There's this glorious thing called a Dream Run™, where you manage to coast through a bunch of successive traffic lights and it stays green the whole time. None of that stop/start business. It's smooth and fluid and uninterrupted by crimson or crumbly dames in Toyota Crowns.

To get to the gym or work or Macca's (the Sundae Run) we have to cruise through four sets of lights. Inevitably when it's 8.59 on a Monday morning you're going to get all the red lights. Nightmare Run. But sometimes you're lucky, and your chances of success are increased if you start chanting "Dreamrundreamrundreamruuuuuuuuuunnnnnnnn!". Even more effective if your passengers chant too.

It's timing, it's skill on the gas pedal, it's pure luck, it's "amber means speed up", it's "I wonder if there's a red light camera on this intersection?". When it all comes together it's poetry, exhilaration, my sister madly cackling into the night, "AAAAAAAaaaaaaahahahhahah DREAM RUN, BABY!".

And let's not forget the Ultimate Dream Run. That is when you can come off the Big Mother Roundabout at the top of Northbourne Avenue and manage to cruise down to the very end of it (it's a few kilometres, I think) without a single red light. In peak hour. That's right, PEAK HOUR. Gallumphing along on a Sunday afternoon or in the middle of the night doesn't count. Bonus points if it's a Friday. At the start of a long weekend.

If you can do pull off the Ultimate Dream Run, you know you'll have fabulous sex tonight, or win some money, or your boss will be eaten by aliens. It's that good.

Needless to say, I've never made it. But I came ohhhh so close. Heading out to see the folks after a crappy week at work, we were sailing through in a sparkly shower of green. It was a miracle! The last intersection was beckoning.

"Dream ruuuuuuuuuuuuuuun!" we croaked. "Dream ruuuuuuuuuun!"

The light blinked into amber.

"Bugger!" I screamed.

"Don't worry! There's still time!" cheered Rhiannon. "It's a hoon in that Gemini in front, there's no way they'll stop on an orange!"

But they did stop. Fortunately, my brakes are good. Turns out it was a little old lady in the Gemini. D'oh.

Someone stole our garbage bin. Bastards. Languishing on the nature strip one moment, cruelly snatched from us the next. Last spotted in Canberra city, approximately three feet tall, cack green, really stinky with a big number 6 painted on it.

My sister thinks the little old ladies next door nicked it, to Teach Us A Lesson for not bringing our bin back in as soon as the garbo leaves. He swings by Tuesday morning, we usually don't drag it back in til the weekend. But I'm not quite sure the old ducks could have done it without putting their back out or breaking a hip. My theory is it's the same bastards that stole my bin in Bathurst. They've followed me here and they've got my Canberra bin and my Piper Street Bathurst bin sitting cosy in their living room and they're laughing it up at my expense!

I'm not sure what the process is here, but back in Bathurst, I actually had to report my bin missing to the police before the council would give me a new one. Then we had to go to the station to make a statement.

"Can you give me a description of the bin?"

"Are you kidding?"

"I am not kidding, Miss."

"Green, smelly, wheels on the bottom?"

"When did you last see the missing bin?"

"Ummmmmmm..." Six weeks had actually passed since the bin disappeared, we'd be putting our rubbish in the neighbours bin. "Umm. Yesterday. Went missing yesterday."

"Right then, sign here please Miss, and we'll see what we can do."

It's so reassuring that the police are focused on the big crimes out there.

ANNOYING GIT OF THE DAY: Charlie Dimmock.

Miss Charlie stars in the BBC version of Ground Force, one of those horrible lifestyle programs that my sister and I can't seem to stop watching. Lugging sacks of fertiliser, banging up a garden shed, is there anything this flame haired goddess can't do? Well yes, there IS something she can't do, and that is WEAR A BRA. Many a night we've spent cursing at the telly, "Oh christ, she's swingin' again"... "CHARLIE! Restrain those girls!"... "She's jiggling more than a couple of Lipton teabags!"... "OH GREAT it's raining! Now she'll be on high beam again!"

Random crap. Look at this picture. How beautiful is that? Brand new baby. There's a few bloggers lately who've just become daddies, and what gets me is how awed and humbled they seem to be for that moment right after the birth, and the sweet tender things they say about their partners, it's like they've never known anything so beautiful. Imagine making someone feel like that. And those tiny angel babies, I could just cry. Everything is making me cry today. When did I become such a sap?

Ooh er, pay day. And it seems I have accumulated 182.5 hours of annual leave. That's almost 25 working days. Crikey. All I need is some money now, and I could have quite a good holiday with all that time.

After all my whinging Amnesiac is finally coming together for me. Some bits of it make me want to weep. We had our Pilates class at lunch, and I felt so mellow and liquid and achy, I thought I'd try the album again. And it It just started making sense. Maybe because I am picturing Ed naked as I listen. Hmm.

And finally, Pussycat has been reviewed at The Weblog Review. Thanks guys!

At about 4.45 this morning I discover a new definition of Purest Hell. More specifically, it's like four kinds of hell at once.

Hell #1 - DREAM HELL
When I wake, my brain is clinging to the dying embers of a bad dream. The dream is an unfortunate Entertainment Tonight Special: Who's The Boss - Where Are They Now? Alyssa Millano is sitting on Tony Danza's lap with her hands up his housekeeper's apron, pashing him madly, while the horrified blonde mother and the dorky son are screaming, "YOU CAN'T DO THAT! HE'S YOUR FATHER! IT DOESN'T MATTER THAT IT WAS JUST ON TELEVISION!"

Hell #2 - GYM HELL
When I wake, and realise I was dreaming about Who's The bloody Boss, for goodness sake, I sit bolt upright very suddenly. This is when my body screams in protest. The Morning After Gym pain had kicked in. That's the funny thing about the gym, while you there you can fling yourself around and get gloriously sweaty and say "I Am INVINCIBLE!". You are da bomb. It's not until the next day you realise what you really are is da big unfit lump of unfitness.

Tuesday night, I was in one of my all-conquering moods when this sleek, toned, ponytailed goddess comes in. Let's call her Ponytail Bitch (PB). She is wearing an Outfit™. Anyone who goes to the gym in an Outfit™ is a Bitch in my book, because this means they are of superior fitness and coordination to me. And one only invests money in a proper coordinating Outfit™ if one thinks one is spectacular-looking and a supreme temple of fitness. So unless you wear Target trackies and ratty t-shirt circa 1987, I most likely Hate You™.

So there she is, PB, fanging along on the crosstrainer machine with her Outfit™ and her pristine ponytail swishing back and forth so smugly. After forty minutes of precise sweating, she sashays over to the weights section where I am picking my undies out of my butt and contemplating the universe.

This girl is about half my height and about as wide as a pencil, but she could bench press Afghanistan. She hops on the machine that I was just contemplating hopping on, and sticks the pin on some impossibly high setting. She tosses her hair back and starts pumping away as if it's a box of feathers.

"You smug, athletic little bitch," I fume silently. She finishes and hops off the machine with a flick of the ponytail, and nods to me, as if to say, "Yes, dumpy mortal, you have my permission to use this equipment now."

So on I hop, completely forgetting to change the setting back to Weakling. With a Monica Seles-esque "oooomph!" I realise my mistake. But! I would not give PB the satisfaction of stopping and admitting my lack of strength. So I continue my set, and discover that I am perhaps not such a weakling after all! I am really doing this! Adrenaline is coursing through my veins! My braincells are humming, "You Are INVINCIBLE!"

I am a supastar. I fly through the other machines on her supastar settings. I can tell she is surprised. I saunter all the way home and tell my sister before I collapse into bed, "I am invi-fucking-INCIBLE!"

Yesterday morning there was a wee twinge here and there, nothing to hold me back. Then last night was Fitball class, a jolly hour of bouncing around on a giant rubber ball, rolling and lifting and squatting and contorting, it's a great laugh and not too crippling. INVINCIBLE!

But pain is a funny thing, it doesn't always grab you at first, it swims around in your body, gathering momentum, building armies and forming strategic alliances, until POUNCE! You wake up and every muscle is screaming.

I try to roll over but my legs are uncooperative. I try to sit up but my back says, "Nah, sorry." I can see PB and her nasty little ponytail mocking me, "INVINCIBLE? I don't think so!"

Hell #3 - WOMB HELL
When I wake, I discover that there is some sort of International Drummer's Convention taking place inside my womb. Or so it feels. My skin feels stretched taut like a big bass drum and I am being assaulted by dozens of those heavy hammers.... BOOM BOOM DA DA BOOM BOOM DA DA BOOM BOOM! Over and over and over.

"SHUT UP!" I yell at my stomach. "FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, SHUT UP!"

It does not shut up.

Hell #4 - MARIAH HELL
When I wake, my fading dream has a soundtrack. My dreams always have soundtracks and they're always the crap $2.99 in the bargain bin kind of soundtracks. This one is a medley of Mariah Carey songs, worse still, it's limited to the excruciatingly high bits, the bits where she's not singing any words, just driving her voice higher and higher with that annoying EEEII EIII EIII EIII sound, until glass shatters, milk turns sour, passers-by spontaneously combust. I pound my head on the bed to try and drive her voice away. Soon enough the dream falls out of my brain but the Voice of Evil remains.

So there I lay, my stomach being gnawed by pirahanas, my muscles whining, Mariah screeching. I manage to extract myself from the bed, crawl out of my room and onto the landing, make my way down the stairs by sliding on my butt, one step at a time. Finally I sprawl out on the coolness of the kitchen floor, face smushed up against the lino, moaning like a harpooned sea lion.

And then, a few hours later, I come to my senses. I find some Nurofen, I eat my brekkie, I rush to work, and I am a new woman.

What did I tell you? INVINCIBLE.

It was Literary Legends Week on the History Channel, so I've just about had a gutful of the greats all wrapped up in neat little digestable packages. Too much about their tawdry lives, not enough about the writing. A couple of highlights. Hemingway: wars, hunts, fishes, grows beard, dies. Fitzgerald: drinks, drinks, jazz, crazy wife, drinks, drinks, dies.

What did I learn about writing from this extravaganza? Milk your experiences for all they're worth. Don't despair over that pesky world war, your evil tart of a wife, that cancer rotting in your lungs, your penchant for cross dressing, those annoying debt collectors with the big guns, whatever, it's all choice material. It doesn't matter that your family hate you for so blatantly plundering their lives for your novels, because you're bound to die young, and years later when your family has carked it too, the world will realise how brilliant and original you were.

Anyway.

Saturday afternoon and we were trundling out to Woden for the groceries. I noticed a little crimson rosella hopping around on a crossing, looking quite distressed. He would fly a few feet into the air before crashing back down again, legs askew. Two four-wheeled drives barrelled over the crossing, somehow missing him. Our heartstrings went *plink*. My first thought was to take a photo, I'm ashamed to admit, and my second thought was that it would make a cute little story, but finally the third thought kicked in: must rescue bird.

We didn't have anything to catch him in, so I came up with these genius ideas 1. throw a sweatshirt over him then scoop him up, and 2. the sweatshirt was to be Rhiannon's (I only had my bra on under my top, and I am not quite that desperate for attention).

Up close we could see one of his legs was really quite mangled, so the poor baby wasn't too hard to catch. Before we knew it we were driving around aimlessly with a sqwarking bundle of navy blue Cornell University cotton. It was 6 o'clock, Harry's boutique vet wasn't open. We were parked outside of the Japanese Embassy of all places, on the mobile with a decidedly unhelpful RSPCA person. Finally we went back home, plopped the bird (by now christened Walter, for no apparent reason) in an old printer box and went through the Yellow Pages. Soon we were heading out to the Dark Side (Tuggeranong) with our screeching box and trusty street map.

We pondered all the big questions during the twenty minute drive to the vet. Will he ever walk again? Will they have to amputate his leg? Will he have a little peg leg? Will we take him home and rehabiliate him? Do you think Harry would eat him? Or do you think they'll say ahh it's only a bird and put it down? Or just toss it to some cats to finish it off? Will they be that cruel? Will the bird shit come out of Rhiannon's sweatshirt?

Finally we arrived after a few missed turns. Such a crisp, starry night, it just smelled like adventure, you know? Bird shit, and adventure. I felt sure something amazing and terribly worthy of writing about was about to happen. We rushed into the surgery with our precious cargo.

"Here's the bird! Here's the bird!" (we had called in advance.)

"Sorry?" asked a bored looking nurse-type with scarecrow hair.

"The birrrrrrrrrrd! The ROSELLA! He's hurt! He can't fly properly and he keeps flipping over onto his back."

We pictured emergency surgery, elaborate bandages, a drip, the vet performing CPR with his fingertips, breathing life back into that little beak.

"Oh, no worries. Just leave it on the counter."

"What?"

"Just leave it right there. We'll have a look at it."

"You... you... you mean you don't want us to hang around?"

"No."

"You don't want us to hold his claw and croon tenderly while the vet checks him over?"

"No."

"You don't even want us to sit in the waiting room reading ancient New Ideas and anxiously watching the clock?"

"No."

"You don't want us to pace endlessly up and down the hallway, drinking putrid coffee in paper cups and looking forlorn?"

"No."

"You don't want me to have great anguished sobs rattling in my throat when you tell me There Was Nothing We Could Do?"

"No."

"WELL WHAT KIND OF PISSWEAK ENDING TO THE STORY IS THIS? WHAT THE BLOODY HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO WRITE?"

"Oh dear, I'm sorry." The nurse regarded me gravely. "But there's nothing we can do. You're looking for literary gold here when there just isn't any. It's a parrot with a buggered leg! It's not a story! Have you ever sat astride a freshly slaughtered rhinoceros? Has your wife ever gone bonkers? Have you ever seen the sun rise in Bolivia or sawn off one of your limbs with a butterknife? Now THAT'S a story!

"But you, my dear, you have gentle, harmless little adventures. You run over cats, you lust after Olympic swimmers, you buy amusing dog food. At best, you're a columnist in a Nowheresville newspaper, churning out sentimental fluff pieces that would perhaps elicit a toothy smile of recognition from an old granny over her cup of Bushells, but little more...

"I don't know, perhaps you could even start one of those weblog thingies, I hear you can type up any old shit on those and some boffin is bound to read it. You may even be able to squeeze out a few more wacky anecdotes from that slightly dysfunctional family of yours. But unless you start living a little - having some torrid affairs, binge drinking, harpooning a giraffe - the History Channel won't be calling you any time soon."

"You're a harsh, harsh bitch!" I sobbed. "What about the bird?"

"Never mind the bird. You've done all you can with the bird. This is the way the story ends, not with a bang, not even with a whimper, more like a pathetic little fart from a expired cow. Now, on your way."

You non-metric fools can now indulge in what Aaron described as "the richest, most sinful things I have ever tasted". This brave young lad emerged briefly from *lurk mode* to inform me that 200g of butter equates to roughly 2¼ sticks. Also, be sure fire up your ovens to 350° F for guaranteed success. That's the only fiddling you'll need to do, just follow the rest of the recipe as normal.

I am getting itchy concert feet. It's been so long since I've seen a show. Not much coming up though, except Destiny's Child! I'm thinking of driving up a mini-bus to Sydney. Who's in?

This wee pup wandered into the newsagent today, all lost and sad looking, coughing and coughing as he wandered up and down the rows of magazines. Doesn't look like he was too thrilled by the selections on offer.

Ooh er! Miss Fran took the Midnight Brownie Challenge! That's TWO people who've made them now. It's a culinary phenomenon to rival the heady sun-dried tomato days of the early 90s!

Somebody actually cooked my Midnight Brownies! I can't believe it. It was none other than Miss Pea. She did the strawberries and cream thing too. Mmm mmm. Will you take the Midnight Brownie Challenge? I promise you, they're good.

Speaking of chickens, you may or may not recall, I was a slave to the Colonel throughtout highschool. Here's what I learned in those three and a half years: "If you sleep with me, I'll tell you the eleven secret herbs and spices" does not work as a proposition.

BBQ Chicken Theatre: get a couple of the Colonel's tenderoast BBQ chickens. Stick a pair of tongs up its arse to hold it up. Get your audience to stand on the outside of the drive-thru window, while you crouch below it on the inside, for you are the chicken puppeteer. Fling open the curtains (drive-thru window) and it's SHOW TIME! Make your chickens dance and sing and flap their oven-roasted herb and spicey wings.

Or if the crowd is particularly hard to please, get one chicken to furiously hump the other while making various low, gutteral "bwaaaaaaaaaark bwaaaaaaaaaark" sounds til their stuffing explodes. BBQ Chicken Porn.

Two years ago I was earning $8.50 an hour in the fish and chip shop and I wonder how I survived? Now I am earning a respectable salary yet I am always skint. How does this happen?

CUSTOMER: Can I please have a minimum chips?
BOSS: Sure mate. That'll be $1.50. Plain salt or chicken salt?
CUSTOMER: Chicken salt, thanks.
BOSS: That'll be $1.70 then.
CUSTOMER: A dollar bloody seventy? How can you charge extra for chicken salt?
BOSS: Because you're paying for the chickens!

11 o'clock on a Saturday night and the house was quiet except for the possums scratching around inside the roof and the AM faintly rattling out of Mum's clock radio. Suddenly I heard the sproing of the saggy old mattress as she vaulted out of her bed.

"It's Your Song!" she gasped. "It has to be! Your Song!"

I could hear the billowing of her flanelette nightie as she swooped down the hallway, huffing and puffing with determination. The doors drew breath and the Royal Albert shuddered in the china cabinet. She fumbled for the phone and dialled furiously in the dark. 6-2-0-0-9-9.

Back before we got 8 digit phone numbers, and before we got a touch-tone phone, my mother was obsessed with winning radio competitions. The first caller through gets a copy of Rod Stewart's newie and ice cold six pack of Coca Cola! kind of competitions.

It didn't matter what the prize was, she just had to have it. When 1089 2GZ had their Non Stop All Music Weekends she'd be glued to the radio, in the house, in the car, everywhere. If she went outside to hang the washing on the line she'd crank up the volume so she could hear the DJ over tractors and baaa-ing sheep, then whoosh back in with a trail of pegs behind her when The Call came.

She relied on me for my trivial mind. I was woken many a time with her switching on lights, shaking my bedclothes, swatting me with teddy bears, sqwarking desperately, "Shauna! Quick! Tell me! Who was the bass player in the Little River Band? Who married whom in ABBA? What's the name of duet Paul McCartney did with thingo?"

"Mmmmph. Sleeping."

"Hurrrrry! I have to be the seventh caller through!"

The actual task of dialling was quite arduous as we had one of the godawful phones where you actually had to dial - stick your finger in the hole of the corresponding number and spin the wheel thing, none of that modern keypad claptrap. When you were bursting at the seams to win The Very Best of Hall and Oates, the distance from zero to nine seemed an eternity.

But not many people were listening on that particular Saturday night and yes indeed Your Song was the correct answer and she won the Songs of Elton John and Bernie Taupin LP. She also scored an ice cold six pack of Coca Cola that joined the few dozen other ice cold six packs of Coca Cola gathering dust in our garage because Coke rots your teeth and we weren't allowed to drink it.

Soon she was so good at the dialling she'd have already won an album by the Friday night of the Non Stop All Music Weekend. But this didn't quench my mother's thirst for dodgy vinyl. She bullied my sister and I to call because thanks to the joys of remarriage, she had a different surname from us now so we could win again. If we refused to call, she'd dial herself and put on a funny voice and pretend to be my grandmother, her secretary, her dentist, her brother. A week or so later they'd be rewarded with a brownpaper-wrapped Foreigner or Let's Go '88! in their mailbox.

Even our dog Susie managed to score a Billy Joel record. Mum didn't let her have the Coke either.

This is my new most favourite site in the world. A funny, foxy lass who lusts after Ed from Radiohead just as much as I do. Hurrah!

You'd think the Getting Caught At Zeffirelli's In Your PJ's episode would have deterred my sister from taking her slumberwear out in public, but not so. We had a hankering for a hot fudge sundae from McDonalds, evil stuff but chocolately and delicious. But alas, in today's cashless society, we had a mere 45 cents between us, 10 of which I'd found in Harry's kennel, of all places. A trip to the ATM was in order.

"I'll drive and you run to the teller," I gallantly offered.

"But I'm in my slippers!"

"It's after nine! Noone will be around!"

Noone was around, unless you count a couple of ambulances and a small crowd of nosy onlookers. Lights flashed madly blue and red as someone was loaded onto a stretcher. Security guards from Supabarn mumbled into their radios and tried to look important.

"Oh for christ's sake!" hissed my sister.

"I should have bought my camera!"

"I'm in my slippers again!"

"We can wait til they leave. But how badly do you want that sundae?"

Next thing she's dashing past the drama, all lightness and grace in her lambswool coated tootsies.

"It's an old lady! She's okay! But she had a heart attack in the supermarket!" my sister reported breathlessly a few moments later. "Wonder what brought that on?"

"She just couldn't believe the price of the bananas."

Miss Dee asks the question "Why do you write?" and I must agree with her in that, because I have to is the most bloody pretenious piece of crap answer on the planet. Would all those who sprouted that answer please drop your pants immediately and allow me to spank you with a hardcover copy of Writing Down The Bones.

Why do I write? Coz it helps to make me appear busy at work on a quiet day. Frowning studiously at my screen, fingers hailing down on the keyboard, a contemplative pause with finger on chin and the occassional "hmmm hmmm"... it's sheer genius really.

Other good ways of looking busy: scatter random pieces of paper around your desk, stand up now and then, put your hands in your hair, kick your filing cabinet and say "aaaaaaaargh! stupid clients!" a few times. Concerned colleagues will say, "Oh you poor dear, go get a drink and some fresh air". That is when you naff off to the loos for a snooze (toilet roll makes for handy pillow) or dash to the shopping centre. Technique perfected while moonlighting as a public servant last year. Don't need to do that as much now as new job actually requires some work to be done!

Anyway. Writing. Being an over-sensitive passive-aggressive little individual who would rather bear a grudge for fifteen years than actually confront someone, writing is a lovely way of venting my stress.

It's also good for cheap thrills. Every now and then you get into that writing groove and the words just pour out of you and they all sound good. That is when you turn to the nearest mirror and say, "Oh you saucy little writing minx you! You're soooo hot today that your Bic's gonna melt!". Then of course the next day you're back to writing crap again! Mwahaha.

This is a scan of a story I wrote in November 1983, I'd just turned 6. I wrote a lot back then. And what an idealistic, loving little cherub I was! I haven't changed that much, although my spelling is a little better.

To create wacky blur effects with your camera, just get an weird little dog with a penchant for attacking his leash. No Photoshop required!

My new phrase of choice is "holy crap on a stick", and that is what I yelled just now as I slammed down the phone. To hell with the dirty looks from co-workers. You'll be happy to know my existential crisis is over, I bet you didn't even notice I'd had one, so now I am back to my usual brand of silly low brow blogging on groundbreaking issues such as the one i am about to address now: HAIRDRESSERS.

I wrote about Andrew about a month ago, but deleted the post after a mini-crisis in which I panicked, thinking my rantings about his adorably camp stylings, Jennifer Lopez jokes, and how he transformed me from shaggy red dog to blonde-streaked goddess, would have made you all think I'm very shallow and self-absorbed and prone to stereotyping homosexuals. But I am over that crisis now, and have come to terms with my lack of depth.

Anyway, it was only by chance that Andrew came to cut my strawberry locks, and it was two hours of magic that I'll never forget. Ever since I have positively glowed, I've felt hot and sassy, every day I've felt like one of those chicks on the shampoo ads (I call them Pantene Bitches), I was showered with compliments, even from the stickfigure receptionists at the gym (I call them Gym Bitches) and asked constantly, Darling! Who does your hair?

Today I was daydreaming idly of our next tryst when the phone rang. It was one of the blonde twits from the salon (Salon Bitches) telling me that Andrew had left and would I like to change my appointment to another stylist?

"Andrew has left? Andrew has left? He can't leave! Why did he leave? Why didn't he tell me?"

"It just wasn't working out for him," cooed Salon Bitch. "I don't think he felt comfortable here."

Comfortable my ass! I'm sure the transition from chopping Keanu's raven locks on The Matrix 2 set to surburban Canberra salon was a bit of a come down, but sweet lord! Didn't I mean anything to him? How could he be so cold!

"Did he say where he was going?"

"He isn't going to another salon. He's not doing anything."

Pah! Pah, I say. As if they'd tell me where he'd gone and risk losing my custom.

"So do you want to keep your appointment? We have plenty of other stylists"

"I don't want to talk about it right now. Just leave me alone!" I may or may not have tearfully said. "I'll get back to you on that one."

I feel so used. Empty. Unkempt. Dirty, and not in the good way. What am I supposed to do now? Where do I go? How the hell do you find a decent hairdresser in Canberra? Does anyone out there actually live in Canberra? Do you have hair? Tell me where I should go, before I end up with a Narelle or a Kylie or a Sharon hacking away at my locks in a suburban hell hole with pink vinyl seats and blue rinses. I have to be a Pantene Bitch again.

Everyone climb aboard the stupid train of thought: You read this diary entry and you think ooh how fun it would be to get married. But then you think, do you want to get married because you want to fall in love and be with someone til divorce do you part, or do you just want to get married coz you know you look good in a white dress and your hair is all fancy and you get to pose for photos and you love pretending to be a supastar and you get shitloads of presents and slow dance in the middle of a ballroom with everyone watching and everyone telling you how beautiful you are and then they'll tell you again and you're guaranteed a shag at the end of the night? And then you think about love or the lack thereof in your life and you wonder do you really even want a special someone in your life? Or do you just want someone around who thinks you're the cat's meow, they'd tell you you're cute and funny and oh so smart and oh so okay and you're guaranteed a shag at the end of the night? Do you actually want the give and take and ups and downs of a relationship or do you just want a steady source of attention? And then you think why are you racing off to the gym after work? Do you really give a crap about your health or do you just want to fling yourself around and try to look as hot as humanly possible so people who normally look right through you will say hey baby have you been working out? And why do you keep that weblog? Is it because writing makes your limbs tingle with joy or is just because you madly pine for emails and guestbook signings and links and attention and adoration and the occassional stalker? What kind of kind of egomaniacal desperate freak are you?