The end

You may have noticed a silence from this part of the blogosphere lately. It's a combination of reasons, not least that it started being a chore. I've realised after two and a half years and a lot of words, it's time to say goodbye.

To an extent, this blog has served its purpose. Brisvegas feels like home now. I've put my fingerprints around here and there, I have friends and family and a little nest to call my own, a job that sustains my brain and my desire for pretty shoes, and in the most hackneyed and cliched way possible, the love of the most awesome man in the world (and lots of sex - that part's good too).

So, farewell, all you lovely people who have read my words and commented and made me feel part of a big, clever and wonderful community. I'll still be around - I have no intention of giving up my addiction to rss - but no more sherdieinbrisvegas. I've loved this blogging life; I wouldn't have kept going otherwise. I have no doubt that I'll miss it, sooner or later, and come back seeking forgiveness and readmittance to the fold.

But in the meantime, I didn't want to leave things hanging. So.

The end.

La dolce vita

Sorry it's been a bit quiet around here lately. I'm in Rome, just about to start heading south towards Amalfi. GigPig and I are having quite the nice time, thanks for asking.

Regular programming to resume after mid-May. In the meantime, go and enjoy a walk in the sunshine. It's what I've been doing.

In other news

That other thing?

I really don't want to say too much. But it's good. Better than good. The world has changed colour.

Connections

I've been thinking a lot about the nature of friendship. What does history add to the tensile strength of the connection between two people, and is the weight of years enough to hold it together when everything else has eroded? Love, respect, guilt and obligation and their effect on the breaking strain.

Alby's in town and has been my partner in these rambling chats. She makes it clear for me, 'It's the past. The past is important. But it's the past.'

Coming to terms with changing connections as you move through life: learning to enjoy it for what it is, or was; understand it forms a part of who you are; and let it go when it has come to its end, without regret or sadness.

The sadness is unavoidable though, isn't it?

Shake it, shake it, shake it like a polar bear bit ya

I forgot to mention Miff and I went to karaoke the other night, and it was gold, and we sang often and loudly, and I had bruises on my hand from the tambourine the next day. I *think* we sang Hey Ya, but I'm not sure, but in any case I've been humming our version of the lyrics for the last couple of days.

Which is good, because I haven't been doing much else. Did you know you can buy an enormous tub of powerade powder and it's a lot cheaper than buying the same thing diluted in water? Apparently it's good for active people and sporting teams. Also good for sick people who think gastrolyte tastes like arse. Blackcurrant-flavoured arse is still arse. Although, after your fourth blue-flavoured powerade, you start thinking that a different flavour might be alright. And then you remember that the different flavour is ARSE, and you change your mind.

So, what else happened? Well, I became one of those people who needs to sit on a random bench on the side of the road and take a break on the ten minute walk back from the shop. Then again, I was carrying an enormous tub of powerade powder. Up a very steep hill oh, ok, slight gradient.

I have the attention span of a gnat. The intertubes tell me this is because my brain is lacking nutrients. Today I've consumed some rice and about twice my own body weight in, you guessed it, blue powerade. I keep finding myself with a pounding heart and shaking hands. Leading to the singing. Hilarious.

It's not all illness and blue food colouring though. I'm feeling a lot better than yesterday, and let's not even think about the day before. I'm about to eat some chicken and vegies for dinner, which is pretty exciting. The passing resemblance I've been cultivating to Skeletor won't take long to get rid of, and fingers crossed, I'll be hale and hearty by tomorrow night. Which is important. Because I'll be seeing someone who makes my heart pound and my hands shake. But in a good way.

Lay me low

There's a lurgy going around the 'vegas and it's come to visit at my place. It's all grated apples, plain rice and weak black tea around here at the moment. The lurgy is mostly under control and limited to making my stomach feel like I slipped some razorblades into my plain rice (mmm, steely). I haven't eaten anything much since Saturday, which doesn't sound like so long ago to you, but that's most likely because you've eaten since then. I'm so hungry I could eat my entire fridge, but then I'd get the razorblade thing again. Vicious cycle.

But that's ok, because in general, kids, life is sweet.

My gorgeous Miff came for a visit on the weekend and took me out for cosmopolitans and Turkish food. The drinks cost more than dinner because neither of us was very hungry - even though I hadn't really eaten all day (looking back it's because I was starting to get sick) (although that's probably also me trying to excuse my fairly spectacular drunkenness later in the evening and corresponding extreme hangover the next day).

I've been thinking about activation energy. It's one of my favourite concepts. In a chemical reaction, there's a little energy speed bump to be overcome before the reaction can go ahead. I like it because I like the idea of catalysts, which basically make the speed bump lower, and there are parallels outside of chemistry in all sorts of things. Like relationships between people.

Before you write that off as a product of my glucose-starved brain, let me give you an example. Meeting a stranger, and meeting the friend of a friend. The difference is that your mutual friend is a catalyst, lowering the activation energy for friendship. It's not a very radical idea, but I was reminded of it when I introduced Miff and MsG over drinks.

That's all I got. I'm going to go and concentrate on not throwing up now. Thanks for your time.

Lazy Sunday baking: Lan's white chocolate, coconut and macadamia biscuits

Last Christmas, the four QKC girls decided on a handmade-only deal for presents.

Lan, being a dab hand at all things bakery, made us these biscuits. Mine were the victim of an unfortunate post office incident in which they sat, uncollected, until after the new year had come and gone... and they were still the best damn biscuits I've ever tasted. I've since made them a few times to rave reviews. I believe the secret is the love I put into them... or maybe the four different types of fat in the oil, chocolate, macadamia nuts and coconut.

Ingredients
1 1/3 cups macadamia nuts, roasted, chopped or smashed into chunks
1 egg
3/4 cup soft brown sugar
2 tbsp white sugar
1 tsp vanilla essence
1/2 cup oil
1/2 cup plain flour
1/4 cup self-raising flour
1/4 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 cup shredded coconut
3/4 cup white chocolate bits

Method
1) Beat the egg and sugars in a bowl until light and fluffy.

Lan uses an electric beater. Me, I just have the old hand powered one. Still works good, but. This is using my hott salad bowl/small mixing bowl (I'm all about multi-use utensils... or perhaps I don't own a "mixing bowl" as such).

Note this is a doubled batch.

2) Add vanilla and oil, mix well.

3) Stir in the sifted flours, cinnamon, coconut, macadamias and chocolate, and mix well.


Mmmm, chunky. Tastes pretty good at this stage as well.

This is after I'd realised that a double batch meant twice the volume and transferred the mixture to my rice cooker/medium mixing bowl.

4) Put in fridge for 30 mins.

5) Preheat oven to 180C.

6) Put spoonfuls on biscuit tray or similar.


The debut of my $2 shop silicone biscuit sheet. I was a little bit worried but as you can see, it worked just like a bought one.

That's not chocolate on the right there, but a slightly over-roasted macadamia nut chunk. I got distracted while I was roasting them. I like to call it 'caramelised'.

7) Bake for 12-15 mins, depending on how chewy/crispy you like your biscuits.

8) Allow to cool on trays (stops them cracking).

9) Eat.


I'm off to dinner at a friend's house. I'm taking these and the smugness that comes with a good biscuit recipe.

Pause

One of the tricky things with personal blogs is the gap between the moment as lived and the moment as written.

Meaning, I live it as a single point in time surrounded by many other points. For whatever reason, I decide to write about that point, or that thought, which elevates it to a declaration of my general state of mind. When really, it's just a moment, written down.

This boils down to: don't worry about me based on a single sooky/ emo/ angsty post. If I'm actually sad, I shut down and go away from people. So if I'm writing here, I'm fine. Sometimes things snag in my mind and the way to get rid of them is to take a good look at them by capturing them in words on a page. Then they're sorted, largely forgotten even - it's the end of the process for me. But I forget those things are still here, and you, reading them, are seeing them as fresh and new.

If you (lovely, caring people around me) remember that, I'll try not to use this space quite so much as cheap therapy and cause you unnecessary concern. Deal?



Not that some individual moments aren't important too. Like the moment when you pause and think, "wow, that's the most beautiful smile. I could spend a lot of time looking at that smile."



Don't even ask me yet. I'll tell you when there's something to tell.

Umiyuki

Here's the filmclip for American-born singer Jero's song Umiyuki.

He promised his Japanese grandmother he'd become a famous enka singer.

He's just broken some chart records in Japan with his debut single. (via tokyomango)






I promised my Japanese grandmother I'd call her on Sunday.

I forgot.



He wins.

sans grenadine

The talented trio Damo, Fflur and Simone, masquerading as sans grenadine, have launched their myspace page: check it.

Sweet acoustic pop indeed. Cure for your angsty soul (is that a ukelele?).

Once is an accident, twice looks like carelessness

Let's get a bit emo for the weekend, shall we?

Over Christmas I had a chat with my (awesome) parents. The topic was my singledom; of course, being the people who made me, they just want to See Me Happy And Looked After (TM).

Which I get. I too would quite like to SMHALA.

So after a lot of thinking and talking to people who know about these things, we've drawn the conclusion that perhaps I am a touch broken from my encounters with the romantic side of life.

Not to harp on about this (sorry to the kids that already know how this story ends), but it seems my special talent, not unlike some shithouse B-grade movie or crap Cosmo article*, is to have long and involved relationships with boys, ending somewhat painfully, following which said boys go on to meet the loves of their lives and are, in 100% of cases, currently cohabiting with the partners they met following our respective relationships.

Or (this is where the title comes in), during.

Cue an in-drawing of breath between our collective teeth.

Ouch.

Back to the chat with the parentals. I contend I am unable to do the casual thing (by the by, yes, my parents are so cool they think I should get out there and 'have fun'). It turns out I am all or nothing, and given the track record, nothing seems to be the safer option. I don't know when I stopped being able to have a middle ground, but there it is.

I don't know what my point is, really.

All is fucking scary, perhaps.

Trust is elusive, perhaps.

I need to get over it, perhaps.



And yet. And yet...




---------------------
* redundant, yes, I know

By popular demand

The reading:

A Declaration of Need
by John Hegley

I need you like a novel needs a plot.
I need you like the greedy need the lot.
I need you like a hovel needs a certain level of grottiness to qualify.
I need you like acne cream needs spottiness.

Like a calendar needs a week.
Like a colander needs a leek.
Like people need to seek out what life on Mars is.
Like hospitals need vases.
I need you.

I need you like a zoo needs a giraffe.
I need you like a psycho needs a path.
I need you like King Arthur needed a table
that was more than just a table for one.

I need you like a kiwi needs a fruit.
I need you like a wee wee needs a route out of the body.
I need you like Noddy needed little ears,
just for the contrast.

I need you like bone needs marrow.
I need you like straight needs narrow.
I need you like the broadest bean needs something else on the plate
before it can participate
in what you might describe as a decent meal.

I need you like cappuccino needs froth.
I need you like a candle needs a moth
if it's going to burn its wings off.

Dear Owen,

One day, I'll tell you my version of the story of how your parents met. You will have heard it from other people, but mine goes something like this: I had two wonderful friends. I invited them both to the pub, because I wanted them to meet each other. Not because I thought they'd fall in love, just because I liked their company and we all liked the same pub.* It was one of the best things I ever did, because I can trace an indirect path from that decision to you, the serious-faced completely edible baby with the incredible smile.

It also led to last Saturday, when your mummy and daddy stood in front of their family and friends and told us they will love each other forever. They were under the trees and the sky, and you were there in your Da's arms (one of your favorite places to be), after you and your Da walked your mummy down the aisle.

You won't remember the day, the perfect weather, the tiny pink cupcakes, how you danced in the bridal waltz. How your daddy's voice cracked when he promised to build a home for your family, thinking of you and brothers and sisters to come. How your mummy was so loud and definite when she said "I will", because she wanted the whole world to know.

Half an hour before that, I woke you up, and your mummy and I put you in a dry nappy and your wedding clothes. Your mummy was focusing on one thing at a time, so she wouldn't cry. I didn't tell her at the time, but I was too. Trying to stay light and calm, distract her with chatter, even though she's always been able to see straight through me and I was about as useful for helping her maintain her composure as someone shouting "HE LOVES YOU AND YOU LOVE HIM AND YOU'RE GETTING MARRIED".

She looked so beautiful, her wedding dress shimmering in that darkened room at her parents' house, laughing because I couldn't get those silly little press-studs done up on your outfit.

It's hard to distil into a sentence the depth of the things I feel about your parents. I'm not alone in that opinion. The evidence is in the volume of smiles and wet eyes at their wedding, and the distance people travelled to share the day with them. There was never any question that I would be there, but it's just a hop, skip and a jump for me. Other people took their first holiday in two years and pulled strings at embassies to be there.

Your parents love a lot of people, and are loved in return. I'm constantly humbled to share in that, and to be a part of your life, even at a distance.

And when you're old enough, I'll tell you the real story about the night they first kissed.

love,
Auntie Sherd

-----------------------------
* ok, maybe I had a sneaky hope they'd fall in love.

Something old, something new

My washing machine died.

Well, technically, my washing machine has been dead for a while. At least a year. We're talking about my old washing machine, which ran on that newfangled electric power. Not the washing machine I've been using for over a year, which runs on me power.

A couple of weeks ago the old one got pulled to pieces. I took the glass window from the front door (for a salad bowl), and I had visions of a stainless steel drum planter, all modern and shiny with lemongrass bursting from the top. I didn't reckon on the massive, solid, very-well-riveted steel shaft coming out the bottom of the drum. No worries, though, it's now doing upside down double duty as a plant stand and foot stool.


Shiny.


I also got my hands on a wall sticker, from Wall Allure. I've been lusting after these for a while, and then I saw them in the Craft Queensland gallery and it got bad. Real bad. A stroll through the Valley markets and, well, let's just say I was very restrained to come home with only one. I sense that one day the lotus and the bamboo may make it into my little house; for now, I'm content with the curly bird.



Curly.


I'm off to spend the weekend sipping champagne in a pink dress. Have a good one.

Sorry

I've been on the edge of tears all day, surfing my feeds and the interwebs and watching the speech, but it was Facebook, oddly enough, that finally turned a trickle into a gulping flow. Scrolling down and seeing the long row of names with the status 'is sorry'... I'm full of pride and grief and hope and the overwhelming sense that we're all in this together.

Bring on the morning.

The Apology.

Dammit Farbs, I've got work I should be doing!

Farbs has released his latest game, Fishie Fishie (well, a month ago).

It looks divine, thanks to this clever clogs. It has cool munching noises. I kept thinking, 'ok, I'll stop after this level. No, this level. Oh, ok, the next level.'

The only problem is now I'm hungry. And I keep wondering if I've fed Dude the SuperBlueFish today.*

As Molly would say, do yourself a favour.






-------------------------
* Yes.

Skin writing

Dermatographia is a fairly common disorder where pressure on the skin causes hives. You've probably never heard of it.

This artist has it. (via notcot)

Me too.

Here's what happens.

You draw on your skin with something blunt, like a chopstick.

After about 5 minutes, your skin responds.




It gets more acute over the next ten or twenty minutes, as you wonder why you didn't think to do this on an area of your body easier to photograph than the inside of your forearm.





Then it goes away.


Easily amused? Entirely possibly.

Seemingly unrelated statements

It rained tonight, suddenly, and a lot.

The Roar won the soccer 2-0.

Beer in a plastic cup tastes the same as other beer.

Have you never seen a girl splashing down George St in bare feet before? No need to stare, people.

Playing with light(s)

I've put up my various strings of lights.


Well, put in, sometimes, rather than up.




My lamp in the kitchen. It can drain pasta too (just remember to take the fairy lights out first).







I want a chandelier in the bathroom. This will do until I can afford an electrician. I got these lights years ago (at the Hive, how I miss thee), and they've seen better days. During the day you can see the sticky tape and the broken pieces.

But at night, I love the little stars. And the little moons. And the little suns too.






Festive desk lighting. I can choose work mode... or *groovy*.

Tongue-tied

Today, as I was riding the lifts, someone I know hopped on.

On a normal day, I'd be able to have a quick chat about whatever, lasting about the time it takes to get to the ground floor.

Today, I knew a thing about the person that I'm not supposed to know. I've mentioned before that people tell me things, but generally it's not an issue. But this time, all I could think was cannot not seem like I know cannot seem like I know cannot seem like I know.

Of course, every sentence I went to start was trying to end up letting them know their mate had spilled the beans. It was so frustrating. I gaped like a fish. I spluttered. I burbled. I made poor recoveries.

"So are you happy about... er... lunch? ...Um... I am!"

"When do you get to finish... um... your lunch?"

Really, what I should have done was say, "Hey, your mate told me your good news. Congratulations. I'll keep it under my hat until you announce it."

It's a moot point now, anyway. That person's now convinced I'm suffering from a mild intellectual disability and if it ever comes up they'll say, her? She can't string a sentence together and she's obsessed with lunch. Why on earth would I worry that you'd told her?

But I forgot

How did I spend New Years Eve?

Surrounded by talk, light, love and laughter.



And taking (slightly squiffy) photos of the long-suffering dog (I was squiffy, not her).



Should be a good 'un ahead, I dare say.

How did I get a blister on my heel?

In flat shoes?

Walking home with MsG along the Riverwalk after a couple of sneaky beers, that's how.

We get blisters because we walk too fast.

We walk too fast because we solve the world's problems as we walk.

We solve the world's problems by getting so involved we don't notice our feet until we get blisters.

They say the way you spend new years eve is the way you'll spend the year.*

I spent Christmas in the heat and sweat of the monsoon.

Well, technically, the monsoon only came through on Boxing Day. So really, I spent Christmas in the heat and sweat of the build-up, and new years in the cool of the monsoon.

Whatever.

I was home, and it rained, and when it didn't rain, it was hot.

There's a strange feeling I get when I'm at home. I shouldn't be surprised, sentimental idiot that I am. That aching pull that comes with knowing what a place looks like in all different kinds of light. There's a version of me that exists in that light, a version slightly changed from other, differently lit versions of me. All these versions, overlaid, simulacra. When I am in the version closest to who I think I am, I feel most comfortable, most real, most in this world. The bruised yellow-grey halflight before the storm, when the wind gusts high and cool and the world shrinks and is enclosed in a wall of falling water. There. I am.




----------------------
* Or was this on the OC? I grow hazy in my advanced age.

I won't decorate my love

I'm finally doing the thing I thought of when I first walked up the steps to this World's Biggest Impulse Buy (TM)--sitting on the verandah, with a glass of wine, some twinkling city lights in the distance, a laptop and a feeling of peace.

It's gold.

I've been thinking about this blogging business, why I do it, why I don't do it. It started as a lazy way to keep in touch with people. Then it became an outlet, an expression of a part of who I am. The problem there is I tend to think I'm in this private, blurty, spontaneous space, when in fact people are reading it and making judgements about how I am and what I am doing and what I should or shouldn't be doing... and then feel the need to have discussions with me about those things.

Based on what I've written here.

Well, why write that stuff then?

The thing is, I like this litte sherdie space I've created. The name started as a bit of a joke (thanks Miff), but now I like it. I want to keep going with it.

Also because I'm too lazy to change.

So it looks like we're stuck with it.

Let's go with it then.

Checking in

...and then it was 2008.

Well, that kinda snuck up on us, didn't it?

The rest of December was a blur. I got to do some cool and a little bit scary things at work, and realised they weren't really so scary after all.

January so far is a blur. Doing an intensive French course, so that when I go to le la France I can parlez. Get up, go to work early, leave work early, go to class, go home, sleep. Rinse, repeat, four nights a week. Two weeks to go.

The break over New Years was tops, thanks, monsoons and whuffling dogs and crocodiles and good things like that. I've got some things to say about it, but it remains to be seen if the French course wipes my brain before I get everything written down.

Until then...

Deck the walls

I always take my time putting up my Christmas decorations. This year I look even longer because I don't have a tree. Then I was inspired by Cee's post on decorating with lights.

What's the point in having yards and yards of pristine white walls* if you can't use them for good? So I made a tree on the wall, from lights and my small but much-loved bunch of ornaments. Voila. It feels like Christmas in here. Warm and smiley.

And then I took photos with my shoddy phone. Then I made a collage for you all to enjoy.

Enjoy. Happy Christmas.



----------------------------
* No, I haven't quite got around to putting pictures on the walls. They're around, leaning on the tops of bookshelves and things... it just seems so final to put a hole in the wall. This is the essence of stupidity, I know. Because the mortgage and the body corp payments HAVEN'T GOT THE POINT ACROSS YET.

My brain. It is demented.

Maybe

Maybe you don't notice how far you are in it until someone from outside points it out.

Maybe you don't know how much you don't want it until you're in a room with the people with teh names and you can't be bothered playing the game.

Maybe you don't see how easy it is until you do it.

And it's easy.

Maybe you don't realise how much you need water until a tall, cool glass comes your way.

Maybe you want more, or less, than this candlelit room full of handshakes and whispers.

Even if the hors d'œuvres are nice.

Blah blah blah

* I sold my car.
Billie the Shoebox has been handed over to a 17 year old. He is being loved and cut & polished to within an inch of his life, and looks like a new car. Meanwhile, I am carless. De-car-ed. For the first time since I was a teenager. I walk to work. I walk to the markets. I get the bus, or taxi, or train, to where I need to go. I cancelled my car insurance today. It was a nice moment.

* I got my motorbike learner's licence.
Much to my mother's horror. I promise, Ma, I have even less interest in hurting myself or dying than you do. Promise.

* I realised my boss wants me to stay and thinks I might leave. Thinks I could walk into a job at a higher level. And is prepared to try to keep me.
How odd. I don't think I'm a bad worker but I'm pretty sure I'm replaceable. Here's hoping my boss doesn't realise that any time soon. Weirdly, it's this more than anything else that has made me want to stay.

* A crush was born, and it died, and no-one noticed except for me and the poor bastards I whinged to about it.
This is why I am single; this chronic inability to act, 素直になれない. Or as K says, because I'm so good at talking myself out of things. At its height, my hands shook after I talked to him. How is it that I can be confident in my work, in my life in general, but when it comes to attraction, I'm suddenly all I carried a watermelon? Gah. It's been a while since I was this interested in someone else's story. Did I tell him that? No. Because I am the world's biggest fraidycat. But today there was a moment where I realised he wasn't interested in my story. All evidence to: he thinks I'm a twit. Ah well. Fish, sea, something or other (but I wanted that fish...).

* A weekend ahead to fill up my heart.
Did you know? I am surrounded by the most incredible people. Some of them are in Brisbane, some of them are scattered across the country. Tomorrow, after a morning spent with two of my most favorite people in the world, I'll fly south to bask in the varied presences of some other top folks. And I'll be all, "romantic love is shit, it's all about your friends." And it will be true.

Common feeling

A big difference between this election and the last--apart from the obvious, duh--is how it felt.

Last time I was closer to the campaigning, probably close enough that I couldn't see the forest. I was living in the Canberra small-l-liberal bubble, and I shared a house with a Labor staffer. That's gotta warp your perceptions a bit. I was hoping against hope and the disappointment was personal as well as political.

This time, I had a broader view. Blogs were a large part of this, and the wealth of views on the tubes gave me understanding of the different sides. I mean, people don't generally spew bile and invective about their political views in day to day life. But swing past your Blairs and Bolts and the comments section of most news.com.au articles and you'll be clobbered with vitriol about, well, anything and everything, really, but particularly about how LATTE BELT WETS R RUINING THIS LAND AND RUDD EATS HIS EARWAX HOW COULD HE RUN THE COUNTRY. Or to paraphrase the awesome Clarke and Dawe, "Boo!"

On the flip side was the sense that I wasn't alone. Blog after blog after blog after blog after blog of people with rational, intelligent things* to say about it all (and the occasional lolpollie, which I am more than ok with). And that's before you even get to the politics blogs (filed in my rss reader under 'ranty', to remind me that all people have barrows to push; even if you quite agree with the barrow, it doesn't hurt to remember). I didn't have the time or the energy to do much more than pay attention, but knowing I was part of a much bigger, rantier community made the endless campaign more bearable and the final result that much sweeter.





Also last time there were no First Dog On The Moon cartoons. I'm sad that the end of the campaign means the end of these popping up in my Crikey every day.


---------------------------
* and their own fair share of vitriol, it's true.

The washup

Lost

- Favorite shorts, ripped right up the back. Trying to put it down to cheap manufacturing and not my expanding backside. Added bonus, hi election party, here's my bum. I was at my house though, so a quick step into the wardrobe and my bum was covered again. Phew.

- Dignity. See above. See also: scotch.

- A champagne glass. There's one less than there was but no broken glass in the bin. All very mysterious.*

- That Liberal-voting facebook friend. She unfriended me last night. Probably after I changed my status to "...is ecstatic FUCK YEAH!", when hers was "...is devastated." Would I have done the same if it had gone the other way? No. I would have been too busy moving to Scandinavia. On balance, I'm much sadder about the champagne glass, which was a present from the lovely MsG. It's going to be awkward next time I see Cap'n Conservative at work though. Mainly because I'll be trying not to grin.


Gained

- Relief. Hope. Faith in the Australian people.

- Many random text messages, sent and received.

- A dirty hangover. See: scotch.

- A female deputy PM.

- A full dinner party. Friends expecting dinner guests who cancelled at the last minute thought, "hmmm, we have a delicious three course meal ready to be served. I know, let's pack it up and take it to Sherd's to feed the hungry election watchers!" Truly. Awesome. Stuffed mushroom? Don't mind if I do.

- This exchange:
Ring ring, ring ring
Dad: Heh heh heh
Me: Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!
Dad: You little bee-auty!
Me: Woo-hoo!
Dad: Heh heh heh
Me: Bye!
Dad: Bye!



I think I came out ahead.

----------------------------
* More likely it's in the outside bin.

Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!

That is all.

Pleasepleaseplease

I turned 18 at the end of 1996.

My whole voting life has been Howard.

I have seen the people I support lose every election I have voted in.

Please.

Tomorrow, please. Please, for the love of whatever you believe in, let the divisive cunt be voted out. Please, this country of mine, make me believe in you.

Please.