+ fruit salad.

Look, this may offend some fruity people.

Summer is fast approaching, and when not remembered for it's blue skies, the beach and it's intolerable heat, it is more often than not associated with fruit salad.... That's the first thing that springs into my mind....
But it's this very multicoloured dish I have huge issues with.
What I cannot comprehend/fathom/understand/swallow ... all those words, is why on earth someone would feel the urge to taint the cheek-sucking sweeeeeeeeetness of the kiwi, with the delicate passive pear flavor? Why blend all the zesty, citrusy, juicy, watery fruits together into a big bowl of mush? I'm not disagreeing with combinations and infusions of flavours when it comes to smoothies, yoghurts, icecreams and all those mouthwatering summer beauties. Oh by all means, suck, slurp and s-lick away.

But why can't we just dice and slice all our favourite berries and treefruits and eat them semi-separately, pick and choose. Just because I like grapes, doesn't mean I'll pick them over a strawberry. Whoah there. There's a hierarchy of fruits. Don't deny it, "pssh that Han is a freak, she orders her food", yes I do, and deep down you know you save the little blueberries until last.
So what I'd really like from, well, both of you, is to stop mashing up carefully grown Australian produce (yes, I'll try and make you feel guilty about the farmers out there picking each cherry for your blackforest cake, while adding a touch of patriotism) and eat it with the respect it deserves.

Don't play with your food, how rude.


Stay Tuned.
life's narcissistic narrator.
+ the red fox.

 -OVER AND OUT-

+ *sip* ahhh.

Just a brief one.

Why do people feel the need to broadcast and confirm their satisfaction after gulping down a glass with the general *inhale*"aahhhhhh"? Usually followed by the general nodding or shaking, depends on your degree of satisfaction.
Is it really necessary?
Or drinking with your eyes closed. It's not like you're kissing it, and don't use the "the fizziness makes my eyes water" excuse. Man up. You're not a connoisseur of the culinary culture, you just look like a moron.
Stop it.
Drink properly and hide your satisfaction.


Stay Tuned.
life's narcissistic narrator.
+ the red fox.

 -OVER AND OUT-

+ connecta-everything

Hola!

I'm Sorry!! Okay, give me a break, I'm a busy little asian girl in year twelve - it's not all what everyone says it's cracked up to be...

So my Casey and I are perched at the desks next to each other in the middle of Chemistry on a Friday afternoon not particularly concentrating on the mechanics of redox reactions and the innerworkings of half cells.

In an attempt to pass the time we....we..........weevenresultedinplayingpickupstickswithpens.

new low....farewell self worth.

On the plus side, it is quite a genius discovery, who knew pens could waste so much time. While we were flicking, rolling, tapping and flinging thin pens around the room we realized they were almost the ultimate stationary weapon, except for one crucial feature that was missing. 

I like to call it the connectafactor. 

Generation X and Y will appreciate the connectafactor as we have grown up with, or envious of those with, connectapens (those who's parents bought them non-connecting pencils would just simply see them as markers but they are so much more!!), BabyBoomers, I doubt they have invented connecta-quills back in your day..and just quietly why are you reading this blog, being a pedophile is your only excuse really..

Yes. FaberCastell had finally delivered the stationary equivalent to E=mc² to our homes in twenty four vibrant and versatile colours. 

We, as a generation are truly blessed.

Hours were spent in the fifth grade, determining whether yellow should call green its 
neighbour in the circle of colours and whether to amalgamate with little Timmy's who 
sat across from you and create a MEGA connecta-spiral.

So many options.

Connecta-pens connected the world. 

And this is when MissCasey had her epiphany.

That EVERYTHING should connect in some Castell manner. Like chairs in assembly we, 
human beings, should be entitled to lock together and join as one. As though carriages on a train, 
an interlocking spiral of people should exist. All you have to do is click and snap onto someone else. 
It could be integrated in weddings, "you may now snap onto your bride". Conjoined twins would be 
a lot easier to un-conjoin.Losing people in a mosh wouldn't be such an issue. 
Connecta-everything solves, well, everything!

All your connecta-woes will disappear! 

  

So in the future, when you're snapping your kids together for their first day of school, remember, Casey

prophesied this sitting in a chemistry class, playing pick up sticks, while I was trying to pay close attention to what would be on our next exam. I dub her, CaseyCastell. It will be a household name, like 

Newton, SteveJobs, BarrakObama and Justin Bieber. 

Stay Tuned. 

life's narcissistic narrator. 

+ the red fox. 

 -OVER AND OUT-

+ refreshing.

Neehow.

Look, if you're not a regular reader, which I'm assuming is everybody, you wouldn't have noticed, but there has been a slight revamp of what used to be "observatory commentary".
It is now- dadadada.. on closer inspection.
And it will most likely have a couple more costume changes before it's permanent.
So follow, like a crumb trail.

Stay Tuned.
life's narcissistic narrator.
+ the red fox.

 -OVER AND OUT-

+ un-velopment.

I hope that both of you have read my last blog on my house, because there has been a development...and not the kind of renovation development, if anything it should be classified as an un-velopment. 


The first thing I hear of this un-velopment is from a text from my mother during Literature, "Make sure you come in the front door". Sorry? What happened to the back door? Did they pull a Fawlty Towers and block up the door? Oh no. Losing a door would have been infinitely better. 
The stench of syrupy glaze hits me like a brick wall immediately after I clamber through the front door as instructed. It's the smell of Bunnings, an odour so alien to me. I drop my bag and investigate. I'm sure some tradie or handyman could have predicted the mutilation to my house from the simple clues, even Sherlock Holmes without knowledge of simple power tools. But not me. The entire (and I literally mean the whole 7x4m) living room lacquered in dust (not the magical fairy variety) on par with the intoxication of Pompeii's. Clue numero duo: the noise, audibly polluting, which is only magnified by the echo enhancing feature of our house. Look, I'm dense and didn't click until I rolled open the double doors to the kitchen area and saw catastrophe. 
The whole of the dining room, kitchen (including fridge, microwave, rubbish bin, sinks, pantry) and laundry - therefore the whole guest wing and garage: no walk zone. 
Not going to lie, I screamed, inside my mind, but apparently I didn't conceal this shock sufficiently as the sun damaged, sloppy man whizzing this..sander thing around my kitchen floor with a cigarette in his mouth.  I wasn't sure whether I should have been more shocked that some prison escapee was in my kitchen, or whether this stranger was smoking inside my house. He may have realized my literal =O emoticon face and quickly terminated the sander. Thank goodness my mother shut the doors and lead a confused me outside on the doorstep so we could inhale fresh air once again. All the fresh oxygen stung my lungs. 
And it's there on that front step we sat, my mother and I, for perhaps a good forty minutes. Waiting in utter frustration in the numbing cold until we gave in and just sat in the piano room, perhaps the emptiest, least used room in the entire house...at least it finally gained some attention. By now it's four thirty and I'm bloody hungry, but no, all there was to eat was Haighs chocolate I had stocked up...but that had to be rationed...desperate times...after all, we were already losing our minds after an hour, how long would it be until we descended into cannibalism? For goodness sake it was Lord of the Flies all over again! It reached the point where my mother and I had been playing Vuvuzelars and Flood (iPhone games...*sigh*) for so long we didn't realize we were sitting in pitch black with only our faces illuminated by the light of the glorious iPhone. We were delusional, dehydrated, and dying of starvation. Only one thing awoke us from our Apple induced daze, "...last christmas I gave you my heart...and the very next day, you took it away...", oh, my, goodness, the prison break sander was singing. But not just like your every day under the breath on the train mumbling, it was glee club belting.  
This was when we knew we had to leave, the same epiphany Tom Hanks had when he realized Wilson wasn't real. Yeup. 
So we packed up supplies (grabbed the keys) and on our sneaky tip toe exit we were intercepted! No! So close to freedom! It was the quick round up through the car window: "So we'll be back tomorrow afternoon to finish it off yeah?" "Yeah...no, can you do Saturday?" "Ah, nah mate, I gotta do my 100 hours of community service for the judge lady ya know.." Um, sorry, community service? What felons are we housing to sand our floorboards!? And judge lady? My goodness. Please don't ever come back. "No, we'll make it Friday then." "Yeah, cool, right, good". Would you like another word of confirmation? He's exhausted all the synonyms. 
Although we managed to survive by crashing at my friends house, we arrived home at 11pm, reminded of the next 24 hours we couldn't spend in our kitchen, the room of life. 


Genius.


So reader(s), I'm ridiculously frustrated and can't exactly get words out, so let's give this blabble a moral:
Don't buy houses with wooden floors. or perhaps Don't hire men who have received so many fines they must do 100 hours of community service. or maybe Don't have your kitchen, laundry, fridge, microwave, guest rooms and the garage in one area. 


Oh, and it was probably very wise of us to leave all the lights on....*smacks head on desk*


Stay Tuned. 
life's narcissistic narrator. 
+ the red fox. 


-OVER AND OUT-

+ sentence padding.

Bonjourno.

This is often a source of much entertainment.

The words that pad out sentences.


Over the past few years my mother and I have noticed, and compiled a small list of phrases and sayings that are often used to fill up a sentence. If you are rather oblivious, or are a padder yourself, here is a small compilation of the ones that I can think of at this point in time.

• I'm telling you...
• But look...
• At the end of the day
• When it comes down to it
• Do you know what I'm saying
• ...and all that
• The fact is/The point of the matter is
• When push comes to shove...

...and that's about it at this moment, I'll probably update it later, when I have small and irrelevant epiphanies. 

But, look, at the end of the day, the fact is, they are utterly pointless, and all that... Save your words, save time! Surely you could abbv. your language, to a simple BTW, LOL, or JKS, even that's better. But don't confuse your listener by cluttering your sentences. It's aurally exhausting.

Stay Tuned.
life's narcissistic narrator.
+ the red fox.

 -OVER AND OUT-

+ revamp

aloha.

Naturally, everything must be redone, much like the iPhone, you think you're set, but there's always something better, and better, and better...
..which is why observatory commentary has had a facelift, Melbourne style, so just the botox.
So really, what this is very subtly pointing out is that I changed it, hoping that now it looks real 'hip' and 'kool', yes, indeed with a 'k', that it may appeal to a broader spectrum of readers, however in retrospect now, I may have in fact limited it...

So quick, read, foxes!

Stay Tuned.
life's narcissistic narrator.
+ the red fox.

-OVER AND OUT-

+ miraculous masterchef.

Mahalo.


Look, being an asian in year twelve is hard okay! Not much blogging time is allocated.
This will be very brief.


Regularly, my fathers arrival time varies, or is 'subject to change' if you're speaking in airport language. But recently the sound of gravel crushed under his cars is appearing earlier and earlier...to the point where he now routinely waltzes through the door no later than 7.30pm. 
And then it suddenly dawned on me, like gravity to Newton. 
MasterChef was on at 7.30. My father made MasterChef his priority.
Oh jolly good.
So it's reasonable to assume we don't see much of him in the off season...


Stay Tuned. 
life's narcissistic narrator. 
+ the red fox. 


 -OVER AND OUT-

+ beyond the sea: La Mer. Charles Trénet

oh i was born in the wrong era.
yet both versions are good...*sigh*
(small note, this is not originally from finding nemo, it just has the best audio haha)

if anyone has this on a record, i will buy it off of you!!

Stay Tuned.

life's narcissistic narrator.

+ the red fox.

-OVER AND OUT-

+ perfect italian.

Bonjourno.


If you don't find these hilarious, I'm quite worried about who my audience is...
I wont do what my Mom has to do for my dad - explain why the commercial is funny and describe how it links in with the product, because it wrecks it.
Prepare yourself.










Stay Tuned.
life's narcissistic narrator.
+ the red fox.

 -OVER AND OUT-

+ note.

small (post it) note here:


post it notes should only be written on in sharpie.
obey the laws of the small coloured slightly adhesive overpriced squares.


for example:

Stay Tuned. 
life's narcissistic narrator. 
+ the red fox. 


 -OVER AND OUT-

+ pesky packaging.

Bonjour-no.


I hope that you all become aware of this nasty feature of life after I point it out riiighhtttt nooowwww!!!


The horrendous challenge that is packaging.


Let me waltz you through a scenario that presented itself to me last week. 
Hello, what's this? Oh father dear felt it was necessary to test my IQ with a $4.50 pack of cards with questions on it, thanks a bunch. So I am sitting here with this packet of cards -  that will soon stereotype me into a category depending on my ability to add a couple digits together and identify shapes and so forth - in my pudgy hands staring at it. It was like the old pass the parcel games you used to play at your eighth birthday, except your Mom cleverly catered for every child at least twice so no one missed out, so there was about thirty layers. Yes, this was one hell of a parcel, but there was no lolly incentive.  Let me introduce to you the layers upon layers of packaging. The top layer was the Myers tape, the one that has that pain in the ass-ymptote black and white tape that you can never find the end of - yeah, how inviting. Layer two: that awful plastic you get that covers just about everything, from those sticky note pads, to tick tacks, to gum, and some DVDs. The transparent demon. And you'd assume that it would have one of red pull tabs that would enable you to rip off that layer and make your life easy. Oh no. That would make my life too easy. After I clawed away at that for at least a minute I breathed a sigh of relief, finally the end.......Oh no you didn't. I was ready to scream. Some moron thought it'd be a swell idea to double coat that futuristic forcefield. Another minute spent hacking away at that layer. At this time I had spent a decent four minutes attempting to reach this stupid box of cards and had yelled at the box on various occasions. One more layer and then I'd retire. One more layer. 
Boy, did I underestimate this layer. Picture cellotape. Invisible, and therefore the ends are, well not there, it stretches when you tug at it, excellent as a substitute for ducktape (yes, I'm conscious it's not duck but it's highly amusing) in a kidnapping situation, it's essentially the most amazing adhesive invented in the last century. And it is for all of these reasons that I loathe it. Despise it, detest it. It's the worst adhesive invented in the last century. I'd take duck over cello tape any day when being snaffled and interrogated. Why? Because they could at least find the end so when they rip it off of you it doesn't shear of into triangular shards, that and you might get that moe wax you have been meaning to book... Last layer. Last layer. At this point my brother joined me, started to cheer me on like it was some challenge or dare. 
Eight minutes later, I timed it, from when I began, I reached the prize, which turned out to be even more frustrating and challenging than anticipated. 

Seriously though, you know it's getting bad (well the XY hoard won't quite understand, or at least you'd hope not) when you're having to ditch a particular brand of tampon because you can't figure out how to open it. Or have been turned off lollypops due to the iconic frustration that precedes the sugary inside. Or the ridiculously pointless and infuriating plastic covers on bottles, if you have the cap, you don't need the plastic on the plastic, too much plastic!!! The covering on DVDs, CDs, boxsets and all those hitech crap. It's all unnecessary. 


After little thought, I will declare the worst to be the heat sealed packaging. The kind you find on games such as BopIt, your Tamagotchi, the kind where the product will be hovering in a shield of plasticy goodness, surrounded by a boarder of colourful advertising and the knifes for edges that could cause severe damage if inappropriately handled. How on earth do you go about it?! Do you reach for the scizzors? Stanley knife? I'll tell you, don't buy the product! 

Essentially, the IQ test wasn't the card set, it was getting to them. If you're clever and patient enough to navigate your way through the small atmosphere of plastic, you're practically Einstein. 

Stay Tuned.
life's narcissistic narrator.
+ the red fox.

 -OVER AND OUT-

+ whoah there.

Whoah there foxies, hold on just a moment while I make a very small/yet large announcement.

15followers

hem hem. since when? I apologize for the pointlessness in my point, but I actually was slightly flabbergasted.
So just inhale my asian smile at the complete insignificance of the numbers one and five. 


That's really all. My life now seems complete in the internet dimension. 

Stay Tuned.
life's narcissistic narrator.
+ the red fox.

 -OVER AND OUT-

+ lifesoundtrack: one more time with feeling

Stay Tuned.

life's narcissistic narrator.

+ the red fox.

-OVER AND OUT-

+ passionate people pet peeve.

sorry??..to all eleven of you
It would almost be just as economical to personally apologize to each one of you than write this. I will admit I did have a little blue post it note full of blogging ideas, and literally a puff of wind tore it from me. It just wasn't meant to be. Or I wasn't meant to be holding post it notes at arms length off my balcony like some gust of inspiration was going to hit me, cause it did, and blew all my ideas away. Brilliant.

I would like to think that in my seventeen years of life, I've met a fair few people so far. And it's a small group I would like to single out and punch in the jeans today, because I don't feel like minority groups are bullied enough at all...

It's the passionates. People who are passionate about something in particular.
(not to be confused with passionate lovers - people, similar, but different)
It's plain awful.

Especially when they're truly in love with a specific field that is completely unnecessary and insignificant in the scheme of things. For example I met a guy on the weekend (applause please) who sold furniture. He was perfectly normal. Then wham. "I sell furniture". Oh dear. I was sucked into a blackhole (and all those physicist out there know you have to travel faster than the speed of light to escape these - and quite frankly I can barely run 200m) into the furniture dimension. Huzzah. Like your typical garden variety idiot, I opened my big fat pie hole and informed him, as though no one had ever told him this before, "it's just furniture". Oh, farewell to the next fifteen minutes of my youth. A perfectly recited speel on how furniture is imperative to life. The history and integrity behind each seam and carving and curve and I completely tuned out. It is like the television was fixed on AntiquesRoadshow and you just realized you can't find that remote. A familiar frenzied panic as you lift every billion cushion your mother insisted on buying - possibly to hide the remote in scenarios such as this..But really, while they're yabbering on about the character and influence of each little scratching and thread of fabric, you've got your nod face on. Nod. Nod. "Oh yeah..." Nod. "Oh really?" Nod Nod Nod.....nodding off...

One of the worst are those English fanatics - or English teachers. You get the plain ones and the interesting ones, and then you hit the mother of grammar. The one who practically established the damned apostrophe. You may be reading the most innocent of books and the line could be "I promise you won't hear another word from me" (yes, Robbie's dying words in Atonement) and suddenly you're thrust into yet another swirling vortex of english entropy where you're forced to analyse even the punctuation and the words that aren't there. (Classic case: Eats, Shoots and Leaves - good book read it) Being a literature student, I understand, but really? I remember in year eight reading The Running Man. Like any english class we analysed it to kingdom come, and then we learnt we'd be meeting the author. My english teacher, on the spectrum of excitement, was off the rictorscale (excuse the spelling of this - apparently - made up word). She arrived at the intimate session with a list of questions and inquires and worked through them methodically. It came to one of the analytical questions based around the symbolism of something seemingly unimportant. "When you placed the boot beside the tree, not under it, did you mean..blahblahblah" I don't even remember the details. His response: "oh, I never considered it like that, that's quite clever I suppose." Brilliant. The author hasn't even read into his book as much as we have.

If we were to analyse the not so obvious (not that symbolism ever is) representations of this scenarios we would find that we weren't meant to find anything.
Sure you get the musicians who should have been born in the fifties and grown up in the 60s, the era of the Beatles and good ol drugs *swoon*, and the artists who feel that they can only express themselves through bits of paint, we've learnt to accept you arty creatures.
But one last one please, and then you can exit this window, or navigate back to facebook.

I know I'll be in the very very small minority (because you know, minorities are generally huge....??) here when I charge against the oh so marvellous MasterChef, but I can't stand it. The only reason I'll sit through the fumbling hour is to see what MattPreston is wearing. Next time you sit down with your cup of three minute noodles, watching the 'amateur' chefs whip up some crockenbusch in envy, actually think about what the hosts have to say. Not only does George speak with his conducting fists of fury, and the other one resembling Poomba from the Lion King speak chin first, but they reel on about food. No one should ever take food that seriously, seriously. The essence, the soul, the character, the textures, the fragrance, the dedication, the whispyness, the load of bullcrap. The three of them could describe cardboard in a way that even Kevin007Krud would take a lil nibble (I imagine like a rabbit nibbling at carrots). Don't over analyse the food. Eat it! And all the "MasterChefs" pouring their heart and soul onto a plate and serving it to the three hungry wolves, oh please. If you're heart was served with a bowl of rice, wouldn't you feel a little embarrassed/exposed? (and at least garnish yourself with the asians favourite decorative herb/plant/thing - parsley) Stop with this passionate culinary culture.

I won't beg you, because that would make me a begging enthusiast...but really, in the scheme of things, is the curvature on this desk leg a revolution? Is that extra pinch of oregano going to make me weep? Because if I'm passionate about something, it's not about being passionate.

Stay Tuned.
life's narcissistic narrator.
+ the red fox.

-OVER AND OUT-

+ protocol predicament: communal food.

Apologies for the past two posts, no excuse will suffice other than I abused my blogging privileges, as some teachers/parents would describe my misuse.

Alice (the one who delved into the land of wonderment, yes that one) disobeyed all communal food etiquette when she arrived at the tea party empty handed.
I believe there is a 'food law', as I like to plainly label it, that states that anyone who brings food, is entitled to food. No arguments here, I completely agree.
However it's not specific enough.

(now this picture is rather distracting from my point but I'd just like to draw attention to that flattering white top & shelf bra, the fact that all of the displayed food is sushi and what the hell is that black and white billion piece game??)

How much food does each individual provide? What quality? Does home baked, grandmothers deathbed secret recipe equate to a box of Arnott's Assorted Variety or Double Decker Tim-Tams? If there are left overs can I take them home? Is the provider the supplier (in terms of food and cutlery)?? If someone brings pasta bake can I bring spaghetti bolognaise or is that a carbohydrate pasta overload? Are two varieties of salad permitted? Is it strictly limited to main and desert or is the option of entre/starter completely irrational? What quantity are we talking here, or are we discussing quality?? Oh my goodness.


Please, What's the protocol?


*Just quietly, I only just realized that there is no underline function on this blogging thingamabob. Severely disappointed and now reconsidering my membership with "BlogSpot" - shakes fist at computer monitor*


Struggling with this concept I therefore find many social situations difficult. Today was a prime example. A tute lunch picnic. aka: a hostile infusion of two separate occasions where the sharing of food is compulsory. Being secretly (not so anymore) apprehensive I prompted assignments for each girl, in hope that this exercize would navigate my anxiety away.
How wrong. I thought I was clever, and volunteered myself to fetch drinks for the fun picnic (hooray...), again, wrong Hannah, wrong. How much drink? How many litres? Should I provide a spectrum of drinks, ranging from the juices, to sparkling water, to soft drink, to punch? Individual drinks? Value for money drinks? Quality brand drinks? Am I automatically responsible for the disposable cups as well now? My goodness, the intricacies.

Its social anomalies like this that need to be ironed out. Another example being when you unexpectedly walk into another person (hopefully unplanned, I truly hope that people don't wander about in hope of colliding with another human) and are then presented with the [step to the side - they step to the side - you step back - they step back] conundrum. How preventable! If only someone simply enforced the rule that you step to the right, then the whole awkward meeting would have been avoided altogether!
So any readers, so all eleven of you, install this protocol into your social hardrive now!! (bit of mac/pc lingo for you there nerdicons)

So how do you avoid these situations? Not a rhetorical question by the way.
My solution for my earlier predicament: buy 9L of different varieties of drink.

Stay Tuned.
life's narcissistic narrator.
+ the red fox.

-OVER AND OUT-

+ the pussy willow lemmings.

Just a brief dedication:
"For A.Clavin"
(small note, no she's not dead - just merely a formalised shout out)

pussy willow
lemmings

Stay Tuned.
life's narcissistic narrator.
+ the red fox.

-OVER AND OUT-

+ spite purchases.

GutenTag.

I was standing in line for the school 'Cafe' frantically eliminating food from the menu in my mind when I hear this painful year ten girl yapping in her artificially high voice.
"Yeah, like he came to my house and is like, yeah, like he goes I wanna see your room. hehehe...." blahblahblah - preteen. Well this particular girl pisses me off to no end. Flirting with teachers, ridiculously simple and immature, the kind who dips her face in foundation paint every morning and paints on the mascara. Disgusting. Apparently not to the boy who wants her in his pants in her room though...ugh. She accidentally nudges me, fails to apologize and then goes on her food spiel about how much shes dying to have a meat pie, cause you know she's "been on like a diet like thing for like eva". I glance at the glass case: one meat pie left.
The lady at the counter shouts "NEXT" in her suddenly authoritative voice - simply cause she's wearing an apron - and what do I do. Out of spite. Just to make that girls life that little bit more inconvenient, I order that last pie.
What compelled me to do that? Spite Spite Spite. Because I could. Because I saw the opportunity and thought, HA, wouldn't that suck to be you biiiiatch. What I didn't think about was the fact that I had bought this meat pie, and I didn't even want it. But I was fine with that, because she wanted it, and I had it.
I love it. I had a small Cruella DeVil moment (like after she pinches all of the 101 spotty puppies) afterwards and had a small cheeky sniggle to myself. In a way, she got what she wanted, she continued her "like diet" (some special diet? similar to the CSIRO diet?) and that will probably suit her shallow girl using 'boyf'.
It may of slightly decreased the enjoy-ability of her lunch, but it definitely made mine. Is that horrible??

Stay Tuned.
life's narcissistic narrator.
+ the red fox.

-OVER AND OUT-

+ eccentric english.

Mahalo.

I admit, the title is slightly misleading - as usual, but let me explain.
Toorak this year for year twelve are studying the Imaginative Landscape. .... hooray...? To the un-toorak-educated, this may seem fine and dandy. How wrong you are. Quite the opposite.
The majority of my class doesn't cope all that well when asked to simply go forth and write. So when our teacher quite curiously made us write, write, write, room exploded in silent looks of panic. It's the kind where you glance up from your blank page, pen in your clammy hand, catch the eye of the girl opposite you who shares your confuzzled state. You do that little shrug and mouth the "I have no idea" and then realize you should return your thoughts to the blank paper.
So this unanticipated silence continued for at least ten minutes before she began a discussion. Second very large mistake. We read the poem "Mending Walls" by the good ol' Robert Frost. Or as I like to call him Rob-dawg. Pretty much it's about walls.
Thanks to a lethal infusion of the worst traits a personality can provide, we launch into a small argument over PineTrees vs AppleTrees. Driving on complete tangents, an innocent discussion of walls has mutated into childhood memories in which a pine tree features or stories about habitual homing wild birds... all riveting conversations...Then it morphed into a uncoordinated chorus of twenty two girls yelling to one another across the room about - what seems like every - spider stories. Every spider story imaginable, as though none of us have ever grown up or even been to Australia *smacks forehead*. This scene is what happens when there is no 'right' answer. It's a bloody riot! You have the public speakers and debaters stubbornly holding their ground, the religious girls faithfully protecting their beliefs - despite the heavy level of criticism, the loud one who really just wants to get in a word, the more realistic, slightly cynical pessimist who sees it as it should be, and then the rest of the class who are slamming their heads on the desk saying 'for peeeeetss sake shut the hell up!'.
Utter chaos.

And that, my friends is why we need right answers, rules, guidelines, all that restrictive jazz so we don't end up like the kids off Lord of the Flies.


Stay Tuned.
life's narcissistic narrator.
+ the red fox.

-OVER AND OUT-

+ simple sincerity.

Mahalo.

I suppose I just wanted to share an experience that took place today in Chadstone of all places.

With the unexpected and astonishing arrival of hail in Melbourne - yes, HAIL!! and bloody lots of it - I decided to look into a beanie, not assuming it would protect me from solid cherry sized chunks of freezing ice (as ice generally is) hurtling towards Earth at a billion kilometres and hour, but simply from a cool breeze. Spotting a lovely creamy knitted hat, thing, I grabbed it and set out in search for a mirror, very rare in shopping centers nowadays yu'll find.
I finally found one and surrounding it where three people. One, a shop attendant, and the other two were a couple in their twenties, the girl with a lisp and a hat in hand, the boy patiently sitting in the chair, assuming the male shopping role, both clearly simple. The girl was lovely, inquiring about the suitability of the hat in winter, the boy offering his support and opinion - of course endorsing her overall thoughts on the product.
So I excused myself and squeezed in between the scene to examine my mismatched reflection. The hat looked as expected, so I weaselled my way out again, apologizing when I heard the boy say something in my direction. I whip around (slowly because my neck has been ridiculously sore recently - so when I say whip, I mean turn around without bending my head, so like a robot, from the waist up...).
"Sorry?"
And then the most genuine and innocent sentence I've ever heard.
"That hat looks very nice on you, it suits you." Said without any hint of sarcasm, no fringe of innuendo or narcissism. Simply pure truth.
It made me beam. And think of course. If only everything could be said with such sincerity. Most likely it's a scenario where you had to be there to understand. But it, and the weather, made my day.

Stay Tuned.
life's narcissistic narrator.
+ the red fox.

-OVER AND OUT-

+ depression prevails.

Look, I gave happy a go.
And as much as I liked it, I didn't love it.
When it comes down to optimistic vs pessimistic, guess who's going to win.
Bingo. Not the happy rainbow unicorn fairy sparkle pink fluffy nice one.
I'll leave that to your imagination and fiction.
This is how I see my reality. Nice and half empty.

The truth is illusory. Make it your own. XD

Stay Tuned.
life's narcissistic narrator.
+ the red fox.

-OVER AND OUT-

+ new people.

Mahalo.

I was walking home from school with one of my best mates and she commented on how depressing my blog was, so I suppose this is to make her happy and because I was pondering about it the other day.

Just prepare yourselves, because this blog is going to be happy (not amusing or witty), I know right, shocking stuff. Once in a while, between all my frustrated and cynical thoughts I have a pleasant one. And this is dedicated to the romanticism behind meeting new people.
To your average garden variety person they may deem this frightening, out of their comfort zone, boring, dull, mundane, any of the previous words, but unlike in English and Art when you can never be wrong, you are.

Okay so take my situation last saturday. I was sitting in a 0kelvin room - freezing to death - with fifty other girls and four boys (I counted) and instead of listening to the keypoints of writing an A+ passage analysis in the exam I was thinking about how many people I didn't know.
I just find it amazing to believe that it only takes one form of communication to bridge the void between two lives. A simple "Hi" will do the trick and from that moment on, you've met someone you may never see again. Another stupid invention of mine is to make a person counter, because I think it'd be intriguing to see the amount of people we meet in a lifetime. Like another segment at a funeral is the 'person count'. A doctor might meet more than a spoon manufacturer labourer, or a taxi driver might hit a million more than an airhostess. I just think that'd be nice.
But if you think about them in context, new people are always, 100% more interesting than someone you know, regardless of the fact of mutual interests or appearance or culture or language. An unknown someone is a person you know nothing about. Everything will be fresh and new. Isn't that wonderful?
Except when they're not wonderful. Then the wonderful thing is the parting. But on the rare occasion you don't mind them, there's always that dreadful feeling of fate. Perhaps you'll never see this person again? How horrible. Or what if this meeting is the catalyst for a series of events, like you said something that inspired the other person to invent the Google machine? Or perhaps you prevented a suicide, or even just made their day? Oh all the possibilities are overwhelmingly exciting! But you'll never know until you make that contact.
Another reason I endorse facebook! You can meet someone, attempt to remember their name and immediately confirm that you know someone new. Broadcast it to the rest of your 239 friends through a constant influx of status updates.
But how easy was it to flow through friends when you were young? Cast your minds back to your primary school days when you made and destroyed friendships within lunchtimes. How innocent it was. Get to highschool and bang, no friends, no fun, no life? No thankyou.
Like how you expand your mind, expand your friendship. Extend a Hi to the person behind you in the line for a coffee at Starbucks.

However, now that I reflect on my contention, perhaps making friends isn't always safe. Actually now I'm remembering a great fear of mine, meeting crazy people. So perhaps it isn't a fantastic idea, but merely a nice one.

So make a friend. And skip over rainbows, and dance with lollypops and carebears because the world is fluffy and loveydovey for just this one blog.
Don't worry, the cynical stuff will return, I promise.


Stay Tuned.
life's narcissistic narrator.
+ the red fox.

-OVER AND OUT-

+ _____bye!

Hi there.

I stumbled across this epiphany when walking down the road at midnight with my mate. I hope you have all noticed the subtle and yet rapid disappearance of the word 'good'. It's gone! Like a discontinued product in Safeway (or now Woolworths *shudder* for all you other bogan states), it's there on the Monday, and then bang, comes Tuesday, and overnight, they're gone in a blink of an eye. Thoughroughly depressing? Yes.

Where did it go you ask. It simply evaporated, osmosed into another realm of reality.
Instead of saying "good morning", we simply say "morning" to our fellow neighbour. The "good night" has again been reduced to the time of day "night", or "nighty nite". How degrading. "Good bye" has been rendered to simply "bye", or x2 - "byebye". One that emphasizes the laziness of Australians and simultaneously making the obvious time of day known, "good day", has been cut to "gday". Do we feel that the humble 'good' is no longer worthy of our vocal chords metabolic energy? I am rather saddened by its vacancy and I know that another word simply cannot fill the void.
Have an "excellent day now", "epic morning", "brilliant evening". I don't know about you, but it just doesn't maintain the simple ring that the double o's, sandwiched by a hooked g and a blunt d does. *sigh* If you disagree with me, you're wrong, and you don't deserve to utilise such a humble word.

So this is really a call of desperation to revive the good in life. And not in a silly "let's better the human condition" way.

Stay Tuned.
life's narcissistic narrator.
+ the red fox.

-OVER AND OUT-

+ ode to sondre

I'd like to share with all ten of you my lover Sondre Lerche. He is from the exotic country of Norway and he could take of PaulMcCartney with his smoothy smoothy voice.

I very strongly urge you to go and buy this album, as opposed to illegally downloading it, because he is from Norway, this is a half cocked effort (yes all you immature children, be amused at my usage of a 'naughty word') to make him rich enough so he can come to Australia so I can follow him on his minor tour.
He also did a couple songs with ReginaSpektor, who I would emphasize my lesbionic tendencies for, which are lovely. But YouTube and maybe hit him into HypeMachine.com (link down the bottom of my page).

I didn't want to, but I picked my favourite five. And they're all amazing because they're all so different! Sondre is quite the genre spanner.

1. Human Hands - Featuring the FaceDown Quartet
2. Modern Nature - Featuring the FaceDown Quartet
3. Off my Feet - Duper Sessions
4. Stupid Memory
5. To Be Surprised

He is quite the master of everything musically wonderful.

Please go make him rich so I can marry him and share your generously donated wealth. 

Stay Tuned.
life's narcissistic narrator.
+ the red fox.

-OVER AND OUT-

+ take care with greetings.

I feel that it's suiting to not begin with a greeting for this blog. So I'll simply say:
__________________!

Look, this has been constantly niggling at me like a loose tooth (thankyou boosh). I'm certain I'm not highly strung and this is a universal irritation.
Let me paint a picture for you, so your hard working imagination can go have a donut on a LaZboy.
I'm standing in the 9 items or less (because apparently if you run into double digits it's a completely different scenario altogether...) line at the supermarket with my milk - which took me an eternity to select, and most likely a small confectionary item that caught my eye upon sortie. So I'm making a poor attempt at appearing as though the weight of the 3L of milk boring rather successfully into my feeble fingers is as light as a feather while simultaneously trying to put together the ridiculously accurately priced duo in my number-illiterate mind. The acne infested clerk chirpily calls for the 'next' person, his voice plummeting several octaves on the 'xt'. I awkwardly try to appear busy while he fumbles with the products and works the beepy machine that swallows my $6.85. And then the dreaded parting.
It's not like I fell in love with 'Hal' upon our first meeting, or that I just adored the way he scanned my Mentos, it's what they say when you make to leave. Now here, in the ever so 'classy' MtE, the beepy-people like to exasperate their quota of "Take Care", "Youse have a good one".
It is these two phrazes I would like to very violently shoot in their little letter faces (if letters had two eyes, a nose and a mouth-in this instance they do).
Allow me to put it simply for those who like to indulge themselves with the quotes:
STOP SAYING IT! YOU SOUND LIKE A BOGAN!
....no need to elaborate on that now...

Excuse me greasy, unsuccessful fulltime attendant, but what does it mean?
Take care? Of what? Myself? I acknowledge that I'm rather clumsy but I've survived pretty well so far thankyou. Take care. Oh, phew, good thing you told me to or I would have thrown myself into that inanimate object over there. Take Care. Take care!? You take care motherlicker (always very strong debating point).
And Youse? Plural? Have you had issues with your cataracts again, because I was almost certain there was one of me. Youse. Maybe I'll say thankyouse and blessyouse, and are youse a freakin re-tard?
And what about the 'one'. Have a good what? A nice trip? Because I'm definitely going to have a hell trip home attempting to decipher your parting message. Are you speaking in code? One = day? Speakenglish! Or try, because it doesn't seem to be your first langauge.

Usually I'd have some attempt at a witty remark to round up the blog, but I'm disgusted at the rapid decline of the english language. I even wrote an essay on it. So there will be none.


_______________. HMPH!


Stay Tuned.
life's narcissistic narrator.
+ the red fox.

ps. shoutout to kory - my cynical sidekick xx

-OVER AND OUT-

+ why are you here?

00100100011100101100 - Hello in Binary


So yesterday I attended this SeedGroup (appropriately named) meeting, which is a branch of the OakTree Foundation. They do amazing things and help the world and all that jazz.
There was probably thirty restless people, surrendering their free lunch, in cramped, stuffy makeshift room. The volunteer began the meeting by making us introduce ourselves like we were members of an A.A. society. 
As always, it followed the inventive template: 
"Hi, my name is/I'm ______. I'm in year ____..."
And then she asked us to describe our motive for being here, why we wanted to be apart of this organisation. 
Now, call me cynical, but I always find when people are put in the spotlight the answers delivered are rather generic, but varying in wording. aka. They are the same!
So the first three people responded as such:
"Hey, I'm blah, I'm in year blah. and I just wanted to make a difference."
"Hi, my name is blah, I'm in the blah'th grade, and I had lots of fun/heard it was lots of fun."
"Hi, blah-, year blah, I just wanted to get involved because it's my last year."
This continued for the rough thirty people present in the small cave of a room. 
So really by the time it go to me we had witnessed a blend of the previous responses. I kind of like to think of them as sub-sandwitch answers. Same four ingredients but mixed up into few combinations.


lettuce - cheese - ham
ham - tomato - cheese
lettuce - tomato - cheese
tomato - ham - lettuce
the list goes on.


Now by the time it got to me the most frequently recurring response was "I just wanted to get involved."
Obviously because you can't say "Screw third world countries, I want to make a fourth world country." No, how heartless, even I'd admit. But I was tempted to simply state the obvious truth in my case.
"Why are you here?" 
> "Because my friend made me come? and apparently I'm not allowed a free lunch. ..... oh, and apparently I really wan't to get involved..." Tempted, but resisted.
> "I was held at gunpoint to come here or die."
> "A tribe of cannibalistic Hawaiians chased me here and I decided between reliving - or redying CaptainCooks death, or this, I chose the lesser of two evils."


But seriously, what do they expect when they ask that question? A small Mandella worthy spiel on how I overcame poverty and am now destined to make a huge impact by spreading my story and message? No, I am a mere private schoolgirl wanting to help make posters and organise things.


I recognize that the question was most likely a compulsory dotpoint on her page she had to put forward, but next time, please don't ask all thirty of us. 


Be inventive....and get involved?


Stay Tuned.
life's narcissistic narrator.
+ the red fox.


-OVER AND OUT-

+ writers blogk.

I would just like to announce that I have writers blocgk.
It's like writers block but for people who aren't paid, are amateurs, and attempt to write things on the internet. 
The past week I have come up with nothing. I have said to myself, "I'll write about that when I get home", and I never do. It's almost as if I have had no thoughts at all.  Which has made me wonder if I'm a robot bound under the three laws of robotics, and then I realize I'm meant to be listening in physics class. 
So hit me (not with your rhythm sticks for all those 80s song enthusiasts) with ideas. Bombard me like Rutherford's subatomic particles experiment. But don't literally bombard me with ideas, because it's pointy, and I don't want to run the risk of a kind of talk back radio show, but ridiculously unsuccessful. 
Actually on second thoughts. Rather than rapidly backspace, just don't suggest anything.
Your lack of involvement is severely appreciated.


Stay Tuned.
life's narcissistic mind-numb narrator.
+ the red fox.


-OVER AND OUT-

+ ffffluro fffire!

Aloha!


This blog definitely 'sparked' if you pardon the pun, from the fire drill that ran early this fine Friday afternoon. 
First, the megaphone people, how thoughtful, decided to execute this pitiful exercise during the hottest hour of the day. 2pm. Thankyou intellects. 
Picture this, I'm sitting in the middle of a suspenseful english class. My teacher is about to reveal to me the secret behind the magical A+ essay. Pen hovering in my fingers above the paper, silence falls on all of the class. But it's not the sweet words of success that resonate in my ears, it's the piercing scream of the siren preceded by a monotonic voice over the intercom machine speaker thing saying rather specifically how we should evacuate. 
The chorus of groans and whines grow louder as more and more exhausted girls emerge from classrooms all over the school. Like sheep being herded we all migrate to the bottom oval. 


Like all slack students, I looked for the quickest path to the bottom. The most logical being a huge steep hill you could run down. So me and my friend make my way to that lazy decent when a teacher with a yellow hat does the 'wide arms - no passing' arms. Now, I obviously - if you've read my past blogs (which I'm assuming no one has as no one is even reading this...) - I have an issue with bright protective clothing that assumes authority. It's not because I have an issue with safety, sure, I love safety - woo!?, I'm against death as much as the next guy, but here's my problem. You take your ordinary garden variety man - pop on some fluro gear, chuck on a hard hat, and vwalla (I really don't know what phonetic resemblance that word should take on), you'll do anything he says! He could be an axe murderer, peter-file and/or rapist, but decorate him with some pretty fluro fashion and you'll allow him to walk you across the road any day. "No he can't be a terrorist! Just look at him, he has this saintlike fluro aura about him!"


Now returning from my tangent, this teacher, in the fluro, was being the barrier between me and the hill. So, what he's essentially saying with his outstretched hands is, if there is the choice between running down this hill, and the fire, I'd rather you be incinerated than roll down this fun loving grassy slope. 


So the whole school assembles on the bottom oval, which is, apparently, the safest option when acquainted with the presence of a fiery flame. The middle of a big, dry, isolated, fenced in oval. Yes of course, that's the most logical placement. A 800m track of kindle + kids. How thoughtful?


On this lovely stretch of target are the sitting ducks. The girls, whos parents are forking out $$$ for them to sit, irritable, frustrated, restless, hot, tired and disgruntled on an oval for half an hour on a friday afternoon. Not only was it ridiculously warm, and sunny, and because I have black hair, the pinnacle of my cranium could have generated enough solar power to run Mt Eliza, but it was the most unorganized piece of evacuation anyone ever did see. Get in your tutes, sit in role order, find your tutor - if they're not being a hardhat-nazi - get up, simon says pat your head, sit down, duck duck goose...It was just a huge inconvenience. 


Having ranted and raved on about the process, I will admit, when I'm sprinting for my life (with my $200 calculator, phone, laptop and textbook of choice - believe me, I'm taking them with me), or more like puffing for my life, I will be grateful for the bundles and oodles of practice. 


I will also be stop, dropping, and rolling down that luscious patch of green hillside whether they like it or not. 


Stay Tuned.
life's narcissistic narrator.
+ the red fox.


-OVER AND OUT-

+ waves of calmness.

Bonjour Foxie Followers.


As Toorak girls will all know, we have to too frequently endure the mediocre hum of chapel. This usually entails sitting in awkward silence next to people you just had class with, so generally not your friends, while the people you really would have preferred to sit with are attempting to contain their smirks and laughter across the room. While you're squished, sitting in awkward agony the ReverendLovejoy plays relaxing music.
It's this music I absolutely loathe. I suppose the real aim of the amateur calls of the fife is to calm us down to a place of serenity. A place within our soul, apparently.
But in all honesty, someone with an averagely brilliant mind waddled down to the beach with a windpipe and recorder, and taped the abuse of silence - that is the confusion of the sounds of waves and lack of wind-talent - to produce what seems like a never ending track of, quite bluntly, noise. 
I think the worst aspect of these 'serenity' tracks is the fact that there's one track, but it goes for lightyears. The waves come to a soft halt, the piper takes a brief breath, and you exhale (probably while focusing on your inner energy) thinking "phew, that's over", but it's not!!! And that's the stressful part. I feel it's almost counterproductive. 
So next time, Reverend. KillJoy, you want to calm me down, snap that fife, chuck on some Beatles, and let me be in charge of my inhaling and exhaling.


Stay Tuned.
life's narcissistic narrator.
+ the red fox.


-OVER AND OUT-

+ in all seriousness.

GutenTag Foxies.


Just a cheeky blog as I really should be reading 1984 instead of dictating meaningless thoughts to an audience of, really no one. 


Right, this really just concerns everything serious, deep and meaningful on the internet. 
It shouldn't be on there. This includes the all too frequent break up status's, the beyond cheesy love poems, quotes, songs, the "I LOVE ____ SO MUCH!!" updates, the 'odes' to their lover - get it off the internet. It's vile. I'm almost certain the random you met three saturdays ago you added on Facebook isn't going to 'like' how you love miss 'x' to the moon and back. After seeing a page full of a succession of mushy love devoted status updates and messages, he'll abandon the friendship. 
Also coming under the umbrella of seriousness is of course death. 
I recognize it's horrible and sad but hear out my logic. 
You respect them. You want to make that clear. You post up a devotion to them. 
But somehow, they think that they deserve an RIP GREAT AUNT ETHEL following their name on MSN Messenger? When I die, and if MSNMessenger is still around I certainly hope that hasn't become a cultural tradition replacing burials and funerals. 
Then there are the song quotes. The obscure, occasionally rhyming, three liners that rarely make sense out of context and are generally typed without proper punctuation, therefore abusing the meaning. Don't type out the lyrics to songs on your blog or wall, a song without music is ultimately just a failed poem. 
Essentially, if you wouldn't tell a stranger, don't put it on the internet. 
But of course, who am I, certainly not the internet police...*sigh*


Stay Tuned.
life's narcissistic narrator.
+ the red fox.


-OVER AND OUT-

+ a small milestone?

Huzzah!!


I would just like to briefly draw attention to the small milestone (oxymoron? perhaps) that is my tenth follower. I have now achieved a small sense of accomplishment, this must be how those old ladies feel when they survive their 100th year. And then soon after drop. 


So just a small 'hip hip huzzah' for observatory commentary.


Stay Tuned.
life's narcissistic narrator.
+ the red fox.


-OVER AND OUT-

+ remind me again?

Allo. 
Now I'm in year twelve, senior year, the finale, I should probably cut down on blogging, but let me just fit in a quickie. 


My father, is the centre of our families humour. It's quite wonderful and I suppose we, himself included, enjoy mocking his touch of asia. But it just adds another dimension to our love.


My Dad's life is ridiculously busy. He is indeed a doctor and because I'm not overly involved in my fathers life, I assume he spends the majority of this time with living patients, either that or he's a spy, which would be hell cool. But it's because of this preoccupation that everyone around him has discovered the necessity of reminding him to do things.
However as we encounter the situation and finally ask him the deadly deed (don't worry I'm not implying that we've requested death upon another being), he replies with "remind me later". Understanding the hussle and bussle of his life we accept this rejection and remind ourselves to remind him later.
But as we again make the movement to remind him, he requests that we remind him at a later time, precisely six lets say for the sake of example.
So the situation has already escalated from asking him to simply pick up milk on his way home from work, to reminding him to pick up milk later, to reminding him to pick up milk at six o clock. 
So as instructed, we sit impatiently, lingering for the deadly sixth hour pass noon to arrive and not a second later we ring my father to remind him to retrieve the milk for the third time. 
Where, he, replies: "remind me when I'm at the supermarket". Now it's just ludicrous. 
How are we meant to possibly predict his arrival at the exceptionally-good-market in time to contact him to remind him for now the fifth time to purchase milk!? Unless we attach some homing beacon onto his belt, alongside his pager, iPod, phone, bluetooth headset receptor and palm pilot and somehow set an alarm to send us at home a signal when he waltzes across the target coordinates. That actually sounds more feasible and practical. 


Which brings me to my new pet hate. 
Don't remind me later.
I'm reminding you now. 
Conceal this moment in your smudge of a mind and use that last micro-ounce of brainpower you reserved for hitting the A&B buttons on your gameboy to recall a small request - pick up milk.
Write it on your hand if you must. But I'm sure I could remind a small primitive monkey to fetch up milk, and  not only would it venture into the supermarket and retrieve some, but it would present me with a variety, including that of the delicious and innovative invention of the infusion of chocolate and milk, and possibly a wise non-fattening choice of cookies to compliment (although now pondering on the non-fat cookies, I realised thats actually quite an oxymoron and now am reasonably depressed). Yes. So perhaps this afternoon I'll zip down to the local Zoo or animal shelter with a balaclava in one hand, and a heshen* (spelling is inaccurate I apologise) bag in the other, forget about milk, I'm picking meself up a funny little monkey. 


If you desire milk in the next week, I strongly suggest you do the same.
Perhaps the Zoo has a bulk order offer.


Stay Tuned.
life's narcissistic narrator.
+ the red fox.


-OVER AND OUT-