pen holders;
mini fezes;
low-lying stilts;
bug traps;
room decorations;

and that. (not actually cups, but you get the idea.)

THEY ARE SO INCREDIBLE. Can you learn harmony? Someone please teach me, please. Please.

(I’m finding it hard to use words right now.)

Here’s some more harmony:

on that note, Matilda was on TV today! most well-loved Roald Dahl of my childhood…

I’m really sorry that this makes no sense today.




SO I’ve not posted a single thing for a long long time, yet I’ve still managed to average something like 1ish view per day. Astounding.
And now, the first post of a new year has led to the first view-less day… what am I doing wrong here? Not that I was ever in it for the views, of course! (that’s only half sarcastic)

Tonight was meant to be an early night. We just got back from a Chinese New Year dinner at a Western seafood restaurant (go figure), and I was all up and ready to kip in at 9.41pm (what is this madness?) when suddenly my Mum appeared…

M: “Well, I know I told you to go and get an early night for once… but since it looks like you’re not sleeping, let’s watch another episode of Downton Abbey.”


Alex’s song for the day:

I’ve only just started hearing this here and there, but I already love it. It’s so damn happy. But it sounds suspiciously familiar…

think of a new title for this here blog. Maybe it’ll hit me once I start uni.

Wait, what’s that? Start uni, you said? You’ve got to be kidding me. You, uni? Uni, you? U-ni?

Yep, that’s right. I’m starting uni in less than a month, and pleasingly, I can’t wait! I know it’s been a long time since you heard from me, a surefire symptom of how much I’m enjoying what’s been termed “the best and longest holiday of your life you little slacker so you’d better make the most of it” (note the counter-example: the exponential rise of blog-post-frequency during exam time). So much has happened and I have no clue how to even commence to start…

-I got a job! or four.
-I invested myself in the hottest 100 with alarming devotion.
-I avoided schoolies at Avoca alongside my best mates.
-I went to falls!
-I caught up on my childhood, watching The Parent Trap and Father of the Bride Part 1 2.
I learnt just a smidgen of independence when my mum left my dad and I in charge for just over two weeks.
-I went to many gigs.
-I bought Ukulele for Dummies.
-I did not at all grow out of making lists.
-I also did not learn how to turn vaguely amusing anecdotes into witty and eloquent blog posts.

I’m sure there’s at least one good story about how my dear old dad barely avoided burning down the house with a frypan of flaming oil, or how I tie-dyed all our shirts with pink highlights… but I can’t seem to get it down on the page. I could even talk about how beautiful Avoca St, Bondi is at Christmastime, or wax lyrical on the raw power and beauty of Regina Spektor’s voice in a packed-out Opera House (by the way, she’s a real short-ass. A damn incredible short-ass), or again bemoan my ineptitude and inability to convey meaning (read: talk) to those of that fairer sex. But nah.

Instead, here’s two songs that have become stuck in my head as of today! (maybe I’ll start up some sort of song of the day thing.)

à bientôt!

…I’ve grown up thinking that I’ll never be truly happy until I’ve found “the one.” And now that the above relationship is, as of three days ago, officially over, it’s time to restart that search. A quest, if you will. As Melina Marchetta/Tom Mackee said in The Piper’s Son, “maybe people enter your hearts, and then you spend the rest of your lives trying to find them.” (I’d say this is pitifully misquoted). Or as Nick and Norah concluded in the compiling of their infinite playlist, tikkun olam means that we are the scattered pieces of the universe which we all have an obligation to put back together. (This is probably wrong too). Or maybe it’s all just a play on those archetypal star-crossed lovers, who I choose to believe were destined not only towards their tragic fate, but also to the fleeting happiness that love can bestow.

Whatever. I’m in a funny mood. I didn’t think that my illustrious return to blogging would be in bed at midnight on my phone, but hey. Better late than never.


First things first; I’m flattered that somehow, in my absence, this mess of words has still managed to attract an average of more than zero views per day. I’m touched. Really. Thanks.

And yes, this isn’t really the best time to dive back into the blogging blues, since I currently find myself  embroiled in the most critical point of my relationship to date, what with it being the middle of the HSC and all… so I’ll keep it short.

Two exams done; and in spite of my current antic disposition, I’m happy enough with how they went, and more importantly just ecstatic that they’re over. Still, four days of intense mathematical cramming stretch out before me, and I’m overcome by a profound sense of isolation and despair…

Lucky I’ve got two spectacular Swedish sisters to see me through.

Oh, did I mention I’m going to falls?

If we’re going to run with the above metaphor, I’m in severe danger of being dropped due to my own neglect. In fact, I’m guilty of abusive neglect on two counts, since it’s now been, what, three weeks since I last posted?

I’d love to say that there’s some compelling reason for this unprecedented mental meltdown, but I’ve got nothing. Maybe we’ll just let the facts speak for themselves. Charged with unprovoked abandonment of the HSC, the evidence for the prosecution is as follows: trials results of hitherto unseen levels of all-time-low; lack of notes or any useful material for the upcoming actual exams; looming French monologue (this Saturday, in fact) for which the defendant is deplorably unprepared; and a shocking absence of humanly recognisable motivation.

So that’s about it, really. I kind of sort of really really need to step back on it, but I’m frequently overcome by sudden bouts of nihilism and apathy, which, let’s be honest, are just more thinly-veiled stabs at further procrastination.

I swear when I wrote the first bit of this on my phone on the train this morning (a first, which is why it spontaneously posted and subsequently disappeared) it wasn’t nearly as self-indulgent or whiny.

So let’s move on. Sorry you had to suffer through that self-pitying quagmire.

Unfortunately, the past week has been a sad one for Armstrongs. Lucky I don’t know any personally, or I’d be urging them into the nearest bomb shelter to hide from the waves of devastation that have crashed down on the sporting, scientific, and all-around, general, everyday communities.
I still want to believe in Lance Armstrong; while the use of performance enhancing drugs is, really, an unpardonable offence, seven Tours can’t be sneezed at, drugs or no drugs. And hey, I still cherish my livestrong band. That old buddy’s stuck with me since like year 4 or something.

Also, Neil Armstrong IS A BADASS.

Anyway, I really ought to be getting to sleep. That was something else I did want to talk about. I’m definitely killing myself here. I can feel the brain cells dying, crying out in wordless pain as they wither and collapse from their slumberless state. OK. that last sentence tells me that I definitely need more sleep. I know there are people who live on 4 hours a night (Gail Kelly, anyone?) but I’m definitely not one of them, however much I’d love to be. yeah. I was planning on somehow smoothly segueing that into how I’m now an adult and need less sleep… but schmeh. I’m legally an adult now. WOOOOOOO. Voting here I come.

Anyway, I’ve just started this paragraph with anyway again, even though I don’t want to use any sort of parallelism or shiz like that, but I couldn’t let it end there on that. Yesterday, I spent some time roaring through a brilliant book, titled Me and Earl and the Dying Girl which is somehow getting a whole deal of brilliant press here in Australia. Which is really nice. I mean, it’s really nice for the Pittsburgh-born, Brooklyn-living author, Jesse Andrews (who also graduated from Harvard, as you do), but it’s also nice that we’re not always quite so cut off from the machinations of the rest of the world (not that the world revolves around the publishing of American YA fiction, but wouldn’t it be an infinitely better place if it DID?). I guess the point of all this rambling was to say that I really enjoyed the book, and I’m recommending it to anyone who’ll listen long enough for me to get the words out. Me and Earl and the Dying Girl.Really rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it? Really, the title should be enough to get you mildly intrigued, and the realism and wild hilarity of the richly individual narrative voice should get you fired up to devour it all in one fell swoop. I suppose I did enter into it with the hectic glow of TFIOS still lingering around me (heads up, the dying girl, Rachel, has cancer), but be warned, it’s a whole different take. Though you don’t really need my warning – Greg does a cracker job of it straight up from the first page. I guess what I might have liked most about it was the personal nature of it all, the intimacy of getting Greg’s unfiltered perspective, yet still in a delightfully self-aware fashion. Really, the humour was incidental – it’s all just part of the voice. And there was nuance, too. Despite it all being through his narration, and explicitly at that, most of what we learn about Greg isn’t what he tells us, or even what he’s aware of himself – it’s how he describes other people relating to him. And there were beautifully unexpected and hilarious techniques, too – bullet point recaps of one-sided conversations stand out as my favourite. And the cover and chapter art is pretty goddamn pretty. And hey, when an amateur filmmaker gives you titles like Apocalypse Later, and Cat-ablanca, you know you just have to listen to his story. (and read it, too!)