Category Archives: Uncategorized

I Seem To Have Forgotten My Blog

Oh blog, how I’ve neglected you.

Who knew it would only take one embarrassing moment for me to come rushing back into your supportive arms?

Oh, how you hold me and make me believe I’m just charmingly harebrained, instead of a spastic fool.

Well, yes, this afternoon I was quite the fool. I rushed home from work in record time, speaker phoned my mum about feeding the animals whilst I threw on my Gi, sprayed the shit out of myself with body spray to hide the smell of a day’s worth of cafe food, pinned a few bobby pins in my frizzed out hair, raced out the door and sped off to Karate, keeping mostly to the speed limit, and still getting there with five minutes to spare. Legendary. But what’s that? The class isn’t on. And I don’t think it was ever on. I went on the whim of something I heard which I most certainly should have clarified.

And there lies the lesson.

Great. I learned that I should work on my communication skills.

But that doesn’t make me feel any better. That just makes me feel stupid. So, I try to reconcile my absolutely useless 30 min round trip to town by saying hey, let’s just imagine you were on a time trial, and guess what? You nailed it. Sweeeeet. But, yeah, still kind of not worth it. Hey, you know what, you can blog about this. Breaking the blog drought after so long? Bringing me back into the embrace of my long time love? Do I feel better now? Marginally. But it’s better than reminding myself how socially awkward I am.

And it made me think about something else that’s been bothering me: people asking how my week was. Because I only have two modes when replying to that question.

Monosyllable/very short answer mode; e.g.. Great, good, yeah not bad, alright, pretty good.

Or info dump mode; e.g. let me tell you about every single thing that happened to me in the time between now and the last time I saw you!

I’m not so fond of cherry picker mode. Where I have to collate and sort all the events of my week into preference and importance, and stand there for a good two minutes saying ‘ummmmm’ while I do so. It is because I must draw on so much brain power for this mode, that makes it so undesirable and awkward. I mean if I’m talking to someone, let’s say someone I like, I don’t want to just offer up monosyllable/very short answer mode, because that’s boring and a little thoughtless. Yet I don’t want to go into info dump mode and freak them out. So I usually opt for cherry picker mode, which is the worst, because I end up saying ‘I don’t remember’, as it is just too hard to pick ONE THING. Of course this is all assuming that when asking the question ‘how was your week?’ that the asker actually wants to know. They may just want you to say ‘good, how was yours, what did you get up to?’ Because that’s a better question. ‘What did you get up to?’ implies that they want to know what you did, rather than how it was, which just confuses the shit out of me. So much so that I actually replied with ‘I don’t like being asked how my week was, because I can never remember.’

And also I can’t stand this question when it’s asked on, say, a Tuesday. There has only been one day in my week! I can tell you how my Monday was? But then you should have asked ‘how was yesterday?’ Because I am just that damn anal. You see, this is why I end up talking to my cat.

(Mentioning cat in blog posts: 100% accuracy rate)


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The Loneliest Person in the World

The loneliest person in the world isn’t sitting on top a mountain somewhere in complete isolation. The loneliest person is surrounded by people who don’t understand them.

I’m not the most complex individual, but sometimes I feel like life is a movie and I’m merely an observer. I haven’t yet found where I belong. One day the mothership is going to descend from the sky, beam me up inside and reveal what I somehow always knew to be true. You’re beyond mortal flesh, beyond skin colour, beyond earthly desires, the daily workings of your social construct, the cultures of the human race. 

You are free. A sentient energy unbridled by any construct, any illusion or lie. 

Seeing as that has yet to happen, I shall continue to play my part. The part of the lower middle class female, caucasian, university student. A tax file number, a street address, a mobile phone number, a birth certificate, a passport, a driver’s license, a registered vehicle. I have friends and family, pets, people who love me, but nothing is more affecting than an individual’s crusade. No-one can get inside this mind. 

The loneliest person on this planet is surrounded by those who do not understand them. 

It’s not a simple solution. A person in your life is not the answer to all the crises of living in this state of mind. It would only be a very, very good distraction. It’s even possible to be distracted for the rest of this life. But is it the solution I seek?

“I’ll do it tomorrow.” Is my perpetual answer. 

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Seven Dwarves Personality Syndrome: Today I’m Grumpy

I’m running, out of breath, leaping over hurdles. I’ve tripped over the last one, smacked my face into the ground and now have to drag my increasingly swollen ankle across the finish line. 

This is my metaphor for the last two weeks of uni. 

But maybe I’m just grumpy. I wasn’t very helpful in short story workshopping today. I didn’t even attempt the constructive criticism sandwich, or whatever the hell it’s called. 




The blandest sandwich ever. Here’s my sandwich.

Crunchy sourdough toast

Avocado, Smoked Salmon, Capers, Cream Cheese, Spanish Onion

Crunchy sourdough toast

That’s a sandwich. Don’t talk about sandwiches unless you are taking my order or making me a sandwich. 

Anyways, in my tired and hungry state I just wanted to say ‘I didn’t like it’ and not have to explain why. Or, which I did say, ‘don’t listen to me, if the marker likes it then don’t change it.’ Really, my opinion means shit all. As my teacher, kind of, in a round about way, with probably no intention, let me know. 

Here’s a conclusion: You can’t please everyone. Especially die hard fans of a genre that will meticulous pick apart any whiff of a plot hole, and me.  

You can never please me when I’m tired and hungry. 

Now where’s my sandwich?

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You’re The Best Around

I’ve been thinking about something for a while now. Thinking about dreams and why they’re so important to have. You know, life purpose sort of dreams, not the sleeping kind of dreams, like the one I had where I was a Maroon 5 groupie and Adam Levine gave me a piggy back through the snow singing Sunday Morning … well they’re important too, because nothing that awesome would ever happen to me in my waking life … but getting on point.

Big dreams, aka, what you really want to do with the rest of your life, scare the shit out of me. As they probably do for most people. It’s much easier to sit on the sidelines and make excuses why you can’t be or do what is really in your heart. It’s easier to pretend that you’re being realistic, that you’re saving yourself from disappointment, from failure and all those other shitty, ice-cream binging emotions. You may not feel supported, or worry that you won’t actually be very good at thing you most aspire to. There’s a lot of things that seem to clasp on your ankle like a shackle and drag you down with a ball and chain, even though from an outside perspective nothing appears to be stopping you.

So, obviously, in most cases, you are your own ball and chain. All that negative self talk that swirls around your head, telling you that you’re not good enough.

Okay, have I thoroughly depressed you yet? Well, the good news is, and I think I’m saying this for my own benefit, as I do need a regular kick up the ass, is that if it’s all in your head, you have the power to change it.

I like to constantly tell myself ‘hey, you’ll soon be dead’, not in a morbid kind of way, but in a ‘hey, you really have nothing to lose’ kind of way, to put things in perspective. Yeah, it helps, but that doesn’t mean that going after my dreams still doesn’t make me want to crawl back into bed and hide beneath the covers. Let’s just say I’m working on it.

I would quite like to grab the bull by the horns and shake the hell out of it. Put on that theme from Karate Kid or Rocky or whatever cliche you can think of, because it’s time to get motivated.

I’m going to enter freakin’ NaNoWriMo and try to finish a 50k novel in a month. Why not, I need the practise and obviously a reason to drive myself insanely mad. Yeah, I feel better about it already.


Frack it. Put the needle back on that ‘You’re the Best’ record, because I’m going to do it.

Now, perhaps having images of myself with unwashed, unbrushed hair, severely neglected eyebrows and a piddly bank balance from having spent hundreds of dollars on Osteopathic appointments for my badly compressed spine and rounded ‘laptop’ shoulders …

Did I tell you to stop playing that ‘You’re the Best’ record? No, I didn’t, because I need it, and maybe you do to, so, onwards children, go frolic in the field of unrealised dreams. You may end up looking like a hobo, but at least at the end you won’t be saying this …


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I’m not really angry, just … disappointed.

Nothing’s more irritating than carrying a bag of dog shit around a suburban neighbourhood on recycling day. Damn being a responsible dog owner, and also damn locks on bins. What, is someone going to steal the tasty little morsels inside? Better put a lock on the only bin close to the park, someone might actually put rubbish in it!  I should just put a saddle bag on my dog so he can carry his own shit. Someone must have invented that already.

Okay, there may be a few more things that are more irritating than dog sanitation issues…and I’ll tell you what they are, or at least the things that I have experienced today.

The sheer volume of ads in any new television series premier, or the amount of ads in the last half hour of a premier movie, or just in general the gigantic pile of ads they shove into any free slot of airtime. Especially when they squish down the credits and play half screen ads. How rude. As someone who has thoroughly enjoyed seeing her name in credits on any home movie project or film course short, I tell you it is disrespectful to people’s egos. I will never forgive the first time they played ads over a particularly entertaining credit role of the Simpsons episode where Homer is coach of Bart’s football team. As far as I was concerned Homer’s voice over cutting members of the credit list was still a hilarious part of the episode and shouldn’t have been sullied with some promo for a crap Channel 10 reality show, or whatever shite they were trying to plug at the time. As Grandpa Simpson would say ‘Forrrrshhaaaamee.’

Secondly, news stories about shark attack victims where the journalists ask the survivor why he doesn’t ‘hate the shark’, or if he supports the culling of sharks. Why is this still an issue? Do we really need another survivor or survivor’s family member to say to the media ‘we don’t blame the shark, it was just doing what’s natural behaviour in its own environment’? That killing off an endangered species pivotal to the balance of the ocean’s ecosystem isn’t a good idea? Uh, dur Fred. Then they cross to a story about a human murderer. Hmm, he killed someone, why don’t you hunt him. We better cull all the humans just to be safe.


How the media makes me feel on a daily basis.

Oh, yes, and a journalist interviewing an Australian Olympian, who was right in front of her wearing a big shiny gold medal, and commenting that she had won bronze, and then going on to get her opinion on what some people were defining as a disappointing over all result for the Australian swim team, heck, the whole Olympic team over all… After about a gazillion Olympians just walked off the plane with medals around their necks. Oh, well I guess we still came in a ‘respectable’ tenth…

My … head … is … about …. to … explode. Let’s not even get into how ridiculous the Australian media coverage of the Olympic games was, I think I’ve ranted and moaned quite enough, don’t you?

And do you know what else grinds my gears…

Nah, just joshin’ ya.


Okay, that was the last one, I swear.

Carry on infidels.

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All Hopped Up on Goof Balls

I wanted to share a story about an extremely aggravating dog walking experience I had a few days ago, yet after recently receiving a neck and spinal adjustment my mind is just a little wiped from the bobble head sensation I’m now having – my mouth curled up in a stupid, self-satisfied grin, like I’m all hopped up on goof balls or something. I say, you never really realise how much tension you’re carrying around until it’s relieved. Oh man, I’m either going to fall asleep or my head is going to roll off – which in actual fact wouldn’t be such a bad thing, if my floating brain theory has any merit. Perhaps I am a little off my face… Unless, of course, you normal people, whilst in complete control of your wits, have pondered what it would be like if you were just a floating brain with telepathic abilities? Free of your cumbersome earthly vehicle, not having to spend half your life dressing it, cleaning it, feeding it – primping, preening, brushing – taking it for walks, working out those muscles, having it poked and prodded (by a health practitioner, obviously, get your mind out of the gutter!), and other various things, like, yes, getting it manipulated by an osteopath or chiropractor… Floating brains unite! Of course there is a counter argument to the floating brain, but, what is this an essay? No, this is an opinion blog where you will be subjected to all my crazy theories with no chance for rebuttal…and I don’t have to be objective. Hallelujah! Praise the internet gods.

Where was I? Oh, yes, I was going to tell you my dog walking story (Damn, I’ve built it up now, how can it possibly follow the floating brain? Rookie mistake…).

Sometimes walking my dog can be a tiresome exercise. He’s getting old. He’s slow. (Though I’m suspicious that it is actually just through laziness, because he could keep up if he really wanted to. I’ve seen him move into action when there is something he wants to chase after, so, I think he’s really just having me on. How you play me, Max, you little devil dog!) Anyhow, one particularly fine day my mum’s boyfriend’s dog was along for a visit – also an old dog, and if I may say, a bit of a spaz. I have taken this dog along for a walk with Max before and I believe on that day I swore to all that was good and holy, ‘Never again!’ – my god, never again … Yet upon failing to outsmart this Labrador by leading her into the garage (I did this with a dog lead in hand…a dog lead…as if she hadn’t caught on to my walking intentions…), and safely containing this little Houdini, I came down with a bad case of the guilts, as she was already far too excited, and I just had to take her with me.

I distinctly remember saying to her whilst she was panting and smiling – secretly mocking me – ‘Well, I’m glad you’re having fun’. I’m glad you’re having fun whilst my arms nearly pop out of their sockets as I’m wrenched in two opposite directions, like I’m attached to some sort of dog-powered torture machine (and not the kinky 50 Shades of Grey kind of torture either…actually I’ve never read that book, but it seems to be the happening thing right now, so I thought I’d just drop the reference…Honestly, what is the sudden fascination with this thing?) Anyhow, we’re walking along pretty well, we seemed to be gathering a rhythm, Max on my left side, Sandy on my right. That is until sudden jerky compulsions to smell something two meters in the wrong direction took over their tiny, one tract minds, as well as the constant need to pee every five seconds and other wonderful little dog idiosyncrasies that had me all tied up in crossed over leads, my body in weird twisted positions (and not even in a kinky 50 Shades of Grey way either…sorry, I couldn’t help myself. But, again, am I really missing out on an important slice of pop culture?) Anyways, (I seem to be saying ‘anyways’ a lot. Hmm, so easy for me to become distracted…)


Anyways, as my frustration, with what should have been a casual stroll around the block, but was more like an animal wrangling circus, came to a boiling point, I, completely unaware of the volume of my own voice, due to the loud croonings of Colbie Caillat playing through my ear bud speakers, probably yelled (I’m still unsure of my vocal projection…) ‘If you don’t move dog I’m going to fucking kill you!’ – obviously it was quite loud as two residents at the end of the road looked directly at me, even going far enough to shield their eyes from the sun in little salute positions to take a real good look…’Oh, crap, don’t make eye contact, don’t make eye contact, just keep walking,..yes, just non-nonchalantly pick up the pace a little. My god dog, if you stop to pee now I really will bring the pain…’ (Obviously I am strongly averse to any form of animal cruelty. You know, just disclaiming, no need to sharpen those pitch forks…)

So, apparently I needed to learn the same lesson twice. One troublesome dog is enough to deal with. Never again, never again, never again. You know, until that silly old Labrador looks at me with those wide brown expecting eyes again – so innocent yet so evilly manipulative…

Even telling this story has gotten me all wound up again. Time for another bone crackin’! Mmm, my neck sounds like a rusty drawbridge.

Until next time…


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21 yr old F seeks…???

As I sit here now, at my desk, wondering how to begin this post about my most recently acquired item, the item itself sits on my lap, my arms around it in an emotion that can only be described as adoration. A few days ago my mum brought home a soft toy monkey, yet it wasn’t just any stuffed animal, it had a little wheatie bag in its stomach that you could take out, warm up and replace, making this toy the cuddliest, cutest most squee inducing thing I have ever come across, (that wasn’t breathing of course). And when I found out that this little squishy thing wasn’t for me, I had to, with inescapable compulsion, buy one for myself.

I call him Monkey, and he keeps me warm on these cold autumn nights…eh hem, so move over imaginary boyfriend…(but, seriously, if there are any Northern  New South Welshmen out there reading this who would like to replace Monkey, I like action/adventure movies, Thai food, trivia nights and rambling incoherently on the Internet. Message me. *wink*) But, seriously, again, I’d like to fail at meeting people the ‘normal’ way before resorting to failing virtually, namely with online dating. Cue segue…Yes, I have already browsed RSVP, but the idea of actually creating a profile makes me squirm like a neurotic, panicky worm. Another contributing factor to my aversion, being my mum looking at the profiles and already matching me up. Calm down, woman, I’m not even on there! Just writing this makes me want to hug monkey and hide under my pink and blue, puppy dressing gown. Yes, I’m 21 years old, but don’t rush me. It took me two years longer than everyone else to learn how to ride a bike and drive a car and I figure it will take me just as long to get used to this concept.  Especially the notion of summarizing your whole personality in one little log line.

I’ve thought about this. I consider myself a writer, yet cannot for the life of me come up with a sentence that best showcases what a strange (yet, endearing) little person I am. What works best? Something humorous or sincere? The absolute truth or something more mysterious? I know that humorous doesn’t really work for me. Thinking I’m funny enough to do that, I feel, would be a great act of narcissism on my part, and trying to be funny always ends up lame. Sincerity on the internet is daunting as hell, the absolute truth may be disturbing and I can’t be mysterious whilst keeping a straight face, in this case a virtual straight face….I know a favourite one of people’s is ‘I’m not really good at this…lol’. I think I would steer clear of such dull expressions and definitely incorrect spelling. ‘RU lking 4 fun? Cuz I m awsum…’ Oh, and rhyming, and puns and lines from Police songs, ‘Cause every little thing she does it magic’. Puh-lease.

Perhaps I’ve thought about it too much. I mean it’s a dating profile not a University essay about finding relationships in a post-modernist era, critiquing the idea of the essential self…And who am I kidding, it’s all about the profile picture anyways. Yet, I have enough trouble picking a photo for my Facebook profile, let alone for this. At least I know I won’t choose one with the edge of my face missing because I cut out an ex-partner (I don’t have any of those, but on other people’s profiles that shit is awkward).

Actually, I do know of a picture that would definitely send hearts all a flutter…

It's Monkey!

Aww…Did I mention he also smells like lavender? What a catch.

Disclaimer: This post does not endorse bestiality or objectophilia, so you can stop looking at me that way…

And, no, mum, I am not considering creating an RSVP profile. There’s enough crazy on the net without me adding to it. (Not including this blog of course…’What were you thinking?’)

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Forays and Flirtations with French and Other Failed Language Attempts

Recently I have concluded that the appeal of speaking a foreign tongue must have originated for me when I was merely a girl. As, grown out of my fleeting ambitions to be a ballerina, I had a new and more exciting idea of what I wanted to be when I was ‘all grown up’ – A secret agent. This gave rise to my stash of James Bond magazines and collector cards, hiding in my wardrobe pretending to be on a stake out, stealthily spying on my primary school playground ‘enemies’, and my brief year of Taekwondo and self-defense classes in grade six. Also, have you ever watched that 00’s series ‘The Invisible Man’ – I did, religiously – very secret agenty. And apparently, not only do spies disappear from sight on command, they also travel to Russia and speak 8 different languages, but in some sense of irony my attempts at learning one of these languages didn’t eventuate until after my secret agent phase.

(And on completely random side note, can someone please explain the importance of Arnie, in my favourite spy film of all time, True Lies, saying ‘I have to take a major leak’ in perfect Arabic? James Cameron, your choice of subtitles baffles me…)

Attempt Number 1: Spanish

I can’t remember why this was my first choice of a second language. I vaguely recall the CD-ROM  of ‘You Can Learn Spanish’ being on special at Harvey Norman and my mother’s brief turn of wanting to be more cultured. Of Spanish I remember Tia meaning Aunt – mostly because one of my dogs at the time was called Tia…

Attempt Number 2: French – Episode 1 – The Pre World Travel Attempt

My mum and I were about to embark on a world tour, including a visit to Paris and the South of France, I was 16 years old. Afternoons on a weekly basis were spent at a lovely French lady’s house, learning to count and, most importantly, how to buy things. My three other classmates were middle-aged, and I, the lone teenager, whilst grasping the concept of politely asking for apple juice and inviting one for breakfast, felt somewhat out-of-place.  (On another side note, tell me why when learning a language synonymous with love, must there be no potential for romance at all with fellow language learners dues to the age and gender of said learners? I shall ponder this further in French – Episode 2 – The Pre Euro Trip Attempt) This attempt lasted for about 8 weeks. When I returned to Australia let’s just say I was busy saving my money, otherwise spent on French lessons, towards perhaps traveling to Germany.

Attempt Number 3: German

Ich freue mich, Sie kennen zu lernen. Thus completes my working knowledge of Deutsch. Pleased to meet you. Ich heiße Abbey – My name is Abbey. My foray into German was initiated by a close friendship with a foreign exchange student and the promise of visiting her in the future. Unglaubish! Unbelievable! I actually really tried at this one, filling a whole folder with ‘Let’s Learn German’ lessons, not to mention a fairly expensive book on German verbs. ‘Du bist eine Schlampe‘ comprises of most of what I remember. As to the meaning? I’ll give you a clue, I didn’t learn it from a CD-ROM…

Attempt Number 4: French – Episode 2 – The Pre Euro Trip Attempt

For future reference, walking into a classroom semi-confident you remember basic French won’t save you from the embarrassment of being immediately corrected by your teacher when you proudly say something that just so happens to be wrong. Je m’appelle Abbey. My name is Abbey. I knew that, I swear I knew that. Didn’t stop me from saying something else entirely. Curses. That’s what you get for mildly showing off in a beginners, beginners class where the first 2 1/4 hour lesson is spent learning the alphabet. And, of course, as I take my seat and look around my class I see middle-aged men and women and a few girls my age. What is this? Sacrebleu! Je ne comprends pas! I don’t understand. Where is all the talent? On the flip side at least I won’t be distracted from my a, e, i ,o, us by multilingual garçons, but seriously…kind of disappointed. Anyways, hopefully, with lack of said distractions and some steely resolve on my part, this last attempt will stick, and I will soon be versed in a language other than English.

And if it doesn’t stick? Heck, you know what, there’s always an app for that. Hello, Google translate… Now, how do you say ‘I have to take a major leak’ in French?

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Sardines on Toast? Yes, please.

Under house arrest on a rainy day? When the heavens part and the deluge falls and little rivers run down your driveway, what may I ask do we do with all this gloomy, blanket wrapped time?

I think Jack Johnson had the right idea about spending it in bed, preferably with the accompaniment of banana pancakes. I’ve got the pancake theory down pat with a good old recipe from ‘Cooking Maleny Style’, a book that has a sketched drawing of my old Primary School on the front. Mmm, tasty nostalgia.

Cooking pancakes must also be complimented with the appropriate music, and my winning vocals as I sing (wail) along. The pancakes then must follow me to my bedroom computer where old episodes of my favourite, cheesy, 90’s supernatural show await a repeat viewing.

Of course I could be using my time wisely by trying to find some sort of inspiration for my novel writing… You’d think a rainy, solitary day like today, with the sound of raindrops outside my window, and the dim cold that has me retreated behind my stripy doona, would be enough to stir some creative juices. But no, the only juice I’ll be stirring is the lemon juice that goes on top of my pancakes, along with a generous sprinkle of sugar – and this makes me think that if this lazy weather continues I’ll probably eat myself into a small, food induced coma.

Yes, perhaps I could engage in some lounge room exercise, like beating the crap out of some bobble-head Mii in Wii boxing… Oh, how much satisfaction I get from smiting my enemy with my imaginary fists of fury! I must say though that some of the exercises make you look like quite the tool – like thrusting your hips round in circles trying not to drop that invisible hula hoop. And it’s totally not awkward when your friendly neighbour walks in whilst your marching on the spot and throwing and twirling phantom batons in the air in your little rhythm parade… So the likelihood of me doing this? Not so good.

But there is a certainty that I’ll be ending this day with a nice, hot bubble bath, cause you know, after all that strenuous work I definitely deserve it.

P.S. This post once again has nothing to do with its subject title. Tricked ya! Oh, Abbey how wonderfully conniving you are.

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My Tea Smells Like Marijuana

I must preface this post with a devious distraction from the lack of subject matter it contains.

Quick! Look over there >>>

It’s a member of the feline community engaging in a humorous act!

The juxtaposition of the human social context against the ignorant, adorableness of the cat is just delicious. *chortle, chortle, chortle*

Okay, so it didn’t work. I have nothing of importance to say – aside from did anyone watch the new Sunday line up on Channel Ten? YTT is just like every annoying YouTube, Ellen appearing, child prodigy that has ever graced our TV and computer screens, congealing together into a sickly sweet mush. That said, I didn’t mind it. Modern Family is always good value. New Girl is awesome. First time I saw it I was like ‘eh’ –  Zooey Deschanel and her delightful ‘adorkableness’ (yes, that is a word now…whaaaat?) being the only redeeming feature, but trust me as it continues the characters start to grow on you. Especially Schmidt and all his douchebaggery. Pretty damn funny. (Don’t ask me how I’ve seen all the episodes from the States already – I’m just cool that way – and I know you know how I have…just shush) Oh, and then there was Homeland. I don’t normally watch those intense crime/war drama things that are perfect award bait with all their mentally damaged characters – but dang, Claire Danes is pretty spesh. She’s sure come along way from those angel wings and pashing Leonardo DiCaprio, *sigh*. Homeland was worth staying up in my empty house in the middle of a rainstorm, just for her performance. Bravo.

That’s it. I’m sure you’re waiting for me to tell you about my tea. But, you know…

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