The purple prose of an adolescent trapped in suburban hell in 1989

While digging through the accumulated boxes of childhood crap over the holidays, I came across the one and only poem I ever wrote without being under threat of failing English. (There was a stand off one year. I won. Heh.) In fact, I would not be in the least surprised to discover I never wrote it at all, but that instead it's something that just randomly stuck in my memory. The good news is that there is not one thing I could write this year that could be more embarrassing, and so, in the spirit of self motivation, I give you:Here we go again, sir.And the antelope said to the cat in tree,Oh, what of the wandering stars?Do they sigh as do weNew sights longing to seeAnd yearn for faraway Mars?Or are their cares more mundane,Their pursuits much more sane,To care less for impossible things?Are their eyes inward turnedAnd their souls boredom burned?

Nice knowin' ya, 2003

December 2002: The culmination of the six months in the worst job I've ever had is a nervous breakdown, complete with stress induced vomiting and panic attacks. Fun for the whole family. I walk out one afternoon and never go back, and I spend the next two months doing the filing at my last job but one, until they tell me they no longer have the budget to pay me. I'm so broke my parents are paying my rent for me. Tis the season to be not very jolly at all.February: I fetch up in the receptionist job of great boredom, which in turn becomes the PA job of great hilarity, as I end up mostly doing G the Communication Manager's job in my spare time. This is my one great stroke of luck for 2003, as, although the job itself (at least, the part that is covered by my job description) isn't very exciting, my boss is pretty much the greatest thing since sliced bread, and with the exception of G, everyone is lovely. G's terminal incomptence does have the added bonus of making me look shit-hot, which is a welcome ego boost after all that filing.June: Six months of reoccuring abdominal cramps, nausea and vomiting finally convince even me to go the doctor. Convincing the doctor that something is wrong is an added challenge, even after two days of foul tests, the results of which leave the gastric specialist flabbergasted. My regular doctor's comment on seeing the scan of my insides? 'Yuck.' "Urgent" surgery is scheduled for two months time, during which time I'm to just keep doing what I've been doing, which is not sleeping, not eating, and hoping I don't suddenly spike a massive infection, because, presumably, that'd be even 'yuckier'.July: I pick up my mobile to see 'HOME' flashing on the screen, which is a cue for instant panic when you live on your own. The panic is entirely justified when it proves to be from a lovely policeman seated at my kitchen table, who tells me someone threw a brick through my bedroom window, and could I please come home so I can tell them what was stolen? Gone were my laptop (*wail*), my tv, and my brand spanking new DVD player (*sob*). Also, finger print powder is a bitch to clean up, especially when it's mixed with shards of glass. And no, I don't have insurance.August: Surgery. Yay.September: After having been promised that my contract would be made permanent, my boss instead tells me that they've decided to downgrade my role, and that I'm not to apply for it because I would be bored brainless. I should instead spread my wings and fly, little bird, out into the big wide world. G, the moron, tells me what a great compliment it is that everyone thinks so much of me they've decided to take my job away, and give it someone not as good. She then inexplicably fails to do the right thing and hand in her resignation so I can have her job instead. To date, she has still failed to do this. How selfish can you get? My lovely boss finds shit load of project work for me, so I won't be rushed out the door. At the moment, I'm there till February.December: Job hunting fucking sucks. G comes back from her honeymoon to tell me that her husband refused a posting to Singapore. I spend the rest of the afternoon, and most of the following week, not stabbing her with a blunt pencil. In the seasonal spirit of charity and goodwill, I accidently overpay my phone bill by $500, so Telstra has a great Christmas, even if I don't. Also, a big fuck you to Channel 9, who show three eps of The O.C. before pulling it completely from all schedules without any explanation whatsoever.Next up, why 2004 willl be better, even if G doesn't fall under a bus.

See?

can</i> deal with stupid people.">I woke up this morning after one of those low-grade nightmares, the kind where you find yourself trapped somewhere you can't get out of no matter which turns you take, or what kind of arguments you make. Then, once I was in the shower and more or less awake, I realised that it wasn't a nightmare, and that I had actually spent the whole of yesterday arguing with one of the more colourless superannuation tax accountants about disposable plastic coffee cups. Oh, and those wooden paddle-pop tea stirrer thingies.If only it was acceptable to say, 'No, you daft cow, the company provides you with coffee mugs, glasses, teaspoons and every possible means of washing them. Just because you and your colleagues are too lazy or too grotty to do so is no reason for me to spend good money providing you with disposable mugs and stirrers. Now get out of my face,' the whole farce would have been over in minutes. But no. Being the company supply-nazi is so glam.

Today's lesson

Meditating--alright, procrastinating--on a particular crafty project for five years means that when you actually sit down to do it, the whole thing takes less than an hour from first hammer blow to final sanding.I wonder if the same holds true for writing?