spell out HANSON with them and post it in.

To recap: each entry took six Popsicle sticks, plus however many double-up letters you got.

I entered this competition FIFTY-THREE TIMES.

53.

At the time I had a job after school cleaning the café above Parsons Bookshop (never go there). I got paid $25 cash a fortnight (REALLY, never go there), at which point I would run to the supermarket and buy as many Popsicles as I could for $25. Then I’d sit on a bench outside and strip the iceblocks off the sticks. The delicious treats went in the bin. The sticks came home with me.

I didn’t win the competition. When I found out, I cried all morning. At school. I had to be sent out of two classes in a row.

(Years later, I found out that the girl who won was the niece of my boss at the time, and she DIDN’T EVEN LIKE HANSON THAT MUCH. If I ever meet that bitch, I’ll take her down.)

TWO.
In this same period, I used to write my diary to Hanson. This sounds creepy because it was. I wrote it like I was writing them a letter. I had a lot of messy family stuff going on at the time and it made me feel better to write about it, but I never got the hang of writing without an audience (HI GUYS!). So I wrote to Hanson.

One day my mum found my diary (cunningly wedged under my mattress, as all good diaries are) and TOTALLY LOST HER MIND. To be fair, it was pretty weird of me. And all I did at the time was listen to Hanson and put up posters of Hanson and sit outside supermarkets disposing of frozen confectionery for Hanson.

She decided I was too obsessed with Hanson, and MUST BE STOPPED. So she took all of my Hanson-related paraphernalia, including my diary, and she locked it in a suitcase under the house.

How did I react to this?

A) I punched her in the face.
B) I decorated my empty walls with poems of mourning and flowers in their favourite colours, OH YES I DID.
C) I broke into the suitcase, took my diary, and POSTED IT TO HANSON.

I do not know what my thought process was, either. But I sincerely hope they never opened it. Or, if they did, that they’d sent it back. There was some good material in there.

(This may also explain why I never had a boyfriend in high school.)

THREE.
Many, many years later, when I was 21, Hanson came to Australia. I went, of course. Because I had to get a bank loan to go, by the time I got my ticket I was too late for the fanclub meet-and-greet tickets (even though I was still a member of the fanclub at the time (I’m not now, JUST TO CLARIFY)). The night of the show I met up with some online friends in Sydney and we ended up drinking at someone’s hotel room. (Yes, you guys, I have online Hanson-fan friends. There’s no other way to MAKE Hanson-fan friends.) These girls were HARDCORE and all had backstage passes. One of them had brought along her boyfriend. We got talking, and I explained why I didn’t have a pass. He said, “well, I have one, and I couldn’t care less” and then GAVE IT TO ME.

AND THEN I MET HANSON. I shook Taylor’s hand and told him he was “fucking amazing”, and Zac laughed at me.

I was very drunk. It was wonderful.Wasting all those Popsicles was totally unnecessary.

—–

JEEZ. This is already VERY LONG, and we’ve only covered one thing! Also, I need to RETURN TO PLAYING SCRABBLE. Maybe I will retitle this blog TEENAGE KATIE WAS A CREEPER and come back later to all my other, equally weird TOPICS.

To be covered in the future:

  • Why the crew of Supernatural taught me to pack snowballs
  • How I ended up financing and releasing an album for a former child star
  • The time I TOOK A MEETING on a script
  • Other strange shit, as appropriate.

—–

*Cartman voices, please. Kelly knows how it goes.

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Today I have TOPICS!

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Oh my God, internet! I’m not dead, I’m just busy. IT SUCKS. I MISS YOU.

I just sent out the final draft of our Annual Report, which I thought I would be able to do much, much earlier, before I spent TWO-AND-A-HALF HOURS MAKING VANITY COPY-EDITS, and blew my brains out. (I don’t write it, for the record. I just lay it out.)

Now I’m sitting at my desk and vibrating like a vibrating thing (a vibrating thing that’s not at all like a vibrator. That would be inappropriate. Hi Mum!), and eating risotto at a speed that would make a nutritionist cry. SO LET’S TALK. I need to burn off some mental energy before yoga.

However, I don’t have anything in particular to say, so I asked the internet (that’s you!) for TOPICS.

Here are some of those.

—–

iPod on shuffle. First 15 songs.

  1. A Thousand Pieces – Editors
  2. The Small Print – Muse
  3. The Captive Mind – The Helio Sequence
  4. Even If – The Honorary Title
  5. Butcher Blues – Kasabian
  6. Substitution – Silversun Pickups
  7. Use Somebody – Kings of Leon
  8. Would – Alice In Chains
  9. 10:03 – Doves
  10. Bust Your Windows – Glee
  11. Can’t Get A Read On You – Tinted Windows
  12. Once Things Look Up – The Like
  13. Evil Urges – My Morning Jacket
  14. Lampposts – Bell X1
  15. Wait for the Summer – Yeasayer

(NB: I am cheating a little. Since my 60gb died a hideous death, I’ve been using a 4gb nano and rotating music depending on my mood. This means that with the exception of too many Glee songs and a bunch of audiobooks, everything on there right now is pretty respectable. If this was my entire iTunes, you would ALL BE VERY AFRAID. But it’s not, so huzzah! I WIN AGAIN.)

—–

The Hobbit

Several people asked my thoughts on The Hobbit, which is unfortunate since I don’t have any.

Oh wait, I have one: AIDAN TURNER!!!!!

Corollary statement: OM NOM NOM.

The end.

And no, Alison, I won’t be stalking him. I am not a STALKER. I’m just LUCKY. Sometimes, film sets and/or relevant celebrity boyfriends just APPEAR BEFORE MY EYES, where I charm them with my wacky accent and convince them to let me release their albums, or whatever. It is NOT THE SAME.

—–

Why cats are better

I find dogs intimidating. Not because they’re big or slobbery or require a lot of work, but because they’re NEEDY. I feel guilty just LOOKING at a dog. Every dog alive wants more from me than I feel capable of giving it. (And if I ever get a therapist, that sentence is probably all they’re going to need.) They’re all LOVE ME? PLAY WITH ME? HANG OUT WITH ME? And I’m all YOU ARE SMOTHERING ME HERE, FIDO. PLEASE BACK IT UP.

Cats are better because they make you WORK for it. I like to earn every scrap of affection I get. I also like to pull on the fur between their toes, and otherwise annoy them until they lash out and try to escape, at which point I subdue them and shower them with kisses until I feel their kitty will break. Everyone needs hobbies.

I also like to be intimately acquainted with what’s inside birds, and the feeling of dead mouse between my unsuspecting toes.

Willow is boneless and unresisting to hold from years of my bullying,
but you can still see the loathing in her eyes. I love her. 

This is Spike. He’s fat and cuddly, and gives me hives.

(Don’t talk to me about the theme names – talk to my former flatmate,
who also named her rabbits Warren and Wesley.
)
I look forward to similarly breaking the spirit of FutureCat (ETA December!).
Here’s one I prepared earlier. Trust me, she’s loving it.

—–

Yoga time! Tomorrow I will tackle your SERIOUS TOPICS! It will be VERY EXCITING. Or a HUGE LETDOWN. Either way, I am going to FILL UP YOUR READERS. Or browsers. However you roll, internet, I WILL BE THERE.

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Now consulting on all matters of the undead!

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You guyssss, I need to say something funny here. BUT I’M DRY. My brother and his delightful co-host just called and asked me — in my position as the local zombie expert — to comment on the plot of some zombie musical theatre being put on in Northland. THERE ARE THESE KIDS, AND THEY GO ON AN ADVENTURE. AND THERE IS BOTH MYSTERY AND SELF-DISCOVERY, AND ALSO THE UNDEAD. PLUS A JEWEL MINING OPERATION. IN SONG. PROVIDE COMMENTARY FOR THE GENERAL PUBLIC.

Thanks, Will and Jax. The joke is on you, because there is nothing amusing and off-the-cuff to be said about that particular confluence of events. I am jealous I didn’t think of it first, so I talked about the dude in America who cut off his own arm instead. THAT DUDE IS AMAZING.

It amuses me that when I am talking rubbish around here, I spend a lot of time concerned that no one will take me SERIOUSLY, and believe I have SERIOUS THOUGHTS about SERIOUS MATTERS, and thus spend their imaginary pennies on my imaginary novels. Which are mostly about people having hilarious conversations about nothing anyway (Kelly’s feedback on Sparks: Katie, people are not ALWAYS WITTY. The dialogue is too clever; I am struggling to feel their pain. Katie: BUT DID YOU LAUGH?), so it’s not like I am competing for a slice of the highbrow literary market, anyway. At least not until I wake up as Justin Cronin (is there a passage joke to be made here? I’ll leave that with you, internet).

Anyway. Then, when I stop blogging about, like, SALAD, and the dream I had about Puck last night — omg, Puck, that got KIND OF WEIRD, right? But, um, call me sometime anyway — I get all WHOA, I NEED TO LIGHTEN THIS MOTHER-TRUCKER UP, BEFORE THE INTERNET (hi internet!) REALISES I AM A JOYLESS BLOWHARD.

Where is the BALANCE, universe?

—–

So I wrote my first thousand words on Sunday. I felt pretty good about them until Monday, when I had to go to bed with the first season of Party Down until I stopped hyperventilating. On Tuesday, I thought about writing, and then I got slightly drunk instead. Yesterday I wrote my second thousand words, none of which take place in the scene they are meant for. It’s okay. A zombie apocalypse takes time. AND, APPARENTLY, SONGS ABOUT MINING.

I am not mocking the musical theatre, so we’re clear. It’s a high school production, and high school musicals are awesome, especially if they are about adventures and treasures and zombies, and even if they do not star Zac Efron. Mmm, Zac Efron.

—–

Later*: feminism, and why it is not a dirty word! Shoes! Recipes! Pictures of cute kids! A guaranteed abuse of capslock!

* Before the end of time. Followers of Mayan calendar: YMMV.