The ex factor. With added friend equation.

The last few days have seen me in a weird place.

You see I found out one of my friends is dating an ex of mine from years ago. Do I care? Not really, except I guess I do because I would have expected her to tell me or say something to me herself.

Instead I hear about it down the grapevine 2 months after the fact.

In a perfect world she would have mentioned it to me, I would have gone oh, but I thought you hated him and he definitely hated you? But you know, hey whatever. But obviously we don’t live in a perfect world and for some reason she never mentioned it.

Our breakup was one of the messiest in my life, it took months of drug therapy in my friends’ hot tub. Not to mention the thought that I had some horrible sexual disease that might kill me in the meantime – back in the days where HIV tests took 6 months. The fact that he not only cheated on me but was a baby-daddy 3 months after we broke up was just a big a slap in the face as any.

Yes, cheers for that matey. But it’s one of those things that I’ve forgiven and every so often the baggage comes back to bite me in the ass even though I think I’ve worked through it.

So on one hand I really truly don’t give a toss about it yet at the same time I’m pissed off that she didn’t say anything.

It’s a very weird place to be.

I find this whole situation really bloody bizarre. Did I slip into an alternate reality? If so where the hell is my Jason Momoa? Who, by the way, I met at the Oz Comic Con in Sydney last weekend. He’s a mountain of a furry man who I’d climb any day. Oh yes. PHWOAR!

Getting back to the point though, am I making this out to be something it’s not? Should I even care? It’s not like it affects my life one way or another.

In keeping with this thought process I believe I’ll just cut it loose. I’m similar in my relationships as I am in my friendships. If my friends can’t be honest and upfront with me then why should they remain my friends?

And to end on a nice bright note, mountain of a man. Furry. Tattoo’s. HAWWWT. Please apply within.


Here’s a picture of us stalking Jason Momoa @OzComicCon – Sydney. You’re welcome.


Gas Bottom – up up and away.

I don’t really write about work too much because well, I can’t.

However I’ve recently moved desks and am sitting in a pod that’s open with 3 other people, right next to an open pod of another 4 people in the next grid.

There’s a woman and she sits to the left of me. Let’s call her Gas. Short for Gassy.

Get poster of this here.

Get poster of this here.

Now, we all know how funny farts are, right? Right.

Except at work.

I can’t laugh because I’m so horrified.

She farts. Loudly. Often.

At first it used to be after 4pm when most of our co-workers had gone home. Now she’s expanding her trumpet zone.

It really wasn’t too bad when it was after 4pm on a workday. I mean, usually I leave the office by about 3.30 so I never heard her. My colleagues all used to tell me about it and I shrugged it off because it didn’t affect me. Now it does.

I can’t look her in the eye anymore.

Yesterday she cornered me in the kitchen while I was making my coffee.

She wanted to know how I’ve been and if I like it now that I’m closer to everyone else. I nodded and said yes, it’s great, all the while my eyes were averted and making my coffee. I started to slow the process down. I couldn’t over-compensate for awkward conversation by making my coffee really quickly, because then I’d have to actually face her and I wasn’t sure I could. So putting the coffee in the machine went from being a 2 second process to a 2 minute one. I decided that I needed to refill the coffee pods and clean out the milk tray. I scrubbed that bitch like no one’s scrubbed it.

When our conversation dwindled and I thought “yes! She’s going to walk away” she trumps up about the news report on teevee showing a mother and her child. While the mother is talking the child takes the opportunity to pour its tippee contents down her shirt. Gas decides that this is hilarious and loudly exclaims if I saw the aboriginal on teevee. And her aboriginal child pouring its cup contents down her shirt as she chortled like she’d said something that was highly entertaining.

I put down my cup at this point and looked at her.

She looks at me all confused as I say, so are you saying that if that had been a white child you’d have made sure you said look at that white mother with its white child having stuff poured down her top?

Farting aside, calling out racism is pretty easy for me. I’ve spent time with the aboriginal community, they are an amazing mob and have to put up with shit like this constantly even though we’re the ones that invaded their lands and are now lumping them into stereotypical bad connotations. So what if she was black? So what if she was aboriginal? These things make me see red, like when I’m told I’m crazy for walking through Redfern and not fearing for my safety.

I told her that I saw a mother and child on teevee and that all children given half the opportunity will pour anything down your shirt.

She nodded at this and turned tail and ran.

And as I made my way back to my table and sat down to enjoy my coffee, the sound of her letting rip overshadowed my joyous moment with my caffeine.


Sexual objectification in the weird way…

As you all are aware, I wrote a note about why I loved sexual objectification in my personal life and why it made me so hot.

Well, last week I saw this picture in the newspapers:

And to be honest, it made me a wee bit uncomfortable. I mean, sure, he has nice boobs. A bit of fur is never frowned up. But the context… Being on stage, accepting an award and having the hostess rip your shirt off mid-speech. Now if that was a woman she’d be justified in turning around and bitch slapping that silly bint to pluto. I know I would have.

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Quarter mile high club? – Road Tripping Memories

Following on from my last fuck filled night in Vegas – our jaunt out of Vegas was just as much fun on the Greyhound.

Goodbye Las Vegas! Thanks for the concrete burn! <3

We were seedy, hung over like hell and hadn’t eaten anything by the time we loaded the bus at about 8 am. We crawled to the back of the bus and he wedged himself in the corner and I literally threw myself over him and we went back to sleep.

We woke up somewhere on the outskirts of Nevada and had a brief chat. Yes, his head hurt. Yes my head hurt. No I had no water. Oh he did in his backpack. Fantastic. No headache tablets. What’s the next stop again? I need more sleep. So we snuggled back into it and passed out.

Next we woke up and I think we were in Arizona. My head was pounding like a bitch and somehow my hand had ended up in his crotch with my face not too far behind on his stomach. Well hello there Mr Throbber. He might have been asleep but his other parts weren’t! I decided to behave myself until at least the bus was a bit less “full of people”. I didn’t want to be kicked off in the middle of Arizona with no idea where I was and a killer hang over.

And I know “sexual” things weren’t allowed on Greyhounds, the man driving told us so before starting the bus up and leave. Maybe I had a sign on my forehead that he noticed as I climbed on to the bus??

I think I went back to sleep. With my hand cupping his hard on. Some girls like teddy bears, what can I say? I like a full raging boner to snuggle.

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