Ahaha, SURPRISE. This Post Contains More than a Single Picture.

Although a single picture is included among all my babble. Ten points to who can spot it first!*

So. Waiting for my game of Plants vs. Zombies to load. Come here often?

Somehow, I doubt you do, you weirdo.

And that is all the babble we have time for today, you weirdo. Enjoy the following picture.

*Disclaimer: Points are not redeemable for any tangible or imagined object, person or service. Points are merely a numeric representation of bragging rights. Although, to whom you are bragging about said points, the author cannot fathom.

Just for the Alcoholic in Me

A Goal a Bit Closer to Home

A Slightly Delayed Number Four

Chances of winning something? Unlikely haha, but its worth a shot!

Good God. Goal Three. And Four. Wowsa.

Followed by...

Bam, two goals, one day. I'm actually ahead. For now.

Surprise, we have reached Goal Number Two

I'm not entirely sure what I mean by this one. It could refer to literally seeing fireworks, which is more likely. Or it could refer to that fairytale bullshit of seeing fireworks when you kiss someone special.

I'm a more literal person myself.

Goal One of What Hopefully Becomes Many

Recently a friend started posting photos on Facebook that represented some goal she had for her remaining days in NZ. I decided to do something similar, but do goals that I want to achieve at some point in my oddball life. 

So here's the first one:

I was inspired by Harold Hackett after reading an article on him. He has sent approximately 5000 messages in bottles, and has even received around 3000 replies.

Link: http://www.newser.com/story/129560/man-sends-5k-messages-in-bottles-gets-3k-replies.html

Who knows when or where this will get done, but hopefully I get my lazy ass around to it some day.

Over and out.

My Mind is Fucking Blown Right Now o.O

Today was a most eventful day for me.

INCIDENT ONE in which Richard the Dick pisses me off.

It starts out with an old fashioned dickhead ruining my morning. 

Basically:

Myself, and two other class mates, drive up to LATU for our bovine clinical examination lab at 9am. We arrive at 8.55am and wait in the shed. The rest of the class turns up around 9.05am. The lecturer and his assistant turn up at 9.30am.

9.30 fucking am.

No apology at all for being late.

And then Mr 'I'm a Graduated Vet and you are all just Undergrad Vet Techs' talks to us like we're shit and orders us to go get our thermometers for the lab, which nobody brought with them as we have always been supplied with them and were instructed to not buy them until the second year. 

According to Richard (how appropriate, he can be called Dick) we all had to go buy one from Farm Services on campus for "ninety eight cents".

So we all pile back into the car and head back to campus to find thermometers in our rooms. A few people bought a thermometer between them.

Ninety eight cents my arse.

Try NINE FUCKING DOLLARS.

In the end me and two others shared a thermometer, but can I just point out there was no apology for being late, there was no reason to talk to us like we were shit and he was just an all round arsehole.

Plus he broke somebody's recently bought "ninety eight cents" thermometer with a shit load of lube (totally not necessary due to the size of a cow's arsehole - an arm can fit up there for god's sake) and told her she had to get it repaired or replace it. 

The fucker.

INCIDENT TWO in which I discovered a long lost cousin.

So as an RA I have met all manner of new people, both other RA's and residents. Now a few RA's have left the job for various reasons. Most recently an RA from a hall in the same village as mine announced he was moving to Hong Kong to play rugby. 

Just today, a couple days before he left, he asked me if I knew a Jack and Bev Doyle.

Me: 'Yeah, Uncle Jack is my great uncle. Not by blood or anything, just coz he married my dad's aunty before she passed away. He's always been pretty close to the fam bam.'

Other RA: Oh, well he's my great-granddad. My grandma's dad.'

Me: 'No shit! So we're kinda related.'

So there you have it. Small world.

My mum says that makes me and said RA second or third cousins or something.

And now that recently found cousin is moving to Hong Kong. Quite sad really haha. I found and lost a family member in one day.

Mind you, if he becomes a famous rugby player and plays for the All Blacks or something I can say I'm related to an All Black haha.

Might even meet Sonny Bill Williams! =D

Wishful thinking much.

Also, just occurred to me that it may have been slightly wrong of me to check said RA out at training at the start of the year. I mean, yeah he is pretty good looking. And yeah, I am happy in my relationship. It was just an innocent checking out. Appreciating a good looking guy, nothing wrong with that.

BUT NOW HE'S MY COUSIN.

Sigh. Hope he doesn't read this, by the way o.O

Sonny Bill ain't my cousin. Just saying.

INCIDENT THREE in which Kairanga Court's fire alarm goes off right as I was about to go to dinner.

Not much to say about this incident. Apart from the cause (deodorant spray setting an over-sensitive alarm off) and the impact it had on my getting dinner (was ten minutes late, which meant ten minutes of hunger pains for me).

However it did lead to...

INCIDENT FOUR in which the Great Key Mystery Occurs.

This is quite possibly the most puzzling incident of all. It still is baffling my brain as we speak. Well, as I type.

See that right there? It's a key. Key's open doors. And lock them again. To be precise it is a 'bilock key', used in the halls.

Keys can also be lost.

The most creepy part is that they can also be stolen.

But let us return to the incidents leading up to the Great Key Mystery. In chronological order so that you can truly understand the complexity and confusing-ness of this Great Key Mystery.

1. Fire alarm goes off. Caused by the deodorant spray in room A2-1.
2. Resident of that room leaves room unlocked with key in the room.
3. Normal procedures for a sounding fire alarm are carried out.
4. Firemen leave, security leaves, after checking room and leaving it unlocked.
5. Resident of room A2-1 returns to room with 2 other residents to investigate deodorant.
6. I leave for dinner, and fill out incident report form on way back from dining hall. 
7. Am notified by another resident that A2-1 resident has now lost his keys.
8. Return to hall thinking it was lost during alarm and may have been picked up/dropped on grass outside hall.
9. Am informed this is not the case, and that events 1 to 5 (above) and the following events are what occurred.
10. 3 Residents left room A2-1 to get chicken out of freezer in A2 pod kitchen and take to B1 pod kitchen to cook dinner.
11. Resident of room A2-1 is pretty sure he locked his door, but can't remember exactly. Let's face it, locking doors sort of blends into what you do when you leave your room. You don't distinctly remember doing it on one set occasion because you have done it countless times before. However, whether he did or didn't lock it is not really pertinent to what follows.
12. Residents go to B1 pod, as well as stopping by in another room in B1 pod.
13. Resident of A2-1 decides to return to room to get something.
14. Discovers the door is locked and he doesn't have his key on him. Assumes he has dropped it.
15. Him and other 2 residents search both pod kitchens, all rooms (a smaller resident climbed into room A2-1 through the window and unlocked it from the inside. It was most definitely locked) and outside areas.
16. I help them search, checking outside the hall also. Key still missing.
17. We all have a break while residents eat dinner.
18. Two residents leave to re-search their respective rooms.
19. Resident of A2-1 returns having found his key on his desk in his room under a piece of paper.

Now, there are a few more factors to consider:

1. Resident of A2-1 had not left the hall since the fire alarm. Key was in his room when it sounded and when he returned to his room. Therefore keys couldn't have been anywhere outside the hall.
2. The security and fire people did check his room but did not lock it afterwards, as demonstrated by the 3 residents reentering the room to investigate the deodorant that caused the fire alarm to sound.
3. In this hall, doors can not be locked from the inside and then shut due to the lock mechanism.
4. Nor can they click into the lock position from the inside if the door is slammed hard enough.
5. We tested both 3 and 4 thoroughly.
6. Due to the security measures in place on the windows, only people of very small stature can climb into the room through them. Examples; the small resident that unlocked the room from the inside.
7. All possible master keys that could have locked/unlocked the room were accounted for; mine was locked in my safe, my RA partner was away without his key anyhow, and the duty RA master key was also in my possession as I am duty RA for the night.
8. Also, there is no logical reason as to why my RA partner would have taken his master key and locked room A2-1 randomly, even when he did return to the hall.
9. Nothing was taken, or moved around. The room did not look as though it had been tampered with to the resident.
10. The room is on the second floor, but has balcony's around the edge, accessible by climbing a fence from the stairs. The stairs are inside the courtyard, which has swipe card entry only.
11. However, during the fire alarm, the swipe card entry system is down so that fire services can enter/exit through the gates.

The main point of all this is:

The key could not have been locked inside the room by anybody with the equipment to do so, nor could it have been locked inside the room on accident.

Which leads us to a few conclusions, of which only some are plausible (shown in bold):

1. Aliens beamed the keys up from the resident's pocket while the room was locked, ran tests on them, and beamed them back down into the locked room by mistake.
2. Somebody either took/found the keys and locked the room. Then, when they saw the room being unlocked from the inside, placed the keys on the desk when they saw the residents go downstairs to B1 pod.
3. Somebody either took/found the keys and locked the room. Then they climbed through the open window, put the keys on the desk, and exited via the window.
4. The hall is haunted.

Now, numbers 2 and 3 could only have been accomplished by another resident. Number 3 could only be done by a smaller person, which is none of the people who also share A2 pod.

There are also many, many more explanations, both wildly unbelieveable, as well as totally logical. Who knows what the real one is.

But my mind is most definitely mystified, boggled and blown from this Great Key Mystery.

Over and out.

Mince Pies, Fat Sluts and Obese Arseholes (in the form of a Letter To...)

The Wanker Charming Young Man in the Dining Hall,

I'm a "fat slut" for taking an extra pie? Wow, really? Imaginative insult right there! I am in awe of your wit!

Because I totally agree with you. My eating a pie makes me a raging whore! How could I have not known this?

You obese arsehole.

I am so incredibly sorry you missed out on stuffing your face with that mince pie I so wrongly took from your not-so-starving grasp.

I doubt you have the mental capacity to comprehend sarcasm, so I'll point it out to you. Everything above this is sarcasm. Apart from the bit where I call you an obese arsehole. That bit I mean with full sincerity.

If it wasn't for my wanting to return to my job next year I wouldn't have refrained from telling you what I thought of you. Couldn't let the angry version of myself (from way back in year nine) return from the depths to which I banished her.

Because, surprise! As an RA, I was getting the extra pie for a sick resident I was collecting dinner for. As far as I'm concerned, I'm perfectly entitled to my pie as well as one for that resident. And I couldn't give a damn if you were too slow to get up and get a pie. May I suggest you take your head out of your arse next time? You might move quicker then.

Furthermore, if I'm fat at 64kg, you must be clinically obese, and really could do without that pie and it's golf ball of fat. And while I fail to see your logic in linking pie consumption to my apparently out of control sex life, can I just point out that you have no idea what my sex life is like. Nor do I think you have any involvement in any girl's sex life.

And I have to do my job. So writing you up for yelling out derogatory obscenities across the dining hall would not be outside of my job description. What was your name?

I'm also sorry to inform you that that pie you coveted, isn't actually interested in being your company tonight. I know they say in American Pie that it feels just like an apple pie, but an unwilling mince pie feels nothing like an actual vagina. Take that from a "slut" who, being female and having a vagina, has seen more pussy than you ever will.

From Me.

PS: I still haven't eaten that pie.

What Brought You Here

Well, well, well, I have rediscovered my long forgotten blog. Hello again! How've you been these past few weeks? Oh. Months.

Ahem. Whatever.

So in light of the extended period of time since my last pointless blog post of random and useless ramblings, here is another post of that very nature. Enjoy.

To be honest, I couldn't care less if you don't enjoy it. Can't you just feel the love?

Recently, I was subject to a most harrowing, yet thrilling event. An event that had the potential to destroy my life, and to a certain extent it did just that. This event wasn't something to be taken lightly, nor was it something that could be ignored or avoided.

I'm talking about the end of my childhood, the end of that magic that was a major part of my growing up.

Harry Potter 7 Part 2 was released. I watched it and eventually, as all movies do, it ended.

Do not underestimate the severity of the impact this had on me.

Now, I hadn't really dwelled on this in a few weeks, university and study taking some precedent over my grief.

However, now I am mentally transported back to thinking about the finality of that movie. Harry Potter, both the books and the movies, had a special part in my formative years. While that isn't the topic of this post, it is somewhat relevant to a somewhat serious idea.

Oh dear. Me talking about something serious? No mention of metaphoric drugs*? Good God, what has the world come to.

Moving on.

'Don't forget your roots my friend, yeah.

Don't forget your family, yeah.

Don't forget your roots my friend,

The ones who made you, the ones who brought you here."

Yes, I did just quote Six60. Yes, I happen to really like this song.

Because they happen to make a very good point. Your roots.

No, not THAT kind of root. Get your mind out of the gutter, you dirty minded child.

Your roots. Where you came from. Your home. The experiences that you had. The people who where there from the start, and the ones that came and went. The movies, books, toys, TV shows and pets you had. Harry Potter. The things that shaped you into the person you are today.

Because without any of those things you wouldn't be the person you are today. And let's face it, you are loved for who you are, not who you think you should be or who others think you should be. Whether its your family, your friends, your girlfriend/boyfriend/husband/wife, your children or your pet bloody chinchilla, they all love you for being you.

Of course, you can't forget a bit of self love. Nothing wrong in learning to love yourself for who you are. In fact, it makes you a happier person. Self love, self respect and self acceptance. Can't go expecting people to love someone who doesn't accept themselves.

Now, to all of those out there who are thinking 'oh God, she's really gone off the deep end of the crazy pool this time, talking about love and roots (not that kind of root) and all that fluffy, glittery, hippy like crap', you can stop reading now and piss off. Because in all honesty, if you disagree with me you're the only one making you read this blog anyhow. I haven't super-glued your corneas to your computer screens.

I don't think.

We're all different, we all came from different places and we've all felt and seen and heard different things. We might all be unique (just like everybody else), but we all are who we are meant to be. Where we are now is where we're meant to be, even if we're unsure of where we want to go/what we want to do/what we want to be next.

So we might as well all get used to it. Stop complaining about how you'd rather have someone else's life or some period of time from your past, and learn to love your now. Once you love and accept now, you can properly dream about what you want tomorrow, next week and ten years into the future.

Plans change, dreams last a lifetime. Allow yourself to live in the moment, let things go when they don't go according to plan. Make the most of every opportunity that now has to offer. Life is too short to regret not giving something a chance.

Everything that has happened up until this point was needed to happen to get you where you are today. Accept what's been and gone; lost friends and family, that special someone that didn't work out, that thing that  wasn't really a success. Be grateful for what you had, for what you have, and be there for the people that are always there for you.

In short, accept life for what it is.

*Actually I am still a metaphoric drug dependent. I won't be in rehab any time soon, and am enjoying the benefits of my "drug" of choice. My drug is a good drug, doing things good drugs should do, despite the minor side effects that come with any figurative drug abuse. That being said, I'm not planning on beating this addiction for a indefinite period of time.

So it's been a while, how are you, my little candy coated star child?

*written a Very Long Time Ago*

And how did you get candy coated in the first place?

So my internetty is being an incredibly slow bitch, to put it nicely. Furthermore, the weather in Balmy Palmy North is far from BALMY. In fact, it's meant to HAIL tomorrow. Sigh. I dislike rain.

I also dislike rain when it solidifies and hits me on the head.

*present day*

Why yes, this post has been in the great blog post machine for quite sometime now. Sorry about that.

Or maybe I'm not sorry. For all you know, I mightn't have a guilty conscience, not a single ounce of remorse for keeping you waiting.

I could be a whole lot more un-guilty-esque and keep you waiting even longer, but I'm not feeling like being that much of an uber bitch.

And in other news, I'm absolutely shattered from driving from Palmy North to Auckland today darling, so it is time for a movie then bed for me.

Night to all that are out there. All 1 of you.

Wayward Nail Polish. Again.

Upon inspection of my previous post, I realised that there was no  mention of wayward nail polish as the title of the post suggested there would be. The only plausible explanation for this that I can come up with is this:

The Nail Polish was too Way Ward to be written about.

That is all the explanation you will be getting, sorry to say. Deal with it.

That also is all the blog you'll be getting today. I'm a lazy shit.

Deal with that too.

Viral Rapists, Masochistic Histamines and Wayward Nail Polish

Not entirely sure if my somatic cells are in fact being raped by viral phages after all. It is quite possible that they are at the mercy of some sick, twisted, masochistic histamines that are hell bent on making my nasal passages into something that resembles the Nile River. Or maybe more like the Waikato River, to be more patriotic.

Either way, I feel like shitttttttt.

Which is charming really.

What's more charming is the mango lassi I am currently drinking. Well, refraining from drinking at the moment because I'm trying to save it. For what, I'm not sure, but it seems like a good idea.

Had another sip. Damn that's goooooood =)

I would share it, but it's too damn good to waste a precious drop on someone else's taste buds hahahahahaha.
It's mine, ALL MINE I tell you.

Arghhhh, the withdrawal symptoms are starting up again. Going crazyyyyyyy here. Being a Metaphoric Drug Dependent, the symptoms are far, FAR worse than as an addict.

Sigh, might have to just deal with the symptoms for tonight.

Going to try sleep them off.

Maybe the viruses will stop raping and/or the histamines will stop pillaging or whatever it is that they're doing when I go to bed.

Somehow I doubt it. They seem the type to take advantage of my sleepy state.

Full On Metaphoric Drug Dependency

Addiction has now been moved up a class to Full On Metaphoric Drug Dependency. In the case of actual drugs, this would be A Very Bad Thing. As it is, what with being metaphorical and all, it is Not A Very Bad Thing after all.

It is, to be perfectly honest, A Very Good Thing Indeed.

And just like that, this metaphoric drug addict has succumbed to the addiction and is now a fully fledged metaphoric drug dependent. The "drug" itself is also addicted to me. Joy oh joy.

No seriously. JOY OH JOY. No sarcasm involved there =) none whatsoever.

I'm happy, happy, happy. If I was someone watching myself I'd be sickened by it all. But I'm not, so happy, happy, happy it is.

On a completely different note, one kilo of chicken was recently stolen from a kitchen in the hall of residence for which I am the Residential Advisor. The resident was not aware that one whole kilo of chicken could suddenly just disappear from a kitchen pod.

But disappear it did.

It got stolen.

By a cat. A big, black cat stole one kilo's worth of chicken and managed to manhandle it from the second story to the ground floor. Pretty damn ninja for a cat, if I do say so myself.

But rather confusing for the resident and myself.

The mystery of the disappearing chicken has been solved.

And that's all the excitement in Kairanga Court for the night folks, sorry to disappoint.

But this Metaphoric Drug Dependent doesn't mind one bit, she's too busy letting her dependency get the better of her. Yay for "drugs". Don't stay off "drugs" kids, only actual drugs which are BAD.

But other than actual drugs, them metaphoric drugs be fiiiiine, mighty fine.

Too bad any potential readers out there have no way of telling for sure what it is I'm talking about.

Mwahahahahahahahahaha.

Hack hack hack, cough cough.

I hate this pre-cold cough I have going on. Not pleasant and deffo not appreciated in the slightest. Am thinking I might need actual drugs, of the medical nature, to combat how crap I'm feeling as of now. However, am also feeling too lazy to go find said medicine and administer it to myself. Will stew in my viral infection.

Millions of viral phages are infecting my body's cells and using their replicative properties to spawn more viral cells. Which when you think about it, is a lot like the viruses raping my cells to make more viruses to do some more raping. And on it goes, until my body's cells have all been violated and the white blood cells finally get their shit together and sort out the rapist viruses. By which point I'm a coughing, wheezing, runny nosed, headachey, and all over crappy feeling mess.

And that, dear children, is my take on what happens when you get a flu.

Doesn't it just sound yummy? =)

I'm so excited about it now, just can't wait to get past this scratchy throat stage and on to those other awesome sounding symptoms!

FML.

Hopefully my sitting here, wearing my fantasticool beanie with the ear bits (you know the kind I mean? the ones with the stringy bits that hang by each ear) will help at least keep me head warm.

Not sure if that'll even do any good. Those viruses might like a warm environment in which to rape my cells. Who knows.

Now I'm feeling violated on behalf of my raped somatic cells.

Going to go seek some form of somatic cell counselling, wish me luck.

Over and out.

Bean Curd, Miso Soup and My Last Minutes as an 18 Year Old

So I'm sitting here eating miso soup kindly cooked by my good friend Sally. It's got fried bean curd in it. Decidedly not as good as the tofu one, but I'm loving the miso soup part.

Not so sure what I think about the fact that I will be turning 19 in 36 minutes at the time of writing this sentence.

Make that 35.

Sigh. I feel old already, like my youthful years are slipping away with each passing minute. 19. Eeks.

And yes Sally, I know you're turning 21 this year. 21 MEANS SOMETHING. 19 is such a nothing year. Which is why I feel old and you have no reason to complain.

Except maybe about the bean curd being no way near as amazing as the tofu.

HOLY SHIT I'M GOING TO BE OLD.

Fuck me, less than half an hour to go.

WHERE DID MY LIFE GO?

Probably where the tofu miso soup disappeared to. Or where Sally's sanity went.

I worry about you Sally, I really do.

Just maybe not as much as I'm worrying about the fact I TURN FUCKING 19 IN FUCKING 21 FUCKING MINUTES.

Am not having a mid life crisis, not at all. Hahahahahahahahahaha...*laughs nervously*

o.O

The next 20 minutes of my life are the last 20 minutes I will spend as an 18 year old. I will appreciate each second as it goes by.

Good god, I can hear each second tick tock by. And it sounds like a bomb about to go
KABLOOEY.


That's what I'm going to do when it hits 12am, on the 10th of March 2011.

I'm gonna go KABLOOEY. 


Might be in the middle of a mini meltdown right about now. Like a popsicle left out in the sun.

So. 15 more minutes. 15 more minutes then my life will be over. OVER.

Am totally not hyperventilating right now. No siree.

Must be mature. Mature like a 19 year old. Not an 18 year old. That stage of my life has passed.

Almost. Good god. Don't I feel...

OLD.


Ten more minutes.

600 seconds. Give or take a few.

I shall try accept age gracefully. I mean, I still get carded to buy R16 DVDs, that has to mean something.

Less than 7 minutes. That also means something. Turning 19, however means nothing but getting old.

Google has told me that I share a birthday with Chuck Norris. And Timbaland. And Osama Bin Laden.

It also told me less than 5 minutes to go.

And now that I'm 19, it don't feel any bloody different.
Sigh.

Quite possibly the worst addiction since fairy bread

Mmm.
Fairy bread.

That's sugar rush material right there alrighty. And it certainly gave me a sugar rush last night. At the age of 18 (almost 19). Turns out it still has the same effect on me as it did when I was 5.

Apart from the fact that the overload of margarine now makes me feel kind of sick, and thus stops me from eating anymore than 9 pieces.

But other than that. The same effect.

The same, however, cannot be said for The Metaphoric Drug. It is having an effect on me far greater than any other metaphoric drug has had. Or at least, that's how it feels.

To be entirely honest, I'm not sure what I think of this new found, and pretty intense, "drug" addiction of mine.

I'm loving the ups of the roller-coaster of metaphoric drug addiction. But the downs? And the withdrawal symptoms? And the cynic in me causing all these doubts? Not so much. Sigh.

Maybe I'm just cranky because I haven't had my fix today. That sounds just as sad in my head as it does out of it.

Or it could be because The Metaphoric Drug doesn't seem to feel the need to get it's fix of me. Which leads me to believe that it isn't addicted to me as I am to it. Which makes me even crankier.

Plus my stomach is growling at me for not feeding it since 11am. No wait. I fed it at 2.30pm. So really, it has no substantial reason to be protesting about a lack of food.

I, on the other hand, have every reason to be getting cranky. The "drug" to which I am metaphorically addicted seems to be un-interested in a) satisfying my craving for the day and the cravings I get when getting my fix (yes, that's right. Now that I've been able to obtain some access to said "drug", I want more of it, even when using it.) and b) me as an addictive substance.

Story of my friggin' life.

And now I have the song from Robot Unicorn Attack stuck in my head from playing it.

My brain be mighty distracted today.

Got a Minute?

I have about 15. Minutes that is.
Till my class. Well, one of my classes on Psychology. The study of the psyche. Fun fun.

Wonder if they can psycho-analyse my metaphoric drug addiction and suggest anything in regards to managing the withdrawal symptoms. Because those symptoms are pretty bad right now. Silly thing is, I have pretty much full access to The Metaphoric Drug most of the time. Just not complete, exclusive access.

Typical. Get one thing, want more.

I can't handle the withdrawal symptoms much longer. Gone all day without my fix, and need it NOW. Or very soon.
At the latest.

Also, just thought I'd mention that Facebook can't be an enabler when it comes to this "drug". Which may or may not be a good thing, haven't quite decided on this one.

Ten more minutes of pointless blogging.


Want to find metaphoric drug, jump the supplier and mug him. Yessiree.

Gotta control these crazy impulses.
Must exercise restraint.

Ew. Exercise.
I have to admit that I've gone to the gym a grand total of 3 times VOLUNTARILY in the past two weeks o.O
It helps that I can get a fix of metaphoric drug there sometimes, but still. I actually made myself exercise for over an hour each time.

Shock horror. The indecency of it all.

In regards to a question I posed a few posts ago, I still am yet to know if The Metaphoric Drug finds me as addictive as it is itself. Really would like to know, but don't have The Metaphoric Balls to find out.

Need to grow some, immediately.

Also, need to get my ass to class.
Immediately.

Psycho-analyse that.

It's Official. Am addicted.

Yes, that's right. Righty alrighty tighty.

I am officially addicted to one metaphoric drug. Said drug isn't the placebo; it is The Metaphoric Drug. And I want it, I crave it, I miss it.

I want it bad.

Clearly, I didn't get my fix today. And am unlikely to get it anytime soon. Also don't think there's a possible placebo for this drug in particular. Sigh.

What is a metaphorical drug addict to do???

I feel like I'm getting withdrawal symptoms already. The butterflies in the stomach aren't as fluttery and so I'm just getting fidgety. The endorphins aren't kicking around as much as when I do get my fix so the constant happy roller coaster is at a low point right about now. All this combined fidgety-ness and low point-ness is increasing my need to go for a drive to calm me down. It also makes me want to get my fix of the metaphoric drug even more, to go seek out a dosage that will make all those withdrawal symptoms disappear.

To sum it up; I miss The Metaphoric Drug. A lot.

A lot, a lot.

This is not good.

I could possibly try The Original Placebo. However, I don't think this placebo is the same class of metaphoric drug as The Metaphoric Drug. It suited The Original Metaphoric Drug perfectly, but somehow I don't think it'll work anywhere near as well on the latest "drug".

I want The Metaphoric Drug to make itself available, right this instant.

I hope this isn't asking too much.

I'm pretty sure it is asking too much in all honesty.

And going out to find it is out of the question. Also, am pretty sure it'd be a bad idea in general. An idea that would be doomed to failure of awkward and stalkerish proportions.

I don't think I've been this addicted to a metaphoric drug in a very long time.

Ergo, am really not used to an addiction of this magnitude.

The other problem is that I still want to know if I'm as addictive to the "drug" as the "drug" is to me. I'm getting the idea that this isn't going to happen. Then I get hopeful. Then I doubt it again.

I just want to bloody know. NOW.

Anyone have a mind reading machine? Would be extremely helpful, and much appreciated, at this instant.

If you happen to have a time machine lying around too, I wouldn't mind borrowing that for a bit too.

As long as it costs less than $120 for a tank, of course. Unlike my car.

If it looked anything like a 1970 Plymouth Barracuda, that'd be primo. Hope I'm not being too picky here.

Cheers guys.

If there is anyone even out there. If so, hello!

Goodbye.

There's too much anti-addiction blood in my metaphoric drug system.

You read that right. My metaphoric drug system has been over run with blood of the sensible, anti-addiction, doubtful persuasion.

Also, a hint of nervousosity and school girl-ish-ness is deffo in there somewhere too.

However, I have decided that I am most likely addicted to at least one drug. Possibly two. I want my fix of both drugs, and I want it now.

I guess admitting the problem is part of the way to fixing it. Or so people say.

People also say it is the so-called norm to be fast asleep at 1.07am, not sitting in bed, posting on a blog nobody reads, about the figurative addiction one has to multiple metaphoric drugs. And listening to (You Want to) Make a Memory by Bon Jovi.

"Hello again, it’s you and me
Kinda always like it used to be
Sippin' wine, killing time
Trying to solve life’s mysteries.
How’s your life, it’s been a while
Good it’s good to see you smile
I see you reaching for your keys
Looking for a reason not to leave."

And yet again, my mind wonders to one of those drugs. I want to try said drug. I want to tempt fate and see if I do become addicted to it. What scares me is that I think what I want most is to see if said drug can be addicted to me. Enough of being surrounded by potential metaphoric drugs, I wanna know if I have the same addictive nature, if I can have the same power.

Then again, isn't that what we all want in the end? To have control of the thing that seems to hold some iota of power over us?

For me it's metaphoric drugs. Which you may or may not know exactly what they are. But still, the principle is the same, whether you know to what I'm referring to or not.

I'd like to think it's pretty subtle, but I don't do subtle all that well so it's probably blatantly obvious to all those that read this.

Not that I think anyone does tbh. But meh. To quote the movie Sydney White. My blog "...is not about being read, it's about being written."

I'd like to think that it being read would be nice too hahahaha.

Either way, it's just a good way to vent really =)

I mentioned in a previous post about the earthquake in Christchurch, New Zealand. Watching the news articles about it on TV, hearing about all the sites too dangerous to continue search and rescue, and seeing all the families just waiting for any news makes me almost cry every time. Being a fair few hours away, in Palmy North, I feel incredibly helpless. I don't know if it's the fact I'm a New Zealander or the fact I'm a human being just like everyone affected that makes me want to help in some way. The fact I'm only human also means, unfortunately, that there isn't much I can do to help.

I guess that's the problem and the positive attribute of being human. We say we want to do all we can to help, but what we can do isn't enough for us; the truth is we want to do more than we can. And unless we develop superpowers, I'm sorry to say that we'll be forever limited to doing only what we can.

That applies to both natural disasters and metaphoric drug addictions.

Also, I'm being limited in the amount of writing I can do tonight. I need sleep.

Insomnia just ain't my thing.

Maybe I need some rehab,
Or maybe just need some sleep.
I've got a sick obsession,
I'm seeing it in my dreams.

I'm looking down every alley,
I'm making those desperate calls.
Im staying up all night hoping,
Hit my head against the walls.

,

Why thank you, Kesha. You've summed it up quite well there alrighty.
Yups, indeedy you have.

To be honest, it has come to my attention that there are varying types of metaphoric drugs out there. Each with their own advantages and disadvantages. I mean, you have the ones that just look damn good and are also have very nice effects on those who use them; they are conventionally appealing to metaphoric drug users. Whereas, others make life an amazing, laugh infused, fun filled ride, as well as being rather attractive upon further inspection. It might be the fact that this second class of metaphoric drug seems to actually care for it's user that adds to the appeal. However, the first class of metaphoric drug is very aesthetically appealing, even if it may not appear to hold much concern for those addicted to it, a small acknowledgement to keep the user interested aside.

Or, I could just be mistaken about all of this. What if, unlike real drugs, metaphoric drugs only have one type? Or what if I can only be addicted to one "type" of so called drug? And does that mean that the first type of aforementioned drug is the drug and the second type is the latest placebo?

More confusingly, it could even be the other way round.

Or they could both be placebos, and I'm just in denial about no longer being addicted to the first metaphoric drug that got me hooked in the first place.

It's all just to confusing for my "drug" infused mind to comprehend at this late hour.

Also, it makes me wonder. Does anyone out there even know to what I am referring to by all these metaphoric drugs and placebos?

More to the point; is there even anyone out there who reads this?

Somehow, I highly doubt it.

I'm starting to realise that all those years of D.A.R.E programmes and the constant 'stay off drugs kids' throughout primary and secondary school also largely apply to the metaphoric drugs as well.

Unfortunately, nobody told me that and I'm too far gone in my addiction for any self-help rehab.

I guess it's a good thing then I love the rush using metaphoric drugs gives me. I don't like the cravings though, the wanting more of said "drug", but I guess it's bearable if I still want my fix.

In a completely different note, I would just like to say my heart goes out to all those in Christchurch, NZ. I hope you and your families are getting through the damage the earthquake has caused. You have the whole of New Zealand behind you. Stay positive, things always turn out okay in the end.

And if it's not okay, it's not the end yet.

I guess it is time for me to drift to the land of nod.
Night night all.

Procrastination at it's finest

Am currently thinking very deep and unshallow like thoughts.

Like how awkward it is when someone is wearing more makeup than clothes.

Or how long one would have to sit at a lake's edge, with their mouth open, waiting for a roast duck to fly in.

Yes. Very deep in thought here.

Also require a cave girl outfit that will hopefully consist of a leopard print dress.
And a Viking outfit, including a drinking horn, war helmet and, later in the year, furry short shorts.

And yet again we return to the subject of metaphoric drugs and placebos.

Am 80% sure I am no longer addicted to the original drug, and no longer have need for the placebo. However, on return to Balmy Palmy North, I have discovered a few new metaphoric drugs, ones that are very appealing and seem to have the possibility of being extremely addictive. Considering the fact I can't choose between 3 "drugs", I've come to the conclusion that I'm not yet addicted to one in particular.

Although, I can say with certainty, that I'm coming dangerously close to relapsing back into metaphoric substance abuse, especially with "drug" number one being so near by. Even if it isn't very accessible right now, no doubt I'll try and increase it's readiness to satisfy my figurative chemical addiction.

Sigh.
So much for drug recovery. I'm back on the rollercoaster of metaphoric drug use, and although I'm totally against a committed addiction to one metaphoric drug, I wouldn't mind the odd dabble with said "drug".

That drug really is too damn tempting for my own good. And very, very good looking.

To make matters worse, Facebook is being an enabler. Typical.

Like I said, I'm deep in thought here.

Yeah right.

Laters gee-angsters.

Drug recovery. Without rehab.

So another year has come and gone and this year is destined to do the exact same thing in approximately 11 months time.

Goodbye 2010. Thought you should know that not much has changed since your passing. Sorry to inform you of this.

Hello 2011, how are you today? You seem a tad January-ish if you don't mind me saying.

What else is new in 2011, aside from the calendars? Well, regrettably, not much at all.

I'm slowly weaning myself off of the metaphoric drug I've been addicted to for quite some time now. The metaphoric placebo has disappeared, so it's probably a good thing I don't need my fix any where near as often as I previously did.

Kinda miss the placebo, but refuse to use it until it comes to me first.

Seems I'm just as stubborn as ever.

Except for the possible soft spot I may still have for the metaphoric drug. But let's not mention that.

Besides, I'm not sure if I do or don't have a soft spot for that drug anyhow.

Also, there are plenty more metaphoric drugs out there. Plenty of placebos too, thankfully.

All of them just as unreliable and addictive as the next, but what can you do?

I have to admit, I certainly have a specific type when it comes to them metaphoric drugs. Yesiree.

I think it would be wise for me to stop talking about drugs and placebos. Being a recovering addict and all.

I shall distract myself with vanilla milkshake and pink nail polish.

*session terminated*