"Raindrops keep falling on my Head" + the rest of me

I honestly don’t know why people don’t like walking in the rain. I like it. In fact, I would say it’s way more fun than your average mainstream  meander across sunlight meadows or whatnot.

 I absolutley hate it when girls freak out about walking in the rain becuase of hair/makeup/shite priorities in life. I’m sorry, but if walking in the rain is REALLY going to damage your appearance THAT MUCH...then just wear a paper bag on your head for the rest of our sakes. No, no, i jest, but the point remains that your perfectly straightened hair and Napolean Perdis face might be ruined temporarily – BUT NO ONE BUT YOU CARES. I’M SORRY THATS JUST THE TRUTH. I SAID IT. And if your boyfriend or whatever is more foccussed on your hair and makeup rather than the fact you are soaking wet, POSSIBLEY in a white tee shirt, then, yeah, both of you need to just priorities. Come on people.

That being said, seeing girls do the above, “OH MY SWEET (insert deighty of choice), MA HAIR IS RUINED, AND PEOPLE CAN SEE WHAT MY REAL FACE LOOKS LIKE. NOOOOOOOOOOO” is quite the lol. Yep. I’m a bitch. Tee hee J

ANYWAY!  I am the total opposite to the above example of modern day feminism (brrrt). I think it’s actually fun to ramble around in ze rainJ But then again I like it when plays go astray like that. It doesnt bother me if we plan to go to the gym and we end up at a cake shop instead. AND NOT JUST BECUASE OF THE CAKE INVOLVED. Although let’s be honest, it does help. But regardless, I think schedules are over-rated and are a major spontaenaity kill. THUS THE RAIN = SPONTAENAITY WIN BY THE WEATHER!

ANYWAY, should go do those important things now. Like food. And youtube. And maybe a bit of homework but I wouldn’t lie to you guys, that’s the bottom of the list, right below cleaning my room. okaybye

ps. I am aware that this post was completely boring and unnecessary. However I still wrote it, and if your reading this then you obviously read the above. SO HA! 

Who am I kidding, NO one read the above.

HAHAHAHA THIS IS AN EXAMPLE OF MY FOREVER ALONE-NESS. TALKING TO MYSELF. 

I'm going to stop writing now.

Wrote this last year. I’ll put some less shitty, more recent stuff up soon when I feel so inclined ;)

Rain in the city is a soul-shatter waste

Heels and buisness suits,

Heads down

In a coin-grabbing (futile) haste

Blinded to the spilling tears of Heaven.

Porn With Teachers.

HELLO my little ones. All two of you.

I have only a brief comment to make this evening, which stands as thus : if possible, try not to witness sex while in the prescense of teachers.

Let me clarify. Tonight I went with my old drama class to Belvoir, where we have a group subscription much to my glee J I even wore my pretentious hipster glasses to heighten my sense of theatre-appreciation snobbery (which reminds me to wear them to the Scarlett Pimpernell). So, yeah, the play begins, all good, no dramas, no-one is self harming, using EXTREMELY foul language, causing violence, using intravenous drugs, chilling on stage naked, having boundary-line consensual sex or committing assisted suicide. However, by the end of the play, LITTERALLY ALL THAT HAPPENED. NO JOKE.

...IT WAS FABULOUS!

To be perfectly honest, the language presented no shock value at all as my own diction is simliar to an angry drunken sailor (But where’s the rum? THE RUM IS GONE). The nudity didnt freak me out becuase I was in a bad seat so I couldnt see – not that I wanted to, the lady that disrobed was of the 45+ variety which always means disurbing sag bags < example of sailor talk. The drugs made me lol, violence was only minimal to be honest, and the suicide was extremely emotive so I was down with it. I get really into things like this, I cry over everything...Even listening to certain songs I tear up! I saw The Notebook with Kate for the first time a few weeks ago, and there is VIDEO FOOTAGE of the emotional damage caused. I think most of that was built up stress over seeing Ryan Gosseling shirtless though....ANYWAY!

SO the final issue, the sex scene. YAH. YEP. RIGHT. EXCELLENT.  Everyone could tell it was coming at least. You know how you have sex sometimes SPRUNG upon you? Like, you will be watching something innocent, like Asian porn, then you flick channels and people are making out on Gossip Girl and your parents walk in and judge you – “NO GUYS, I swear I was watching the GOOD QUALITY stuff before you came in.”

Haha, that reminds me, look at this at 2:39 for a relevant note of lol : http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eWdUcx0lgz0

Just watch the whole thing, it’s hilarious.

ANYWAY! So the tension was building, and everyone saw it coming which was both good and bad becuase we weren’t shocked but we also couldn’t pretend to ignore the fact that a 25 year old pothead and a 14 year old terminally ill girl were about to get it on. Mid-scene – though it didn’t last very long, disappointing performance upon his behalf. Although, if it went for a realistic amount of time then the silence of the audience contrasting to all the...sounds....coming from onstage would have just become LOLLABLEY awkward. As if it wasnt awkward already. ANYWAY – so Mid-scene I look over at the teachers and They. Are. Dying. So badly. SO SO SO BADLY. If two people wern’t having loud sex on stage then I probably would have been laughing at their faces. AS IT WERE HOWEVER, THE SEXY NESS WAS GOING IN RIGHT IN FRONT OF MY EYES. And it was impossible to look away. I had to check they were pretending to have sex because the sounds accompanying it could have been interpreted in a number of disturbing ways, ie, microwaving a hamster. 

And damn, let me just say, I don’t usually have a thing for these Lol-I’m-Heading-For-Jail-Within-The-Next-Decade-For-Stealing-A-Spoon-To-Dig-A-Hole-To-Bury-That-Guy- I- Killed-For-Crack-Money ,  types of guys but this pothead character was BANGING to steal a word from Hannah. Not gonna lie, those abs kept me interested for the whole show. In fact minus the abs, and all you really have is an inapropriate show that featured an old woman flashing.

BEST. SHOW. EVER.

ANYWAY! I just felt like writing that, I’m not expecting anyone to care haha okaybye

Dead man walking,

Dead man talking,

Sitting on the side-walk

His future baulking. 

The present lies dead

Already entombed  in the past

Every thought lasts a day

Every dream is his last. 

Change is in his pocket rather than his heart

With a sigh he knows it's an impossible start

But day and night for a life he'll sit there yet

Hoping, one day, he'll be able to afford a Chevy Corvette. 

Rather Vague Really...

Hello Empty Cyberspace :)


YOU KNOW WHAT'S UNFORTUNATE?

Me.

YOU KNOW WHAT ESPECIALLY ABOUT ME?

How vague I am.

Example : Yesterday was Papa Bear's one-day-early birthday celebration. Went out for merry breakfast, did the whole "YAY YOU ARE AGEING WOO PLEASE DON'T DIE TILL I GET A JOB" little thing, la de da ecetera.

AND YET.

This morning, woke up with absolutely no recollection of yesterday and promptly forgot that TODAY was the ACTUAL birthday. I missed alllll the hints from my family, observed the half eaten cake in the fridge with mild distaste  - "Why do we have a half eaten cake?" - and buggered off to school without one birthday remark like the ungrateful child I am.

MY MIND IS LIKE THE AUSTRALIAN GOVERNMENT.

NOTHING SURVIVES IN HERE.

Anyway, here's something I wrote for a friend in science last year. It has no purpose except to be completely useless and delightful. okaybye

HOW WOULD A FIRE ESCAPE BE USED TO ESCAPE A FIRE?

In the event of a fire, it is handy to try and avoid being engulfed in the flames as it can often result in severe damgage to bodily parts or perhaps even death! Thus it is advisable to attempt and ecscape such a fate, unless you are a fan of the whole body bandage look. Personally I can’t rock that, so I always try and ecscape. If you have similar views on this concept, then it is important that you learn how to ecscape fires. The most important step is move away from the flames. If you stand still, then the fire will begin to burn your body. This could be mildly irritating, or pehaps painful! Thus I reccomend moving. Unfortunately it is not just this simple. The steps become more difficult here. When moving, try and move AWAY from the fire, rather than towards it. Moving TOWARDS the fire will actually make the situation worse for you, and it would have been better if you hadn’t moved at all. So, the healthy alternative is to therefore move in the opposite direction of the fire. If you are trying this at home, make sure you master this correctly in environments with many exits, just in case you are a slow learner. However, things become even more complicated from here on it. You must try and move away from the fire, yes, but keep in mind that all this effort will go to waste if you do not attempt at reach an exit, or at least a place like a refirdirater in which you could try and counter-attack the hot flames with some cold ice. However, I generally do reccomend trying to leave the building alltogether. A buddy of mine once tried to hide from a fire in a blender, not realising that blenders are not that cold, and unfortunatley was switched on at the time. We now call him Stumpy. Anyway, point is, go for the exit. This exit can be in the form of a door, an air vent, or an underground tunnel if you have Soviet Spies in your basement or whatever. Now, in case you were gettting all proud of yourself or something, just take a chill pill. Because it’s not good enough just to reach the exit. You must then USE the exit. If you’re reading this guide then I’ve already assumed you’re not that bright, so I may as well just explain how to exit from an exit while you’re already here reading. Right, so, using a door is generally your best chance at exiting an exit without utilising a screwdriver, a tool which might just stretch your capabilities a bit too far. So, approach your door. Reach out with one of your arms, prefferably an arm with a hand and fingers attatched to it. If neither of your arms are so gifted, then talk to my friend Stumpy and he will teach you his ways. So, reach out with your arm and take a hold of the doorknob. Don’t panick if the doorknob is moisture-ful, it could just be your sweaty hands. No wonder you can’t get a boyfriend. Alright, so now turn the doorknob, and push. It might take a while for your muscles to remember how to work, and since yours don’t look that developed I really hope they have an effect, but if not then just resort to mind power. Thus with this method your door should open and you will have sucsessfully ecscaped your fire! Hurrah! Go have yourself a nice cool drink. One of those ones with a little umbrella in it. See my other guides on how to raise your pet goldfish with love, affection and dog food. XOXO GUIDE GIRL

Unceremonious First Post

I feel like as this is my first post I should discuss my views on life, or the reason for me doing this, or why the earth is like it is. Instead I'm simply going to ignore that crap and give you all (yeah, so many readers Sophia haha) this, which i wrote today on my balcony. It's the best place to write. The sun is delicious and I can see the harbour and life is just generally good out there. So you would think that what I wrote was all light hearted and passive. WELL, SORRY GUYS. It's social activism crap. I need to stop getting so worked up about this things. Or do I? Well someone has to be interested in change! Otherwise we will never get anywhere I will go crazy.

WOW. I mean, i know this is here for me to write on, but wow, i just talk way to much.
I'll shut up now.
Sorry everyone :)

btw this is copied straight from Word and I can't be bothered to fix formatting errors. GOOD BLOG SOPHIA. SORRY.

ANYWAY tell me what you think. I think it's a tad wanky. But i think most things are wanky. okaybye

Cinderfella:

A modern day tale of tolerance, pop culture and the absence of personal pronouns

Once upon a tolerant time, in a land far away from the inconsistencies of reality, there lived and breathed a young person by the name of Cinderella. Our young subject was the child of an upper-middle-class white gentleman, who inherently suffered from the plight of Western privilege. Out of this frustratingly pleasant lifestyle was born mediocrity, a bother Cinderella had been battling since childhood. Every morning [she] would awake, look out [her] window at the beggar children on the pavements of the appropriately named Easy Street below, and sigh (rather intentionally wistfully), longing to face such poetic hardship. By the age of nine Cinderella had bemoaned [her] completely average and uninspiring life so much that on one quiet Sunday morning [her] Father slammed his good book down on the table at which he read and [she] drolly sewed, giving a shout of exasperation.

“Cinderella my child, what is it you want from life? Like a shepard I have tried to lead you down the good and honest path of life. I have tried to bring you simple joys on platters of affluence, and yet you derive more glee from refusing them, hitting them away till they fall and break. Why must you live like this?”

“My Father, I have tried to follow you but in this flock i feel ostracised! The proverbial black sheep and I are akin! I should rather live, and TRUELY live a tragedy, then pantomime a comedy for only the pleasure of others. The beauty of persecution is lovelier than all the fake smiles and niceties you could ever offer me give or take this platter of privilege. I TELL YOU, I CANNOT LIVE LIKE THAT.”

The Father listened to her quietly. When [she] had finished, the scales of judgement fell from his eyes and in measured breaths said, “Then this is how it shall be. From this day on, this kitchen shall be your home. This stove, your purpose, and this hearth your bed. May you adore it and all its harsh realities as much as i have fought to protect you from them.”

Thus from that day forward Cinderella would wake every morning while even the sun still dozed to slave away at the chores in wait for [her]. [She] washed up after all [her] father’s tea parties  - always a messy affair when the Mad Hatter was invited – polished the new Will’s and Kate silver, and trimmed the garden hedges into eccentric shapes after taking inspiration from Edward Scissorhands. One afternoon while lighting a fire and singing the theme to Les Mis, The Father announced his entry into his child’s domain with thundering footsteps and delivered the following without pause or emotion:
“Cinderella, heed these words child. Mardi Gras is to be held in this Desert-City we call home, tonight, and naturally Queen Priscilla has invited me to attend. While I am gone observing the frivolity of too much senseless joy you shall remain here in the cinders and behave. Feel free to bake or clean, but if you read a book or gain any unconventional views you shall be punished.”

Cinderella sighed (wistfully as always), acquiesced, and watched the Father’s Honda speed off into the dust-ridden distance. Determined to at least enjoy [her] night, [she] put on [her] taped reading of A Female Eunuch and began to scrutinise herself in the mirror as all teenage girls do, without releasing the irony in [her] actions and the words of lamentation drifting through the air around [her]. While scrutinising [her] complete lack of a tan, [she] realised [she] was not alone. Behind [her] stood Elton John wearing a fabulous outfit and a grin.

“Hey there Hun! Just thought I’d pop by.”

“...Hello. Who are you sorry?”
“I’m the Godfather.”
“Oh. I was sure that was Marlon Brando...”
“Well of course it was! And wasn’t he fabulous? But as I was saying,  I am your FAIRY godfather. I should have mentioned that first. But anyway, we can’t waste time on this banter; I’m here for a reason my girl. Would you like to go to the ball tonight...or not?”

Cinderella turned back to the mirror and considered [her]self. [She] certainly wasn’t the fairest of them all and [her] skin no where near sun kissed, but [her] eyes were bright and eagre, and [her] jawbone was accentuated with a nice little smear of cinders [she] fancied looked like a fashionable five o’clock shadow. [She] turned back to Elton; any concerns about his sudden appearance now dissolved, looked down at [her] Nike’s and said “Just do it.”

Half an hour later as Cinderella moulded herself onto the back of Elton’s speeding Harley Davidson [she] reflected that this transformation wasn’t quite what [she] expected. When Elton had kindly offered [her] any of his garments to wear to the Ball, [she] was less than overjoyed to discover his surprising lack of women’s clothing. Settling at last for a pink crocodile skin suit, [she] was not altogether unhappy about this new look, indeed, surprisingly interested by it and pleased with it’s comfort factor that men’s imposition – high heels, corsets and mini skirts – denied [her]. As they pulled into the turning circle outside the grandiose castle, Cinderella felt the first inkling of social insecurity, the first time in [her] young and inexperienced life such a phobia had swept through [her]. Elton, sensing this, leant in with arms outstretched and radiating confidence. Returning the hug, Cinderella forgot any feelings of concern and walked towards the castle, working the crocodile suit the entire way.

[She] laughed yet again, surely the hundredth time that night, all in his company.

“And still, hours after we have met, your name is still to be a mystery? That seems rather unchivalrous.”
“I fear you would dislike the answer, and the merriment of our conversation would be lost thereafter.”
“How could a name of any nature, apart from a cad or villain, instigate such a reaction from me? Nay sir! I name i demand!” [she] said laughing, laughing, an arm upon his, drink in hand, smile on face, hair falling over [her] shoulders.

“If i tell you my name, will you tell me why you are wearing a suit?” Gleaming eyes and grins searched.

[She] paused, considering.

“What if my reason, and my only reason, is that I do not see why i cannot wear this suit?”
The man saw that this enigma had won more of his than just his name.

A deep pause and a quiet moment here.

A reply there. “Cinderella...I am the prince. Son of Priscilla. Owner of this castle. All this and more! There is only one thing I lack. The hand of a beautiful woman. Cinderella...would you be that woman for me?”

Silence humming with questions and thoughts unsaid. 

“I couldn’t be that beautiful person. I could be a beautiful person though...”

More silence, but not a quiet one.  A loud, strong silence with ticking, whirring, changing, moving concepts of thought and destiny and possibilty.

And then Cinderella heard [her] name from behind [her].
As The Father called [her] name from above, [she] felt fear and loss rise from below. [her] champagne flute and future fell from [her] hands in less than a second.

Two days later Cinderella was locked in [her] wardrobe,  [her] mind with the Prince as [her] body hunched in the dark alone. The Father had taken [her] home. He had snapped [her] musical theatre CD’s, shoved an apron over [her] head and nailed [her] suit to the wall on perpendicular pine wood – forbidden fruit close enough to see but too far to touch. All was quiet but [her] soul. Suddenly, a great comotion could be heard in the house outside [her] confinement, just audible,
“I am your sovereign! And, as Priscilla, Queen of the Desert, your house, and indeed YOU mister, I demand to see every young [person] in this land till I find the one who holds my son’s heart hostage, whether it suits you or not!”

A joy came over [her] as sun floods the grass at dawn, racing and leaping with no thought to when and where it might stop. A horizon is nothing but a goal, but beyond it there is always more, always another sight to see, emotion to comprehend, another smile to smile for no ones pleasure but for one’s own. Relentless, useless, all-encompassing joy.  To the awakening soul, how can a closet provide anything more than a momentary deterrent? Cinderella sprung up, beating [her] palms against [her] prison, shouting

“I’m here! I’m here! I’m alive! And not just my body! I have a soul, oh Prince, and a mind! And I no longer linger in black and white but all the shades of life now confuse me! Proud purple beats behind my temples, and green without envy rises from within me. Oh let me out my love, for surely i will die or worse sacrifice myself to convention if i stay within another moment! Why should the fear of another man, born in another time, vice itself onto me like a life-leeching disease? Why does society pull and push harder than the waves of more tangible entities like water and wind? What life is that? Let me be free, I say, or let me die!

Also, while we’re on the topic, you guys know Pinocchio right? Yeah. Well. Let me tell you something, he is NOT a real boy no matter what he says.”

After a moment of rather stunned silence, the Father said,

“I think we ought to let [her] out.”

A key, held for too long, too tightly, was unleashed from the vicelike grasp, and the door was flung open. As Cinderfella came out of the closet, [she] looked to [her] Prince and found a true love more real than any Disney recreation. Priscilla sighed (wistfully) and the Father, tears of remorse in his eyes, took down the suit from its place of shame. As the young lovers smiled at one another, the Prince whispered “I always knew I would find you, you know. My little Cinderfella.”