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come on Aunty we'll miss the bus! [23 Mar 2002|03:38am]
[ mood | polarised ]
[ music | PJ Harvey. Saint Etienne. ]

Fuck, it's been a long day!

I got out of bed at 8 am, after receiving a somewhat muddled message that my Dad gave to my Mum regarding us going to the movies. When Dad finally arrived, he was irascible, sweating, his hands were shaking. He had a fight with my alcoholic aunty, who is apparently delusional, and worked himself up into a frenzy.

We picked up my Alcoholic Aunty's neighbour [yes, usual quality time with me and Dad...and a stranger] and went to the 10 am (they really do show films that early) session of 'A Beautiful Mind'. It was truly a beautiful film. Russell Crowe, while being a coarse, larrikin in reality, is one damn fine actor: when articulating his won thoughts, he comes across as an ignoramus, but when regurgitating from a script, he is truly magnificent.

I got home from the cinema, with my head still clouded, stuck in the narrative and musing over the characters and plot. I hate the feeling when one exits a dark room and steps in a bright, luminescent world, the transition from an artifical night into daylight causes one's pupils to become anorexic, plump, rounded disks contract into fine, pin-prick size.

I was about to leave for my counselling session, when I noticed a harrowing sight: a stray cat was sitting in the flower beds. Its black coat was a dull shade of pestilence, with gaps of fur missing in places; its spine was raised high above the slack flesh of its scrawny body, akin to a mohawk on a punkrocker; the poor creature was completely blind, and there was a visible trail of nasal secretion from its perfectly formed, platyrrinian nostrils to its sad looking mouth.

I immediately phoned the RSPCA, but was forced to leave to meet my drug counsellor.

On the drive into the city, I held my hands firmly on the black, sterring wheel and cried and sobbed like I haven't done in a long time. I have a huge intolerance when I witness anybody or thing suffering in any way. I cry when a spider is viciously murdered, or a perfectly formed cricket, or even the tiniest of ants are killed. Today I cried at the futility of life, and the fact that I could do little to help this stray cat, bar having it taken away and injected to quicken its ineluctable death.

I think I made a lot of progress in my counselling session today. A pointed out to me that I have no balance in my life and that I seem to have a behavioural pattern which functions at its most extreme. She also confided in me that she thought I was an extremely erudite intellectual and that she found me to be witty and insightful.

Tonight, I wanted to stay in my room, completely shut off from the world, all alone, wallowing in my depression. But then I remembered how A had reminded me that I have gone from being wild-party-girl to stay-at-home-girl and that I have no balance.

Chinky and I went out to see a film which was part of the French Film Festival, and I managed to get into Northbridge and find a parking spot, in record time. When we asked for tickets, the tickey guy informed us that the movie was sold out.

We went to Grapeskin and drank wine while waiting for the next film to start. It was rather nice sitting on bar stools, exchanging pseudo-meaningful looks with strangers, garrulously describing grammar patterns and linguistic elements of interest, and pulling the piss out of the soccer/football game being shown on big screen in the bar.

Jordana and I went back tot he cinema and barely managed to get through possibly the most banal movie of the year: 'Gosford Park'. It was such an awful cock-up. It is irrelevant if the the period setting on the film is accurately and sensitively portrayed, because the most integral part of any film is its narrative. A weak plot makes for the demise of any movie.

After a quick cup of coffee, and a somewhat disturbing visit to the louche surroundings of Amplifier [an aging bikie offered me a ride on his Harley and kissed me on the cheek *retches violently*], we loaded up on comfort food and went back to Chinky's.

She leant me some compliation cd, as well as the bestest PJ Harvey album, and I was finally reunited with my Fox Base Alpha cd! I borrowed this cutesy, red, button-up shirt with pockets on the hips, and her Mum gave me this well-cut, black jacket for work. Being the lifesaver my Winky is, she also leant me a magazine with two, perfect advertisements which I can analyse for my truth & semiotics essay question.

P.S: Jordana made the best carrot cake I have EVER eaten. It was fucking awesome: crunchy bottom, soft and flavoursome [not too dry or oily], with a lovely, vanilla/cream cheese frosting. *burp* I may have eaten too much of it....mmmmm.....

We move house on Wednesday.

I had planned not to write in this journal for a while, because it is beginning to become a crutch for me, like in a twisted way, it is functioning as a somewhat weak, coping mechanism.

I knew I shouldn't have drunk coffee so late into the night. It's nearly half-past three and I am caught in that caffiene-induced limbo: I am fatigued beyond comprehension, and yet I am still awake with the knowledge that I am still too alert for sloom.

Tomorrow, I get to spend all day with Snerub. I want to buy her some lovely, moisturizing oils to prevent strech marks and nipple cream for her when she starts feeding. I still can't believe she is really having a baby. Maybe I will never get over it, until in 10 years time, when I myself fall pregnant *shudders*.

Chinky and I are hopefully heading to Fremantle on Sunday for a day of long-awaited shopping. I would go with Kylee tomorrow, but she can't walk around that much because she has low blood pressure...oh and an unborn foetus inside of her.

[guten nacht]

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one drink too many/ and a joke gone too far [21 Mar 2002|11:50am]
[ mood | garrulous ]
[ music | Beth Orton. Cat Power. Bjork. Radiohead. ]

I am very much relieved to realise that my initial notion of what my job entailed, was in fact fairly accurate. After Monday's busy 'ER' drama, today has been more like movie, 'Dazed & Confused', only with Milo in exchange for drugs.

Last night, in my bibulous state, I smoked some resin [read: scraped THC-infused tar off cone piece] and had a couple of tokes on my pipe. I stayed awake until 1:30am, watching Sex & the City, The Secret Life of Us and Malcolm in The Middle, on the tapes which Kyle had recorded for me. Right before passing out, I set my alarm for 7:47, because it made me think of aeroplanes. Only, being somewhat trashed, I set it for PM and not AM.

I was a little late for work, not that I can be late because I determine my own hours and can flexi-time when I choose.

Outfit du jour: black shirt with lacy frills, vynyl skirt with black, lace overskirt, and of course, my cutesy black shoes, which have barely left my feet since I bought them. I am also wearing the necklace I made out of the balls from roll-on deoderant containers [drilled, painted with rich blues and purple nailpoish & strung on black elastic].

I have made 2 tapes for a Spanish student so far, and compiled an extensive vocabulary list for my own amusement. Oh, and ventured to the Staff Room for Milo and bisucits, and intentionally contravened the direct orders written on bright paper, all over place: these are wash & clean mugs- you no take from room.
" Hasn't this woman heard of number and gender agreements," A commented, and held up the line for hot drinks, while him and my Mother analysed the linguistic components of the message. I just ignored what it was insinuating, and boldly walked out with a mug full of steaming Milo.

I have hidden it around the corner of my computer's monitor. [mwuahahahahahahaa] Am I not nefarious in the extreme? Y'all better watch out! *boo*

Playlist du jour:
Beth Orton: Central Reservation [currently playing]
Cat Power: Moonpix
Bjork: Post & Vespertine
Radiohead: Amnesiac

I decided that I would only listen to female musicians at work [avoids explanation], but this morning, I had an argument about my troglodyte brother about Radiohead, so I opted to add them to the list of girly artists.

I was listening to the live recordings cd while I ate some cereal, and was sleepily pondering how Thom Yorke may be G-d incarnate, when Leon started crapping on.
" Why are you listening to this bloke?" He asked, flexing his muscles slightly. "Ee sounds loike a fucking faggot."
[ Leon has an incredibly broad Australian accent, apparently lacks an extensive lexicon, preferring to use the word 'fuck' as a noun, adjective and verb. He is a walking colloquialism. He drops the 'h' when he articulates himself, and in the most puerile fashion, refers to my Mum as 'woman', 'lady', 'wench' or 'old woman'. ]

I sat there and attempted to argue my point, specifically that Radiohead are innovators of their media and creators of the most canorous music since forever [note lack of objectivity].
" Fucken, nobody i know listens to that crap," Leon informed me. "And I know most of Perth. Fucken how can you loike this fuckn faggot? Ee sounds like a girl."
Once he had finished doing an extremely poor rendition of Thom's voice, I explained to him that he knew absolutely nothing about nothing.
" I'm not the only person on this planet who likes this band. And the fact that you associate with one subsection of the most isolated city in the world, is not indicative of a greater knowledge of the popularity of a band."
" Eh, but..."
" Leon, what does it matter what music I listen to? As long as I like it, it is irrelevant as to what percentage of the world likes the same band. If I like the sound of something, I like it."

Leon, obviously floundering in our somewhat silly discussion, switched to telling me how to run my life.
" Put the orange juice in the fridge," He ordered. "And clean up that mess."
" Leon, I am perfectly capable of organizing myself. I hardly need you to delegate orders."
" Yes you do," He argued. "You moight be all roight at studying 'n that, but you don't know how to look after yourself."
" Well, I doubt that you're the person who should be correcting that," I snapped at him, and in the process spilt orange juice all over the kitchen bench. "You've screwed up your life so far."
" Fucken clean that up, you unco biatch," He demanded. Leon examined the half empty [or is that half-full] bottle of wine. "Why have you turned into such an alco?"
" Just because I enjoy a glass of wine when I finish a 15 hour day?" I queried. "It's not like I am smoking buckets."
" And if you were," He explained, "I would call you a 'druggy' instead of an 'alco'. Besoides, you didn't 'ave a glass of wine, you drank 'alf the fucken bottle."
" A glass of wine is good for one's blood circulation," I rationalised, knowing full well that not only had I been consuming wine in a somewhat temerarious manner, but coupling it with sneaky hits of weed. " And considering how stressed I've been of late, it's probably a good thing. I'd rather drink wine that let all the blood pool in one spot on the side of my head, and swell out, tender and purple."

It's convenient that what has been normality for the best part of 8 years, since being diagnosed, has been treated with great seriousness. Nobody cared when it was a 'bump' on the side of my head, but [*shock* *gasp*], now, Jessi has a right hippocampal sclerosis.

Last night, when Leon was intentionally getting me all riled up, while I hurled insults and exchanged obsecenities at him, Mum scurried into my room.
" Leave her alone," She warned him. "I don't want her getting all stressed out and having another seizure."
Leon retreated back to his room.

Listening to Cat Power is sending me spiralling into a maudlin state of mind, one that is not conducive for getting any work done.

I miss my cat. I was shouting last night, and she ran out of my room. I saw her this morning, hiding under a palm tree in our front garden, but I can't tell whether or not she was just being lazy, or if she was upset with me or not feeling well, because she didn't move when I cooed to her. Usually, she comes bounding up to me and rubs her sweet, little face up and down my legs, as if polishing them like silver. I feel like patting her beautiful fur and listening to her purr. I like watching her eyes close and the corners of her mouth turn up [I swear my cat smiles] whenever I talk to her, or sing silly songs. She is perhaps the only living being, besides Sam and my Gar, who enjoys listening to me play banjelene, and she likes my singing.

[oh how time flies/ with crystal clear eyes]

The Spanish teacher made some comment just before, about how I looked as if I were dressed to go out somewhere. Ahem, just because I don't adhere to the unfashionable dress code of other Edith Cowan staff members, does NOT mean I am over dressed. I mean, I would really love to attire myself in white pant suits and gaudy belts, to wear scarves like an old Baboushka and dust off outfits from other realms of time and try to pass them off as professional clothes, BUT I just can't. I hate to say it, but I try to actually look NICE, neat and well-presented when I come to work. I guess that's just a naive perspective. Maybe, as I begin to experience the pecuniary benefits of this job, I will go shopping at a store more suited to a 40 year old woman. I'd hate to think that I was too nicely dressed for the job. My predescessor preferred billowing pants with gaudy prints and men's shirts. Somehow, I don't think that is really me. Perhaps I should don massively spiked, dog collars, pvc and fishnets. At least that way I could accept criticism as to the acceptability of my outfit.

It is nearly lunch time. After lunch, I am supposed to work on the database, which is sweet because I'll be getting paid $36 an hour [database rate + hourly work wage]. Yeehaw.

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et des ange la candeur/ on l'appelait Jessikah/ elle avait beaucoup de coeur [20 Mar 2002|10:30pm]
[ mood | groggy ]
[ music | Edith Piaf: Madeliene ]

Once again, I have imbibed a somewhat excessive quantity of mellifluous, red wine and am feeling slightly less inhibited, and comparatively relaxed.

I don't actually like drinking, but it is my highly transparent means of replacing one addiction for another, but one that is nowhere near as satisfying. I would give anything to be completely stoned right now. Drinking makes my face warm and flushed, and relaxes me to the point of stupidity, but pot transports me to another place entirely.

I was deeply insulted tonight when my art teacher tried to give me a compliment.
" You must get this all the time," She began. I expected her to liken me to somebody famous, a celebrity for intellectual purposes perhaps. " But you are exactly like Kelly off 'The Secret Life of Us'. You are so effervescent and bubbly."
I almost burst into tears. That was exactly what I needed to hear after a lengthy, somewhat crap day, and when I was practically collpasing with exhaustion. Meanwhile, I didn't bother divulging that I have always thought that she was like Evan's older love interest in the first series.

I saw Kylee on my way home from class. She is soooooooooooo pregnant! Her tummy protrudes round and full, and her 'inny' belly button has now turned into an 'outy'. I couldn't get over how much she had grown in the past two weeks,and repeatedly asked her to lift up her pyjamas so I could see her belly. Her ultrasound is on Monday, which will hopefully determine the child's sex [I think it will be a boy].

I have realised that my life is far too hectic for me to cope with. Tomorrow, I work for 8 hours and then immediately after, I have a French class.

On Friday, I have to get out of bed by 9am, so I can go to the movies avec mon père, then to my drug counsellor, and then see Chinky.

Saturday, I am seeing Kylee all day, and hopefully, going out at night time.

I finally finshed reading 'The Colour of Water' this afternoon, and by the end of the week, I hope to have found enough time to finish the last bit of my Plath journals.

I am craving avocado for some strange reason.

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the rationale of the neurotic.... [20 Mar 2002|10:18am]
All this week, I have worn enough makeup to look pretty: foundation to smooth away my blemishes, dramatic eye shadow and liner, mascara and my favourite lipstick, in 'Plum Brulee'. And in all that time, I haven't seen anybody who would appreciate my efforts [except maybe that guy I burnt cds for and flirted with].

I got around 5 hours sleep last night, what with writing until the wee hours of the morn, and reading an engrossing novel. I arose at some ludicrously early hour, saluted the morning sun & worked out on our fitball, had a shower, gorged myself on bad french toast & apple juice, and decided to forgo any makeup at all.

On my drive to uni, I contemplated applying lipstick while stopped at a red light.
" No," I thought angrily. "I am sick of covering my face with synthetic crap. I am not a clown."

And who did I run into? P. I haven't seen him for ages, but I'm sure he appreciated my blemished skin, the peculiar sore on my lip which I seemed to have developed overnight and the massive, dark rings I under my eyes. I also forgot to brush my teeth, so it was truly surprising that he agreed to come for a quick tour of my office.

"Is that all you do?" P asked, once I finished explaining the criteria for my job. "And how much do you get paid?"

He made some half-assed remark about how there was 'hope for him' if I were capable of scoring a job with an office.
"I don't know," I told him. "I think you're more suited to nightfill."

I'm almost glad now, looking in retrospect, that we never 'went out'. At the time, I was most definitely attracted to him, and his lovely hair and sexy accent, but underneath it all, we are far too disimilar. I don't think he would have the faintest idea how to handle me.

Occasionally, I reminisce about that night we met, and how lovely it was to share a pasionate moment in my car. But all the months of waiting for a recurrence of events was pyschologically torturous, and realising that I was attracted to his hair more than anything else, was a slap in the face to my superficiality. When the got his wonderfully flickey, Beatlesque hair cut, and quickly resembled the character, Moonface, from The Faraway Tree series, my infatuation died in the ass.

I still like him, but not in that way. So, I guess it doesn't really matter that he saw me looking like hell warmed up.

Goshdarnit! I keep scattering awful colloquialisms in my writing at this early hour. NB: I have never actually used the phrase 'like hell warmed up'. And I never will.
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i'll suck my tongue/ as a rememberance of you [20 Mar 2002|01:50am]
[ mood | loquacious ]
[ music | Bjork. Goldfrapp. ]

I had this lengthy chat with one of Leon's friends tonight.

The thing I love about my brother and his friend, is that they are both so politically disinterested, and have no binding connection with their religions. S has been raised as a Muslim, and my brother, as a Jew. Yet they only see each other as fellow human beings, mates sharing tender moments in our laundry smoking bucket bongs and training at the gym together.

Anyhow, S came over to our house when I got home from the gym and was busily preparing a salad. I am certain that he had partaken something illicit, because he kpet having strange hallucinations and jumping everytime I came into the room.
" You know, I've just been talking to a Muslim priest," He told me as I diced tomato and cucumber.
" Yeah," I answered indifferently.
" I'm gonna get married to me girlfriend," S informed my family and then broke into a huge grin. I doubt he expected the interrogation which followed his announcement. My Mum launched into a lengthy spiel about how young he was and how naive and stupid he was being.

I sat on my bed and attempted to watch Charmed, when S came into my room and sat on my bed.( It felt weird to have a guy sitting there. A few years ago, I lured the identical twins in the same context, alternating the nights when they would sit on my bed and score the prize at the end of the night [which was me].)
" So, Jessikah, tell me what you think about me getting married," He asked me.
" You've been going out with that girl for four years now?" I questioned him.
" Yep. Since I was seventeen."
" Don't you think that you will eventually grow as a person and want to travel and experience all that life has to offer?"
" What's the point of travelling?" He demanded. "It's just wasting money that I can spend on my future." It frightens me that so many people in this world can literally not see outside the square they live in. But, all prejudices aside, not wanting to travel is still a different issue that wanting to be tied to an another person for the rest of your life.
" Okay. But don't you want to be with other people?" I wondered. "Surely, there will come a time 6 years from now when you think, 'fwoaah, I've been with the same girl since I was seventeen'."
" I don't think so," He told me. "I mean, I am like any guy: I see a pair of legs or big tits and think 'oh, I'll have some of that', but I haven't as yet."
" But still," I argued. "You desire to taste the flesh of another?"
" Yeah. I mean you gotta understand, the sluts have come onto me many times," He said with a hint of arrogance."But at the end of the day, they're just another hole to stick it in."
I looked at his pudgy belly straining against the fabric of his shirt, and into his painfully earnest eyes. "Okay. Can I ask you, why then, if you are safe in your relationship, do you want to get married?"
" I am marrying her because she wants me to," He revealed. "She is a strict Muslim and it's against our religion for a girl to be going out late at night with boys. Her father wants to protect her, and she wants to be protected. She is pressuring me to marry her so that we can be together."
" And with that mentality," I said, thinking aloud,"you will have to be responsible for her. If all her life she has been treated as subservient and answered to her father, you will have to adopt a paternal role."
S paused for a moment, digesting what I had said. "Yeah."
" You should never marry somebody because THEY want it," I informed him, speaking as if I had been married on numerous occasions. "If she cheated on you in the future, you would be outraged and throw it back in her face, 'I only married you because you wanted it.' And if it were you who were caught being unfaithful, you would cry out that you 'never wanted to marry her' and try to justify your infidelity."
" Nah. all I know is that I love her and I could really see us having children together. You know, raising a family and settling down."
" Is that the truth?" I probed. "Or is it a matter of convenience. Like, with my brother, Raf, he has been with this girl for over five years. And the dynamics of their relationship is that Jess does everything for him: cooking, cleaning, running errands. As the years have gone by, he has lost a lot of his hair and put on weight, and now it is at the stage where he probably feels that he couldn't function without Jess. She is his crutch. He also most likely feels that he could hardly find somebody who he perceives as being better than her, and figures in much the same way as you: why bother looking when you have found what you want?"

And that is pretty much the mentality of so many people around me. S thinks I am being too 'fussy' when I desire somebody who turns me on mentally and physically in equal proportions. To find such an individual would hardly be a quotidian occurance, so in the mean time, I wallow in celibacy, having given up on the fugacious pleasures of promiscuity.

The notion of settling down with somebody, no matter how amazing or articulate they may be, at this age, revolts me and induces irrational sensations of claustrophobia. It is so limiting. Even though I haven't had sex in three month, I am not so naive to believe that my love life has ended here. I have the potential to have hundreds of anonymous tongues probing mine, and the invisible fingerprints of lovers tattooed over every inch of my flesh. I have yet to meet somebody who I 'love' or even feel anything beyond lukewarm obsession [excuse oxymoron].

And to have a child now, when I am still a child myself, would be the end of me. Given my stupidity and carelessness at certain times last year, it was truly miraculous that I did not accidentally fall pregnant. I have to thank my willpower and infecund reproductive organs for that. And yet, just after I received a bloody confirmation that I was not pregnant, my best friend found out that she was.

But she is happy in some strange way, because all she wants in life is to have children. I must admit, that my belief is that the meaning of life is procreation. At some point in my life, most likely when I am emotionally empty and seeking unconditional love, I will have children. But the moment that screaming, bundle of flesh extricates itself from my loins, I will have to take responsibility for it for the rest of my life.

At present, I have great difficulty coping with being responsibile for myself. I while my hours away partaking in 'responsible', 'adult' activities: university studies & night school & work & gym. Eventually, however, the blinding monotony of it all, and the costant striving for recognition of my accomplishments, sends me into a state of rebellion. A rebellion against myself.

I secretly smoke weed or drink copious amounts of wine or snort illicit, white powder. I get completely trashed when nobody is around, and am perfectly capable of hiding it if I need to.

That's what is ideal about this journal for me: for once I don't have to maintain the facade. Nobody here can really judge me, because most of the people who read this don't know me, and those who do, have some knowledge of what I am like anyway. It's a bizarre context, because nondescript, anonymous folk become acquainted with one anohter from the INSIDE, without having to take into account somebody's physical appearance. It's all rather backward.

Crap! I don't know how it got be nearly 2am. I promised I would come into work early, to work on the database. Uck. I have classes from 11-4pm and then drawing from 6-8pm tomorrow. I am longing for Friday's arrival, so I don't have to feel constrained by the sterile prison on my uniiversity and workplace.

*blows farewell kiss*

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stay awake/ don't go to sleep/ though your pillow's soft and sweet [20 Mar 2002|12:43am]
[ mood | awake ]
[ music | Mary Poppins soundtrack. ]

Somedays are so intense that the hours tick by and I am conscious of every single second. Other days, my mind is elsewhere, shut off from the world, in a state of self-imposed slumber, and the minutes melt into hours. Before I know it, an entire day has passed and I am recalcitrantly preparing for a night's recuperation.

I have never really been a good sleeper. I don't know if other people dread going to sleep as much as I do, or are as restless as I am in bed. All my life, I have been prone to wake up with blankets strewn halfway across the room, or at a complete 360 degree angle from where I fell asleep. As I child, I quite frequently woke up as my tiny, lissom body rolled off the mattress and hit the hard floor.

When I was around three years of age, I remember distinctly trying to adopt this 'good girl' persona. Maybe my whole split personaity thing stems from my childhood and wanting so very much to cease the violence in my domestic situation: if I was good then bad things didn't happen. But I digress.

My brothers used to lie in their blue bunk bed in their blue-painted room and talk about doing nasty things to this girl from school, who had lovely, waist-length, blonde hair. I would shut out their salubrious ramblings, with my own chantings.
" ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ" I would say over and over. "Good night Mummy and Daddy."
Then, I would turn out the light in my lolly-pink painted room, and snuggle under my duvet surrounded by a million, crappy, old dolls and proceed to have a terrible, nightmare-filled sloom.

Part of my 'good girl' obsession, was that when I wanted to go to the toilet in the middle of the night, I didn't want to disturb my parents [and potentially make my Dad irascible], so I wouldn't turn on any lights. Of course, at that stage, I had the navigation skills of a blind goat.

Once, my Mum was awoken by a peculiar banging sound. She got out of bed to investigate the rythmic beat, and came into my room. I can remember somehow getting lost on the way out of my bedroom, and once Mum turned on the light, I discovered that I was in fact, behind my bedroom door. The banging sound was me, disorientedly hitting my head repeatedly against those pink-hued walls.

Perhaps the most bizarre thing I did on one of my late-night, dark journeys to the toilet, was when I decided not only to forgo light, but also, to make the distance with my eyes squeezed shut. I managed to leave my room, and stumbling my way around the kitchen, swore I had made it to the laundry and opened the toilet door. I pulled down my knickers and was about to release a bright stream of urine, when my Mum, who appeared out of nowhere [I did have my eyes closed], began to shout, "No, Jessi, you're in the fridge!"
And sure enough, I had mistaken the refrigerator for the toilet, and narrowly missed pissing all over our fruit and vegetables.

During the years when I was stricken with epilepsy, I spent a great deal of my time sleeping. Those were really the best hours sleep I ever had. I was having around 40 absence seizures a day, and coupled with my severe aversion to light, I would come home from school and sleep for 6 hours straight.

That, of course, had a downside. For example, the day of my brother's Bar Mitzvah was all a somnolent haze, in memory. I had an exorbitant number of attacks that day, and after we left the synagogue, I was required to lead a car full of my Mum's friends back to our house, where the after-party was being held. Navigating that day, was one of the most trying tasks I have ever been required to do. I kept losing consciousness every few minutes and forgetting where I was, what I was doing or who I was with. Finally, we made it home, and I was so fried, I went to sleep striaght away, and missed the entire party. In fact, the thing that sticks in my mind most about R's Barmi is how I slept through the after party.

Before I was properly diagnosed and given medication, I began to do pyschotic things in my sleep. My Mum often found me roaming the house, semi-conscious, and would lead me back to my bed. A couple of times, when I was around ten, I would wake up having wet the bed, because the mechanism in the brain that wkas an individual and tells them that they need to go to the toilet, was interrupted by a series of seizures.

Nowadays, nothing too dramatic happens while I am sleeping. But I still put going to sleep off until the last moment, when my eyes feel devoid of moisture and my brain has shut down. The flipside is that I hate waking up once I am asleep.

I'm sure anybody who actually read this rather useless history of my sleeping patterns, would have by now, fallen asleep themselves.

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I'm maaking aaa pizzzaaaaaaaa/ a frozzzen vegetarian pizzaaaaaaaa! [15 Mar 2002|12:59pm]
[ mood | silly ]
[ music | self-composed pizza song with woggy quality ]

1) bad night's sleep interrupted by annoying telephone calls at random, early hours this morning.
2) realising that there is no fruit nor milk nor yoghurt in da house and that unless transforming into huntress mode, breakfast would be the same as breakfast and dinner yesterday: cheese on toast.
3) foraging is successful. frozen pizza now in oven.
4) going shopping with chinky. hopefully updating my image [yesterday realising that I had reverted to age 17 again: Nuku manga top, cutesy, indie bracelets, lurid, red cardigan]. Working-girl attire AND play-time clothes. Lingerie?!
5) I am aaaa maaaking a pizzzaaaaaaaa! And I feel somewhat silly/retarded due to a severe lack of slaaap.

*waves goodbye* I walked into the wall on my way back from checking the on the pizza.

[mental note to self: could I bring the helmet/shin pads/elbow protector look back into beign chic?]

[mental note to self: was protective padding ever really chic?]

[mental note to self: you are fucked in the head ;)]

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one thing I know/ is that if I go/ it's a waste of time [14 Mar 2002|11:56pm]
[ mood | hungry ]
[ music | malapropism of the day: my 'mood' right now is 'hungry''hu ]

French class wasn't all the bad tonight. I spent half of the lecture wanting to slit my wrists after an upsetting chat with constable cunt, who called me regarding my car accident three weeks ago. He was surly and downright rude at times, berating me for not remembering such details as the car's brand and model. At first I tried to ease the tension by belittling myself and spouting chauvinist cliches I thought he might want to here.
" Oh well, that's women for you," I remarked, momentarily adopting a light-hearted, girly voice. "We just aren't good with things like cars."
[note: if I had laid it on any more thickly, I would have been on par with the blonde from the Simpsons.
" Do you come with the car?"
" Oh you!" (giggles inanely).]
When he didn't buy into it and continued treating ME like I was a criminal, I began to articulate myself armed with a forked tongue [*poor analogy construction* me as venomous snake- dangerous].
" Look," I told him. "Maybe if you had asked me the day after it had happened instead of three weeks later, I would be able to remember the incident with greater clarity."
" Just how many accidents have you been in since then?" Constable Cunt enquired, clearly insinuating that not only did I have a poor memory, but that I was a bad driver.
" Well," I answered, practically hissing in anger [recurrence of dodgy snake analogy],"this accident was the first one I have ever been in, and I didn't even cause it."

After my anger had subsided somewhat, and a couple of hours of French later [we analysed an article about corrosion], I felt a little more relaxed, and began to vaguely cope again.

I got caught out tonight when I got home from uni. Making sure that my stoner brother was in the shower, and my Mum, elsewhere, watering the lawn, I once again, secretly had a choof. But, ten minutes later when Mum tried to kiss me on the cheek, she smelt the distinct odor of marajuana on my peppermint-gum flavoured breath.
" You've been smoking pot, haven't you?" Mum asked, inhaling my smokey aroma with great disdain.
" No," I lied, momentarily feeling like a 15 year old again. I admitted the truth. "Well, yes. But only a little bit."
" Drug addict," Mum answered neutrally, and continued to babble about the diferent criteria which my job entails.

I drew a pretty cool picture of myself tonight. It is stylistically greater than my work has been for a long time. Going to these life drawing classes has been a very postivie experience. I now actually bother to plan my drawings out, and attempt to adhere to the rules of proportion. I found tonight, that I no longer have to cover up a malformed facial shape with odd strands of hair- if I plan where everything goes in the beginning, then the end product is far more accurate. My art, previously, was constructed almost like a stream of conscious, writing exercise: I would try to record what I saw without worrying about the rules of grammar or about the necessary grammar points. After only three weeks, I have learnt with my art, to create a plan, similar to an essay plan, so that the image is created in a logical manner and thougths and ideas aren't placed down higgeldy-piggeldy.

My Mum said that my charcoal and conte self-portait looks like me in 20 years time.
" I like it," Mum began hesitantly, staring at the bleak blacks and greys. "But, it is just so damn miserable looking. She needs a smile."
" I love turning potentially nice images into horrible ones, so that people feel uncomfortable when they look at my work. That's why I like Lucien Freud."
" Well," Mum answered," you certainly have a talent for miserable subject matter."
There are scenarios that I have always wanted to record, solely because they contain a figure/figures positioned in such a manner that the perspective is horrnedous. Like, a patient lying in a dentists' chair having dental work done, and fat women clad in lycra contorting themselves into awfully unflattering positions during gym classes, and corpulent thighs, languidly astride a toilet bowl.

I am quite excited by the somewhat archaic vocabulary books my Mum gave to me this evening. She bought them when she was matriculating, to increase her vocabulary. I have inherited my love of words from ma mère. She is the only person who I can have a fiery, linguistically-oriented debate with.

I was thinking about the word that troubled me and subsequently, concerned Mum due to its rather useless definition. I would have liked to described the model I drew last night's buttocks as being 'callipygian', but I am still uncertain whether this would be a misnomer of sorts. The definition is 'beautifully shaped buttocks', but if this is the case, then how does one apply the word in a sentence. It must be an adjective, because one wouldn't say 'a callipyian'. But then to describe the noun, buttocks, as being 'callipygian', would that not be like saying 'beautifully shaped buttocks' buttocks?

I have recently realised how overactive my brain is. That's why I still smoke weed on occasion: it slows my mental processes down. I don't feel wired and highly-strung, unable to relax for want of planning or doing something. I alter my mindset to amoebic-level, or at least pretend to. Because I am still under the influence as I tpye now, but I seem to be doing a lot of thinking and typing, and not so much staring into empty space.

I need an escape from me. And some more cheese on toast.

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we won't mention size/ but we fit so neatly [14 Mar 2002|04:14pm]
[ mood | perennially exwhorested ]
[ music | Pete's Dragon. The Fergusons. ]

I was walking to the mega lab to see Princess, and organize my staff email account, when disaster nearly struck. Clopping along in my stolen, too-small, wedge-heeled, patent red shoes with the bows, I accidentally lost my footing and nearly lost my baance entirely.
" Fuck!" I shouted and steadied myself. Mum, who was accompanying me on my walk, moved closer and held out her arm.
" You obviously need me to help you along," She cooed.
" Mum, Leave me alone," I told her and continued waking, but in a far more cautious manner.

We returned to the office and on the way, I complained to Mum about this perception that people seem to have of me as an incompetent individual, barely capable of completing a simple task without fucking it up entirely.
" It's ironic that they think I am unable to hold my head up without dribbling," I mentioned. "When in actual fact I seem to accomplish more things on a quotidian basis than the people who insinuate such things."

I have been trying to lay down some ground rules for my Mum pertaining to the commencement of my job. After introducing me today in the staff room as her 'baby' and 'baby possum', I have emphatically stressed that this kind of behaviour is unacceptable.

Anohter point of contention is her consatnt interference when in the office together. I chuckled this afternoon.
" Was that a laugh?" She asked frantically. " Or a cough or are you upset?"
I don't wish to explain myself every time I make a noise or move suddenly while working.

I am quite grumpy at the moment. Another night's bad sleep, possibly caused by a brief toke before bed and the fact I was woken early this morning by Sam's message and my Mum calling and calling an calling.

Last night's dream was whacked. I dreamt that Wayne admitted that he thought the world of me and has only used me for [excuse here]. In my dream, I was at the casino and The Fergusons were playing some extravagant show with bright, flashing lights, and the audience was watching from some high-up balcony and cheering loudly.

I made Lara give me back the Fergusons' ep [which I stole from their launch when drunk] and listened to it his afteroon before I came to uni.

I am tired and grumpy. The last thing I feel like doing is this damn, g-dawful, database, followed by 3 hours of science and technology...in french.

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waaay up in the sky/the little bird flies/ way down in the nest/ the little bird rests [14 Mar 2002|01:03am]
[ mood | ranting but ready for bed! ]
[ music | Goldfrapp. Simian. ]

Today has felt like an enitre week packed into 24 hours. I have done so much, seen so much, experienced so many things. And now I am completely and utterly spent, and fighting the desire to get wasted and watch The Late Show.

My life drawing class was pretty cool tonight, albeit frustrating at times. I kept making my teacher giggle with my somewhat mordant commentary.
" Hmmm," She would say, looking over my shoulder at my charcoal and conte sketches. "I think this arm is too short."
" Yes," I would agree, adding an extra few centimetres to the limb. " It appears that I have mistakenly drawn her as an amputee."

Our model was really a delight to draw: petite with short, pudgy legs and arms, wild, bleached dreadlocks and a multitude of body adornments; she had two rather fetching tattoos on the small of her back and several other gemoetric designs on her foot and back and shoulders; she had a pierced nose, lip, tongue, nipple and belly [with dangley jewellery].

My teacher, who I think is strikingly beautiful, turned on a lamp so that the class could focus on creating drastic tonal variation, emphasizing light and dark. I did a rather splendid sketch, except for the feet, which I folded the paper over after several botched attempts.
" It's called denial," My teacher retorted with a smile.
I did get a little carried away, and added far too much shading on the girl's face, to the point where she looked as though she had sprouted a thick crop of facial hair.

Some guy gave me his kneable eraser last week in exchange for a stick of charcoal and then accidnetally,took it with him.
" I'm sorry for being an Indian giver," He apologised.
" That's cool," I told him," I thought I'd lost the rubber. Yay! I have an eraser now!"

Those kneadable erasers are so malleable, so delicious-looking, I just felt like breaking off a chunk and popping it my mouth. As I've gotten older and slightly more mature of late, I have stopped extemporaneously placing nasty things in my mouth. Some things just aren't digestable.

I went past Lara's house after night school. It felt weird between us, almost strained. I suddenly realised that what we had, our concrete bond is most definitely over, but now it doesn't bother me. I feel like I have left her behind. I still love Lara and always will in some way, but I have been replaced for her girlfriend and am no longer a necessity in her life.

We sat outside and talked for a bit while she smoked a cigarette. Ever the pyromaniac, Lara began to light up a twig and twirl it around and around, so that in the dark it became a fiery, red circle. Amps came outside.
" Hey babes," L said to her, " look what I'm doing. Want a turn?" Ampara declined.
" How come you didn't ask me if I could have a turn?" I wondered.
" You'd probably burn the house down."
And that was it. There was the precise reason why I grew away from my best friend. Her tone of voice was hardly joking. It reminded me of when I had had my licence for a year and she suggested that I let Ampara move my car out of a tight space, because I was obviously incapable of doing so.

It's ironic really. She seems to perceive me as some giant, gourmless, bumbling fool. And yet I seem to be capable of accomplishing far more than she is capable of doing. I don't need to list the elements which set us apart, but all I will mention is that she has abandoned study and ambition, for a life of mediocrity.

I was singing in the car when I accompanied them, briefly, on a jaunt to the bottle shop.
" Do you think I have a melodic voice? " I asked one of Amps' friends. I knew it wasn't what I wanted to say and suddenly sick of talking down to everyone, I repeated my question, only using the word 'canorous'.
" Don't use words that you don't know the meaning of," Lara told me. Of course I know the meaning of the words through which I articulate myself. Why would I waste my time trying to impress people with malapropisms, which is usually the case when one is not familiar with the definition and context for a word?

After I left Lara's, I met up with Sam at The Moon, for some late night rodomontade, garlic bread and beer. We hung out with Wayin for ages and asked her questions about animals, because she is studying Vet Science. I made the mistake of telling Sam to draw me how he perceived me. The result was somewhat unflattering: humungous, round head, massively pointed chin, arms like loaves of bread and a figure like a sack of potatoes. He was busy detailing rolls of fat when his pen 'mysteriously' ran out. When I drew him, it wasn't as insulting because Sam is fully aware of his small head and borderline emaciation.

When I came home, my cat was sitting on one of the brick pillars which comprise our front wall. As I drove into the driveway, the light from my car hit her eyes, making them reflect a bright, demonic green. Misty follwed me inside and I gave her lots of addictive Go-cat and let her drink from the mug in my room and patted her soft, shiny coat. Now, she had adopted the sweetest of poses: streched out on her side, tummy facing the ceiling, her little paws all curled up.

*breathes sigh of relief* I just remembered my dream from last night!!!! I was supposed to see a different drug counsellor, also called Angela, but who had curly, blonde hair instead of black. My Dad was in my dream and wouldn't take me to where I needed to go. Somehow, I ended up in the building for a drama club and Mado was there, clad in some tacky, PVC attire...and Beno too [that bit was cool]. I went to use the toilet, only instead of having a door, there were these rusty, iron bars, which a sad looking goth had to show me how to close. The door didn't really have any function, as one could see through the bars, but made it feel like I was emprisoned. There was a magazine in the toilet, with glossy pictures of Neve Campbell posing as an international goth at some music festival....BIZARRE!

I think that I will most definitely sleep in tomorrow. Tonight was a celebration of some sort. Next week there will be no break. I start work on Monday, and also work a solid day on Thursday, and will continue to do so for the next 9 months or so.

I am busy but happy. All that is lacking is some form of physical affection. But then life would be complete. I figure that until I can transcend my lascivious desires, they will continue to haunt me every waking hour of the day and night. Once I am expelled of all prurient thought and intent, then what I yearn for so deeply, will probably come my way. Either that, or I will dehydrate and die in this extended sexual drought.

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'po-mo..you know like post-modernism...um..weird for the sake of being weird' [13 Mar 2002|04:38pm]
[ mood | weary but happy ]
[ music | Crap music on Mum's 'puter: Dirty Dancing soundtrack ]

That is the best Simpsons quote all season.

I just finished my English lecture/seminar/tutorial and am rather smitten by the content, but not so much by my peers. Actually, two girls who I ignored in my Myths & Legends tute last year [along with P's friend Karl] have turned out to be very interesting characters and more than capable of intellectual debate. Very cool.

We discussed post-modernism and analysed the 'kiddie-porn', Calvin Klein ad campaigns of the mid-90's. There are a few guys in my unit that irritate the fuck out of me. They all have severe cases of loghorea: I don't care what they have to say, I am more interested in listening and extracting knowledge from my wonderfully, vivacious lecturer, who drinks coke out of a bottle and sprinkles her sentences with profanities.

I had a really nice lunch today from the canteen, eaten in my new hang-out, the staff room. Ususally the hot lunches are a risk to eat- one is more than aware of the risk of contracting salmonella or e-coli post-prandially. I walked into the cafeteria with my Mum and 'Uncie' Trevor, and Trevor grabbed a 'clean', white plate from the stack in the corner.
" That's pretty brave of you," I told him, failing to notice half a dozen canteen workers well within hearing range. " I would look at the food first to see how revolting it is."
" Revolting?" One of the ladies queried. I pretended that I hadn't made such comments a split second earlier, and looked over my shoulder as if she were confusing me with somebody else.

Lunch was surprisingly good: spinach with pinenuts, noodles and fried tofu, roast potato and pumpkin, and two, ittybitty chicken legs. I felt bad for consuming such small legs, the limbs of a baby practically. I guess it was my body's way of demanding some form of protein, other than cheese, in my diet.

I am still very much exhausted after my late night English readings and bleary-eyed persistence to finish the second last Plath journal [only to discover that there was an appendix at the end of the book]. My mind was alive, racing with thought, but my eyes were half-mast and my body crying out for some good, solid sleep. So, finally, after chasing straying flies and moths and beetles out of my room, I turned out the light [which was attracting them] and by 3am I was asleep.

I had a very strange dream during the night and menat to post it here, but after a day of intense brain-usage, I have completely forgotten even the scantiest of details.

I have to organise something for dinner before I go to night school to draw naked flesh for 2 hours.

At least I don't start uni until 5:30pm tomorrow night. I want to go to my Grandparents house at some stage because my Gar has got some lovely Paris Match mags. I want to translate the love letters that Edith Piaf sent to her lovers [there is a huge article].

Update: no cute guys in either new class today. Quite the contrary. Have resigned myself to a new life of extreme purity and revisited virginity.
*bats eyelashes in innocent fashion*

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but I promise you this/ I'll always look out for you [13 Mar 2002|12:50am]
[ mood | awake ]
[ music | Coldplay: Parachutes. ]

I was referring to myself of course.

I got home from the gym tonight and literally couldn't keep my head up and my eyes open. The class I did was reasonably strenuous, but it was the culmination of a consecutive number of sleepless nights and the frenetic pace of Monday and today, that sent me into a prematurely somnolent state, and forced me to forgo 'Charmed', for an hours, deep sleep.

Gym instructors, or rather anybody who is obsessive about exercise, always strike me as alien creatures. I mean we are all people, but there is a distinguishingly different mindeset between a physical person and a cerebral person. My instructor was everything that a buff, exercise-crazy person should be: lean, toned, well-defined muscles, athletic. And I am the embodiment of a cerebral person: bright, intelligent eyes, a severe lack of co-ordination, untoned, slightly protruding belly. I fail to comprehend how physical people operate, but I still appreciate their levels of stamina, and the sheer joy they derive from using hand weights and completing set after set of leg curls and grapevines.

Nobody is good at everything. I like to rationalize my physical clumsiness by telling myself that I am far better at academic pursuits. Otherwise, if I took exercise too seriously, I may feel disheartened by my obvious crapness and forgo moving my body, any more than the distance from my 'puter to my bed.

My gym instructor disturbed me a little tonight when she tried to encourage us to 'have control' during our squats.
" Pretend you have a hand weight tucked firmly between the cheeks of your bottom," She suggested. Er, no thanks. Elaborating firther, she revealed that some guys she knew, who were seriously about traing, would actually, 'place the hand weight under their shorts'...ew! I want a firm ass, but not THAT much!

I have wasted two good hours watching crap tv. I can not explain my peculiar penchance for staged television shows which involve young, stupid people, a fuckload of alcohol and a gazillion cameras. I am completely smitten by one of the crappest shows ever, 'The Villa'. All the whinging poms do is getting liquored up, flash their bottoms, sleep with random and whinge, whinge, whinge. It is such good viewing.

I am half way through my reading for this new English unit I start tomorrow. I have missed three weeks, but it is all stuff I have done before: semiotics, signifers and signifieds, Sassau & Barthes, interdisciplianry stuff. The unit is called 'reading the media'. *orgasms* I love dat shit!

I suddenly realised today that in the next few weeks, I have far too many assessments due, that I have neither started nor thought about. I will have two, 1000 word French essays due, as well as an English essay [2000 words] and some multimedia assessment/powerpoint presentation/not sure due. At the same time as everything is due, I finish night school, so after the 2 week, mid-semester break, I will have a lot more time to myself, unless I choose to do belly dancing and singing lessons.

I feel like staying up all night, drinking copious amounts of sweet, black tea, and devouring my unit readings and more Plath and this fucking fascinating book, 'The Colour of Water'. I should go to sleep by 2am...tomorrow is set to be another busy, busy day....*ponders deeply* I wonder if there will be any cute guys in my new tute/English seminar????? [specifies: they should at least be at the legal age for consent!]

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lethargy laspes into late-night poetry [12 Mar 2002|01:55am]
[ mood | exhausted ]
[ music | my bed calling me to rest & end my weary state of mind ]

reflecting on the hours of caffiene-induced activity
questioning my own codes of morality
feeling trapped but content
severely tired, completely spent

tasks accomplished, lists checked off
bits of German swimming around mein kopf

a melange of infatuation, jealousy & frustration
a somnolent brain seeking mental masturbation
weariness from perennial unsatisfaction
the divine discontent divided like a compound fraction
futility promoting weakness of mind
a lingering distaste for all of mankind
words carry meaning but are empty inside
under concrete exterior there is plenty to hide

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so give me coffee & t.v....la lal alaaaaa [09 Mar 2002|08:40pm]
[ mood | happy ]
[ music | Death Cab for Cutie. ]

I love my girlfriends! They are so fucking cool and wonderful and fun and pretty and just plain lovely!

Today, I picked up Chinky and my sunglasses and she came to the new place and helped us paint. We took a break and went to the deli and purchased a multitude of sickening items: blue-tongue turning twisties, Doritos [won a free pack of chips], a tonne of popping candy, chewy things, Wonka products, kinder surprise [inside was a crappy kaleidoscope],choc milk and coke...and sat in my soon to be bedroom closed the door, pretended we were painting, but instead, sat there gorging ourselves til we were nearly sick and reading Vogue.

Chinky also met my Grandparents and I can tell they loved her, particularly my Gar. So cute!

I am annoyed that my Mum revealed to me at 6pm that I needed to complete a gazillion database entries before tomorrow! Grrr...I've done lots but I won't let it compromise my dodgy plans for tonight.

Kylee is coming over right now to hang out and to get her cute present. We are also swapping back our cds- my Bjork for her Muse. Sweet.

I am supposed to go over to Lara & Ampara's and then to Amps to see Showbag! but I can't be bothered. I might hook up with them later and Chinky as well. We'll see.

Ha! Me and Chinkx kept sending fucking bizarre, hilarious msges to her beau all day. After I dropped her off, he rang me on my mobile while I was driving.
" Was it you who sent that message about the alien foetus?" He asked.
" No," I lied. "I'd be the first to tell you the truth, but I can only guess it was a Telstra mixup."

[you know you know/ you know I'm a liar]

Happy! Joy! Partying with the girls until my responsible job commences.

p.s Chinky found the funniest email I sent her about my big mistake of an ex-boyfriend. I hated him so much and he wouldn't leave me alone. In the email, I said how he mentioned that he noticed that I was a 'heavy breather'. I responded to that by commenting on the fact that he had bad body odour.

*wipes tear of laughter away* I guess you had to be there!

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he died with a felafel on his shlong... [09 Mar 2002|11:59am]
[ mood | tired ]
[ music | p.s. CHINKY NEEDS GLASSES! ]

Yesterday was once of the BEST days I have had in months. Aside from the whole drug counsellor thing, and flirty with the rather grotesque looking, mentally retarded boy at studnet services [my mitzvah for the day], I got to spend almost 12 hours quality time with Chinky.

I picked her up and we went to the Galleria for dodgy, air conditioned fun. I ended up buying the cutest damn book, and it wasn't for me even [everybody faint with shock of Jess' generosity]. We were in the ABC shop and I spotted "Miffy's Baby Book" by Dick Bruna. Kylee and I had looked at some ultra shite baby books, but this one is adorable in every sense and is designed so that when the kid is like 6, and has just learnt to read, it can understand and embrace its story of birth.

I also bought some black, fishnets from Miss Shop. I put them on one leg this morning before I passed out. Very Cool. I remember buying the dodgiest damn kneehigh fishnets from Barbarella's for my birthday last year. Not only did they suck, but about 7 months ago, I lost one of them.

Chinky and I had really nice coffe at Dome, and shared a coconut macaroon and a slice of lemon & lime cheme brulee. We had just started eating when a mosquito settled itself on the brulee, which resulted in a rather brutal assault by Chinky. I let her eat the mosquito half. [afterthought] Maybe that mosquito was the reincarnate of that tiny, buzzing thing that flew into my yoghurt? That's a cool way to die: gorging oneself on sweet food.

We got out videos in the form of 'He Died with a Felafel in His Hand' and Moulin Rouge. Both were awful beyond description. I bet John Birmingham was pretty pissed when they saw what they did to his book. I remember when he came to speak to my creative writing class, how he told us all the amusing house-share stories from the book. Well, that movie was TERRIBLE~!!!

And Moulin Rouge...well, I must confess a severe distaste for Baz Luhrman. I couldn't stand more than 10 minutes of that film. The moment I realised they were singing Nirvana at the Moulin Rouge, and after I heard some appalingly bad musically numbers, each more abrasive to the ear than the next, it was time to press 'stop' on the VCR and abandon all hope of a good flick.

Chinky made me the bestest dinner. I think that if she doesn't do Interior Design, then cooking is a must for her.
---------------------------------------------------
Chef Chinky's Menu for the Evening:
[ 2 bottles of red wine served in massive, humungo, motherfucker glasses]

Entre:
cheese platter with toasted turkish bread, camembert, gouda, Jarlsberg and marinated green & black olives.

Main:
chicken with caramelised onions, noodles, red capsicum and coriander.

Dessert:
huge bowl of salted popcorn for our enjoyal while watching such terrible films. Sweet, black coffee.

---------------------------------------------------

While we were getting pissed, ahem...drinking wine before dinner, we messaged Jordana's beau. At one point, I mentioned that we were 'on our second bottle of wine, eating poor chicken for dinner and about to settle down with Noah Taylor and Baz'.

J's beau: As in he died with a felafel?
Me: Yes, on his shlong. It was very painful.
Him: No, the Lowenstein directed film [note: we both nearly hurled at this pretentious statement]
Me: No, we rented that porno 'He Died with a Felafel on his Shlong'. Very explicit sex scenes. It's amazing what one can do with deep fried chick peas!
Him: your fuct.

When I left Chinky's, I was all wired from the coffee. I managed to avoid a booze bus by taking the back streets, and made it home with my tank completely empty and my car not able to make it 60 kms.

For some fucked up reason, the internet wasn't working so I couldn't expend any energy writing here and was forced to pace the length of my room and watch American morning television & Rage until 4am!

Jordana's dickhead beau woke me up by messaging me just then! GRRRRRR! I am so tired, I think maybe I'll return to my lovely, dark room and catch some zzzzz's [p.s. I hate the aforementioned phrase].

I want to go shopping in Freo but can't be fucked. Tonight I am supposed to do something with Lara, but I wouldn't mind seeing Showbag! play. I'm up for a bit of Glen Musto action...*smirks*

Kisses to all xxxx Mistress_x

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crusty eyes/ come as no surprise [08 Mar 2002|12:31pm]
[ mood | silly baby ]
[ music | Beth Orton. ]

The day after always sucks.

I had such hideous dreams last night: John Howard getting down with Cindy Crawford, me at some really lame dress-up club in the '70's, getting directions wrong and driving my car down the steepest hill imaginable and nearly ending up in the sea. The worst bit was when I was on some ledge thing, high above the gorund.
" This think will break," I kept chanting in some warped mantra.
" No, it won't," The other people on the ledge kept answering. I got off it and came back a little later to regale a story. As I sat on the metal construction, the bolts holding the contraption flew out and everybody was momentarily suspended in space. I quickly grabbed onto the side and eventually, after dangling for a few minutes, somebody pulled me to safety. I was shouting, "I told you so!" but my words reverberated to empty ears. Everybody had died.

I have so many things to do today and am once again inkling towards shying away from my responsibilities. Erk. My brain isn't quite together yet and I have to talk for almost 1.5 hours straight with my counsellor. I don't feel like it. I hate the notion of having to pay somebody to help me with my problems, and yet, the surprising thing is that is really does help.

I am not so angsty today anyway. But all of last night seems like one giant, hedonistic blur. And I know that anything positive that I felt was really only artificial and substance-induced.

One thing I have become reaquainted with in regards to pot, is how it hinders my ability to communicate properly. I spent the better part of a year feeling unbelievable alienated and misunderstood, like there was a barrier between the thoughts in my mind and my means for articulating them.

I am sick of writing endless plans for what I am going to do with my time, plotted out in precise measurements. Nope. Today I do what I feel I need to do [fights compulsive desire to make list]. Enough with the list making.

When I was wasted last night, I was eating yoghurt out of the tub and as I was about to put a spoonful of the thick, creamy substance into the deep recesses of my mouth, a tiny insect flew straight into the yoghurt, flapped its wings around and died on my spoon. Very weird.

I can't wait to buy some new clothes. I hate the fact that I wear my clothes like a uniform now: snake-skin skirt [worn low on hips] with tight t-shirt during the DAY, and at NIGHT, the black, vynyl skirt accompanied by a tight, slightly sexier shirt.

Snakeskin combinations:
#1:red shirt with glittery mototcycle, studded bracelet and necklace, red shoes.
#2:blue shirt with blue-print leopard crap in one elongated rectangle, chunky, blue beads, black, strappy sandals held together with safety pin.
#3:pink 'Vynyl Idol' shirt, blue beads, platform red shoes with bows.
#4: red shirt with GIRLS and BOYS and a line between, and a subtext explaining that 'Girls on top'....that's what I am wearing now.

BLACK, VYNYL SKIRT:
- busty delish pvc top with zip
- doll shirt
- see through shirt
- see through shirt and scientific shirt
- see through shirt and 'not even if you were the last boy on earth' top
- frilly black top tapering into a pointed v of fabric
- black, button-up shirt + spikey jewellery/giant, green choker


OH THE SHAAAAAAAME!!!! I resisted writing a list about what I wanted/needed to do and under the pretense of divulging my everyday attire, I actually I WROTE ANOTHER LIST! oh I need help! :)

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my double life as a secret agent girl... [06 Mar 2002|11:54pm]
[ mood | ranty ]
[ music | Death Cab. Pedro the Lion. ]

[whatever that means]

*breathes sigh of relief* I am sooo glad that today will be over in a metter of 60 minutes. Everything has been such a struggle and I have been clumsy beyond description all day.

As I was vacating uni today, I ran into P's sister and her friend, and babbled my frustrations in their direction. They were both giggling and offering advice. I really like P's sister. I usually run into her on Wednesday's and P on Thursdays.

I bought lots of paper and contes from Jackson's and went home and had a mini session by myself. I have realised that recently my pot use, while still minimal, is slightly futile. I smoke as a means of escapism, but once I am wasted, I only want it to be for like 20 minutes or so, not to linger insidiously for hours and hours.

It may have helped my technique at life drawing class tonight. My petite teacher, who looks like Evan's older love interest on Secret Life of Us, made a comment about my work to the rest of the class.
" Jessikah has really shone tonight."
I really appreciated her celestial imagery. I could see myself up in the heavens, a nimbus of light around my head, shining like a star.

I used to love stars. There is something about those five symmetrical points that is so aesthetically pleasing. I went through a phase where my attire was covered in stars, where I would draw stars on notebooks and shoes and on my arms, or wear them near my eyes. I even changed my name to 'Jessikah Star'. At that stage I was more porud about being Jewish because our symbol is a star, than for my religion itself.

I finally got a male model to draw tonight, but to my dismay he was in his mid to late 30's and I'm absolutely certain he was wearing MASCARA! Staring and analysing with my eyes, his flaccid member, made me feel quite uncomfortable. When I draw women, I can detach myself more and think, 'Oh, I have one of those or two of those but mine are bigger and they are...'. It's more an admiration for a flesh similar to mine. I can relate to the soft, delicious curves of a female's flesh more so than the firm, taught muscles of a man's body.

It is quite sobering to stare intently and closely at a naked man, or for that matter, a woman. But to see a man in all his glory, in bright light, feels weird when one is accustomed to viewing the opposite sex in a haze of illcit drugs and darkened rooms. When I was sleeping with X, he had a habit of covering the light bulbs for subdued light. I used to tease him that he was like the character, 'Blanche Dubois' from Tennessee William's 'A Streetcar Named Desire'. He never got it.

My point is that even when in a state of intimacy, one is not necessarily granted the sight of their lover's body in full light. That's what makes drawing somebody more intimate in another sense: pupils flicker over the large expanses of flesh, lingering on the how the shadows and light hit the flesh, and then translating it onto paper or whatever medium is at hand. Sex is such a blind, two-dimensional act. If a lover is lacking in skill, there is no instructor to say, 'Well, a little off on the stroking', and the fact that talent may never be discussed emans that people never learn. Having teacher to correct my misproportions or angles, is a great aid. I can build upon my artistic skills and better and maintain my visual initmacy with the flesh of strangers.

The other day during ym French tutorial, I had a nectarine sitting on my desk. I was about mindlessly bite into the sweet, juicy fruit, when suddenly I noticed how brilliant the skin was. On one side the nectarine looked as though it was on fire: flaming reds and purples meeting with the golden, yellow light. On the yellow surface, like some Seurat pointillistic masterpiece, were speckles of amber and explosions of crimson and orange. The other side of the fruit had a peculiar texture, which almost looked light a wood grain, with elongated sworls of mahogany, stretching across the line which separated the two hemispheres. I ran my fingertips over the surface of the skin: some areas felt smooth and cool to the touch; along two-thirds of the fruit, was a sequence of delicate, pocked marks, hardly visible to the eye but distinctly rough and rugged to the touch.

The more I stared at the colours and became acquainted with the tectures, the more intimate I became with the fruit.
" Why don't you just eat it?" My peers jested.
" It's beautiful," I answered simply.
" It's a piece of fruit," Somebody said and everybody erupted into peels of laughter. That's what people do when they feel uncomfortable: the mock and jeer and laugh until they feel less alienated.

I know what a piece of fruit is. I just merely wnated to prove a point. Marchel Duchamp based his art on everyday art, a urinal or chairs. The Pop Art movement followed suite and gave the label 'art' to a plethora of mass produced products. So it is hardly innovative on my behalf to find the skin of a nectarine so fetching it could have been paitned on a canvas and displayed in a grand, old gallery. No, I am merely borrowing from the prior established ideologies of truly original thinkers.

What makes such an insignificant, quotidian item become a work of art, even if only in an ephemeral sense, is how the individual perceives it. I don't sit there like some freak with two lazy eyes and pretentiously ponder each item before it enters my mouth and is matiscated and subsequently digested. To do so would be futility at its extreme. But occasionally, allowing one to stop and become intimate with an inanimate object and push all self-obssesed thoughts out of one's head can allow for greater perspective.

When I ate that nectarine, I savoured every inch of the sweet flesh, dripping with juice. Each time my teeth came into contact with the fruit, a microcosm of beauty was destroyed: rich, vivid landscapes of colour were transformed into boluses, and disappeared into the darkened depths of my alimentary canal. I was conscious that I had transformed a mindless snack into an eating experience.

[ends lengthy description]

Analysing the world on such a small scale can provide solace and an escape from the more pressing issues of the macrocosm.

I can't believe what is happening in Israel at the moment. I was discussing it with my Grandparents after night school tonight. All that bloodshed is horrific and like my Nana says, it's almost juvenile in a way: you punch me, I'm gonna punch you.

Does anybody realise that the people the Israelis are fighting are terrorists? The Tzahal does not target innocent Palestinians, like some blood-hungry war mongers. The forms of retaliation by the Palestinians are inhumane and sickening: suicide bombers, terrorists opening fire on restaurants and setting off bombs in clubs and on busses and in the streets. They are meshigunah, as my Gar says. The Israelis are hardly perfect, but they seem to be the only ones acting in a rational fashion. Yasser Arafat himself has stated that their is no chance for compromise: they want ALL of Jerusalem, and to drive the Jews into the sea.

Israel was established as a place for all Jews after the horrific atrocities of the Holocaust. We never seem to have peace. Now the murders and deaths are concentrated in one small area, as opposed to all over the world. It's all very, very sad and what is most frightening is that there appears to be no end to the conflict. How can there be when an entire race of people are indoctrinated from a young age to hate all Jews and that killing innocents is a stepping stone into heaven? These are the same people who attacked America. Have empathy for those who must endure terrorism on a daily basis.

ARRRRRK! I am far too ranty for my own good. I'm going to snuggle with Sylvia Plath and watch from a distance as she struggles through her life, and forget about mine for the time being.

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Jess gets grumpy! ;X [06 Mar 2002|02:30pm]
[ mood | annoyed ]
[ music | Beck. Beth Orton. ]

I am in such a bad mood today. I just threatened to throw a stapler at my Mum's head.

Last night, I couldn't get to sleep and when I did, my dreams were peculiar and frightening. I dreamt that I was thinking of renting a place, but when I went to inspect it, it was attached to the back of a large mansion, and all the furniture was sterile and white and extremely small. I was wearing my gaudy, floral dress from 'Shag', and for some reason, I decided to change into a nightie. There was a little boy watching me. When I heard his father come home, I tried to change back into my floral dress and he and his colleagues came in. For some reason I was stoned and afraid that he would find out, but then I noticed that everybody was smoking big, fat joints. I was too afraid of ruining my image to ask for a toke.

My other dream contained some very disturbing sexual events, all of which occurred at Kim's house. I've never been to her house, but in my dream there were giant horses roaming the property and it was structured like an ampi-theatre.

On my way to the guild store to sell books, my shoe [held together with safety pin] repeatedly broke, as did the plastic bag containing the books. At the guild store, I took out my frustrations on the guy running the store.
" Then you'll need to put this stickytape on..." He rattled on.
" You'd think that there would have been some advances in technology, so that I wouldn't have to fill out all this stuff by hand."
At one point, I threatened to enact revenge on the guild if my books were stolen, and demanded a pen so that I could write my name all over every item, just in case they were stolen and I needed to track them down.
" We haven't actually had any books stolen," He told me.
" You think I am being paranoid," I stated, "but I am just being cautious."
When I realised how late I was for my tutorial, I left the store in a hurry. " Erm, thank you for all your assistance. You were a great help."
" Hey, I do know what sarcasm is," The guild guy shouted at me as I walked out the door.

I was searching for my studnet access card, when I realised that bar my student card, all my other cards have mysteriously disappeared out of my bag, and are most likely at home. I knew my bag felt empty today.

I managed to last all of 5 minutes at my tute. They were learning how to use Word for fuck's sake! WORD! I have to assist people with Word when I start my job soon. I know how to use it.

What really sucks is how I am stuck doing the easy unit and because of the incompetence of this uni, I can't stay in the advanced unit. Grrrr!

I can't wait to finish studying here. Next year, as well as working here, I may go to Curtin Uni and do a teching dipolma and post-graduate English. Ark! Everything is up in the air and too difficult to handle right now.

Plus, I'm going to skin Uncy Trevor for making me do the database yesterday and forgetting to bring the relevant files to uni today! GRRRRR!

I am having one of those days. All I want to do is go home and get stoned, but then I won't be able to function or organise myself properly. I have too many things to do.

I must reassess and attempt to comprehend why pot is suddenly dominating my thoughts so heavily once again. It's back to the stage where all I think about is pot, but at least I'm not actually smoking it. Being a recovering drug-addict is such a tiring thing: it never ends and comes back to haunt you at regular intervals.

I don't know. Today is just one of those days where you wish you'd never bothered to get out of bed. Everything sucks and is confusing and requires too much effort.

Meanwhile, me and Chinky spoke again straight after Jack & Jill and laughed our asses off at the ridiculous subplots and Jill's chin. I sent her a msg during the show, about not wanting that 'lisping freak to get Jack's job'. And she didn't. Jack didn't either, and when she found out, I thought she was going to go to the bathroom and make herself throw up. Man that girl has an eating disorder! ahahahahahaa....every cats memember has something wrong with them: Jill's massive, sculpted chin, Jack's eating disorder, Mikey's lazy eye, Bardot's beaky nose, whatsherface's lisp....*wipes tear of laughter away*

I guess that kinda cheered me up.

I don't know. I feel all scattered and crazy today, and not in a good way. I feel like blowing off all my commitments and getting massively fucked up.

[thinks logically for a moment] All my commitments are self-imposed: Grandparents, Art class, Shannon darling....I don't need to blow them off, just to calm down and think positively for a moment.

Maybe therapy is working....[afterthought...?]

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*rattles chains* I am a slave to technology! [05 Mar 2002|11:59pm]
[ mood | drained ]
[ music | Elastica & Tori Amos & PJ Harvey. ]

I wagged my lecture, forgot about going to the gym and sat at my computer for 2.5 hours, until I finally finished the database. I can only work under pressure. Any other time I am a slackass. I guess it comes from spending a lifetime of doing assignments the night before they are due.

I have watched TV night, with the exception of when Chinky called during Temptation Island.

All night I have been craving pot. I can't hardly articulate how much I want, nay, need a toke. Just as well I am seeing my drug counsellor on Friday.

Tomorrow is set to be ultra-busy. I need to buy lots of art supplies at some stage as well as see my grandparents. I have the tute for the lecture I wagged as well as my life drawing class. After classes end, I am going around to the rather delish Shannon's house for girly chat and the possible imbibing of something illegal.

I have decided to drop my extra unit this semester, mainly because I should be here for my last semester instead of England, and also because it is week three and I still haven't been placed in a tutorial.

I am sooooo excited about my job. Me and Chinkywinky are going shopping for some more formal, businessy outfits, oh and lovely shoes!

I think I will spend a week shopping in Melbourne in the middle of the year, and then at the end of the year when I have finished my degree, head off to Europe for a little bit. I should keep this job next year, so I can't stay over too long! It feels so nice to know that I will have lots of money for a job that requires minimal effort [read:dream job].

I cut off all my nails tonight. They were so long for so long and it felt almost cathartic to hack away at them with a pair of scissors.

Ark! I feel far too braindead tonight to write anything decent here. That database depleted my mental energy reserves somewhat.

I was talking to a family friend tonight, and her daughter, who I have known since I was a kid, and who I threw out of my house a couple of years ago, is mainlining speed. She said that [name here] weighs only 42 kilos and has overdosed several times. It makes me sad to hear shit like that. Escpecially when she used to be so adament that she would never drink or take drugs after growing up with a substance abusing Dad. *sniffs* Life bites.

Oh yay! Jack & Jill is on in a minute. I think that me and Chinky are the only ones who actually like that show. We only like it because it's so bad, and because of that guy's excessively large chin.

Chin is such a stupid word.

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blah blah blaaaaaaaah! *pokes out tongue* [05 Mar 2002|12:52pm]
[ mood | bland ]
[ music | awful Grease-inspired playlist blaring from Mum's computer ]

I am giggling my head off, as per usual. Yeee-haw! I am currently negotiating my position as the laboratory technician/assistant at ECU. In a couple of weeks I will most probably receive training and then, I will have my own office- well, shared with Mother, and my very own G4 and telephone line.

I was in the staff room before and my Uncy Trevor came over and told me that the database must be finished by tomorrow morning. He also told me that when he ran into me on Sunday evening in Northbridge I looked like a hooker. So that means with classes from 1-4pm and 5-6pm, going to the gym 6:30-7:30pm and watching Charmed and Australian 'Temptation Island', I ain't gonna be getting much sleep tonight.

I still have like 6 pages of entries to go. I have hated this job from word 'go' and can't wait to see the end of it. And my pecuniary rewards!

I had a crazy dream last night where I was searching for somebody in a far distant lab, and on the way, I consumed a punnet of gritty strawberries. The guy who I had been searching for all but ignored me, but his friend recognised me from school and struck up conversation with me.
" Hey, do I have any strawberries on my teeth?" I asked him self-consciously.
" Yeah," The dark-haired stranger responded and motioned towards various spots on my teeth.

At some ridiculous hour ie before 7am, my Mum woke up and watered the garden. She elft the back door open and my fluffy, pultrichudinous feline casually sauntered through the house and into my room while I was getting a drink. I couldn't bear to kick her out, expecting her to resume her usual position at the foot of my bed. Nope, this time, as I lay on my side, Misty curled up next to my belly and began cleaning herself.
" Who's a pretty little baby," I cooed drowsily and fell into a light sleep. I rolled over on my side and was awoken by a heavy weight on my shoulder. My cat had perched herself on top of my sleeping body and began clawing my at my shoulder.
" Miiisty, " I groaned and got out of bed to let her outside.

Excuse my banal anecdotes. Nothing all that interesting has happened as yet.

I can't wait for French class. I have been informed that my lecturer has fallen asleep on his glasses TWO night in a row and as a result has red slashes across his cheek, which look like claw marks. Anything to break the monotony I suppose.

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