Extremely Offensive Pick Up Lines

I feel like such a dude for enjoying this so much. I want to go to there:



J

The Worst One Yet

I walked to work today because my dad had to go into work and buses on weekends are stupid. It was hot. Not sure how pleasant I smelled when I got in.

Officeworks likes to celebrate holidays and festivities to the max. I walked in today and saw someone dressed up in a full bunny suit handing out Easter eggs. We also had a table of hot cross buns that people could help themselves to (I yearned for one but it would obviously be unprofessional to do so).

When I went to the staff room, I saw Bunny Wo/Man again. S/he took off the head and it was R with his hair/facial area all sweaty from the suit. We had a short laugh but it was nothing special.

The reason why this was the worst day with R yet is because I didn't put myself out there. I don't know why but I completely clammed up even though I had so many opportunities. We had a break for about 15 minutes together and we didn't talk at all. He lied down on the couch, reading his Japan Lonely Planet while I played on my phone. We were the only ones in the staff room. It would have been so easy.

At the end of the day, the girl who's usually in print & copy left early so asked one of us to help R balance the register as he's never done it before. I freaking volunteered. I worked so hard for it! But then, when I went over there, we didn't even talk. At all. I didn't ask him if he had any plans for the weekend, didn't ask him about Japan, didn't ask him about jack shit.

I'm so disappointed in myself. Kim once said to me that you know he's the right one for you when conversation flows freely and it just feels natural. I've literally never had this with anyone but my best friends and family.

I'm so fucking lost.

J

Teardrops On My Guitar

If I had a guitar, that is.

Crying so hard because she's amazing. Case in point:
  

It's so noticeable when you listen to her sing her old songs. She sounds so much better in this recent acoustic version of Forever & Always she sang on the Red tour. It's not one of my favourite songs because it's so easy to sound flat and terrible. But yeah, she sounds so incredible here. She's going for those notes, she's more confident, her stage presence is amazing. I'm literally in tears. Tell me why.

Exhibit B:



I will love her Forever & Always. I've been going through phases recently when I don't listen her for weeks, even months. But I always come back to her.

J

Teenage Dream

You never appreciate "teenage metabolism" until it's gone. That's my new saying.

When I was younger, I swore I had no teenage metabolism. I always felt like the fattest person in the room. All that crap. But now that I'm 20 and look back fondly on those days, I realize how great my metabolism actually was.

Now, I eat less and exercise more and am still putting on weight. WHAT IS THIS BULLSHIT?

J

Evanescence - "Even In Death (Cologne 2003)"

This used to be my JAM:



I love/d this with an unbridled passion. Even in death my love goes on...

Ho ho, cheesy shit. I feel no remorse.

J

Evanescence - "Bring Me To Life (Rock In Rio 2011)"

It's still good!



She is a pretty flawless vocalist.

J

Dilemma

I have seriously been contemplating asking R out or at least make it super obvious that I'm into him.

I'm so fucking scared though. Is this what boys go through when they think about asking a girl out? I'm just so tired of waiting around. I'm tired of wondering "what if." What would happen if I did ask him?

a) He says yes. We get to know each other. I already know he is amazing so I know I would enjoy spending time with him. There is potential for a relationship or at least getting to know each other better even if it doesn't work out.

b) He says no. It's incredibly awkward (mostly because I make it awkward). We avoid talking to each other for the rest of the time I work at Officeworks. I lose a really cool friend. Everyone else at work finds out and there is constant tension and awkwardness in the air from then on. I start dreading going to work and checking the timetable in the hopes he's not rostered at the same time as me. 

There's so much to potentially lose but so much to potentially gain as well. 

Can someone advise me? Someone who has been in a similar position or who has made the first move. How do you get over that feeling in your body that is screaming at you to not do it? Or how do you manage to listen to the part in you that's screaming at you to do it and just see what happens?

I'm so confused. 

J

Curtis Mayfield - "Move On Up"

This has to be one of the best songs known to man:



First of all, it was used in Bend it Like Beckham, a classic. They've introduced this to the Officeworks music rotation and when it came on the other day, I said to Z, "Oh, my God. I love this song. It reminds me of Bend it Like Beckham every time," and then she said, "I've never watched that movie."

I was disappointed. We are no longer friends.

Second of all, it's motivational and inspiring. Yes, I do want to Move On Up!

Third of all, that saxophone hook. It's honestly the catchiest hook I've ever heard. I want to bathe in it. Just a few moments ago, I said to my brother, "Brother, what's that song called from Bend it Like Beckham that goes like this... (insert off-key singing of sexy sax hook)."

His eyes lit up. "I KNOW EXACTLY THE SONG YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT." We then raced to find it on YouTube.

See, this tune transcends the tone-deafness of my tone-deafness.

J

Creepy and Desperate

Apparently, the work roster was completely changed since I last took photographic evidence of it (contrary to popular belief, it's not because I'm a stalker and like to know when R's on. Okay, partly that. But mostly because I like being definitely sure of when I'm rostered on. If I have photographic proof and rock up at the wrong time, at least I can show them that and say, "Not my fault, bitches." I also like to know who's on at the same time as me as I like to cater my social prowess to the situation).

How do I know this? Because I walked in and there was R over at print & copy. He was bending over so I all I saw was that shock of black hair and the stupid glasses. My heart broke into a million pieces. JUST JOKES. It didn't. I'm rarely that dramatic in real life.

I didn't talk to him at all today as we didn't share any breaks. But I did make an announcement over the PA directed at print & copy at some point. I was looking over at him and he looked up when I made the announcement. We made eye contact and shared a smile. It was fucking enchanting.

In other news, the hottest guy came in today. He was tall, ruggedly handsome and wearing a leather motorcycle jacket. As you  know, guys who ride motorcycles are my new favourite kind (besides half Caucasian, half Indonesian-Chinese slackers). As he walked past, I looked at my bud, Z, and raised my eyebrows. She started laughing all too raucously and Motorcycle Man looked back. I bet he's used to thousands of girls lusting after him so hopefully he did not care.

I've been reading reddit. Yes, I have been. Specifically, the dating advice subreddit and the askmen subreddit. WHY AM I SO FUCKING SAD. No question mark because it's rhetorical. I don't want a response. The point is, I was reading topics like "What do guys think about girls who ask guys out?"

The thing is, after I semi asked Zeter Febbs out (actually, I didn't. But that's the way it was perceived so let's leave it at that), most of my shame came from the fact that I assumed he thought I was super desperate and disgusting. Some ugly bitch who couldn't get asked out herself so she resorted to begging guys for dates.

And then I started reading reddit (it's like a black hole. A black, black hole) and all the responses to that question were positive. Guys thought it was great! It showed confidence! It was sexy! More girls should do it!

AND NOW ALL I WANT TO DO IS ASK R OUT. But it's not going to happen because I have to see him every week. Sometimes I'm half tempted to leave a note in his locker professing my feelings. But I think this is worse and it's bordering on creepy and desperate.

Which is so obviously not me.

J

Indulgence

I bought another pleather jacket today and I have no regrets about it.

It was $19.95 from the obviously high class, high quality Valleygirl. It is size 14 and therefore can encompass my man shoulders. I know, size 14? That's ridiculous. But it doesn't feel or look like size 14. Besides the fact that it is comfortable around my shoulders, it looks like a size 12. I love that I am able to put my hands on my head without feeling the disgusting strain of fake leather pulling me back down. 

I also redeemed my free Baskin Robbins ice cream scoop today. Honeycomb choc something. I took myself on a solo ice cream date and enjoyed the hell out of it. I walked in and strategically took one stroll up and down the counter displaying the ice creams. If I had been with Little Mishelle, this alone would have taken upwards of 10 minutes. Then there would be multiple samplings and just a lot of general standing around, incoherent mumbling and deep-thinking expression. No, not this time. After this initial stroll, I chose the one that sounded the best and said, "That one, please!" to the girl.

I had a nice chat with the girl serving me then went for a walk down Beaufort Street while I ate my ice cream. It was nice. The Transperth gods were also kind to me and I managed to catch a bus just as I finished my ice cream and then, just as that bus got into the station, my next bus was waiting for me. It was amazing.

This week in review... I need some advice regarding Friendquest 2013. I don't really fear approaching this group of girls anymore and sitting with them in lectures. But then when we're let out and everyone's going to eat lunch, I'm not sure what to do. Do I just stick around and eat with them? I always feel like I'm intruding and like I've pushed myself on them. I usually just leave at some point. If Erin's there, she'll be really nice and engage with me, making me feel welcomed. The other girls are very nice but they're not quite as welcoming. 

Other than that, I'm feeling pretty good. Generally. I had a bout of self-pity as I took the bus to get ice cream this afternoon but that passed fairly quickly. 

You know when you're reading some YA book or watching a kids' TV show and they're talking about how much it sucks to not fit in? I never really got that before. Mostly because I never experienced that in school. I always had friends in school and those people have, for the most part, gone on to be my best friends now. But now, in uni where we're supposedly supposed to be able to find our niche because it's so diverse and huge, I feel like I don't really belong anywhere. 

I'm not confident enough to banter with the popular people. I'm not nerdy enough (although that's a fairly apt description of me in many regards) to fit in with the nerdy girl group. I can't be boisterous and make suggestive jokes around them because they'll kick me out and tell me to find some other people to sit with in lectures. 

Maybe it's just because the med group is pretty small. I don't know. I kind of just feel like none of the friends I've met at uni actually know the real me. 

J

Ali

This blog is breaking my heart: http://www.aliontherunblog.com/

I love this girl. I think she is funny, charming, witty, self-deprecating, smart and the rest of it. I hate it that she has Crohn's Disease because she doesn't deserve it. I think about the life she could be living if she didn't have the illness; she is vivacious, outgoing, amazing and the rest of it. What else could she be doing?

I just wish there was a cure for every disease and illness in the world. Especially for good people. Good people should not be sick. It's not right.

J

Distracting Myself

Took the bus to uni this morning. It drove past Officeworks and R's car was outside. Typical.

I never really got the whole hot-motorcycle-guy until this semester. There's this really tall, absurdly mumbly and slightly timid GEMP in my FCP tute. He's about 28. He is literally the living embodiment of nerd. He's a beanpole and writes notes in his little notebook in that jerky, nerd-boy fashion. There is nothing about this boy (I feel I should call him a man because he is?) that is cool. Until he walks in wearing his leather motorcycle jacket, boots and toting his black helmet. 

I jizz in my pants.

He walked with Chloe and I for a while on our way to QEII for the lecture this morning. He was super nice. And tall. Chloe is also very tall. I propose they get together and make super tall babies. Yes, he's approximately nine years older than Chloe but that is irrelevant to the height of their future babies. I wish this was Disneyland so I could be the matchmaker in Mulan and hook that shit up.

J

Uphill

Great Friendquest 2013 day.

I went to the Lookout Pancake Day stall which is run by med kids. Usually, I try to avoid things run by med kids even if it's a bakesale or something I would seriously struggle to resist. This is because I don't know whether to acknowledge that I recognize them and I fear that they will recognize me (or not recognize me) and it'll just be a hot mess. But I went today and I had a short chat with the female year rep from last year and exchanged introductions with one of the popular guys in our year.

It was great. And I didn't feel anxious at any point (mostly because Laura was there with me). And I ate pancakes. They were fluffy and chocolate-chippy. I topped them with maple syrup, Nutella and two banana slices even though they were chocolate chip pancakes because that's just the sort of person I am.

I swallowed my guttural instinct to run and hide when I walked into the lecture theatre foyer before the lecture today. I went up to Chloe, a girl I've become decent friends with in my FCP tute, and Jade, a very tall person, and we talked for 10 minutes before the lecture started. I kind of just let my mouth run and it was fine. It was really freaking fine.

Speaking of Chloe, she's actually one of the coolest people I've met this year. She has this quiet confidence, she lets silences happen and doesn't feel the need to fill them. It's clear that she doesn't feel awkward either. She just has this great ownership of who she is and doesn't really give a fuck about what other people think of her. I mean, she got on the floor in the lecture theatre (in a dress) to demonstrate to me how rowing worked. I love it.

After the lectures, I took the bus home with Chris (someone who I haven't mentioned on this blog in a really long time). We went to the city together because I had to return my cardigan and he had to go to the Apple store. We basically talked about fashion for an hour and he came with me when I went to return the cardigan (against my silent wishes). If he hadn't been there, I would have milled around and found something to exchange the cardigan with. But because he was with me, I felt really self-conscious about my choices and the fact that I'd bought something from Valleygirl in the first place!

Back to my cardigan. They wouldn't give me a refund! Even though one sleeve was clearly shorter than the other and that is a faulty garment in my eyes. I'm pretty pissed because now I have a store credit note that expires in a couple of months.

By the end of this exchange, I was actually feeling pretty uncomfortable having Chris there. I kind of just wanted to be alone. Again, talking to people who aren't my best friends is pretty tiring for me. I just wanted to get a new cardigan, get on a bus, stuff my earholes with my earplugs and tune out. I (tried to) politely disengage and go home.

It worked. The going home part. Not sure if it was all that polite...

J

Boy Stalking

We boy-stalked R at work this afternoon (Caitlyn and I), Angus, Thongs and Perfect Snogging style. It was unsuccessful. The asshole was either on break (but really, who goes on break 15 minutes before they get off work?) or changed his roster. We literally wandered around for a good 10 minutes. I'm so angry at him right now.

But then we lady-talked for ages and it made up for the disappointment. I want to punch that boy in the face.

I want to punch him in the face even though he owes me nothing and we are, at best, work friends and nothing more. I want to punch him in the face because it feels like he should have known and yet he told me things that hurt me. And because it just reaffirmed that I'm undesirable (even though I clearly won the Most Desirable position in the year book poll of 2010), that I'm not worthy and that I have nothing to offer. It just sucks ass and I'm disappointed.

I'm going to keep thinking about him and this for the next month or so or at least until I see him next. Right now, all I'm doing is wondering what he's up to, what he's thinking, what's going on. That's what's going on! This is messed up.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm royally screwed up in the head. I feel that if I told people this in real life, they'd think I was a serious freak. Do I let my imagination run too wild? Am I actually an obsessive, stalkerish person? I've said this before but I think all this crap is a reflection on my self-esteem and self-perception.

J

Loving Her Was Red

Ho, Jesus. Taylor kicked off her Red tour the other day and the feels are coming again. I think I'm going to have to go to her concert if she comes back to Perth... Check out some vids here: http://ohnotheydidnt.livejournal.com/76236221.html#cutid1

J

RL Slime

It started off like any other day. 6am jog (I know; I'm amazing), two breakfasts, write up lecture notes. Then my new manager called and asked me to come in an hour early to work. Fine, whatever. I want the money. Particularly because I just bought a $14.95 cardigan which has one sleeve significantly shorter than the other. I have no words to describe my dismay. I must return this monstrosity.

Back to my day. Fine, whatever. I want the money (just bringing you up to speed). I went in at 11am. Technically, I didn't sign in until 11.02am. This pains me greatly because I have never been late to work. In fact, I'm nearly always at least 10 minutes early. But I had to wait for my dad to get home to give me a lift there because my mum's car (which I usually use) was in an accident the other day.

In the CBD, while my brother was driving home, a Transperth bus rammed it from behind at a corner. I don't know how it happened (was not present). One of the back tires basically popped and apparently the suspension is all awry. There is also an unsightly dent in the back. Too add to it, when we called our insurance company to lodge a claim, they said Transperth would never admit liability and hence we would have to pay the $1000 excess. Even though it was clearly not our fault. I just have no words. I'm pretty pissed about this because, whilst riding the bus, I constantly see events where the buses are very close to a collision. I understand that buses are big, unwieldy vehicles with less control and take longer to brake but bus drivers also speed a lot and can be reckless. We will see where this road less travelled takes us.

Back to my day.

I got to work, signed in and was just minding my own business. Checking out like a mad dawg. Chatting with my friend. Gossiping about our new manager (apparently, he's a dick but he's nice to me). And then R comes up to the checkout.

Let me situate you.

INT. OFFICEWORKS. DAYTIME:

R: Hey! Did you see my message on your birthday card?

J: No, I haven't opened it yet! Why? What does it say?

R: No, read it later. I won't spoil the surprise. When was your birthday?

I mistakenly think he has wished me happy birthday.

J: Thanks!

There is a moment of awkward silence.

J: I mean... on Thursday.

R: Oh right. Oh, by the way... I have to tell you that I just failed at picking up with totally hot chick who just picked up her photos. There were like hundreds of her in a bikini and shit. Oh, my god. She was so hot. So I said that to get her photos she had go out with me. She laughed and said she had a boyfriend.

J: Oh, my God! Are you serious? Har har har.

R: I know! I have something to show you later (it's my dick in a box).

And then he walked off.

I have a few things to admit. Firstly, when he mentioned his birthday message, this weird and optimistic part of me thought it would read something like, "Hey, I really like you and think it's about time something happened. Here's my number: 0000 000 000. So, call me maybe! R." Instead, I opened my card at lunch (stupidly hopeful) and read this:

It was not what I hoped for but it was still cute. Especially because he was so excited for me to read it. He even asked me later if I'd read it and we laughed about it then I demanded $10. He did not give me $10. But later, he offered to shout me a Muzzbuzz as he was going to get himself one. I declined.

That's another thing about R. He never eats himself but if he ever goes out to get something, he offers to shout everyone. Everyone. Ugh, generosity is sexy. His stupid slouch is sexy. His sexy wannabe-hipster glasses are sexy (he is so far from hipster but he wears hipster glasses). His stupid fucking acne prone skin is sexy (IT'S SEXY BECAUSE IT'S LIKE WE CAN RELATE AND SHIT). THAT FUCKING SMILE. I CREAM MYSELF EVERY TIME.

Later, as we were closing up, R suddenly runs off as he's moving around some pallets. His buddy, K, says to me, "R never just runs off like that. Trust me, he's got something to show you. Seriously, prepare yourself." He said this to me like five times and I kept thinking, "PLEASE BE HIS DICK IN A BOX."

It was not.

There were some real dickish customers today and I didn't finish closing up until 5.20pm. Dear customers, please don't be assholes and come in at 5pm. Just don't do it. Just don't fucking do it. I hope you slip on a banana peel and fall in a pile of cow shit. You know what, mate? I don't get paid past 5pm so just don't do it. I will cut you.

As I was saying, R eventually runs back with this stupid smile on his face. This adorable, amazing, toothy grin. And he's holding an envelope of photos.

"Holy fucking shit," I say. "You didn't."
"HE DID!" says K.
"Oh, my God. DID YOU MAKE COPIES?" I practically scream. I'm disguising it with laughter and a shocked smile but inside, my heart is becoming a necrotic mess.
"Yes!" he says.
"I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU DID THAT!" I say and bury my face in my hand.
"HOW CAN I CALL MYSELF A MAN IF I DON'T?"
"I don't even want to know what you're going to do with those," I said.
"I'm pretty sure that's illegal," says one of the other guys, M.

I walk off at this point. R yells bye to me. I respond then quickly turn my head to hide my tears. As I help print & copy cash up, I wonder to myself what this all means. I wonder why this keeps happening to me. I tend to like guys and I think that hell, there's a chance they like me back. Mostly because I serially choose fairly homely guys to like these days. It's a reflection on my self-esteem, to be honest. I feel (no, I know) I have no chance with a lot of guys. I try to choose guys I think I have a chance with to crush on. They're basically not even crushes anymore. They're sad little hopes.

So, why does this keep happening? I like a guy, I fall hard for him, sometimes my days and weeks revolve around him. He's a nice guy, decent looking, ticks my boxes. Then he doesn't like me. He doesn't even think about me. He doesn't even give me a second glance (or only if I've stepped in dog shit and am tracking it around the ground).

WHY DO I KEEP GETTING FRIENDZONED? Is my scent wrong? Do guys think I'm a lesbian? Am I not pretty enough? Is my heart too broken? I don't understand. And I'm so tired. I'm so tired of existing and pining and getting nothing in return. It's sincerely tiring.

So, that was today. As you can tell, I have many feelings about this day. Mixed feelings. Deep sadness and also have engaged in a lot of true laughter.

Things this day has taught me:

1. Well, at least he's straight.

2. At least he's single.

3. He's still got an adorable smile.

4. He's still generous.

5. He's nice to me.

6. He really likes bikini-clad women.

7. He's not afraid to ask girls out. Even hot ones.

8. This probably means that if he did like me, he would have asked me out by now. It probably also means I'm not his type because I've never worn a bikini in my entire life.

9. FUCK MY LIFE.

I won't be seeing him for the next few weeks as he is not on at the same time as me. It's probably good. I think I need a break from that mess.

J

Friendquesting Fail

End of a fairly shit week.

Friendquesting was a shitfest this week. There were so many times when I just felt so incompetent, out of place, unwanted and useless. I ate 50% of my lunches alone this week. On one day, I purposely ate lunch before my first class so that I could go to the library during lunch, knowing I wouldn't have anyone to hang with.

I'm trying to pump myself for next week but it's hard when you're not in the right mindset.

I have work tomorrow. Seeing my friends there (as well as R) is the only thing I'm looking forward to this weekend. Mostly because they don't know what a total loner I am there. And they're also forced to spend time with me.

In happier news, I'm coming to terms with the fact that I love the idea of study but I hate study itself.  I love having a beautiful, neat set of study notes, a fresh notebook, a gorgeous, smooth pen, an uncluttered desk and an open window in front of me.

That is, I love it all until I actually sit down in front of it and then I'm screwed. I was reading this: http://www.copyblogger.com/schwartz-copywriting-system/ I thought to myself, "That's all well and good... but I can comfortably sit and stare out my window for 20 minutes and not feel inclined to do my work instead." I can pretty much amuse myself for at least 20 minutes so the six rules this person cites do not apply to me.

This being said, the study environment I described above is pretty much the study environment I have right now. I love it and hate it at the same time as it is equally conducive to both study and daydreaming. And yes, I instgrammed the shit out of this picture:

J

Beware

Tomorrow, I turn 20 years old.

I just read on facebook that one of my lecturers from first year passed away last night from a long battle with cancer. I didn't even like this guy. In fact, almost 99% of the people in our year disliked this guy because he gave the most boring lectures on monkeys and was a bit rambley and the rest of it. I still feel such immeasurable sadness that he is gone. He was part of a very important part of my life and I think he was a great person regardless of his monotonic voice and weird fascinations with bonobos.

I remember emailing him about an essay we were doing and he replied within minutes. Even though I called him "Brendon" instead of his name, "Brenton." I remember how we used to call him BK in a slightly derogatory but endeared fashion. I remember how a bunch of us tried to walk out in between a double lecture (he was giving the second one...) and, just as we got to the exit, he walked in through the same door. There was an awkward stare down.

I think it sucks that people who have so much to give go before their time.

I've been exceptionally teary over the last few weeks. In fact, over the last few years. I never used to cry unless I was seriously upset. Now, everything gets me. I sit around and bawl my fucking eyes out over Criminal Minds. In the FCP tute a couple of days ago, there was a real life scenario about these sisters, both with cystic fibrosis. They were real people from some years ago. In the last slide, we found out that the younger sister died during her last-resort lung transplant when she was 18. I had been nominated to read aloud that slide and there was an awkward crack in my voice as I read it.

It just all fucking sucks.

I feel like I'm still coming to terms that a lot of us die before we get to old, old age. Sometimes, I feel like I'm still coming to terms that we die at all. I remember when I was in year three or four, I found myself near hysteria when I realized my parents would die some day. My mum said I shouldn't think about it, that they still had at least 30 years left. I think that made it worse. Suddenly, all I could think was, "30 YEARS ISN'T FUCKING ENOUGH."

It almost feels unfair that people we love so much have to be parted from us one day.

Sometimes, I wonder what the point of living is if we all just die anyway. Why do we bother with life when it's always filled with so much pain and loss?

I used to wonder this when I was in the middle of one of my bouts of misery/depression. And then a month later, I'd be all right again and having the time of my life. Maybe that's an exaggeration. I rarely have the time of my life but there are times when I'm so happy and filled with love. And then it becomes worth it again because there's nothing quite like having a good laugh or being with the people you love or enjoying a nice meal (I really had to add that in there...).

This blog post turned out to be a fair bit more depressing that I intended. What I was trying to say was that I'm grateful for every one of you who brings happiness to my life. 20 years isn't enough to fully appreciate what I've been given; a chance to know wonderful people and spend time with them. Even if I die tomorrow, I will have met so many great people and enjoyed a wonderful childhood with a loving family.

75, 80, 90, 100 years aren't enough but we make do with what we have. Everyday is still a treasure.

J

The Shits

Spending this morning trying to come up with mind tricks to remember the 500 bacteria we've been taught over the last two weeks (as well as listening to Little Mix repeatedly). So far I've come up with "shigella gives you the shits" and "botulinum, botany, botox."

I will do great things.

I've also been considering buying a velcro bumpit and spiral screw clips to achieve the perfect bun. I've been trying the sock bun again now that my hair is longer and have come to the conclusion that sock buns simply do not mesh well (in the voice of Viola Hastings) with Asian hair. Asian hair is the greatest bane of my existence (biggest exaggeration in the world... Ah, pun). Sock buns result in tangles and a fucking sock on my head.

Then I saw this tutorial of an Asian girl using a velcro bumpit and spiral screw clips to achieve the perfect bun and became inspired. Will you judge me if I start sporting velcro on my head? Surely that's better than having a sock in there.

I went for another jog this morning and can now comfortably jog five minutes. SHIT, I MIGHT AS WELL SIGN UP FOR A MARATHON RIGHT NOW.

J

What's Up, Hombre?

Nothing happened. I don't know why but sometimes, I sincerely think it will. It never does. I just want it to happen ONCE in my life (reality meeting my expectations).

I got into work. My first interaction was going over to ask him a question. He said something jokey to greet me but I didn't hear it (I think it might've been, "What's up, hombre?" or something to that effect). He was standing with his best friend at work, K (honestly, they are attached at the hip).I thought it was a good sign that when I was approaching, he kind of took charge  in addressing me instead of letting K do it. He just smiled this huge, gorgeous smile at me. He went to get the right ink cartridge I was after and then, as I was leaving, he asked, "So, how's POS (point of sale) going?"

It just tipped me over the edge because, in my head, that meant he cared or some shit. I know it's stupid because he doesn't feel the same way about me. I know this because I have this same relationship with a lot of guys (friendly, jokey) and saying something friendly and jokey like that doesn't mean shit. It just means you're being friendly and jokey. But when you're in my frame of mind, when you're looking forward to these interactions and your pulse is racing and you just want to lick his face, you interpret everything in this fucked up way. It's fucked up because you know deep down that it doesn't mean what you want it to mean and, in the end, you're just increasing your expectations.

Later, I went for my break and he and K were in the staff room. We talked about the election for a bit. He said to me, "Who'd you vote for? I bet it was the Australian Sex Party." I said, "Actually, I voted for the Australian Christian party." I don't even know if what I said was mildly witty or decent conversation because I couldn't deal with the fact that he'd just said "sex" in my vicinity and directed to me.

In my head, all I heard was, "SEX SEX SEX SEX." And I was saying to him, "YES, I WANT TO HAVE SEX SEX SEX SEX WITH YOU."

In my head.

We didn't really talk for the rest of the day. My heart hurts now because I just feel downtrodden. In the words of Taylor Swift, "I had so many dreams about you and me."

J

Complaining About Old People Complaining

Oh, my God. Old people complain about fucking everything.

There was an elderly couple standing behind me in the line to vote and they just complained for 20 minutes, non-stop. They complained about the number of pamphlets they'd received in the mail from the candidates, how many trees had been killed to print the flyers, the number of people who were handing out flyers at the polling place, the use of tax payers' money to fund the campaigns, how much the people working the polling place were getting paid. BLOODY EVERYTHING.

I BET IT WAS FUCKING MARGARET RYAN.

Margaret, just go home and keep writing idiot letters to the newspaper or play with your numerous cats or continue eating children behind your house. Honestly, no one even wants your stupid vote.

J

Skater Hater

I just spent 30 minutes talking fashion with a boy. Over facebook. I think you know who it is.

I hate petite Asian chicks because they are everything I am not (except for the Asian part). It does not help that half of my friends are petite Asian chicks with tiny, slender everything. I'm just hulking around like a big, giant hulk.

Sometimes I look at my mum and think to myself, "Why do I look like this? My mother is a petite Asian chick. IT IS MY RIGHT TO BE A PETITE ASIAN CHICK AS WELL." Instead, I'm one of those genetic mutants with broad shoulders and calves.

Okay, so many I'm just trying to avoid the fact that I eat too much. I think I may have even been a petite Asian chick at some point in my life (some time between birth and year seven). It's just that sometimes I hate my body so freaking much. I know all girls hate their body at some point. In fact, probably all of you are unhappy with your body right now. It's probably just that in our internal thoughts, we think we are justified in thinking we are fat and/or ugly (for some of unfortunate ones, it is "and").

Whilst writing this, I am secretly hating all of you that think you are justified in thinking you are fat and/or ugly.

I haven't fit into a size medium in a while. I still wear medium for looser tops but all fitted tops are now a definite large. I tried on a medium fitted peplum today (yes, my one true love) and I was sincerely busting out of it. There was some bulging flesh and it was just altogether horrendous.

The reason I have so much peplum is because my mother one told me it was flattering on me. There's not a lot of things that are flattering on me because my proportions are just ridiculous (big shoulders, reasonable bust, no hips/waist) so I have sunk my claws into this trend and am currently buying out the peplum market.

Sometimes I get conflicting advice. Little Mishelle once told me I looked nice in a skater dress (I remember because it made me so happy. Thanks, Little Mishelle). I have since accumulated roughly three casual skater dresses and two formal/going-out skater dresses. After purchasing my most recent, mother said to me, "You know, you look nice in the peplum with a tight fitted bottom but the dresses that go in at your waist..."

I nearly died.

Please, no pity comments.

J

Downtown

Shit that happened today:

1. Got to the city early today so I went shopping at Target (quickly becoming one of my favourite stores. Potentially, it will overtake K-mart which will be both a loss and a gain). Whenever I go to Target, I only ever seriously peruse the sales rack and the shoe section. I will occasionally look at the full-priced items but they are still out of my spending-league (unless I really, really love something. Like, with a sexual passion). Today, I bought a cute pair of DISCOUNTED black heels for $12.63. The reason I bought them is because they have a strap around the ankle which is ideal for me because, as I have mentioned before, I always walk straight out of my heels. This is not conducive to being sexy and suave (which kind of is the purpose of heels, no?).

They resemble these:

But the heel is like an inch higher and the backing part doesn't go as high. I have been searching high and low for a pair of black heels that will stay on my feet and have been wanting specifically for a pair of sexy Mary-Janes. All Mary-Janes I have seen so far have been fug as hell. Do not name your daughter Mary-Jane.

2. Consolidated friendship with Chloe, a girl in my FCP tute. I bumped into her at the meddent library and we studied together for a while (as in, within each others' proximity) before walking together to the lecture. It was great.

3. Had a lengthy chat with Chris (someone I haven't spoken to properly in a sincerely long time). It was a great conversation, mostly because he dropped one F-bomb and two S-bombs. I WAS MIGHTY IMPRESSED. For those who are unaware, Chris is of the religious nature and quite conservative in some regards. I don't mean conservative in his views (he may be, I don't know) but conservative in what he says. I have never heard him say crap, let alone shit or fuck.

It was fucking awesome. Of course, I called him out on it (in a joking manner) and we are both better off for it.

J

Nonsense

You know how I was being all introspective and self-damning and shit a couple of days ago regarding my fucked up attitude towards boy-men?

I take it all back. I'm working this Saturday and R's going to be on at the same time. I haven't seen him in two weeks or something completely ridiculous like that and I'm unhealthily looking forward to it. It's basically the only thing keeping me going these days. I just have fantasies of us being on lunch break at the same time when all of a sudden...

INT. OFFICEWORKS LUNCH ROOM. DAYTIME:

J: Oh, hi.

R: Hi. How are you? Haven't seen you in a while.

J: True, true. I went back to uni so it's been pretty hectic. How've you been?

R: Oh, good. Just chillin'.

I go to my locker to retrieve some asinine item. I hear footsteps behind me. It is R.

R: I've been meaning to ask...

J: YES?

R: I was just thinking...

J: YES?

R: What would you say if I asked you out?

His eyes are unsure and his posture slightly timid. This is not pathetic but rather attractive and endearing. I have also shamelessly stolen an integral plot point from Big Michelle and Kavin's ongoing love affair; the ask out. 

J: I would probably say yes.

R: Cool.

That's when things start borrowing events from (500) Days of Bummer (starring Zoe Deschanel). It's that scene when they're both photocopying stuff and they just start making out.

THAT'S WHAT HAPPENS NEXT (in this epic love story spanning many years and aisles of stationery).

The end.

J

Six Fifths

I had so many Friendquest 2013 wins today. Even though I come out of them feeling great about myself, I'm always exhausted. I think this just reinforces the fact that I'm truly an introvert. Being with people is pretty much always work for me.

This morning, I walked into my FCP tute to two people. I said, "Hi!" all disgustingly happy then sat down next to one of the popular girls in my year whom I've never talked to before. She was so nice and we talked comfortably until class began. At one point, she asked if I was a GEMP because she hadn't seen me before (this is both saddening and makes me happy because I have a fear people are judging me. It's better to not be noticed than to be judged, in my book). I said no and our conversation continued. Before I knew it, I had accepted a lift from her to med campus for the lecture that was straight after our tute.

Speaking of this lift, it turned out she was also giving a lift to a few of her friends. All part of that disgusting (but invariably nice and charming) popular clique. There were six people that needed to get into the car and only five seats. This was when it was suddenly decided that one of the guys would get in the boot (bear in my mind, this was a sincerely small car) and so he did. This was how we drove six people in a five-seater. It was amazing.

As I sat in that backseat, I observed the inner workings of this popular clique and realized they are not so different from the rest of us. As we waited at a traffic light, one of the guys (if you must know, it was Reece. My arch nemesis) said to his girlfriend (the driver and girl in my tute), "I always feel self-conscious when I walk in front of cars at the traffic lights. Like they're judging me. What if they think I walk funny?"

This warmed me to him; a guy I've pretty much had an irrational hatred for since my first day of uni.

At the end of the day, I went to my first Writers' meeting with one of my med acquaintances. They were an interesting, eccentric bunch. I tend to judge a book by its cover and thought maybe some of them were a little too eccentric for me and I wouldn't feel comfortable around them. But I think I'll give it a chance. The friend I went with said I should let her know when I was going to one so she could come with me. Later, she initiated an exchange of phone numbers whilst we rode the bus to the busport.

It was exquisite.

J

The Cold Beach

This story below... inspired by "true" events but mostly inspired by the incoherent mess in my head. Inspired also by Oscar Wilde, (500) Days of Bummer (starring Zoe Deschanel), The Great Gatsby and (of course), Zeter Febbs. I'm printing it off to bring to the Writers' meeting tomorrow but am contemplating not showing it to anyone...

Written a long time ago. I hope to forget it one day. Enjoy:

The Cold Beach

Somewhere, faintly and far away, she heard a whirring that required a conscious effort to ignore. The paper underneath her thin and agile fingers was crumpled to a scraggly heap prompting a boy sitting next to her to glance over with exaggerated concern. She grimaced at her handwriting (chicken scratching) and reminded herself to redo this page of notes.

A girl (nay, a woman; mature age student) sitting across the table let her pen glide effortlessly, seamlessly, callously across her page producing almost illegible scrawl. She wouldn’t glance twice at it.

The sound of the whirring (a windmill inside the library?) continued on and on, droned on and on, on and on, on and on. A lifetime of this and perhaps Eve would have impaled herself on that there pencil, sitting harmlessly and woody on the desk. It would never know its own fate.

There was then a peaked smell like musty, old bread, once soft yet firm. Someone’s forgotten lunch, growing idle in a bag and compressed to a sphere of carbo-goodness. Something porky in there too; ham, salami, prosciutto, pig trotters? Eve’s own stomach cringed away as trickles of digestive juices and acids heave-hoed inside to a relentless rhythm.

She got up, her calves bristling together. The boy and the girl (nay, woman) at the table glanced her way, eyes identical in the colour of grey-blue. Babies are all born with grey-blue eyes. Half dead already or with cataracts from their past life as the forlorn elderly.

The library held a spiralling staircase down the centre; fibreglass and metal banisters bearing fingerprints from greasy-handed students having clutched (what’s that?) compressed rolls of salami and ham. Now they nearly had that smell too; alloy of steel and pork.

It was cold and windy outside, skies grey as far as the eye could see. Eve liked these days where it looked like the world was a greying corpse. She always thought that, should she ever go to a beach, she would want to go on a cold day, not the stinking hot, sweaty, sticky days of summer. A cold beach, a grey beach, a beach with shiny pebbles (rain slicked and slimy) that you slipped on as you traipsed across.

From outside the library she looked inside the library cafe where steaming takeaway containers of fettucine alfredo were being served. X-ray vision: you could see a vat of the stuff being made from a white, off-smelling powder. Mum made that stuff. Eve wanted what cancer she probably had from it; stomach or pancreatic?

A girl walking past her (freshman, all girl, no woman) looked at her with concern. Lots of people did that; she was a concerning person. The girl saw Eve looking inside the cafe like she was an orphan and hadn’t eaten in days. But this was just Eve’s expression; she liked a cold beach.

“You okay?” asked the girl. Eve nodded without looking at her.

“I’m fine.”

Eve’s legs skipped a beat (actually: tripped over an uneven surface) as, after another moment of quiet contemplation, she carried on her way. Her destination was a tutorial on the other side of campus. Her attitude: dire, tire, mire. Down at her feetsies, her tootsies, her once white shoelaces were stained a dirty grey. From what? The world. The world was a dirty sort of place.

She carried on her way.

Inside a building that she passed, a middle-aged professor with a nice, rotund belly and a penchant for chocolate and cellotape sipped at a cup of coffee as he walked across the tiled lobby. Big lobby, another big, spiralling staircase rising up, erect and probing (ha), but this time shaped in a double helix. You had to remind people of the grandeur of this place. You could be misled by the dozens of tired, identical students in conspicuously stained (silver nitrate, I promise) lab coats trailing down. Those too tired to lift their feet would take the elevator down from the top floors.

The professor let his clumsy big oaf feet skid along a path he’d taken for the last five years.

“Hi, Jess,” he said to the receptionist. Curly haired Sue with bosoms that always rested on the spreadsheet or diary entry she was working on. He looked at them sadly because his wife’s had deflated long ago.

Eve, perky and pert but hidden under a thick sweater, continued her way across campus. To her right there was a shriek and she looked in time to see a bird swoop down and fearlessly pluck a bit of food from the clutches of a male student. Sad too: a kebab.

“Hello.”

The word. You know, not many people say hello these days. People say hey, hi, how do you do. Hello was rare. Eve associated it with Enid Blyton, kids in the UK with big, fiery imaginations, baskets full of tinned peaches and custard tarts and a dog named Timmy trailing behind. Hello, hello, hullo, hullo they always said as they came across either a kindly old farmer or a treacherous people smuggler. Island nation; far away from here.

“Hello,” she said because he’d said it. He was a boy (a boy-man, 19 but thin) with a curly whip, a marshmallow frosting, of light brown hair and skin pockmarked by adolescent years of pussy filled pustules. That skin used to be smooth and pearly white. Now the pocks caught shadows in it. Good for rock climbing.

“Hello, Marcus,” she said. Marcus wearing dark-wash denim and a chambray shirt. Headed for the rodeo, Marcus, ol’ boy? Headed for some bull fighting, some cornbread, some deep fried butter?

“Hi, Eve,” he said. His voice was deep but had a weasely quality like he was constantly congested. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” she said. “I’m dandy.”

Dandy. They learnt about those in high school English literature class. A dandy like Oscar Wilde. He probably drank tea a lot. Eve hated tea. Bitter leaves steeped in perfectly good water until the water turned as bitter and dankly coloured as the leaves.

Dandy. They learnt about those in high school English literature class. Class with Marcus. Couldn’t remember his last name; something like Pebb? Pebb. Stupid last name. Not even a name, more like a sound.

High school English literature class. That was how she knew Marcus Pebb.

“How are you, Marcus?” Pebb.

“I’m good,” he said. “How’s uni?”

“Oh, you know,” she said. A muscle twinge sounded deep in her right arm, the one bearing the weight of her bag filled with stupid photocopies of notes. She was going to drop the unit as soon as she could (be bothered). “Just uni. How about you?”

“Yeah, it’s good,” he said. He had bright blue eyes that danced around in too-deep sockets (again: good for rock climbing. For little people, for Gulliver’s friends). “What are you doing now? Want to get a coffee?”

Coffee was better than tea. At least you could hide its bitter acridity with cream and sugar, caramel syrup and chocolate shavings.

“Yes,” Eve said. “Yes, that’s a good idea. The library cafe?”

“Absolutely,” he said.

And they had coffee.

As they left the cafe, “Maybe we should catch up again. You know, for longer. We haven’t seen each other in so long,” he said. Marcus Pebb was a strange guy. He had this thin, gangly appearance that gave you the impression of social anxiety but, when he wanted to, he had no qualms about starting conversation. He could smile and laugh like the best of them. It was frankly disgusting.

“I would like that. I’ll call you,” she said.

They parted ways.

*

Every time Eve came out of the shower she felt like she had gristle and debris in between her toes. That was the downfall of the dormitory shower. Sometimes, she checked the underside of her feet (pink and tender) and would find someone else’s hair (blonde or brown) or something soft and squidgy that she couldn’t quite identify. Yuk. Still, she smelled good. Overpriced fruity body scrub. It made her love and hate herself at the same time.

In her room, her roommate, Claire, sat cross legged on the bed, chuckling at something on her laptop.

“What are you laughing about?” Eve asked and set her shower bag on the desk. Thankfully, today she felt no unidentifiable gristle in between her toes or under her feet.

“Something stupid,” she said with another laugh.

“I skipped my tute today,” said Eve. She sat down on her own bed.

“Why’s that?”

“I bumped into Marcus Pebb. We had coffee.”

A beat. A bat. A batting eyelash. A lash. A splash. A scratch across metal. The sound of a big, looming train coming at you. Claire stared at Eve with big, doe eyes.

“Marcuss Pebb? From high school?”

“Yes,” said Eve. She checked her feet anyway, sure she would have a foul-smelling fungus with mutant exponential growth by the end of semester. No, just the baby soft pinkness of her soles..

“Really?”

“Yes, Marcus Pebb.”

“He’s a bit...”

He’s a bit... He’s a bit...

In senior year, math class, an argument. An answer to a test that he got wrong. A logic question. Another girl who got it right. A disagreement based on a desire to win rather than a desire to be right. That was the time, the singular moment with that glint of argumentative ferocity, that bored, glazed look that came over him as the girl rebuffed. That was the time that Eve thought she might appreciate him.

“He’s a bit eccentric,” Eve said.

“Yes,” said Claire.

“I’m eccentric too.”

“Oh, Eve,” said Claire.

“He’s nice.”

“He’s... interesting. Says interesting things. Has an interesting look.”

“You don’t like his look.”

“It’s not that I don’t like his look.” She swept her hair up (swoop like the eagle down on its pray) into a well-practiced ponytail. Perky and pert (the trick was to tighten vertically, not horizontally, much like Claire herself).

“But you don’t.”

“Okay,” said Claire. She moved onto massaging lotion into her neck and forearms. Soft white stuff (ha). “So I don’t like his look. But beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”

“But that’s why you think I shouldn’t like him.”

Eve lay back on her bed, her soft bathrobe pressing deep into the bed, becoming a thin, condensed lining. Marcus Pebb, the Pebbster, lived somewhere relatively far off. She wondered what he was up to; shenanigans most likely. He was the sort to partake in some frank shenanigans and not post them on Headbook.

“I’m not saying that!” said Claire. Now, she was bent over her computer, hacking away at defenceless keys. The thin bangles on her thin wrists jangled restlessly, wanting to escape their bony ensnarement.

“Well, what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I think just maybe... you could do better.” The Lucite pink case of her laptop blinked and whizzed at Eve.

“I don’t think that. That’s an interesting way to think.”

“Just hear what I say. And consider it. You’re great, you’re smart, you have assets to offer.” She turned to Eve and focussed her eyes on her.

“So’s he.”

“Yeah...” Claire turned back to her lover (oh solitaire!). “You could say that.”

“Claire...”

“Just don’t settle.”

So she didn’t.

*

The following semester, Marcus Pebb deferred to find himself and work as a lab tech someplace irrelevant. When the semester had elapsed, he decided to attend a different uni on the other side of the country. Chemical engineering. Eve had some trouble swallowing this bitter pill (nitric acid, sherbert?) as chemistry was, to her, an unnecessary evil. She had trouble swallowing the idea that it would be a long time and a special occasion when she should see Marcus Pebb again.

“Eve,” said Claire one morning. It was midway through their junior year. Claire had got fat. “What are you sulking about? All you do is sulk. You’ll get wrinkles.”

“I’m not sulking,” said Eve, sulkily. “I’m just thinking. Do you remember Marcus Pebb?”

(“Fucking hell...”)

“I’m just wondering what he’s up to.”

“He’s going to uni someplace irrelevant, isn’t he?”

“That’s what I heard.”

“So now it’s confirmed. You can stop thinking about it.”

Following this succinct conversation, they went out. That was the night Eve met a less-than-special boy as she began her journey of recovery, her convalescence to brighter and cleaner pastures.

“How do you feel?” asked Claire the next morning.

“I feel fine,” said Eve.

*

Eve at 24 had cut her brown hair to a brisk little thing that flicked around her chin (and sometimes her shoulders if she was too lazy to see the hairdresser) and bought a couple of eyeliners that made her brown eyes smoulder (like a steaming pile of you-know-what). She had a job (let’s not say what) and had an apartment and a dog.

It was an evening a few months after she’d started her new job that she stopped by at her neighbourhood pharmacy for some various goods. A cunning advertisement boasting fuller, longer lashes caught her eye (unhindered by full, long lashes as her own were). She inspected the mascara. As she did so, a pair of well-sized (perhaps above average) black boots appeared by her side.

“Eve?” the voice said. A voice of the pleasant variety with woody, cedar-like undertones. Her eyes traipsed up the body (thin and gangly) and lingered on lanky forearms covered in full, blue veins that looked like they might pop if any muscle in that vicinity was exacerbated. The face was a familiar one but now there was facial hair and a darkness that coloured the almost translucent skin under the eye.

“Marcus Pebb?”

She wondered what she smelled like. Eight and a half hours at the office and questionable food consumption over the course of those hours. Shoes that were half a size too small, seemingly exacerbating foot sweat. A blouse that clung too tightly around her bust producing a peek-a-boo hole between the second and third button (could you smell like a too-tight blouse?).

“Wow,” she said. “Wow.”

“I know,” he said. “It’s been so long. How are you?”

“I’m good, I’m fine. How are you? You look good,” she said, her voice wondering over well-practiced pleasantries.

“I’m doing well. I just moved back here.”

Eve felt this pathetic, nostalgic pang in her heart. It almost had a noise; a soft, dainty ping that resonated through her thorax. This from the boy she used to try to impress with her knowledge on eccentricities in high school. This from the boy who had to take acne medication for two years because of a rampant and unexpected bout of cystic pustules (she had her own past with teenage skin and empathised with him).

“You know what?” she heard him saying distantly. Like they were on a cold, quiet beach, several hundred feet apart and his voice was being carried on the wind to her. She tried to catch it but sometimes syllables and phrases were blown out.

 “I’m having a party at my house next week. I think you should come?” The question mark is necessary. He sounded unsure. She was unsure too, unsure of who this was. Who spoke with a self-assured accent of formalities and banalities. She wondered if he danced with his two left feet (or had he replaced one with a right?) when he got home from work. Whatever that was.

“I’d love to,” she said. Her speech hovered on the surface between acquaintance and friend. Right now, if she went in to punch him in the arm or, with a gay smile, refer to something from their mutual high school years, the tide might turn awkward.

“Great,” he said and gave her the address. It was on a fashionable part of the coast.

“Bye, Marcus,” she said. Awkwardly, her pale arm (this is what happens when you work an office job and like watching Ellen) reached out to pat his shoulder. They were standing too far apart for this to be casual and were speaking too formally for this to be comfortable.

She said goodbye to him for the first time being certain she would see him again. She said goodbye knowing that this time something would come of it. He wandered out into the drear, droll night, lanky legs swathed into too much black trouser, with her wandering eyes trailing after his loping steps.

*

He lived in a pineapple shaped house by the sea. Maybe it was an architectural masterpiece. Maybe it had started as a normal shaped house but was then eaten away by blustery seaside winds. Her sharp heels dug in between crescent and spherical pebbles that lined his walkway. The house was covered in tall, floor length windows through which artificial light streamed through. Even from here, Eve could hear the pleasant small talk of the inhabitants of the pineapple.

It wasn’t Marcus that greeted her at the door although the man looked startlingly like him.

“Hi,” she said and handed him her bottle of wine.

“Hello,” he said and leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. She, in some reflexive, primal place, wanted to turn her cheek but she suffered through the insufferable act. He leaned in perhaps a little too close, closer than the customary hovering of lips over cheek. She felt the flakes of dried skin on his lips scrape against her.

“I’m Eve,” she said as she was led inside. The house was robust. The floor length windows lined most of the walls. There was a lot of wood and white. There were empty champagne glasses on top of mantles and coffee table and any available ledges.

“I’m Frank. Marcus’ brother.”

“Oh,” she said. Her right foot tripped on a kicked up corner of rug and skedaddled across the floorboards. “Yes, you do look a lot like him.”

“How do you know Marcus?”

“We went to high school together.”

“Ah.”

Frank led Eve through the entrance of the house (several empty rooms bearing the remnants of the introduction of the night. She paused midway to right a picture frame that had been toppled on a bookshelf).

“I haven’t seen Marcus in a long time. Well, since he invited me to the party. We bumped into each other at a store,” she said keenly. Keenly? It took her by surprise to realize she was rather keen to see him again.

“Fantastic. I, myself, met Marcus again by bumping into him at the cinema of all places. Hadn’t seen him in years since,” said Keith. He threw back a gulp of red wine he held in his hand. The hand was thick, red and ropy but held the glass delicately. It reminded you there could be light bones underneath the hardened skin.

“How strange,” she said quietly, “that you shouldn’t see your brother for so long.”

“Yes, well, I was already in uni by the time he started high school. We were never really very close even as children. A bit of an odd one, isn’t he?” Ironic, Eve thought. Frank seemed rather more odd than his brother.

“Any other siblings?”

“A sister,” he said, “A couple of years younger.” His other hand not balancing the wine glass between thumb and index finger waved lazily at a bookshelf holding more pictures. There was a picture of them together; Frank and Marcus with some girl with blonde hair.

“Here we are,” Keith said. Using the full brunt of his body weight, the double wooden doors were pushed open and they stepped through to what must have been the bowels of the house. A beautiful large room, octagonal or heptagonal or hexagonal or pentagonal but not quadrangle in nature. Lights and music and maybe 40 or 50 people.

“Thanks for showing me in,” said Eve. She looked through the door from which she’d come seeing a trek that had seemingly lasted an age.

“You’re welcome.” He went to get himself another beverage.

Marcus with his shock of albino-white hair (perhaps a good thing; ageing might be difficult to spot) was easy to identify through the masses of pulsating blood and alcohol and sweat and some tears (a younger looking girl with cropped brown hair on a phone in the corner, melodramatic wailing).

She waded.

He turned around as she approached.

“Hello,” he said, “I’m glad you were able to make it.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it.”

“You look wonderful.”

“So do you.” A suit. A grey suit. Oh, a suit.

“Beverage?”

“Sure,” she said.

Bev in hand, he led her to a vacant couch where they sat with knees just a few inches apart. Her heart pounded wildly in a way she wasn’t accustomed to. Sometimes she got nervous palpitations while waiting to do a test or get a performance review or running a yellow light. Something she got nervous palpitations while just sitting where her body would go entirely cold and her digestive system would go funny and her hands would go clammy and she would keep glancing at the clock while she waited for something she did not know. But these were different palpitations. These were irregular heartbeats that imbued her with a confidence.

“So, we haven’t had a proper conversation in years,” Marcus said.

“Not since uni,” she agreed.

“Yes,” he said with a solemn nod she saw from the corner of her eye. Her neck was bent at 60 degrees, considering the wrinkle in her periwinkle dress. “We were supposed to meet up again.”

“That didn’t happen.”

“Yes.”

“Sorry about that,” she said and she saw him nod again. His thin, sloping neck not unlike a giraffe’s, albeit a stumpy, severely growth-retarded giraffe.

The night progressed. Eve helped herself to another cold beverage, constructed by a helpful alcohol enthusiast. It tasted good despite the fact the enthusiast looked like he’d had a few too many himself. She talked to a few other people, another boy she recognized from high school with freckles that had stuck to him through to his late 20s, a woman Marcus knew from work.

“He’s brilliant,” she said, “He has wonderful ideas.”

“Yes,” Eve said, thinking about some long-ago conversation she’d once had with him. “Yes, he’s quite brilliant.”

Finally, she talked to the girl with the pale, blonde hair from the picture. Marcus’ sister. She was probably a few years younger. It started out pleasantly enough as they discussed the unique construction of the pineapple house, the flavour of Eve’s drink (she leant the girl a little tipple purely for secondary judgement) and the tendency of the girl’s pale skin to burn.

“From high school?” said the girl, Nancy.

“Yes,” said Eve, “We went to the same uni too but we grew apart.”

“That’s terrible,” said Nancy with either an extremely genuine or extremely well-practiced frown. It could have been a grimace if she wasn’t so delightfully fawnlike and pretty. “Marcus and I met in uni.”

“Uni?”

“Yes. I work at the uni. I guess we’ve been together ever since. Except for this brief time...” and she trailed off in a very gothic-romantic way.

“How wonderful.”

“It is quite wonderful. It’s all happening so fast. The wedding is in October.”

“How wonderful. Excuse me.”

In kitten heels, Eve stood two inches taller than Nancy who stood as well when Eve got up. A look of mirrored concern coloured her sweet face; white except for two expertly placed (oh God, don’t let it be natural, that would be an injustice to the rest of humanity) splotches of pink blush on the apples of her cheeks.

“I just need some fresh air.”

“I do love the seaside,” said Nancy.

Eve had read about hypercausis when she’d divulged briefly in a science and health unit. It was how she felt now as she surged, a weakling wave among boulders and heavy rocks dressed in suits and tasteful dresses. Their voices, all seeming a pitch or two higher than the voices of normal people, was what she heard. Talking about a wonderful musical ensemble they saw in concert recently, an exotic holiday to India where they could help the poor and bask in the cultural delights simultaneously. Oh, there it was. The bile that clawed its way through her oesophagus, her soft palate then scraping through her hard palate. She swallowed it down.

There came the doors, a heavenly saviour that she glimpsed through the dusky musk of the fashionable youths (were they still youths at their late twenties?). She, taking a cue from Keith, thrust her body weight against the door and, in a moment of unfortunate serendipity, the door slammed open and hit the wall with a bang.

Without looking back, she ran through to her escape.

The pebbles again. This time it seemed more difficult, like her kitten heels wanted to frolic with the pebbles. Her calves were tired after some time. The sound was cleaner outside with just the washing-machine ocean behind her. Behind her, behind her. She glanced. The sharp whiteness of his hair was a startling sight against the black sky.

“Eve!” he said. It was clear although his voice was dragged out to sea. She stopped in her kitty-heels, her pathetic little girl’s shoes.

Catching up to her, “You’re leaving?”

“Yes,” she said, “I shouldn’t have come today.”

“That’s not true. It’s great that you came today. It’s great to see you again.”

“It’s your engagement party,” she said, “I didn’t know.”

“It’s not,” he said with a shake of his head.

“But you’re engaged.”

 “Yes, I’m engaged,” he said.

“How wonderful,” Eve said with a smile that she lifted up her head to show him, “and I would love to stay but I have work tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“It’s alright,” she said, “It’s my fault. It was a misunderstanding.”

She left. She saw him even though she didn’t turn around. He was older now, he wore his suit better than he had at their school ball when the material had swallowed him whole. It had still brought a smile to her lips. His was better practiced and disarming. The acne that had plagued him in his younger years had been subdued to lingering scars that gave him a slightly virile appearance.

He’s not odd, she thought. He’s never been odd.

She remembered a day in the last few weeks of high school. The weather was warming and her t-shirt stuck in long, sweaty strips to her back. They were on their way English.

“Hi, Eve,” he said. His voice then was always jovial. She turned her head to look at him. She had been thinking of him for some weeks now. She had been thinking of his jokes and smile and how quick witted he was. She had even once dreamed about him. She had told her friends about him.

“He’s a bit...” Claire had said and that was all it took.

“Hi,” Eve said and little else. The space between them was filled with the screeches of hormonal teenage students. Everyone but them. They reached English class and he turned into his seat. She watched him from her seat and felt a sharp stab of regret.

On the beach, the cold air was a pleasant reminder that she was alive. She got into her car and drove away from that bizarrely fabulous pineapple house, so fitting for a man-boy like Marcus Pebb. It would be the last time she would see him. 

J