Monday Morning Internet Harvest

I didn't actually stay up to watch the men's final of the Australian Open, so really I shouldn't be this tired. But I am tired, and sweaty I also am. Sweaty and sticky, and feeling incredibly attractive.

Anyway, please to enjoy.

This is pretty cool.

If this year's Oscar nominated film posters told the truth.

Bill Maher - Irritable Bowl Syndrome from Fraser Davidson on Vimeo.

Note: I'm seeing Mariachi el Bronx tonight. My excitement knows no bounds. This is the most I've looked forward to a gig in a long while. 

REB OUT. 

RIP: That Pair of Jeans.

I don't often buy jeans.
Frankly, I think the entire ordeal of taking oneself to the jeans emporium - wherever that may be - is not only disheartening (oh, how the weight is gained...) but also painful and altogether much too time-consuming.

Thus, when I buy myself a pair of jeans they don't get replaced until they're pretty much falling off my legs. That's no exaggeration. They will actually be in tatters before I acquiesce and buy a new pair. Some people will spend hundreds of dollars on fancy-ass legwear ... not this lady. I suppose too, that "lady" is the wrong word to be using in this instance. "Lady" isn't usually synonymous with dirty jeans never being washed, being patched up rip after rip, fusing themselves to the legs of the wearer like a grotty and faded black second skin.

And so, the time recently and reluctantly came around again. I finally caved. I bade farewell to Ol' Rippy (as they have just now been dubbed), the jeans that saw me through countless music festivals, many months of accumulated shifts waiting tables and making coffee, film shoots, a Eurotrip, a couple of interstate sojourns, and a South American adventure. They have been replaced by an identical pair, which have now been dubbed New Rippy (it's a pre-emptive moniker).

The long, painful and unnecessarily strung-out death of Ol' Rippy.

The first rip occurred where and when it usually does with a somewhat cheap-ish pair of jeans. A little less than a year after they were initially purchased, around the same time the zip began to splutter and lose the strength of will to stay up. The rip was near the crotch, and it occurred on the way to an early-morning film shoot.

I leapt into Jaz's car at around 5:30 in the goddamn morning, ready to head to who-knows-where-past-the-city for a shoot. As I fell into the back seat, I heard that familiar RRRRRIIIIIP sound, and felt the cold morning air on my inner thigh. I groaned, and inwardly patted myself on the back for never leaving the house without a little monster pouch that contains bandaids, safety pins, tampons, a condom and a sewing kit (A smart girl is a prepared girl, kids. Knowing is half the battle!).

I spent the car trip in the dark, half-asleep, sewing up the rip while the jeans remained on my person. It was a feat achieved mostly by feel. I stabbed myself only a few times.

After that first rip, the future of a pair of jeans teeters on the edge of a very slippery slope. That first rip was sewn up and re-sewn a number of times, as you can probably imagine. I can't help it if I'm prone to jumping around and climbing up and down things during moments of drunkenness. One big rip, a slightly worn out crotchular area and a bunch of coffee stains a pair of jeans does not kill. A trip to South America however, does.

The next big rip happened almost immediately after arriving in Cusco. It was eventually sewn up in Arequipa - a rushed job - and emerged again bigger and better than ever as soon as I returned to Cusco. Bolivia was next. La Paz was too much of a blur of lights and crappy music and ridiculous funtimes for sleep, much less pausing long enough to fend off sickness and sew up newly ripped jeans. Which is a shame, because I got back to La Paz after a sojourn in Copacabana with a brand spanking new rip. Watch them accumulate!

The initial rip very quickly spread. Like a jean-eating disease.

The childhood friends from New York I'd spent a night hanging out with on Isla del Sol headed across the border to Peru, while I decided to spend another night at Copacabana then head back to La Paz - for what would start as a stop-over and end a four-day bender. I'd had a lovely and relaxing evening to myself, eating at a nice restaurant, drinking more-than-adequate coffee, reading Brideshead Revisited. I then spied a cool-looking bar and headed in to do a bit of writing. There I met  a well-read German, and we got to chatting with the Radiohead-loving Chileno behind the bar. Eager to try new beers - a change from the Bolivian equivalent of Carlton Draught available at my La Paz hostel - I'd soon sampled a great and potent variety of the region's alcohol. Besides that, my company was interesting and eager to converse. So, by the time I emerged into the drizzly and chilly night my vague loneliness lingering from having recently left my close circle of friends in Cusco had faded to a warm and happy glow. Superb!

Not so superb, was the image that greeted me when I got back to my hostel. OPEN 24 HOURS, the sign had declared. Approaching the very large gate however, things looked decidedly closed. I shook the gate. No dice.
"Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!" A drunken roar echoed in the night.
I stared through the gate, up the driveway to where the reception was.
"OYE! SOY AFUERA!" 
A group of guys standing at a nearby foodstand spied me yelling and sauntered over. They didn't look Bolivian, but weren't gringos either.
"What're you doing?" one asked in me in Spanish.
"My hostel's closed. I thought it was open 24 hours a day. I need to get inside!"
"Well, I guess you can't go home yet." Another said, grinning. "You'll have to come drinking with us."
I considered his suggestion for all of about half a second. No dice. No dice at all.
"Thanks, but no thanks. I have a bus to catch tomorrow morning."
"But how are you going to get inside?"
"Umm..." I looked up at the gates.
Suddenly one of the guys leapt forward. "Step on me!" His hands were held out and linked.

This is where the propensity I have for climbing things after a few beers came into play. The gate was high but I clambered to the top, the guys below cheering me on. I reached the top and from my perch I could see just how high I had climbed. It was really, really high. It was then that my German friend from the bar appeared, having heard all the commotion. He stepped forward and gave me a skeptical look, as if to say, "You were drunker than I thought you were." He proceeded to unlatch the gate and push it open.
"FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK." Another roar echoed through Copacabana. I clutched the gate as it and I swung forward. Suddenly, I realised that somehow I'd have to get down. The guys were doubled over with laughter, taking photos of the stupid girl who'd climbed the unlocked gate. I mugged for the camera, but dreaded what I'd have to do next.

It hurt me, and it hurt Ol' Rippy. 

I jumped. Then fell. Then I woke up and limped to the coffee shop before getting on the bus, my left side of my person aching. Then I realised I had ripped a truly awful and gargantuan hole in my jeans. So then I put my long-johns on underneath my jeans. That's how big the hole was. The kind of hole in which the unshaven leg underneath would cause even the most hardened Bolivian to vom on sight. It pretty much cut the leg in half, from my crotch then down my thigh.

What happened next was four days of me taking off those jeans maybe ... twice? To shower. I think I put on a dress one of those days (I was meeting up with a friend, you see). Then I went to Sucre and showered. Then I headed to Potosi and didn't shower again until after I crossed the border into Argentina. In fact, Sam and I went down into the mines in Potosi, where it's BOILING HOT, and chose the eat-then-bus-to-Uyuni option over the shower option. What I'm trying to get at is the fact that the jeans were filthy. They were DISGUSTING. They hadn't been washed in a truly disgusting amount of time ("a few weeks" is a mere ballpark figure), they were pretty much in tatters, and they'd just about fused themselves to my legs. And the fact that the salt flats were FREEZING and I could only take a portion of my backpack meant that I had neither the chance or the the inclination to take my jeans off to fix them.

In fact, I don't think I actually sewed up the rip until ... sometime into Argentina. Buenos Aires maybe?  By then, a couple of things had become apparent. Firstly, that all this time spent with my jeans (over my  long-johns/thermals/whatever the fuck they are) meant that they had pretty much become a part of me. They'd pretty much fused themselves to my body. Sure, I had shorts that I wore in the jungle, I had dresses that I wore whenever I felt the situation was appropriate (good thing I did, seeing as the inhabitants of Buenos Aires are rather fashionable indeed). But every travel day was spent in jeans. Secondly, that with all of those rips spending time with each other, a number of romances had obviously blossomed, bringing into life a myriad of baby rips.

By the time I got to Chile, Ol' Rippy had faded to a kind of sickly grey-ish colour around the knees, with different coloured string peeking out of the sewed rips, gaping holes revealing either my tights or thermals (good thing the Chilean south is deathly cold). I'm pretty sure there's a photo Jesse and I took of our feet, with his proud black jeans next to my on-death's-door grey ones. I feel it really conveys the wheezing extent of Ol' Rippy's drawn-out demise. However, don't for a moment be thinking that all I was wearing were these jeans. I think I managed to have a pretty good wardrobe during my trip over to SA, Bolivian dirty-times notwithstanding. I even made sure to always have my undercut freshly buzzed whenever possible. Out of all the items of clothing I took though, Ol' Rippy by far fared the worst.

Anyway. I got back to Australia. And I REFUSED to buy new ones. Partly because I wanted to lose weight before I went through the whole buying new jeans ordeal. Partly because I just wanted to know how long it'd take before the jeans were physically impossible to wear anymore.

Please to observe.

The crotch.

Inner right thigh.

Note the two giant rips spanning the entire width of the leg. 

About four different sewing jobs to be seen here. 

Inner left thigh.

Ol' Rippy next to New Rippy. Note the difference in colour.

In the end, Ol' Rippy's death was without ceremony or a grand story. I was on the plane to Perth. To be honest, looking back I felt as if I was about to head to my next location in South America. A rainy day, I was in my beleaguered old jacket, worn out from months of being strapped to the outside of my backpack. I was wearing a dirty old bright yellow t-shirt emblazoned with "VERMONT", given to me by a lovely boy hailing from there. I was wearing a dorky-ass Peruvian beanie, complete with llamas and a tail. I was wearing Ol' Rippy. Like old times. Nostalgia plus. Then I sat down and I heard a RRRRRRRIIIIPPPP I knew in my heart that it was the end, as the cool air hit my inner thigh once more. It was the end of the road for Ol' Rippy. 

Strike me down with a broken zip, I actually felt a little glum. These jeans had taken me through the UK, Europe, Adelaide, countless days and evenings of work at a cafe, of festivals and gigs, through Peru, Bolivia, Argentina and Chile. They'd seen the Amazon, the drizzly and snowy south of the motherland, a hazy adventure through Amsterdam, had propelled me onto the stage during Italian karaoke. They'd seen the spilt beer of a thousand pubs. The smoke of a thousand cigarettes had latched themselves onto Ol' Rippy's threads. The stench of a thousand chocolate drinks had followed me around after a shift while still wearing Ol' Rippy. Ol' Rippy had seen bands that had bored me to tears and moved me to tears. Ol' Rippy had made me struggle to free myself from its grip during drunken and fumbling sexy adventures. 

And pain of pains above all, I'd have to go shopping for a new pair. Goddamn, that shit is annoying.

I realise that was a really long-winded post about what essentially is just a piece of material that one wears on one's bottom half in order to keep those around them from gagging in disgust/to keep one's nether regions safe from the elements, but I do believe Ol' Rippy had a very full life for a pair of jeans. A very full life indeed. He lives in my closet still, setting an example for all future jeans.

RIP. 

Today's Internet Harvest

This is definitely worth watching.

Hello from ant1mat3rie on Vimeo.

So is this. Which is apparently really quite old, but I'd never seen it before. So it still provides me with much, much amusement.

Awkward.

It's past my bedtime and I'm fairly tired, but this just has to be shared.

Today, as one would expect, I spent a fair chunk of my time going about my day-to-day tasks at work. Answering phones, making coffees, greeting clients, picking up ingredients for our Mexican Fiesta tomorrow (you read that right). All of a sudden though, a wild colour grader appeared before me on the stairs.

"Rebbanator!" he said warmly, grinning. We both happen to have names that are quite conducive to nicknames. Or at least, for amusing endings to be tacked on at the end. Rebbatron, Rebasaurus, Rebbaroo, they're all monikers I respond too.

To "Rebbanator!" I would usually respond with some smartass-y or amusing play on "Fergus", which is his name. Any sane person would. Instead, this is the scene on the stairs played out.

That's right.

I responded with my own name. My name. Not his. Not only was I unable to think of a witty response, but I failed at the whole "interaction with a fellow human" game on an excruciatingly further reaching level.

What am I, an attacking Pokemon?

I immediately turned bright red and attempted to cover up my apparent retardation with something along the lines of "HAHAHAHA. IT'S FUNNY BECAUSE I MEANT TO SAY YOUR NAME BUT THEN I SAID MY NAME, HAHAHAHAHA."


The co-worker in question sort of seemed unsure as to how to respond so I flung myself down the remaining stairs and hid at my desk. Here I was, thinking I'd maybe convinced the office that I was somewhat cool, that I'm in fact loud and hilarious despite what those initial weeks of being monosyllabic and awkward as hell must have made them think.

Tomorrow I'm going to have to bust out some real Oscar Wilde shit as far as charismatic conversation goes to undo this damage, I tell you what.

Lego Taxidermy

Just before Christmas I was faced with the sudden and very daunting prospect of buying a Kris Kringle/Secret Santa present for a co-worker. As resident new girl, I was more than a little worried that I'd buy a complete dudd of a present and thus would be deemed a dudd myself.

Mercifully (or so I thought), the name I drew out of the coffee jug was that of one of the designers - probably one of the guys I get on best with in the office. Unfortunately, with that relief came a surge of added pressure to get something good.

ANYWAY. Cruising around r/shutupandtakemymoney, I was alerted to the existence and major win (I'm a little hungover, you'll have to excuse my shrunken vocabulary) of David Cole. I immediately decided a lego deer "taxidermy kit" would be a perfect present. Unfortunately, I didn't factor into my thought process the amount of time it would take to get to Australia. I emailed David and asked how long it'd take to get down under, and received a super-prompt and super-nice reply. In short, it wouldn't be arriving in time for our work Christmas party, but by then I didn't care very much at all. Frankly, deciding "I'll just keep it" didn't take much in the way of reasoning or rationalisation.

Thursday I was out with a bunch of friends, cursing the fact that I had work the next day and my car parked down the street while I watched them downing cider after cider after tequila shot. The fact that I hadn't had a proper night's sleep in about a week wasn't helping in the slightest, and I soon found myself in a bit of a god-awful mood. Which is really a hell of a shame, as the night kicked on long after I threw in the towel and succumbed to the tiredness that made me nearly fall asleep at the wheel on the way home.

Upon arriving home however, my mood was immediately brightened by an uncharacteristically sweet message (not an insult in sight!) from Mitts and a package awaiting me with bearing an address in Brooklyn. The deer!

After I'd had my fill of gazing lovingly at the packaging and the hand-drawn instructions, the deer was built. As well as documented, on a new phone that's at least three months overdue. Tell you what, there's a lot to be said for the amount of fun it is to make things with lego. That it looks like an adorable deer just makes it that much better.

Behold! The newest addition to the ranks of things in my room which I have no need for, but which make me happy.

Lego taxidermy deer is available at David Cole's store. 

Canyons & Agent Cooper.

New regular post! I suppose this is a way to motivate me to post something most days of the week.

Call it my contribution to making your work day that much more enjoyable.

Today, behold. Behold! The song that I've been listening to on repeat since returning from oh land of lovely times, Leongatha. I'm not exaggerating; over and over and over again I can't help but press play again. It's by Canyons, a Sydney duo. Apparently they supported Justice in Melbourne a few days ago, a show that under normal circumstances I'd be devastated to have missed. That particular Friday however, I happened to see Taxi Driver at the Astor, followed by Mexican food, followed by a return to the Astor in order to watch Evil Dead. I'll go out on a limb here, and declare that a pretty goddamn good lineup of activities.

At any rate, enjoy the song.


  Canyons - When I See You Again by modularpeople

Edit: I realise Dale Cooper has nothing to do with this post, but I really wanted to post that gif.

Country House

It's occurred to me quite recently that the majority of posts I've written of late have been quite negative. Their subject matter is invariably a humourous take on woes that befall me, or situations that I have hated sure, but they're still pretty whingey. I know this brings the lols to those who read this blog (especially Mitch) and as such I won't soon be stopping, but I also wonder how much this depicts me as a negative person. In actuality, the second half of 2011 and the first week or so of 2012 have found me in the happiest head space I've been in for a very long time. Maybe that's why I'm able to find hilarity in unpleasant situations and the idiotic things I do? Perhaps.

At any rate, today's post isn't negative in the slightest. In fact, the four days I'll now attempt to detail can only really begin to be described as "idyllic". Sigh. Tomorrow work begins again, and I imagine I'll spend much of the day gazing longingly out the window and daydreaming about time spent without a watch, picking fruit and lazing on the beach.

The location was Leongatha, at Marlon's parents' place. They weren't there, but the dogs, chickens, sheep, the views, the beach and ripe fruit were. We took a wrong turn on the sweltering hot car trip there, thanks to my easily-distracted direction-giving skills but helped in no way by my fellow navigator. As a Kiwi, Mike's brain very quickly turned to mush in the heat and conversation slowed to a near halt as the heat rose and the car made noises of pain, struggling against the unfamiliar weight and the air-con on full bore. The wrong turn however, meant the detour we took to get back on the South Gippsland highway took us through be-sheeped paddocks and back roads lined with trees and small pubs whose clientele whirled around in curiosity at the sound of a car speeding past.

Upon finally arriving at Marlon's our jaws collectively dropped to the floor as we attempted to stifle gasps. Or at least, I did. Alice's face was probably more easily readable as a look somewhere between "overwhelmed" and complete delight. We agreed later that had Immy been there, she would have been sent into a conniption, such was the gorgeous scene and the house that resided within it. Marlon, perhaps sensing our delight, gave us a tour of the property. The house, with its rooms littered with the beautifully mis-matched trinkets, books and paintings and things only acquired after years and years of living. The old kitchen, the verandahs with three dogs lazing on it. Three outdoor wood fired bread/pizza ovens, a shed full of chickens. An orchard, full of peaches, grapefruits, oranges, apples. Artichokes, berries, avocadoes, with dorky geese waddling around and two of the friendliest and fluffiest sheep you can imagine. Frequently looking back at Alice, I could see her eyes growing bigger and bigger in gleeful shock and wonder. We picked peaches straight off the tree and ate them, the warm juice dripping down our faces and arms. Marlon took us to the other side of the house, where the cellar sat with a tiny little room resplendent on top, stairs leading up to it.
"Reb." Mike was pointing at the room, grinning. "Ernest Hemingway."
"Ohhhh my goodness!! Imagine being led up to that love nest!" Alice cried.

Seriously. Seriously, it was just too lovely to describe. The other side of the house led us to cucumbers, potatoes, pumpkins, a shed for making cider in, flowers, olives, strawberries. Come ON! We half-expected some Ashton Kutcher-esque guy in a backwards trucker cap to leap out from within the bushes and declare that we'd been Punk'd.

The first day was spent at the beach, finally cooling off after the rather rudely hot journey to Leongatha. Alice and Mike's backs were peeling something awful, an arm almost permanently reaching behind them to have at the itchy carnage. Unfortunately for Alice's gag reflex, I soon discovered a newfound love and skill (?) for peeling chunks of skin off Mike's back. I don't know about you, but I think our friendship reached a new level as soon as I triumphantly held up a piece of skin, bobbing in the surf. 

Cheap thrills, yo.

You know? That was the first time I'd been to a beach proper since Alice, Karin and I lay by the surf in Spain. That was 2010. Can you believe that? I mean sure, I'd swum in an Amazonian lake, Peruvian hot springs, and Lake Eildon (obviously the most impressive of the trio), but no beaches. The sand, the taste and smell of the water, the sting of the ol' water-in-yer-nostrils game ... I was surprised to realise that I had missed it dearly. Living right on the bay in Adelaide all those years ago, I took the beach for granted, and even decided that I was decidedly not a "beach person". Truth be told, I'm now re-thinking that opinion of myself. It was glorious as hell, bobbing around and (failing at) catching waves. Marlon and Mike headed further out while Alice and I stayed behind to talk excitedly of the extent of the loveliness we'd managed to find ourselves in. A day at the beach, lying in the sun, with the promise of a barbeque and cider upon returning to Marlon's. 

For those of you playing at home, yes, I did get slightly sunburnt. It was probably somewhere between dozing off on the sand and stopping off for a beer on the way back home. Sozol skin, you'll be scaly for a few days yet. The barbeque was prepared, as was the salad. The sun went down and out came the camera and ciders and thus so too did the conversations and gesticulations that grew wilder as the volume of laughter also did. What did we talk about? Oh lord, don't ask me to remember! Everything and anything. Everything from the pros and cons of fighting to the death against a horse-sized duck to punk to sex to creativity. All the while, three dogs eyed us curiously as we sat beside the cellar, drinking port after the cider. 

The days that followed all seemed to be guided by the same script. Sleep in, fry up some bacon and eggs, down some coffee, head to the beach, swim, sunbathe, meander our way back past the supermarket, make pizzas, cook them in the outdoor oven, drink cider, drink wine, blast some music, keep drinking, pass out. 

The box in the pantry set aside for recyclables soon filled and overflowed, with cider bottles, wine bottles (blanco y tinto), homemade cider bottles, and one bottle of whiskey was unwisely tackled after all of the drinks listed above. Let that be a lesson to y'all, children. If you've had cider, white wine, red wine, homemade beer, homemade cider and a spliff, then whiskey is a bad idea. 

Reb: WHISKEY

Mitch: NEVER THE BAD CHOICE!

Reb: GREAT CHOICE OR GREATEST CHOICE

Reb: (the next day) Whiskey was the worst choice. 

However, up until the point when I chundered to the dulcet tones of Mike's laughter (at me, not with me), the night was filled with laughter and music and pizza. Alice went to bed, and the two guys and I embarked on a whiskey-fueled adventure - an adventure which even included rally driving to Korumburra to buy papers. I tried my darndest to keep up with Mike and Marlon's hip-hop oriented conversations to varying levels of success, and could feel myself talking louder and louder, with arms waving further and further into the air - as is the case after so many fun-filled, alcohol-soaked hours in good company. Fun fact: Marlon is truly a superb host. 

Needless to say, the following day (read: afternoon) I felt rather worse for wear. The beach, the supermarket, a nap, pizza, wine, back on the horse. More delicious pizza and delicious company, with the perfect temperature in the breeze. We went inside and thus ensued a dance party. Alice and I flailed around in the inimitable that has made us a force to be reckoned with on the D-Floor. Toe-tapping, hip-twisting, arm-flapping, jumping and kicking; we even managed to get Mike off his feet to the strains of some 60s garage. I then put on a bit of Limp Bizkit, to Alice's wide-eyed horror. "BREATH IN BREATH OUT HANDS UP HANDS DOWN BACK UP BACK UP TELL ME WHATCHA WANNA DO NOW KEEP ROLLIN' ROLLIN' ROLLIN'" Mike attempted a body-roll at the behest of Alice, to a chorus of our hysterical laughter. Alice and I debated the finer points of "being danced with", longed for the days of charming men dipping girls on a civilised dance floor. Then, as if to contradict those thoughts entirely, came the mounting. As those who are acquainted with us know well, when Alice and I are around the mounting inevitably occurs, as does licking. Thus, also came the metal-hands and screeching along to "Bohemian Rhapsody", into what we'd decided would be our microphone - Mike's crotch. Sorry, Mike. 

"How did he think he could fit
four songs into one??!" - Alice

Disregarding being cornered in my room by a giant spider and as a result spending the night on the couch (Wisely I think, I decided not to venture into Alice and Marlon's room to ask for assistance), our last night in Leongatha ended pleasantly and our last morning there began sans hangover. We feasted yet again on bacon and eggs, as well as the bagels Mike had made the night before. Talented boy.

After a quick round of target practice using Marlon's air rifle (turns out I'm a pretty good shot, if anyone playing at home is in need of a sharpshooter) and posing with a very old and beautiful rifle, it dawned on us that we'd have to hit the old dusty trail soon. We then went on one last wander around the garden, picking all manner of fruit and vegetable to take home with us. The dogs scampered around us, prancing and wrestling in the grass. Again, we ate berries and peaches and picked the most monstrously large grapefruits imaginable. Marlon disappeared into the bush and a minute later emerged grinning, handing Alice a bunch of flowers he'd just picked. Alice's face - if our surroundings and the fruit hadn't caused her brain to explode from delight - managed to become an expression of the kind of gleeful bewilderment I can't for the life of me describe.

Anyway. We bade goodbye to Marlon, thanked him a wonderful few days. Earlier that morning Alice and I had reflected on the days that we'd just had, and how completely and utterly idyllic and relaxing they had been. Alice asked me what time it was, and to my surprise I lifted my wrist and realised I hadn't worn my watch for four days. Generally speaking, I feel naked as hell without my watch, and panic when I don't know what the time is. Over those few days however, all concept of time and what day it was completely flew out the window. That phrase, "not a care in the world", was absolutely fitting; we all agreed that any troubles that might've been lingering in the backs of our minds were completely washed away by the booze and the sea and the company we were keeping. That rarely happens for me, so certainly it was an occurrence worth noting. Not for a very, very long time have I been that relaxed. Similarly, not for a while have I spent four days with a group of people and not once felt that a silence was uncomfortable, or that a conversation was stilted. That too, I think is worth noting. 

So then, as we said goodbye to Marlon and his wonderful house, it was a sinking realisation that the real world was hurtling towards us at a breakneck, sinister speed. The trip back was markedly more subdued than the one there, even though the temperature was cooler and our brains hadn't turned to mush. Thoughts of work, what would face us on Monday, the distinct lack of beach and home made pizzas that would be so glaring at our respective offices. Sigh. I shouldn't complain, seeing as my place of employment happens to be a highly enjoyable one ... but still. There's a lot to be said for wandering barefoot through the grass, picking warm peaches from a tree. 

Here's to an amazing "weekend"! 

2012

I'm getting ready to Get it Done.

A new year begins! Thus, so too does a 'welcome the new year' post.

I could go into the myriad things that I did and managed to achieve in 2011, but seeing as we're already a few days into twenty-twelve, I actually think the best way to look is forward. Suffice to say though, twelve will be hard-pressed to beat eleven in not only adventures, but also in personal growth (don't worry, I do know how wanky that sounds) and discoveries epic in nature. I have high hopes for twelve though. I wholeheartedly think it can be in its entirety just as good as - if not better than - the second half of eleven.

Without setting the bar too high, here are some things I'm going to do in 2012.

• Move out, into an abode that isn't in my parents' backyard, with a friend who's very quickly become one of the best additions to our friendship circle of existence in a long time. And whom I'm sure will feature in many a blog post to come. 
• I'm going to post more. At least a few times a week. 
• Write more, in general.
• I'm going to be productive, and keep it up once I reach a steady amount of productivity. 
• New tat. 
• Get fit. I have never been the "fat friend", nor will I ever be. That sounds shallow, but at this stage I'll take any motivation I can get to shed some of this excess girth. 
• Save money. To get overseas. Then stay there. 
• Basically, I'm going to spend 2012 Getting It Together. I've said that before, but twelve is the time to do it in earnest. No time for hesitation, son!