Fashion
By the Rogue Traders. A genius song that describes me so perfectly I could hardly have done it better myself.
FashionFashion is the only cure
It always leaves you wanting more
Fashion people know the score
Oh.. Fashion!
I'm just a slave to it all
Walking down the street feeling like she is complete
She's got her Gucci, Prada, Louis, Saba
Isn't that neat
She thinks that everyone is looking as she's passing them by
And everything looks better with heels three inches high
Fashion!
Step back
Every street's a catwalk when you're looking like that
I'm just a slave to it all
Get rich, stay kitch, give me another hit
I'm just a slave to it all
Couture, some more, fashion?s the only cure
Walking down the street with her new man no-one's seen
She's laughing, joking, smiling hoping everyone sees
She's got the perfect guy to match her image alright
She loves it when she sees the girls have envious eyes
Fashion!
Step back
Every street's a catwalk when you're looking like that
Fashion!
It's so cool
When life is like a video and magazine shoot
I'm just a slave to it all
Get rich, stay kitch, give me another hit
I'm just a slave to it all
Couture, some more, fashion's the only cure
Fashion is the only cure
It always leaving you wanting more
Fashion people know the score
Oh.. Fashion!
I'm just a slave to it all
Get rich, stay kitch, give me another hit
I'm just a slave to it all
Couture, some more, fashion's the only cure.
Guess which is my favourite line..
Christmas
Was woken up by some combination of a hyperactive little brother with parent-given license to drag me out of bed at 8.01 and an annoying barrage of 'Merry Christmas!" texts. Seriously. Do people have nothing better to do when they wake up than spread the love to people who don't want it? Only replied to two. One was the best friend, the other was the boy who wants me. The latter also mentioned our plans this weekend, which made the nauseous Christmas cheer somewhat more bearable, and earned him a reply.
Have so far only wished one person a Merry Christmas, and it was accidental.
Got some great presents.. the best were all recieved before today though.
1. Present to self... matching Hannah Montana watches for Zoe and I.
2. Present from Zoe... voucher to get belly button pierced.
3. Present from a cool person... alien looking massager thing which I am in love with.
Today's tops were from Nana (awfully generous this year I must say), the heretic uncle (with fabulous gift ideas), and the parents, who got everything I suggested.
Yay. Now to be force fed copious amounts of gross fatty food on the only day I allow myself to be impinged upon in such a way..
A Day in the life of the Minimum Wage
First draft of my English internal, where we have to write a column suitable for a newspaper or magazine. It is imperative that I get Excellence, so I'll post the final copy in a few weeks, which will hopefully be much better, and far more laden with extended metaphors (of which there are currently none) and other sophisticated language techniques.
A Day in the Life of the Minimum WagePeople mistake supermarket workers, in my experience. We are expected to meekly mind our manners, silently scan item after item, and ask "Have you had a nice day today?" as though we mean it, and while we are (comparatively) happy using as little effort as humanly possible, everyone else is happy in their assumption that none of us possess either an IQ above 80 or the ability to have opinions on our customers. While engaged at about level zero with my scintillating supermarket job (and the equally enthralling customers seeking my attention), over the nine hours I worked last Saturday, I had ample time to contemplate the many evils of supermarket society and pass brutal judgement on every represented societal group unfortunate enough to spend a few minutes in my generally unpleasant presence.
Now the lot that lend themselves most notably to my judgement are those who look as though their BMI is about equal to their weight in kilograms; the mini-mountains who doubtlessly appreciate automated double doors (as they couldn't possibly fit through a single door, nor reach over their ten-ton stomach to push open a door that required manual operation); the section of society known as the morbidly obese. What I have noticed about the grossly overweight are their shopping patterns. Not the way in which they shop or treat staff, as generally they are not the most difficult customers to deal with (although with so little else going for them they really do have to be nice), but what they choose to buy. Countless little dump-trucks waddled through my checkout last week, all of whom purchased the same sort of food; fat-filled Jimmy's Pies, sugar-laden soft drinks, greasy, grimy, potato chips, and block after block of Cadbury's chocolate (on sale this week for $2.89 a block!). The only question I have to ask is "Why?". Clearly it was the food you are about to gorge yourself on that brought you to this level of repulsive obesity, so why on earth would you wish to worsen your condition? The disgustingly overweight are given only pitying smiles from their kindly supermarket workers, who keep all traces of disgust to themselves.
Next up are businessmen. Their trick is to plonk a basket on the counter, and expect me, a subservient young woman to unload it for them (while quite possibly straining my back reaching that far), then vehemently protest as their goods are unceremoniously dumped from the basket. Protest, that is, until they receive a frosty stare that promptly freezes whatever pitiful complaint was about to emerge from their lips. These are also the most appalling listeners – when asked "Eftpos or Credit", the inevitable answer is "Yes", followed by annoyance when they realise I cannot read their mind and haven't made a selection (that would enable them to pay) yet, due to their lack of helpful answer. Businessmen expect lowly checkout staff to bow to their beck and call, and like to complain when they realise some of us know perfectly well we aren’t under their jurisdiction and don't have to put up with their crap.
For the last lot, I would just like to say that surviving menopause – newsflash – does not mean the world ought to bow down to you. Or perhaps the perpetual bad moods experienced by middle-aged ladies are simply a menopausal symptom, the frustration of which they like to take out on sixteen year old girls who can't (and wouldn't even if they could) empathize? Middle aged ladies – from about forty to sixty – are always right. Even when they're wrong. If something doesn't scan at the price they expected, everyone within a one kilometre radius can tell something is wrong; the earth slows noticeably at their disapproval while at freeze-frame speed they draw themselves up to their full height (suddenly that of Mount Everest), and aim their flaming glare at you, the cowering girl on till who is clearly at fault. Then it is up to us to disregard all tact and inform them that the possibility of the computer being wrong is about equal with the possibility of world peace, while the possibility of them having misread a label is about that of Winston Peters being a liar. When they berate our insolence, we either send our packer off on a price-checking mission, or we ask the customer them self to do it, as we probably aren't educated enough to read. Inevitably, the middle aged lady is proved wrong. Equally inevitably, she doesn't apologise, and continues on as rudely as though the entire debacle was our fault. At this point, we squish her bread and crush her potato chips.
Society underestimates young supermarket workers; we won't spend our lives packing bags at New World, but for the time being it provides a means to an end of far higher status than their own. And while we fill our millionth tree-killing grocery transportation device with food for the masses, we observe. Quietly, we watch. Quietly, we judge. And quietly, behind our fake smiles we build up a general hatred for dole-bludging fatties, corporate posers, menopausal women, and anyone who thinks that being young and choosing to spend time working part-time in a minimum wage job (instead of hanging round smoking outside Timezone) is synonymous with being stupid. So you'd all better watch out, because using my IQ of 200 odd more than you, I'm in reasonably good standing to become Supreme Dictator of the World someday. And when that happens?
Yo suckers are goin' down.
Choices, Choices..
Sitting Scholarship English exam or going to karate camp?
English: I do not think I will get a scholarship. It's always possible, presuming everyone else sitting the exam is randomly crap that day, but I seriously doubt my chances. HOD of English, however, disagrees.
Karate Camp: I haven't gone for the past two years and I'd really like to this year.
And I have to decide by tomorrow. *angry face*
Kurt Purdon
"I don't want to have less stuff just to save trees."
Not So Cute..
Righteo so here's a little story about my Saturday night. I met this boy named Shaun (spelt that way on my phone, but I'm guessing it's actually spelt Sean), happened to be in his company (as well as the people's I was actually with) for the majority of the rest of the night because he was cute etc and I didn't feel like being mean enough to ditch him, and had a reasonably good time, as I tend to, being the sort of person who generally enjoys myself in most situations.
Unfortunately, instead of just getting his number, saying I'd give him a text the next day, never doing it, and never hearing from him again (as I usually do), I accidentally gave him my number as well.
This meant I was inevitably going to hear from him. It was kind of cute to begin with, he clearly wanted me (most people do) and wasn't going to leave me alone unless I agreed to meet up with him sometime, so I figured I'd save myself the hassle of feeling like a bitch for ignoring him and just said sure. I'd meet him for coffee next Monday, because I was super busy this week and wasn't really free til then.
At this point he should have taken the hint: She's not that interested or she would've made herself free earlier. Seems not, but that's allright. Doubtless I can let him down far more gently in person. Also reasonably important to note that I explicity said I hate texting, and will let him know closer to the time when on Monday suits.
Following this, he proceeded to ask, about twenty minutes later, if I was free that night. No dear, I said
next Monday for a reason. I have plans tonight and I'm very busy this week. Oh, that's allright, just checking. By the way, if there's another guy, just tell me and I'll back off. There isn't. I just have plans. Really? "
i hope theres not lol cuz thatd mean i wasnt th 1".
Didn't bother replying to that one, because at this stage I'm getting annoyed. He doesn't know me.
He met me ONCE when BOTH of us were drunk. Yet for some reason he has some sort of stupid attachment or claim on me? Of course we got along; people in happy environments and somewhat under the influence generally do get along because they're all feeling generally friendly, generous, etc.. but us getting along meant absolutely nothing.
Unfortunately, I'm not always like that sober. I made that clear when today I got another series of annoying texts asking if I was free tonight (
how many freaking times does it take saying I'm BUSY this week to get the message across?!), and told him my plans simply don't fall through (I'm a very popular person etc) and he may as well not bother asking,
as I will see him next Monday.
Also made it blatantly clear I would text him where/when, NOT the other way around.
Desperate just isn't so cute.
Parking and Driving and Whatnot
The Dunedin City Council is retarded. They are raising parking fees
again, in order to "reduce congestion in the city, promote use of more sustainable public transport, and combat obesity". Not only that, they are extending the areas in which you have to pay for parking, so that all of the nice places we all know to park where we won't get charged will just disappear.
And all this is okay, because we still pay less than other cities for parking! Yes, well, we all get paid less than people in other cities, because our general cost of living is lower. Someone thought that statement through.
But it's still okay, because it will encourage public transport use which stops us all using cars and generally uses less gas which leads to less pollution and less global warming and so on and so forth. However, with this reasoning, public transport would need to be a viable alternative to driving. Which it isn't. Because in Dunedin, the bus services are utter crap. Most places have a bus every hour or two if you're lucky, and they don't go particularly late at all, even on weekends.
Christchurch, on the other hand, has the right idea. Their metro station is like a mini-airport and there are buses to absolutely everywhere about every fifteen minutes. They also go past 9pm! I saw one to the middle of nowhere that went until 1am on weekends and was rather impressed. Dunedin should take a leaf from their book before oppressively forcing us all to pay skyrocketing parking fees that we can't afford, but can't afford not to pay either (as that would mean not driving).
Dunedin sucks.
to Kim's Hmms
