Thursday, December 20, 2007

Contracts

Y'know that teaching position I mentioned in my last post?

Well, they e-mailed me the contract.

And what a contract it was.

Onerous terms? Yes!

Cheap pay? Yes!

Complete lack of paid leave or other benefits? Yes!

See, I'm currently getting $12.23/hr. I get $16 on Saturdays and $24 on Sundays. And this is fairly menial work- sure, it's repetitive and often frustrating, but at least it's in a field that I'm interested in.

However, this job paid $18-$20/hr, with no annual leave. No sick leave. No paid leave at all. I don't even think it included super. You needed to work as an independent contractor (and I assume this involved having your own ABN) and they had some bullshit about client exclusitivity- you had to solemnly swear to not teach anyone you'd taught during your employment for THREE YEARS after employment with the company had ceased.

Oh, and the usual forfeiture stuff if you...well, forfeited.

Did I mention the $100 bond?

And having to drive out wasting your precious petrol?

And the $40 penalty fee if you were sick and couldn't inform the parents of the child within 24 hours?

I'll pass, thanks.

Wednesday, December 19, 2007

The Screaming Jets

I have a very nasty temper.

People don't believe me when I say this. Ever since I was a kid, I've had what one might call a short fuse. A very illogical short fuse that is prone to blowing unexpectedly.

Generally, I'm okay. I'm a lot better than I used to be, but occasionally stress will trigger a sudden screaming fit (a cathartic screaming fit) and I undergo a frightening transformation, becoming a hysterical Queen of the Harpies.

I'm not sure why this happens, but it does seem to occur around the same time every month, which means that I'm either part lycanthrope or that I'm at the mercy of hormones. I can always tell for the latter- there'll be one day of complete and utter woe-is-me-oh-the-angst!-the-angst! self-pitying depression and then the next day I'll be as narky as a wounded bull.

Today, I had another sudden violent explosion of inexplicable rage (again, at the appropriate time of the month). See, I need the car on Friday night because I am working until 12 a.m. Yes, 12 a.m. Because, naturally, EVERYONE WANTS TO SHOP FOR ELECTRONICS AT MIDNIGHT.

I didn't think this was such a big deal, considering that I don't know what time I'll be finishing up, and I'd rather drive myself home than inconvenience someone else. That, and I absolutely detest being 'picked up' like a schoolkid by my parents. I'm not four years old.

But no, both parentals require one car each for Friday night. And I would much rather drive myself home than have to be picked up after midnight. This should have been a rational point of discussion, but I was suddenly overcome by a fit of pure anger- mostly built-up frustration that I can't do anything without having to run it through my parents first- and of course, I had a fit.

It's not my parents' fault. I am living at home, and certain responsibilities and limitations govern the household. Obviously, freedom was always going to be severely compromised by financial security. But to my addled, sleep-deprived, hormonal mind (plus I'd just staggered off a ten hour shift at work) it was a national calamity.

Ten minutes later, I figured that I could ask one of my colleagues to drop me home.

That would have been the logical, sensible, non-yelling solution.

But that's not nearly half as interesting. And I'm still absolutely furious for no reason at all.

Which makes me wonder...what's your worst fault?

(Remember you can remain anonymous...so SPILL!)


Tuesday, December 18, 2007

Thinking...

My parents do not think very highly of my intelligence.

Admittedly, I haven't given them much reason to disprove this opinion, but that's not the point...surely the 'I-Trust-My-Child-To-Be-Sensible instinct outweights the I-Am-The-Parent-And-Thus-Am-Always-Right mentality?

Or...not.

Today I had a job interview. Again. For a music teaching position. (Again). Only this time, they pretty much offered me a twelve-month contract after fifteen minutes of chatting.

Which was kind of strange, considering the other music school made me jump through several hoops to even get to the bloody audition part...but this seems okay, it's teaching children in primary schools. The only problem is getting around my university timetable...which is going to be interesting. Very interesting.

Anyhow, I rang Dad before going to work to tell him the good news.

He said, "You didn't sign the contract did you? Did you even read it?" etc, acting like I was nine instead of nineteen...before I cracked it and finally pointed out, "YOU KNOW I DIDN'T SUFFER THROUGH ONE YEAR OF CONTRACT LAW TO BE TOLD THAT I NEED TO READ A BLOODY CONTRACT."

I even remember the bloody precedent- L'Estrange v Graucob, although this knowledge is about as useful as the little random facts that come printed on the back of Libra sanitary pads.

Secondly...my grand plan, as I explained to my interviewer, is to take a year off in 2009, and do music. Just music. Ideally, I'd like to teach for a year, complete my A.Mus.A, learn voice and violin, and travel to Greece. And possibly South America. And possibly Alaska.

My mother does not like this idea. In fact, she violently disapproves. She thinks I am being insensible, and she pointed out that time is money, and I could be earning money in that one year blah blah blah...she tried to use the opinion of one of my siblings as back-up for her argument, except I'm perfectly aware that that particular sibling thinks of the world in seven-minute billings...so that really had no weight.

Oddly enough, my father gave me some spiel about superannuation when I first floated this plan, but then shrugged it off, saying, "It's your life..." which would have been quite nice of him if he hadn't added, "...you can muck it up if you want."

Without sounding like a petulant five-year old, I wish I were financially independent...because then no one could tell me what to do. But since I can't afford to move out, no matter how much I wish I had my own space, I am somewhat restricted by certain limitations.

But never mind.

All I want for Christmas is one week off. I have a 9 a.m- 7 p.m shift tomorrow and I think I am just going to retire to the back room with the biggest vat of coffee I can find, and drown my misery in sweet-smelling caffeine.

Mmm.

Coffee...

Edit, post-evil-shift: I bought one extremely large cappuccino during my lunch break but it didn't make me even a smidgen more alert...when I woefully pointed this out to my colleague, he went and bought me an additional cup in order to wake me up. This didn't work either. Which makes me wonder...AM I BECOMING DESENSITISED TO THE MIRACULOUS RESTORATIVE POWERS OF COFFEE?!!!

Wednesday, December 12, 2007

Tweens and Sexuality

I was at work the other day when I saw a little girl standing near the GPS systems.

A little girl, maybe eight or ten years old.

A little girl, wearing a scrap of fabric about 15 cm long that could generously be defined as a 'skirt'.

It was bloody ridiculous. I set my teeth and retreated into the back room, muttering darkly to myself and admittedly, feeling just a little old-fogeyish.

I also happened to chance upon another young girl about her age, tottering off to the bathrooms in knee-high brown boots, clutching a Louis Vuitton handbag. (I'm hoping that it was a fake...because the only Louis Vuitton thing I could ever afford to own would be maybe one square centimetre of leather with the corner of the logo imprinted on it).

Kids should dress like kids, not like miniature hookers. When I was little, I had knee length dresses, I happily wore oversized 80s hand-me-downs, and I even had bright pink leggings with saddle straps. Actually, let's face it, I'm still a horrible dresser. But I get seriously pissed off when I see all the crap out there that's marketed at pre-pubescent tweens.

On the rare occasions that I dare venture into Supre, I sometimes see little girls dragging their mothers around the store, dressed in hideous fluoro miniskirts or high-heeled boots. But that still doesn't beat what I saw whilst shopping in New Zealand a few weeks ago- a whole dance troupe of little girls, from some kind of performing arts school, were dancing to some hideous Christmas carols in the middle of a shopping mall.

Innocent enough, you say?

Except that they were dressed in short little red dresses trimmed with fake white fur with bright red hooker lipstick, dancing around provocatively in the middle of a public place. As I remarked to my aunt as we passed by, it was every pedophile's dream.

Sweetheart, you can dress like a slut all you want when you grow up. But you're a child. Go and play chasey, or cops and robbers, and for fuck's sake I will BURN that Dolly magazine if I see it in your hands.

And that, friends, is my message to the children of Australia.


Sunday, December 9, 2007

I'm Baaaaaack...

Sorry for the lack of updating...I was in New Zealand for two weeks and internet cafes were ridiculously expensive ($3 for 15 minutes?!)

We did a whirlwind tour of both the North and South Islands in 16 days, going through Christchurch, Dunedin, Queenstown, Twizel, Auckland, Napier, Wellington...plus a whole host of smaller towns. I can't quite explain the sheer number of sheep that whizzed past through the car rear windows, but I was quoted something along the lines of 14 million sheep happily residing in the country's rolling green hills and sunny pastures.

(Really, 'shag' was almost inevitably going to be attached to the word 'sheep' when talking about New Zealanders. They're EVERYWHERE.)

Highlights of the trip were the Shotover Jet in Queenstown, the helicopter flight around Fox Glacier, landing on aforesaid glacier, and watching the glaciers melting (which was actually rather tragic, but utterly spectacular.) I also went rolling down a hill in an 11-foot high inflatable sphere filled with water, squealing all the way...if you ever go to Rotorua, you have to go Zorbing. Admittedly, I wasn't too fond of Rotorua because the whole town smells like one big sulphur pit. To further exacerbate this, we went to see the sulphur pits at Wai-O-Topo, which hitched up the stink rating from 'sulphur pit' to 'boiling sewage' level.

I felt like retching.

Onto sweeter-smelling highlights, I also got to see this awesome rose garden in Wellington at the Botanical Gardens, and saw a Maori Haka.

On a more prosaic note, I also got immeasurable joy from the fact that almost all New Zealand supermarkets have a MUFFIN CABINET DEDICATED TO FRESH MUFFINS AND PASTRIES.

For $1.99, you could get a triple chocolate muffin smothered in chocolate with a chocolate Flake stuck in the middle. Or a lemon crumble muffin for 95 cents. Or a black forest muffin.

*drools*

Their pies really really sucked, except for the one steak pie I had at the top of the Gondola centre in Queenstown. I'll have to post up a picture of a Memphis Meltdown ice-cream, because the one that I opened had the most disturbing, phallic-looking chocolate protrusion at very top that I was forced to bite off. Even more disturbingly, it was filled with raspberry goo. But it was very tasty :P

Anyway...when I got back I was thrown into a 29-hour working week, followed by the boss asking me to go full-time until Christmas. It just meant that I got 9 more hours on top of my current roster, so I thought I'd give it a shot. So for the past week, I've been talking myself almost hoarse to customers- the pre-Christmas influx made last weekend absolutely insane, but I found myself actually enjoying it, mostly because I didn't have to go around stalking potential customers.

I know this hasn't been much of a post, but as I once said on my first blog, more Daphne-madness is pending...

P.S- Rosy, I hope you have a fantabulous time in London and thank you for your kind words on your blog. I almost apologise profusely for saying Happy Birthday in your Christmas card but I had to send it immediately because I was afraid it wouldn't get to you in time!!!

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

Auditonus Horribilis

Humiliation comes in many forms.

On Tuesday, I completely and utterly screwed up my audition with my failure to sight-sing. I've never had a strong aural sense, and I was actually one and half tones OUT and quite possibly in the wrong key.

Suffice to say, I didn't get the job.

There were other horrible moments of course- like when I tried to take a 'shortcut' before Glenferrie Rd and ended up shrieking hysterically at a particularly stubborn red light with only four minutes before the audition. Like when I started my Mazurka with an extremely heavy bang, having not played on a grand piano for years. Like when I mucked up what should have been a basic 3/4 rhythm in the harmonisation, and almost missed 'Do' by a semitone in the lyric singing. And how was I to know that the interviewer's pet hate was people who play without shoes?

I felt vaguely disappointed at the end, but it wasn't exactly what you'd call crushing. I knew from the start that I could never compete with the psycho-technical-tertiary-level-music-people and the audition also reinforced the fact that I have lost any performing ability I once had.

Plus, it was end-of-exams. And after a night of bar-hopping, I didn't even think about it.

Woot!

Wednesday, November 7, 2007

When You Know The Notes to Sing...

Today, I booked myself in for an audition.

It's for the job I'm stuck in the middle of applying for- and when they first advertised it, they required applicants to possess a 'comfortable singing voice'.

I said I did.

I lied.

Thus, I am quite in a predicament.

Singing the shower? Fine. Singing in choirs? Great. Singing by myself? Teaching others how to sing? Not so crash hot. And by 'not so crash hot' I mean disastrous.

Of course, there are still tons of things I'm crap at in my current job. Resistors, trimpots and capacitors are my downfall. But this audition...it requires me to learn Solfege. Y'know, that 'Do, Re, Mi' stuff Maria does with the children in The Sound of Music?

Easy, right?

Hell no.

I'm used to the SAME syllable being applied to my notes. Like "LA". Or "DOOOO". And I tried the other day, and I kept going, "Re....no...MI...no...LA? TI? AAAAAAARGGGGGGHHHHHH."

Plus, the Von Trapp children all appeared to have perfect pitch and a perfect ear for aural work, not to mention the ability to break into spontaneous harmony. Brats.

For the audition, I need to:

- perform two contrasting piano pieces at an 8th Grade AMEB Level
- accompany myself and sing along to a piece they've given me
- accompany myself and sing along in Solfege to three different melodies they've given me
- tranpose 'Waltzing Matilda' into any key up to 2 flats and 2 sharps, whichever one they choose
- sightread a piece of music in any key/tempo
- improvise a harmony
- make a chordal arrangment for a given melody
- sight-sing in Solfege

SO AS YOU CAN SEE, I AM SCREWED.

On the other hand, my utter humiliation should only be confined to a small room of a couple of interviewers.

Friday, November 2, 2007

You Might Be in Law School If...

To help combat my current bout of law-school-induced depression, I visited one of my Facebook groups, "You Might Be in Law School If..."

I almost cried at the painful accuracy of this list. And I felt slightly better.

Kris, I dedicate this post to you. Even though I have unashamedly ripped it off Facebook:

You know you're in Law School if...

You know all sorts of sneaky and creative ways to steal from clients thanks to your Professionalism and Ethics class.

You consider dropping out of law school approximately every hour, but after that first semester you realized you were already in too much debt to be anything other than a lawyer.

You aspire to one day own Blackacre.

Substance abuse becomes you.

The drama in your life now rivals that of high school.

You make adverse possession jokes.

You can name without hesitation at least three people who make you want to throw things when you see them raise their hands in class.

You think IRAC and CREAC are just code for saying the same thing over and over.

You are truly and deeply unnerved by the thought of some of your classmates becoming attorneys.

You think tequila shots are essential to ordered liberty.

You wonder if that one professor who always seems angry and irritable and treats students’ minds as his personal playground is actually a sociopath or just didn’t get enough hugs as a child.

Sometimes during disagreements you are tempted to 12(b)(6) the offending friend or family member.

You know and understand the complicated epistemological and metaphysical differences between a conspirator and an accomplice.

You know and understand the complicated epistemological and metaphysical differences between coffee and red bull.

You can’t remember if you decided to come to law school because you wanted to help people and make a difference in the world or because you hate yourself.

You think whoever first introduced the Socratic method into the law school curriculum should have his face lit on fire and then beaten out with a rake.

You can’t think of any legitimate reason why a law student would need access to certain public records, but you can think of a whole lot of illegitimate ones.

After the first semester you realized that “briefing a case” need only consist of looking it up on Lexis or Westlaw.

You’ve given yourself carpal tunnel from all the spider solitaire you play in class.

When someone is expressing their frustration or anger about something that is in any way related to the law, you can’t be sympathetic because you’re too busy figuring out in your head if they have a cause of action.

You hear about the death of an elderly friend or relative and wonder if they died intestate.

You have considered changing career paths to hot dog vendor, stilt walker, or career alcoholic.You're pretty sure the reasonable prudent man is a friendless tool who still lives with his mother.

...

You may not be surprised to know that I also joined the Facebook group, "I've Thought About Dropping Out Of Law School At Least Ten Times Today."

Thursday, November 1, 2007

The Horrors of Contract Law

Y'know, whenever I watched "JAG", the wonderfully clean-shaven, square-jawed American lawyer Lieutenant Harmon Rabb never got caught up in little things like contract law cases.

He was always defending Marines under fire, or arguing on exculpatory evidence, or heightening the sexual tension over eight seasons with Colonel Mackenzie...but I don't recall him ever fussing over something like contracts.

Probably because contracts don't really make for exciting TV.

Of course, half the time I was mostly admiring how handsome he looked in his nicely starched and iron white Navy uniform, but I did pay attention to the storylines. Let's be honest- half the reason I went into law was because of that show.

Anyhow, I had my first written exam for Contracts B today and it was, hands-down, the WORST exam I've ever sat.

I knew NOTHING.

NOTHING.

Nada.

Squat.

I got to the Policy question, took one look at 'good faith in termination' and 'legitimate interest in affirmation' and almost cried right then and there.

I had a look at Question One and also almost went into hysterics.

I didn't even touch on remedies. Or damages. And that was one third of the course, as somebody on the train helpfully pointed out to me.

I'm relying heavily on the supplementary exam. Assuming there is one.

Just to make things worse, cute guy from 'X, Y, Z' happened to be sitting exactly two rows to my right and one seat up, and let's just say that was a terrible distraction. After the exam finished, he rested his head on the table, and that was pretty much how I felt at that moment.

I went into the city afterwards to meet up with my sister for dinner at the Leveson, which is famed for its Parma- it's meant to be rated #1 in Melbourne. And it was- it had actual chicken breast in it, which is a far cry from the horrors of the food court parmagianas I've encountered in my takeaway travels.

To get through the utter pain of failing Contract law, I steadily made my way through one parma, side salad, chips, lemon lime bitters, Turkish bread/dips, and a chocolate cake with white chocolate ice-cream and raspberry caramel, finished off with a cappucino (full cream...I don't know how my sis drinks that skinny stuff.)

It helped. Somewhat.

Except I've just discovered that you need 45% minimum to sit a supplementary exam.

This isn't like Chinese last semester, where they scaled the marks WAAAAY up (I wouldn't have passed otherwise). This is bad. Very, very bad.

BAD.

Had I the energy to weep, I would. But I can't be stuffed. The only good thing is that I've got a basic knowledge now, so repeating it shouldn't be as bad the first time round.

The only thing that would cheer me up right now is my square-jawed American hero, David James Elliott.

And possibly some Prozac.


Sunday, October 28, 2007

The Monster Mash

Thanks to Daylight Savings, I have now turned into the Puffy-Eyed Sleepless Monster.

This transformation generally occurs by the light of the full moon...or within several days of an assignment deadline or exam.

The temper of the Puffy-Eyed Sleepless Monster knows no bounds. It will snap at anything that comes within fifteen feet. It will stalk to the pantry and ransack what meagre vittles it finds. It hisses and snarls darkly over sheets of looseleaf and heavy textbooks, and will be likely to attack if the words 'liquidiated damages' or 'natural law' are uttered within earshot.

The Puffy-Eyed Sleepless Monster has a menacing appearance that is often frightening to young children. The most common form sports hideous cotton Big W pyjamas with an unkempt, unbrushed mane of hair, and is characterised by large, dark shadows that hang under the beast's puffy eyes. It has sharp, unmanicured nails and a high-pitched, klaxon-like wailing voice (which rises in pitch and frequency depending on the proximity of exams).

If you are confronted by this fearsome beast, it is better to back away slowly, avoiding eye contact. The Puffy-Eyed Sleepless Monster loathes bright sunshine and equally bright, happy people (however, if you smile winningly at the beast it may be stirred into a furious rage and rip your throat out.)

If you are cornered by the Monster, it may be less likely to attack if offered a strong pot of coffee (with a big dash of milk. And one heaped teaspoon of sugar.) Generally, it is simply best to avoid the beast in its natural habitat. It prefers to reside in self-imposed exile in a private room, where its terrible wailing cry cannot be heard.

If in doubt, simply offer the Puffy-Eyed Sleepless Monster a hug.

After all, there is a human being underneath.

Somewhere.

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

The Joys of Group Interviews

Group interviews are stupid.

Stupid, but extremely amusing.

I toddled off to a group interview today for a position as a music teacher. Upon entering the waiting room and meeting some of the other candidates, I quickly realised something.

Everyone was VASTLY more qualifed than I was.

As in, half of them were actually students doing a dedicated music degree- actually devoting their life to music- or they'd taught music in the past. I felt like an imposter.

I believe that there are two types of tertiary music students. The first type tend to be creative, laidback souls who generally happen to be the most lovely people you'll ever meet. The second type tend to be poncy little elitists who you want to smack over the head with a music stand. Thankfully, there are relatively few of the latter, but when you meet them you want to...well, hit them over the head with a music stand.

Left to their own devices, these people will grow up to become those irritable old patrons who sit behind you at MSO concerts, muttering about obscure technical points and giving you death glares if you think to even whisper.

Unfortunately, there happened to be one of these poncy people in this interview group. Because it was a group interview, and group interviews happen to be ridiculous affairs with equally ridiculous team-building activities, we had to write down five things we would wish for if a genie appeared to us.

(Considering that the entire interview consisted of these ostensibly random and pointless exercises, I'm assuming that the selectors apply their uber-awesome 1337 psychoanalytic skills to examine our answers.)

Anyhow, we had to read them out, and this is what poncy-boy started out with. In an equally poncy manner:

1. "First, I would wish for every child in the world to have the same opportunities I have had."
2. "I would also eradicate world hunger."
3. "I would wish for my girlfriend to feel the kind of happiness that I feel from being around her."

(Everyone else: "Awwww....")

4. "To be the best musician and pianist and composer in the world."

I forget what his fifth answer was, but I think it was something to do with world peace.

Because I am an evil and selfish person, world peace only made it to #3 on my list. The rest were purely self-indulgent. I figured that with endless money I could probably work on eradicating world hunger anyway. My list ran as follows:

1. Yamaha Grand Concert Piano. (They can even make 'Heart and Soul' sound good.)
2. A bank account that never dries up
3. World peace
4. Good health
5. An albino pet koala (or possibly a penguin)

As you can imagine, everyone simply stared at me like I was mad when I read out the fifth request. But as Neesh will attest to, I've wanted a baby albino koala since Year 11, when I saw a picture of one in my Biology textbook.

I'm also rather fond of penguins.

Anyway...

...group interviews are also amusing because everyone chats to everyone else, but really, everyone's just trying to prove to the observers that "Yes, I can work in a team! Look, I'm communicating! Seeeeeee?!"
Also, one of the girls on my table simply walked out and didn't come back after the first exercise. She was meant to be helping us in the group exercise, but she simply said, "Excuse me for a moment," grabbed her bag and then never came back.


I seem to have that effect on people :P

Anyhow, it was an interesting break from my long hours of not-doing-anything-when-i-should-be-studying.
So, SO screwed for these exams.

Blaaaaargh.

I need a nap, a Frosty Fruit and an albino koala.

Sunday, October 21, 2007

Stuck on You

Imagine:

You're in a clothing shop. You see a pretty dress.

You pull it off the rack.

You lock yourself inside a dressing room to try it on.

You slip it over your head.

You try to pull it off.

And it gets STUCK.

Ten points to anyone who can guess what happened to me in David Jones today...


OK. So I wander in on my lunch break looking to browse, and I see this cute little dress rimmed in baby blue. Normally, I'm a Size 8 or sometimes a Size 10. Personally, I believe that if we went by the sizings that were in vogue seven years ago, I should be a Size 10. Except this whole stupid 'vanity sizing' concept means that sizes have all gone down...so that women are meant to think, "Oooh yay, I'm a Size 8, I feel better about myself so I'll buy this!"

It doesn't work. Dressing room mirrors are cruel.

Anyhow...I somehow managed to pull this dress over my head, except I had this funny sensation in my left arm.

It felt like I'd dislocated my shoulder. But I ignored the pain.

I then realised that this Size 8 dress would, in normal circumstances, qualify as a SIZE SIX. IT WAS NOT A NORMAL SIZE EIGHT. It's a simple test: I can breathe in Size 8 clothes. The same cannot be said for Size Six items.

So I tried to get it off.

Except it was stuck. Stuck fast. Stuck stuck stuck.

Stuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

Okay...okay...don't panic.

Tug.

Tug.

AAAAAAAAARGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH.

Breathe. Breathe.

It would not budge. I decided that the best way to get it off would be to try slipping an arm and shoulder through..then the rest would follow. However, this was easier said than done.

I sincerely hope that nobody outside was watching, as they would have seen a pair of hapless arms flailing about in terror above the changing room door.

As luck would have it, my shoulder and arm got nicely stuck. There was not one millimetre of room. I could see the circulation being cut off to my left arm- it was swelling up nicely like an angry scarlet Bratwurst- and I was beginning to feel a sense of overwhelming panic.

There was actually a point where I considered just getting a staff member to cut me out and I'd pay for the dress- it was $70- but the horror and indignity of this was just too much to bear. So I struggled in pained silence. My shoulder hurt, my arm hurt, and my fingers were beginning to go numb.

This is it, I thought. I'm going to be stuck in this dressing room until closing time and I'll miss the rest of my shift...

That thought alone made me fight even more vigorously. The Changing Room Gods must have been looking out for me today...perhaps they thought that I had struggled enough...and so somehow, miraculously, I managed to to drag it off.

I could have cried from joy.

Except my shoulder HURT.

I dumped the dress back on the counter, grabbed a bite to eat and ran back to work. Except I was still extremely stressed from my ordeal- I shudder to think about what would have happened had I not been able to extricate myself from that prison of patterned fabric- and it's quite difficult to greet people with a smile when your neck and shoulder are still an aching reminder of this.

Colleague: Hey, are you OK?
Me: What? Yes. Fine! Why?!
Colleague: You look...kind of angry.
Me: I'M NOT ANGRY.
Colleague: Oh good...cos I thought you were mad at me or something.
Me: What?! No, of course I'm not mad at you (at this point I was thinking extremely uncharitable thoughts towards THAT dress)

So...'fess up.

Have you ever gotten stuck?!

Saturday, October 20, 2007

Now I'm Trapped in the Closet...

From ninemsn.com.au:

"According to tabloid reports, Top Gun star Tom Cruise is planning to build a $10 million bunker underneath his Colorado mansion as a precaution against an alleged intergalactic ruler called Xenu who, Cruise believes, will attack Earth."

...?

?

?!

It's time that someone sat him down and calmly explained to him that his role in War of the Worlds wasn't actually real.

On a completely unrelated note, I'm stuck in the middle of an appalling 'Fault Analysis' for my Grammar course. I'm knee deep in dangling modifiers, split infinitives and subjunctive verb clauses- but I still require five more errors to analyse.

So tell me- should that comma stuck between 'who' and 'Cruise' be placed after 'Xenu' instead? It looks rather clumsy in its current position and it's giving me a headache...

Wednesday, October 17, 2007

Meltdown in 3, 2, 1...

I was waiting in the Post Office queue today when I saw this little toy called the 'Stress-O-Meter'. All you had to do was put two fingers on the little metal pads and it would tell you how stressed out you were. Supposedly.

I was actually feeling fairly calm, but when I put my fingers on it, it gave a little beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

And the light flickered to "MELTDOWN'.

Stupid little piece of plastic.

Then I remembered that I had a 1,500 word essay due in less than seven days. Which I have not started. And that not listening to thirteen weeks worth of law kinda sucks when it comes to the exam. And despite thirteen weeks of Grammar instruction I still don't know what a split infinitive is. And that maybe, just maybe, I was leaving this all a little too late and I would have to repeat another terrible horrendous semester of pure legal theory- a truly painful unit that is even better than Valium as a sedative.

I know this because I stopped staying awake after Week Three.

(That was also the class in which I lost the contact lens from my right eye- it slipped out while I was yawning. )

DOES THIS NOT TELL YOU SOMETHING?!

On the other hand, I got called back for a group interview- for the teaching position described here (if you've read that post you'll know that it's a bloody miracle I got called back at all.) The bad news is that it requires you to be free on a LOT of days for observation and training if you get past the group stage...not to mention the audition, but I doubt it'll get that far. And I have an EXAM on the observation training day.

I wonder if there's a level above 'Meltdown'?

Thursday, October 11, 2007

School Reunion

I'm going to my school reunion tomorrow night.

Except it's not really MY school reunion...I only went to that school for one year when I was fourteen, and 80% of the people in my year level were just plain jerks.

So why am I going?

Curiosity, mostly. This is going to be irredeemably awkward. However, I'm braving it with my lovely friend Sarah (who managed to put up with me for that one year of schooling) and we've made a pact to escape the reunion and find a good ice-cream parlour if it gets too boring. I'm sorta hoping that it does turn out to be dull, as I could really use some kind of hazelnut chocolate gelati in my life right now.

Also, I get to blog about it later on, and you can all enjoy the vicarious schadenfreude associated with such traumatic school events :P

Monday, October 8, 2007

And so it continues...


Mother (after I arrived home one hour later than expected): Where have you been?

Me: I-

Mother (looking searchingly into my face): Ooh, maybe you have a secret boyfriend? Hmm? That's why you're late?

(Gives me hopeful...read 'hopeful' as 'desperate'...stare)

Me: Mum...we had another hour lecture on feminism in the law. That's why I was late.

Mother: Oh.

I get the funny feeling that my mother is getting a little bit desperate. Just a little bit...



Thursday, October 4, 2007

Worst. Job. Interview. Ever.

Life is a joke.

Seriously.

If you can't take a look at yourself every once in a while and just laugh at your own stupidity, it can get rather dull. As Pablo Neruda once observed, "Laughter is the language of the soul," and a sense of humour is like the little pin that can keep our own inflated pride in check.

There are so many hilarious moments in life that we need to appreciate- the pure slapstick when someone trips over or whacks into something, the communal groan upon the reception of terrible joke, the shriek of laughter that accompanies an outrageous comment or an unexpected confession. The random giggling in the dark at sleepovers, or the hysterical bouts of laughter where you think your heart's going to jump out of your chest because you can't stop shaking.

You see, I applied for this job today. I'm not going to say what it was for obvious reasons, but it was to do with teaching, and I really, really wanted this position. I fixed up the cover letter and the CV last night, and this afternoon I sent off an e-mail to the company fifteen minutes before I was going to leave.

What I wasn't expecting was for the aforementioned company to ring me about eight minutes after I'd sent the e-mail.

Seriously, who does that?!

At the time of the call, I was getting changed in my room. When the phone rang, I snatched it off my crumpled bedspread and answered it.

Ah. A phone interview!

The phone line on her end was bad. Exceptionally bad. It sounded like that garbled radio transmission sampled in Transformers, except instead of telling me her encrypted plans to destroy the Earth, she was asking me about my teaching experience.

"Uh...."

(I don't have teaching experience.)

"Well...I've done some tutoring..." (This was a grand total of three times before they realised that I wasn't teaching their child anything useful, I was just cynically and bitterly ranting on about the idiocy of teenage love for two hours and blaming dear old Friar Lawrence for everything that went wrong in Romeo and Juliet)

"...and I've taken a few classes at my old school..." (Grand total of ONE. And it was such a debacle that they never asked me to do it again. Not my fault if none of the kids READ THE DAMN BOOK BEFORE I TOOK THE CLASS.)

So I was trying desperately to hear this woman on this terrible scratchy phone line, and halfway through the interview I suddenly realised that I was talking to this lovely lady whilst I was had no clothes on.

I had to laugh. I was hopping up and down on one foot trying to find a clean shirt, conducting a civilised phone interview with a lovely lady on the other end. It was a very pleasant and polite conversation, and I was just thinking to myself, "If she could see me now.."

And during this realisation, my father started yelling up the stairs that I was going to be late.

And then he used the intercom (LOUDLY) while I was still trying to hear the interviewer on the phone.

I couldn't tell my dad that I was on the phone, and considering my state of undress I couldn't actually run down and provide a series of furious hand signals to show this. Furthermore, one hand was clamped over my mobile and I was still hopping up and down mentally shrieking "Where the fuck are my jeans?!". Whilst she was asking about availability, I was scrabbling under my bed for aforesaid jeans, and digging through a giant pile of clothes. Unfortunately, this carefully balanced pile happened to topple right off the chair.

"So why did you apply for this position?"
"Well...I love kids..."

(Damn, no socks...)

"...and I like teaching..."

(Where's that shirt?! Wheeeeeeeere?!!!!)

"YOU'RE GOING TO BE LATE AGAIN!"

Aaaaaaarggghhhh....

It was rather disastrous interview. She actually gave me the 'let-down' speech before the formal notification next week- "We've got 80-100 applications...and we're only accepting about 6-8 teachers."

Yay.

It's a pity, because it was something I really wanted to do. But even though I was disappointed, I couldn't help but laugh at the whole thing afterwards.

It was just so ridiculous.

Looks like I'm stuck selling remote control cars over Christmas.

Saturday, September 29, 2007

Don't Smile :D

I hate I.D photos.

I hate concession card photos. I hate licence photos. But most of all, I hate passport photos.

When I got my passport photo in Year Eight, I started counting down until 2008- when I would be able to renew the horrible photo (I looked stoned.) On my probationary drivers' licence, I look jaundiced.

I looked down at my new passport photo today after the Polaroid had dried and went "Crap."

The stout little woman at the Post Office who had taken my photo happened to be SHORT. Shorter than me. I personally believe that people that short should not be let anywhere near a quad lens Polaroid camera, because now I have four 35mm photos of me with a highly unflattering Avril Lavigne-esque angle. As in, nostril shots.

Because she was looking UP.

All I needed to do was get a tie, adopt a Canadian whine and break into the first chorus of Girlfriend.

Not happy, Jan. And because laughing or frowning is strictly prohibited in passport photos, I look like a grumpy Columbian drug dealer that's been dragged in for questioning. And I'm Asian- so that simile doesn't even work.

I also decided while I was out that I'd get a nice fruity air freshener for my little blue car- it was this bright orange, happy-looking tree. If you've never used an air freshener before (as I had not), you're meant to pull it one-seventh out of the bag, and tug it out an extra half centimetre each week to properly distribute the fragrance. (I'm not sure who thought this up, because it's a friggin' air freshener, it's not bloody rocket science.)

Unfortunately, in my zeal to open the air freshener I ripped the entire bag open.

Screw it, I thought, and I just attached it to the little hook above the back seat door.

Five minutes later, I thought I was going to choke and die on Sunny Citrus fumes. It was so damn strong I had to take it out of the car and dump it on the shoe cabinet near the door (so now our entire front room also smells strongly of orange).

I have unleashed an olfactory MONSTER.

Monday, September 24, 2007

Amazing Celebrity Lookalikes #1

I went to the Royal Melbourne Show...

...and I saw a dog that looked like Jennifer Aniston.

Exhibit A:











Exhibit B:



Tee hee hee.

Transformers!

"I've seen this movie, the black dude dies first." (Harry Block, "Evolution")

I saw Transformers today.

And despite the fact that it was mostly two hours of giant robots stomping around smashing stuff in their attempts to maim each other, THE ROBOT-THAT-SOUNDED-LIKE-AN-AFRICAN-AMERICAN STILL GOT KILLED FIRST.
That's right- the smooth-talking Autobot who got a grand total of two lines in the film ended up snuffing it first in the final battle.

Because he was BLACK. Or at least, he sounded black.

In the traditional of all big blockbusters, the black guy in the ensemble cast always gets killed off first. Sort of the sacrifice that gets the ball rolling. And Jazz was the uber-cool homey-ass Autobot with a ghetto accent.

Suffice to say, I was extremely upset when Megatron snapped Jazz in half like a toothpick. They said it was because Jazz was much smaller (but so much blacker and thus cooler) than the other robots, so Megatron bisecting him was more plausible, but they could have whacked off Ratchet and I wouldn't have felt so upset.

(Sniff).

We saw Transformers at Imax, and on the huge screen, it was spectacular. It was a Michael Bay film (think Pearl Harbor)- and like Roland Emmerich (Independence Day, Day After Tomorrow) Bay likes explosions. Big explosions. And lots of scenes showing the big bad Americans leaping into their F22s to defend the homeland. The special effects were absolutely stunning, especially when they started transforming- I got a special thrill from seeing an Xbox 360 sprout legs and burst out of the box on a murderous spree.

As for plot, there was none. There seriously was no plot. At all.

There was some vague backstory about a Cube and all, except we sneaked in ten minutes late and so thus missed a bit of that- and the rest of the film was total, glorious, destructive mayhem.

And you know what? The main female lead survived a giant explosion and a huge battle on the streets between two groups of warring robots- she was covered in dirt and grime, yet her lipstick was still absolutely perfect. Coral pink with not even a hint of a smudge.

And what kind of hacker wears that kind of shimmery lip-gloss for a job that involves sitting in front of a data screen all day? (I suppose the answer is the 'blonde, leggy and gorgeous' type of hacker).

Anyhow, it was a great film to kick off the mid-term break- no thinking required. Just sit back, and watch the Decepticons and Autobots smash it out for the future of the planet.








Saturday, September 22, 2007

The Face of Boe?

Captain Jack cannot be the Face of Boe.

I refuse to believe it.

I don't care that it fits perfectly into the timeline. I don't care about how it makes sense. You cannot turn my handsome boy from this...












...into this:










I don't care about five billion friggin' years of evolution, this is JACK HARKNESS.

AAAAAAAAAAARRRRRGGGGHHH!!!!!

(In case you couldn't tell, I was slightly upset by the end of this year's season finale.)

Wednesday, September 19, 2007

The Sweetness of Truancy


Thank the Force that blogging , unlike podcasting, doesn't require me to use my voice.

Currently, my voice sounds like an oboe- weird, reedy and reminiscent of a duck honking.

All I did yesterday was schnuffle into a box of tissues, trying to keep it quiet so I wouldn't interrupt the guest lecturer with a nasal symphony during her hour-long presentation on grammar and syntax. I had uni from 9 to 5 (technically) but after I finished my class at 2 p.m, I was faced with the horrifiying prospect of three hours of Contract Law. Three SNIFFLY hours of Contract Law.

Let me set the scene here: every Tuesday, I have three hours of Contract Law in the most dingy lecture theatre in the whole campus. The theatre is as dark as a prison cell and just as inviting, and every square inch of the desks are covered in graffiti proudly proclaming "Land Rights For Gay Whales".

(Before you ask, I have no idea either.)

Yesterday was sunny. Gloriously so. It was so warm and lovely and the birds were singing and gates were open and the hills were beckoning, and oh, Reverend Mother, I just couldn't help myself...

...I didn't leap onto the Science Lawns and swing my arms around in wide circles singing about how the hills were alive, but the temptation was certainly there.

But like Maria, I ran. I did run through that gate, away from the musty confines of the science theatres and the mysteries of contract law...

...and I spent my afternoon playing soccer in the park with Kris and Chrissy. Chrissy tried to give me a few pointers on how to not-look-like-a-total-idiot when kicking the ball, but it didn't quite work- she's a brilliant goalkeep and an even more deadly striker...whilst most of my time on court involves me flinging up my arms in terror to avoid being hit. I think her most important piece of advice from the session was this:

"Daph...when the ball comes towards you, don't scream."

Duly noted :D

We capped off the afternoon by spending an hour running about on the playground- trying to run up the slides, going on the swings, discovering that the little horsey see-saws aren't really meant for people over the age of seven...it was awfully refreshing knowing that even though we were oh-so-sensible, mature young women going on 20, we still had a combined mental age of about three.

It sure beat fallling asleep in a lecture theatre listening to three hours of talk about misleading and deceptive conduct.

However, I heard the ultimate truancy excuse today, when I was talking to a friend who hadn't shown up to class in more than a week. His reason?

He'd fallen in love.

If that ain't a reason to skip class, I don't know what is.


Wednesday, September 12, 2007

Cleanliness Is Next To Podliness

"i-pod, therefore i-am."

This is engraved onto the back of the silver iPod which my sisters presented to me last Christmas. Having suffered through 3+ hours of daily commuting on public (and stinky) transport last year, with only an unreliable Nokia pop-port FM headset for company, it was like some kind of Podly gift from heaven.

I hadn't really planned on getting an iPod in particular- I was going through one of those 'everyone-has-one-so-I-want-to-be-different' stages, but when I held that slim, silver little iPod in my hands and flicked on that bright little coloured screen...

...well, you probably think it's weird for maternal instincts to arise over a piece of technology.

In which case, I probably shouldn't mention the fact that I sometimes call my little 2GB bundle of joy "SeƱor i-Poddy Poddy".

*awkward silence*

Not to get all defensive or anything, but surely that's a better name than say...Tiger Lily or Peaches or Apple or young Shiloh Pitt? (Or as I like think of it- Piloh Shitt. Tee hee.)

i-pod, therefore i-am.

It's true- the iPod has no longer become the status symbol of the schoolyard. It's progressed to become an almost natural accessory, something that everyone is simply expected to carry. The worldwide retail price is so stable that it's replaced the Big Mac index. It's almost frightening to look around on the bus to see 99% of passenger with those telling white earbuds jammed in to their ears.

It's even more frightening to realise that I am also one of these anti-social iPodding people, standing alone in my own little world listening to the Overture of Jesus Christ Superstar.

Take a look here and here.

Yes folks, that's the new iPod Touch and the new generation of Nano. The iPod videos have been renamed the iPod Classic, and have shot up to 160GB for the same price as the 80GB. The Nanos have a bigger screen, seem to resemble a Creative Zen V Plus, and can now play video. I get the feeling that I will soon be repeating this mantra to every second customer who walks into the store.

I don't like the new colours though- I have a little vendetta against pastel shades.

I think the main reason why this iPod phenomenon unsettles me is because they're so common....because they have now become the ultimate symbol of the middle-class. Maybe it's partly because of my line of work, and the fact that the aforementioned middle-class come in droves to seek them out, and I get to repeat the same old thing over and over.

I can thus understand why some people are so anti-iPod. It's not just because some iPods have a strange habit of suddenly packing up for no apparent reason after the one-year warranty, and it's not just because some people have an ingrained anti-Mac streak which makes them rabid...maybe it's just because they want to ignore the status quo.

This is the Pro/Con list I generally go through with each customer who wants to buy an MP3 player and always asks the age-old question: "So what's the difference between the iPods and everything else?"

Pros of Poddy-ness

- colour screen
- slim design, battery life of up to sixteen hours
- scroll/click wheel
- easy access to playlists and genres
- iTunes store
- almost everything is now iPod-tailored (e.g speaker docks, skins)
- games
- relatively cheap for a video player
- Shuffle and 4GB come in such pretty colours

Cons of Poddy-ness

- unlike virtually every other MP3 on the market, it lacks an FM tuner and a voice recorder. Both accessories can be purchased for $79 and $99 respectively, but ain't that a bit annoying?
- songs must be converted into AAC format, which is often not compatible with non-Apple devices (some phones play AAC but you can't play copy-protected AAC on an XBox 360)
- can't 'drag and drop' or use as a backup flash drive
- can't play copy-protected WMAs (unless you burn to disc and transfer them back)
- I personally believe that AAC has an inferior sound quality

But I love SeƱor i-Poddy Poddy. When he's not safely sheathed in his X-Treme Mac Neoprene case, he's one damn sexy piece of technology.

Saturday, September 8, 2007

Adobe is a Girl's Best Friend

Screw diamonds.

I've found a new and better friend-

- the humble PDF file.

I love PDFs. I love all form of digitised academia. I love Adobe Acrobat Reader, and the sexy way it flows off the tongue. I love the sensual scrolling motion as I roll the mouse button down to find the information that will save my skin.

In short, I love the fact that it has just made up for all my research shortfalls.

You see, I am the bastard child of two faculties. I'm half Law, half Arts, and unfortunately, I seem to have taken on the Arts mentality of "Essay? What essay?"

(If I had taken of the characteristics of my other parent faculty, I would probably be hunched up in the law library with a stack of secondary references cradled protectively under one arm, hissing competitively at any other law students that would dare to come within snatching range of my precious precious 3-hour-reserve texts on Critical Legal Theory.)

However, I am an Arts student. And we don't...actually...do anything.

Oh, we sit and we debate, and we drink coffee at Wholefoods and occasionally wake up before 11 a.m to sneak into a lecture, but we don't really do much else. Besides sleep. And whine about the 'workload' which consists of two contact hours a week per subject.

Anyhow, I really should have considered the logistics of starting this 2500 word essay (worth 50% of the total mark). In constrasting the dichotomy of suburbia and the inner city in Australian fiction, I should really have considered the fact that I might need secondary references. You know, for that funny thing at the end of the essay called a Bibliography.

I probably shouldn't have left it until tonight, too.

Tomorrow, the library is open at 2:00-5:00 p.m. Instead of frantically chasing down references, I am going to be stuck at work from 10 a.m- 5:00 p.m, listening to another customer complain about how I should be taking responsibility for their own stupidity (I have a suggestion to the stupid moron who flung abuse at me the other day- if you LOSE your specialised charger for your Navman handheld, there is no point throwing a tantrum about it and being generally insulting because we don't stock the manufacturer-order-only-item on our shelves. If you dare come back in and shout about 'shocking customer service' I shall knock you out with a 24V cordless drill, truss you up in the back room and make you watch "Rick Stein's French Odyssey" for ten hours on our crappy 34cm television.)

Ahem...back to the essay....

...so I was having a panicky fit, looking at this list of recommended reading that I had largely ignored up to Week Eight, going "AAAAAAAARGGGGGGGHHHHHH", as is my wont (I'm often wondered what it must be like sharing a house with me.)

...and then I searched the university catalogue. And found that half of these blessed texts have been converted into PDF form as an ONLINE RESOURCE.

Huzzah!

I could kiss the person who developed PDFs. I could also kiss the person who kindly uploaded all of those texts to the library catalogue. In fact, I think the whole world needs a hug right now.

Essay is due Monday. I still have one more night (una noche, according to 98 Degrees) and so it shall be a sleepless essay extravaganza in which the words "dichotomy", "suburbia" and "stagnant" shall be overused to the nth degree.

It's gonna be a long night, Bubbles.

Thursday, September 6, 2007

Character Deaths


I was sitting up at 3:15 a.m last night, reading Legacy of the Force: Sacrifice.

Crying.

They killed off my favourite character.

It was like losing a friend. Someone I had grown to love through years of reading. I first picked up a Star Wars novel in Year Nine, and I have spent seven years with this character, watching her grow from an Imperial assassin to a Jedi Master.

Thus, I have compiled a list of Most HeartBreaking Character Deaths (not in any particular order).

1. Mara Jade Skywalker (Legacy of the Force- Sacrifice)

From the moment they showed her on the cover I knew that there was a fair chance she wouldn't make it out of the book alive.

The image of a fourteen year-old Ben Skywalker finding his mother's body and watching guard over her, all alone...I kept flipping back the pages and sniffling all over again. Also, she was killed by her own nephew, the eldest son of Han Solo and Princess Leia. Jacen Solo (whoops, now he's now known as Darth Caedus) must DIE.

2. Tonks and Lupin (Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows)

When I first read the much anticipated final Potter book (for which I queued up for an hour on the launch morning to get my free plush owl) I didn't really give a toss that Colin Creevey had kicked the proverbial magical bucket, or even that Fred Weasley had died...my heart broke when Harry caught sight of the bodies of Tonks and Lupin lying still in the Great Hall.

I was in mourning for days.

They were, without a doubt, my favourite couple from the Harry Potter series. And they both died when their son was only a few weeks old.

*Wails in anguish*

Hadn't the werewolf SUFFERED ENOUGH?!

3. Beth March (Good Wives)

So you thought that Little Women ended happily ever, did you?

WRONG.

If you've seen the movie, then you probably already know that Beth dies. If you've read the book, then you know that Beth dies quietly in the most heartbreaking way possible- in her mother's arms. *Sniffles*

4. Judy (Seven Little Australian)

Judy's death in Seven Little Australians was the most heart-wrenching, soul crushing death I've ever read. That is the only book in which I can remember being in a paroxysm of literary grief, almost howling over the book with a box of trusty Kleenex under the bedcovers. (For those who haven't read it, Judy is crushed by a gum tree when she leaps out to protect her little brother. Interestingly enough, if you would like to read the entire text after I have just spoiled the entire book for you, it is available free at http://www.gutenberg.org/etext/4731

This is the excerpt of Judy's death:

"If it's all gold and diamonds, I don't want to go!" The child was crying now. "Oh, Meg, I want to be alive! How'd you like to die, Meg, when you're only thirteen? Think how lonely I'll be without you all. Oh, Meg! Oh, Pip, Pip! Oh, Baby! Nell!"

...

"Oh! and Judy, dear, we are forgetting; there's Mother, Judy, dear--you won't be lonely! Can't you remember Mother's eyes, little Judy?" Judy grew quiet, and still more quiet. She shut her eyes so she could not see the gathering shadows. Meg's arms were round her, Meg's cheek was on her brow, Nell was holding her hands, Baby her feet, Bunty's lips were on her hair. Like that they went with her right to the Great Valley, where there are no lights even for stumbling, childish feet.
The shadows were cold, and smote upon their hearts; they could feel the wind from the strange waters on their brows; but only she who was about to cross heard the low lapping of the waves. Just as her feet touched the water there was a figure in the doorway.

"Judy!" said a wild voice; and Pip brushed them aside and fell down beside her. "Judy, Judy, JUDY!"

The light flickered back in her eyes. She kissed him with pale lips once, twice; she gave him both her hands, and her last smile. Then the wind blew over them all, and, with a little shudder, she slipped away.

5. Mustafa (The Lion King)

Thank you, Disney, for mentally scarring my childhood.

I hope you know the emotional damage you did to this seven year-old child, watching Simba's father being trampled to death by a herd of animals at a Year One sleepover at school.

6. Padme Amidala (Revenge of the Sith)

I cried when I read Matthew Stover's incredible novelisation (this was not just any run-of-the-mill novelisation, this was absolutely brilliant. Seriously.) I liked the film too, but the book was really heartbreaking.

I know you're going, "Yeah, but of course you'd say that, you Star Wars freak..." but seriously, it was a good novel- whether you liked Star Wars, or just watched it to perve on Hayden Christensen.

7. Rachel (Animorphs #54)

I was obsessed with Animorphs as a kid. Absolutely obsessed. (My cousin Judith will attest to this.) It was my first soft introduction to science fiction. After about number #37, the series grew progressively worse until it finally finished at #54...and they killed off one of my favourite characters, Rachel.

After she demorphs (reverts back to human form), she is completely surrounded on an enemy ship. She tells Tobias, "I love you," over a viewscreen before the Yeerks kill her. And Tobias becomes a loner for the rest of his life, living alone as a red-tailed hawk.

I'm being serious here.

8. Rose (Doctor Who)

This wasn't actually a character death, but Rose describes it as such.

Trapped in a parallel universe away from the Doctor, he burns up a sun just to say goodbye. As she tells him, "I love you," the energy sustaining the link burns out, dissolving his image and leaving her alone, with the Doctor crying for her in the TARDIS.

I was heartbroken. I can't even watch the third series of Doctor Who with much enjoyment now.



As for the most AntiClimatic Character Death...

Romeo and Juliet.

This has to be the stupidest and most baffling sequence of events ever. Not to mention that both kids decided to top themselves within five minutes of each other (although granted, Juliet did check that Romeo was dead first). I tutored on this subject and all I could spit out was how stupid the two protagonists were and how equally stupid and irresponsible Friar Lawrence was and how this was a ridiculous play about the idiocies of teenage attraction.

Come to think of it, they never called me back for tuition. I wonder why.

Although you must think I'm a sentimental twit by now, I'm not. I challenge you to read these books in their entirety and not get all teary.

(Please also note that it is 12:39 a.m and I've been writing this for the past hour to distract myself from the very large English essay that is due on Monday.)

So what have been your most heartbreaking character deaths? Have you ever read something that just made you want to scream in frustration or have a hysterical fit? (There is a comments box below if you wish to contribute)

Thursday, August 30, 2007

Peachy

Turns out I couldn't go to work yesterday.

I knew something was wrong when I woke up from a weird, fever-induced sleep in which I dreamt I was posing as a renegade anti-establishment guerilla spy in Indonesia. For one moment when I woke up, I was utterly convinced that I couldn't go to Indonesia in 2009 because they would try to kill me on political grounds if I ever set foot there.

Then I cracked an eyelid open, thought about it for a good two minutes, and thought, "Hmm...no one's shooting at me."

(This is generally a good thought to have.)

I then realised that:

(a) I was still sick

(b) I really needed to get out more if I was starting to have dreams relating to my Arts electives

Although I spent yesterday glowering darkly at anything that came within three feet, I was much more perky today.

I even got a slightly sweet moment of revenge:

A customer came in who needed a particular kind of connector for two hard drives. We only had the SATA connectors. That should really have been the end of the story. Except that he demanded someone who "knows more about it than you do." Well, tough- nobody else did. When I passed him again he just shoved his phone into my hands and told me to talk to his friend on the line who knew what kind of connector he needed.

I talked to the guy on the line, and established that no, we didn't have it. Then I passed the (rather expensive) phone back and thought privately to myself, "HAH HAH HAH YOU JUST GOT MY BRONCHITIS GERMS!!!"

I never said I wasn't immature.

A note for Congealed Blob: Selamat datang ke blog saya! Terima kasih untuk pesan. Pertama-tama, apa kamu mengerti film yang dilihat hari ini? (Meskipun kamu mungkin tertidur)...dan kalau kamu pergi ke Indonesia (dan/atau Malaysia) pada akhir tahun 2009 saya mungkin mengunjungi kamu!