Dear Facilities Manager,
A few weeks ago, the landlord changed their bathroom products supplier. Where once we had plush 2-ply toilet paper, we now have 1-ply see-through newsprint-esque sandpaper to wipe our asses with. It really hurts my fanny. I discussed it with the girl I sit next to and she said her fanny hurts too. We would really appreciate it if you could ask them supply us with something that doesn’t cause obvious health and safety issues.
Kind regards,
Ani Moller
I just got home from seeing Fly My Pretties at The Opera House in Wellington. I have never heard of them, nor any of the people in the collaboration, as apparently they’ve all popped up on the scene over the past years I’ve been overseas. I was offered a ticket with a friend but almost didn’t go. I’m glad I did.
What can I say aside from wow? It was one of the best concerts I’ve ever been to.
I had no expectations before going, and it just happened that it was a collaboration of my favourites types of music: dub/reggae, folk, a bit of rock, some classical-esque piano, and a bit of jazz/R&B. It sounds like a complete mix-up, and it was. From NZmusic.com:
Fly My Pretties first entered our hearts and minds in 2004, with the idea from The Black Seeds front-man Barnaby Weir and co-conspirator Mikee Tucker, to assemble a talented and exciting group of Wellington-based musicians for a one-off project. The objective: To meet, exchange ideas, and then perform and record the results in front of a live audience.
There were a few stand out characters for me: Age Pryor, who is one of the most amazing folk songwriters I have ever heard; Ryan Prebble, who made me feel like I was having some sort of sordid religious experience and also played a saw; Adi Dick, who plays super funky dub; and Hollie Smith, who in my opinion is simply a brilliant singer and musician.
Sadly this was their last collaborations for at least the next year. I look forward being at the next one. In the meantime, I will happy myself with the multiple CDs I bought after the concert.
I have been sick for most of this week, including the entire weekend. I know I’m sick when I start cancelling all my plans, especially the ones that involve drinking and going out. I’ve obviously picked up some sort of kissing disease from some whore, and that whore should watch out because my throat is sore and my muscles ache and I’ve had to take time off work on Thursday and Friday but not the whole days because I had “important” work to do, which also includes me not being able to stay in bed tomorrow morning because I have a management meeting to minute at 8:30-in-the-mother-fucking-AM. God damn whores.
There are some upsides to being sick, however. I stayed home all weekend which gave me time to go to the supermarket, cook dinner (that would be approximately the second or third time since I moved into my new flat, some many weeks ago), sweep and mop my room, buy a shitty temporary desk because I couldn’t get the beautiful writing desk I wanted because it isn’t in stock for another six weeks, the shitty temporary desk being shitty indeed requiring me calling a friend and beg him to come over and help me and later find out that the holes were drilled wrong but decide that it will do anyway, do five gazillion loads of washing, do my hand-washing, change my sheets, and I’m sure you are thinking how interesting this all is right now. It is, I assure you. I also watched Ellie Parker (surprisingly not crap) and House of Flying Daggers (rather good, but not with subtitles for the hard of hearing).
Goblin is snuggled up on my freshly-sheeted bed, my heater is on, I am almost pajamaed, and I am now going to get a heat pack for my old granny sore muscles. Woe. WOE.
Over the past two years I had noticed that I was gradually putting on weight. I didn’t think a whole lot of it, and put it down to turning 25 which is when I assumed my body was deciding that it needed to put on some weight to let me gently squeeze out a bunch of lovely babies. I assumed this was just what happened once you hit 25. I had thought I was just a skinny girl, but had come to terms with the fact that perhaps that was going to change.
For reference, here is a photo of me in December 2003 when I was living in Houston. This was two months before I started living with my ex-boyfriend:
Now compare that to me in January 2006 when I was living in Belgium, after living with my boyfriends for almost two years:
I think it is plainly clear that there are some obvious differences here. Especially when you take into consideration that I moved out of the apartment I shared with my ex only one month ago and this is what I look like today (well, actually yesterday):
The only obvious explanation for this is that he was a feeder. He used to fry everything in butter and serve big portions. And the more weight I put on the more he grabbed my ass. I can only imagine what his goal was – probably me, 500lbs, stuck in a bed all day watching Oprah to eventually have a heart problem and/or diabetes and to have to be craned out from the hole left in the bedroom wall from the window being removed and being wheeled away on a trailer with a mattress.
God that’s a sexy thought.
Since I’ve returned to Wellington after living overseas for five years, I have rediscovered the joy that is amazing cocktails. I never lived anywhere overseas where I could easily get yummy cocktails mixed by amazing bartenders. When I lived in Texas I pretty much only drunk frozen daiquiris and vodka cherry sours. When I lived in the UK I didn’t really drink at all because Manchester is a scary place to be out drinking at night, although I did discover some delicious Malaysian bottled drink the name of which I forget but the drink was pink and that rhymes, yes, I think.
So, now I am back in Wellington and there is an overabundance of good cocktails bars that I can wear sneakers and jeans to and where I know I will bump into someone I know almost every time I go there. This is heavily influenced by my friend Adam who is a barman (although I think they call themselves something wanky like cocktail mixerers, who knows) at a place called Chow. Adam is also the sort of person who knows every other bartender at every other bar in town that is worth going to. Now that we’ve been spending time going out together I have somehow become “in” by association. This means random free drinks from friendly cocktail mixerers and Adam’s partners in crime. This is good, especially seeing how apparently my liver is evil and must be destroyed.
Things that destroy my liver in a deliciously delicate way:
The above are also the reasons I haven’t been updating my website. Why write for the web when I could be sedating myself into oblivion. I mean, seriously!