Trysting Fields

G & Shaisty's Housewarming

13th November.

Picnic

3rd October.

Not really a picnic. Due to inclement weather it was held inside at Gab's place.

But it was still good. (If admittedly not as good as the night before; omg. But that's a story for a forthcoming post..)

Just, Wow

Whole calendar month without a new post. This has never happened before in the entire history of TF.

The reason it's occurred is that:

• I recorded some audio of Liv drunkenly abusing Henley at my birthday party, which I didn't want to listen to for fear it'd be excrutiatingly embarrassing.
• Subsequently-captured media started to pile up behind it.
• The whole thing became a procrastination bomb of horror proportions.

The stupidest part is I already know I can't actually use the aforementioned audio anyway, coz L has - not unreasonably - vetoed this.

Then I got distracted preparing for art school interviewage, which finished today. (Went well; we're happy.)

But now there's no excuse. We're gonna grind through it this week, before CH Dinner Party II on Friday night.

Please stay tuned.

Birthday

It's certainly been a memorable one. I liked it much better than last year's.

Prize for the best party guest overall goes to Patrick. Prize for the most liable for nothing party guest is a three-way tie between Shane, The Sorcha, and, of course, Coburg.

Prize for the best party guest who wasn't there physically but came in essence goes to Wads. Prize for the most missed party absentee is a tie between Em and this chick. Prize for the best party guest who did attend physically, but who I unfortunately never actually got around to talking to is a three-way tie between Li, Kav, and The Major. Prize for the best (if maybe in hindsight somewhat regrettable) picture of a My Little Cthulhu Bunny goes to Magnus.

Prize for the most devastating headfuckery goes to my housemate & ex-fiancee. Prize for the most comically hypocritical abusive emails goes to Henley. Prize for the most awesome drunken deep & meaningful alleyway convo goes to Liv. I'm not sure what exactly to award the artist formerly known as Semi, but I suspect he deserves a prize of some kind - or that if he doesn't now, he may well before too long.

Prize for the most broken nose goes to Luke. Prize for the most blood cheerfully & unsolicitedly cleaned up as a result of a broken nose goes to Harrie. Prize for the driest one-liners (always) and best wildlife photography goes to Ramm. Prize for the best shisha lesson goes to Nichk. Prize for the heterosexual male with the most sophisticated understanding of little girls' pop music (and also the special award for getting locked in the enclosed garden off my bedroom by a psycho chick person I'm sure is lovely once you get to know her, and then being too wasted to think of calling someone to let him out) goes to Grimsey.

Prize for the best nail-painting (and best former housemate ever) goes to Cel. Prize for the best hungover breakfast-making and tidying up goes to Kat. Prize for the oldest and most enduring friend goes to Tally. Prize for the best anonymous benefactor goes to whoever sent me the copy of M2M's second album I found in my mailbox yesterday.

Prize for the best present (y'know, apart from causing me to be born in the first place and shit) goes to my parents.

Prize for the best sister in the entire fucking world bar none goes to this bitch.

Prize for the best mistress - and inexpressible amounts of gratitude & love - goes to Schnozzie.

Thanks, everyone.

It's A Bloggy Soap Opera; Deal With It

Previously.

[Teh Gabster]
Today at 9:10am

Your status update sound news-full.

*hug*

[Me]
Today at 9:25am

So I post on her wall, right, saying thanks for a delightful afternoon (which it undoubtedly was, methinks, for all concerned) and reminding her to text me her new mobile no - which she was totally going to give me in person, but we just forgot about it.

That afternoon I get a text: "Don't know if this will go thru, but if it does plz 2 no drunken late night texts, tay? :)"

(A few months ago, before she hacked my ass, but was very actively in the process of grinding the pieces of my shattered heart into the ground and treating me - with little or no sane justification - like the spawn of satan, there was a certain amount of angsty late-night drunken text messagery action on my part.)

Taking this in my stride, I replied: "OMG, the cheek!! I can make no promises. But tell you what - I will let you into my house, where my computer lives, without any fear of disastrous consequences and my mother being called a whore to boot, tay?! :P !! (<3)"

This was met with silence. I don't think she realised her message was a joke.

Crazy woman.

I still like her, though.

Finally, Some Real News

That's more like it.

Best bit:

Arthur Ross Cradock, a 48-year-old orchard worker, admitted in the Nelson District Court yesterday to the charge of using a phone for a fictitious purpose, after calling police with the message, "I've been raped by a wombat".

It is my ambition to be charged with this offense someday.

Update (Fri 4th). This guy is my new hero.

Most Fucked Up Easter Ever (Y'know, In A Good Way)

So there I was, attending an uncivilised picnic in the park on Royal Parade, having a perfectly nice time & minding my own and a select handful of other peoples' business when who should call me completely out of nowhere on my - which is to say, someone else's - mobile telephony device but the J-meister.

(Previously.)

We hadn't spoken in the voice since November, when I drunkenly and unsolicitedly facilitated her and Henley's first ever verbal exchange. She's been in the country three weeks, apparently. Now she & the H-Dogg were in my hood. And they wanted to hang.

Headfuck!

The tone of her voice didn't make me feel like something she'd just scraped off her shoe, which was nice. So, throwing caution to the wind as I am wont to do on occasion, I went.

We met at Alia. We talked. We danced. A good time was had. It seems like we're all friends now. Which is totally what I wanted, although if you'd asked me twelve hours ago I'd have said this outcome seemed less likely than [insert comedy incredibly unlikely occurrence which in practice will never ever happen here]. They're totally coming to my housewarming and shit.

I don't know what else to say about all of this, but if ever something seemed blogworthy etc.

Hooray for drugs; hooray for Jebus.

Despite my cynicism regarding his religion(s), I am a fan of the man's work. That cunt was liable for nothing.

Wither Comments

Looking at old TF posts for the purposes of linking to them in more recent TF posts, I was struck by something: No fucker is commenting here any more. (Except Liv. And Li. And Wortwut. And the odd Neurocam random combing the archives.) (Gotta love those tenacious, cockroachlike Neurocam randoms.)

Where have you gone, beloved blog massive?

Do you not love me any more?

Is it because Lady J doesn't love me any more?

That's it, isn't it.

It is. Don't lie.

Actually, I don't think that's really it at all. It's all about me. (It is always all about me.)

To get perhaps ill-advisedly personal for a moment (Li will enjoy this):

Towards the end of 2005, I had Learned To Love Myself. Man. Really, truly had. It was nice. It had been a long time coming.

And I got lots of comments in those days. Because as we all know, if you love yourself - like, really, truly do - then everyone else will love you too. Everyone who matters, anyways.

LJ fell in love with me at around this time. And that was great. But then I think I became dependent on her loving me in order to love myself. So when she stopped, I kinda stopped as well. Et voila: blog comments? Thing of the past.

It's more complex than that, naturally. But it's One Way Of Looking At Things. Makes a lot of sense to me.

This is partly the reason people sing the blues when their partners leave them. It's partly that you just desperately miss having them around, course; it's partly the shattered dreams of future happiness; it's partly the sense that all this time and energy expended on getting to know this person really, really well and them getting to know you really, really well, and building trust and constructing a shared identity and blah blah blah has all gone totally to waste. It's partly because you feel like a part of your very soul has been ripped out, leaving a huge gaping hole in your psyche.

But it's also significantly because you've forgotten how to love yourself without someone else to back you up on it.

That's really, really bad though. You shouldn't need anyone else to love you. And the more you do, the less they will.

Am I wrong, non-existent blog readers?

It's one of those perverse inverse dynamics that The Universe is so fond of, for some sick twisted reason that I will never entirely understand [*] except maybe when I'm on nitrous oxide.

Ah, sweet nitrous oxide.

It will never leave me. Until they make it illegal.

(Why isn't it illegal? It's so good.)

[*] NB This is disingenuous; I do in fact understand perfectly. It's because people are attracted to power and personal power derives from self-sufficiency. But for the purposes of allowing this post to form a nice, natural arc, I had to pretend to be stupider than I really am. Funny how that happens sometimes.

Happy Birthday Again, Toots

(Previously.)

Actually, I get the feeling you'd deck me for calling you "toots". ("Mistress"?)

Even though I do not know you, etc.

Personality Test Redux

(Previously.)

I Don't Know

It's late, and I'm really drunk on wine & port & Charles Barkley (nb not that Chales Barklay) whiskey and ~ is cooking meatballs in the kitchen whilst Wortwut sits on the folded-out futon couch.

And I'm Concerned.

I wish you the very best.

Really do.