+ 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-