Hola!

I'm thinking of blogging a bit more. I know I'm always saying this, but have been mired in a flaccid hell of study/work/drink for the last...oh, 2 years or so, and nothing has happened that is really worth reporting, NOT EVEN ANYTHING IN MY IMAGINATION. However, I think as I rapidly approach middle age (30!!!!!!!!!!!!!) that I really need to get my priorities straight. What's more important than my meaningless rantings of bitter disappointment? NOTHING, dudes, except maybe catching up with the latest on Samantha Brett's Fairfax blog.

(Does she still even do that blog? Does it tell you what impossible depths of abject depravity that I have sunk to that I DON'T EVEN KNOW IF SAMANTHA "CUNTHEELS" BRETT is still doing a blog? )

"THAT'S PRETTY ABJECT, MISTER NORA"

Tell me about it, bitches.

DOES USE OF "BITCHES" MEAN I'M IRRETRIEVABLY DATED?

"Lady, you're more dated than the tubs of low-fat soy yoghurt at the back of your fridge."

Man, I wish I were still up with young people. I went to Meredith last weekend and had almost the most wet/awesome time of my life, despite not taking any illegal drugs (SCREW YOU, DODGY AGING TICKER. Also: hello, alcohol, cigarettes, and neurofen plus!), and although it was good times all round, I was deeply concerned by the fact that there appeared to be young folk all over the shop wearing LEGGINGS as TROUSERS, and acting as though it were COMPLETELY NORMAL and/or 1992. I suspect that when the fashion-wear of my miserable teens becomes the retro-wear of the current generation, it's time I retire my season pass to lolitaville.

I guess my time to be a youthful sensation has passed. Have squandered that opportunity on large quantities of cerveza and a full-time job with about as much dark, pulsing sex appeal as a 15th century eunuch. You just don't hear that many stories about how cocaine use/wife swapping is rife within the civil service, and, though it pains me to admit this, the blame doesn't solely rely on incredibly effective confidentiality protocols.

Aside from the lack of cocaine on the job tho, life is ok. Am still spending significant periods of time hanging out with the pussycats and having hand-to-mortein combat with Monsieur Octavio's more belligerent cousins. Am thinking it's time I put more effort into having adventures/FUCKING UP MY LIFE in order to produce more bloggable material.

Anway. Will report on any developments, toot sweet. Promise.


xoxonora

russian brides

LIKES:

1. grainy photos

2. deal or no deal

3. CRAZY CATS

4. winning

5. drinking alone


DISLIKES

1. waking up

3. consecutive things

6. everyone

2. crack daddies

5. vomit hair


xoxo nora

why do i spend valuable time?

Oh man, life as a motherfucking bureaucrat can really shove a nice girl over the edge. Most of the time, I am like the world's most malleable employee. I just walk around being all nicey nicey zoo zoo and pretending that this horrendous system of sign-offs and linguistic shit sculptures and civil motherfucking service is not a complete whore's breakfast; most of the time I simply close my eyes to the smudged moral certainties, the loveless cocksucking, the flaccid
weet-a-bix that lately make up the majority of my waking life. And most of the time, I get by ok - I mean, sure, I have hives, nightmares, and male-pattern-baldness, but like a lonesome Gloria Gaynor in the washed up wreck of a once thrilling relationship: I will survive.

But there are some days when the daily slime of self-disgust associated with this post-industrial waste of time called EMPLOYMENT really soups itself up into a fucking feast of clay-flavoured self-loathing. Last Friday was one of those days.

Last Friday, I had to go to TRAINING DAY. For those who have never been TRAINED in the public service, TRAINING DAY basically means OVERPAID CONSULTANTS in URINE-HUED TIES trap you in WINDOWLESS ROOMS and teach you HOW TO WASTE A DAY OF YOUR PRECIOUS DWINDLING UNRECOVERABLE YOUTH. If they had been training themselves in HOW TO
INDUCE EXPLOSIVE HOMICIDAL RAGE IN MISTER NORA I would have given them full points, but sadly, it was ME who was supposed to be learning, and LEARNING I WAS MOTHERFUCKING NOT.

Thing is, even though I've been to a billion of these horrific exercises in futility, for some reason last week my filter was completely busted. Instead of wearily resigning myself to the usual performance of docile mooing, glassy-eyed grass munching, and general obsequious participation in bullshit hypothetical group activity role plays, I spent approx. 96% of the day with my head on the desk, mixing up long periods of wrathful silence with the occasional noisy declaration that I couldn't be fucked with this motherfucking bullshit. This went down real well with my piss-tie facilitators, let me tell you.

I also found that I could not stop myself from riling up the other participants in my group. There was one girl in particular who really gnawing away at my psychological equilibrium by wearing HIGH-WAISTED BROWN CORDS with a MINT GREEN TURTLENECK and having the GALL to try to tell me what to do. Girl just could not understand that I DO NOT TAKE INSTRUCTIONS FROM STYLE-RAPISTS IN TURTLENECKS. Anyway, result of this was that every time she said anything at all, I would sigh heavily and say "oh, honey, I don't think so," and then fail to budge in the face of her many sensible arguments. It was like face-to-face trolling, and it drove her fucking mental. There's some lingering guilt associated, but overall I would HIGHLY RECOMMEND IT.

Anyway. Have since recovered from this miserable day, but even after my unprecedented display of rampant unprofessionalism, this week I find myself STILL TRAGICALLY EMPLOYED. So, motherfuckers, answer me this: WHO AND/OR WHAT DOES A GIRL HAVE TO FUCK TO GET THE SACK AROUND HERE?

xoxonora

I never wanted to kill; I am not naturally evil.

Duuuuuuuuuuudes. How have I missed you? let me count the ways.

1.

OK I can't think of any ways. But still, MY LONGING FOR YOUR COMPANY IS TURNING ME INTO A DEAD BROWN(ing) POET! Along the lines of Robin Williams & Ethan Hawke etc, only with a more contemporary sensibility and less of a rigid social milleu leading to indulgence in Shakespearean tights, latin cliches, suicide, etc.

What's that? You haven't missed me at all and would prefer it if I fucked off back to my grim life as a full on 'Dult with a job and a mortgage and a sensible approach to grammar and actually spent this fine Tuesday afternoon doing some work to earn the money payed to me in fortnightly installments by your good friend and mine, the ATP?

Well fuck you, sunshine. As The Dude's friend Philby would say, I'M NOT BOBO THE DANCING MONKEY, BRO!
























Hey, c'mon mister nora. Tell them the motherfucking truth.

Ok OK. So I totally am Bobo the Dancing Monkey. They practically have me wearing a little red vest and a fez here. But dude, if the taxpayer cannot afford to pay me more than $20.66 an hour for the pleasure of advancing the Common Good, then the taxpayer can suck this dancing monkey's cock.

You know the interesting thing about being a dancing monkey round these parts is that all the surrounding monkeys are so consumed by ennui that if I do so much as lift my little monkey foot in a half hearted high-kick, they all start jumping up and down making "hoot hoot hoot hoot" noises and practically drowning me in amazing performance reviews. I have tried pointing out that I'm not exactly Rudy fuckin Nureyev here bros; in fact I more closely resemble some kind of neckless footballer on Dancing with the Stars (which, incidentally, should be totally reinvented as DANCING WITH THE STASI! How much would THAT lift ratings eh, motherfuckers!) but I'm telling you dudes, it's to NO MOTHERFUCKING AVAIL. I could fucking do a shit in a tea cup and submit it as a research memo and I would get a departmental commendation.

This does not inspire me to do my best work. Or any work, in fact. Never mind, I am moving to new department next week; hopefully they will employ some STICK as well as CARROT and possibly some other type of PHALLIC SYMBOL and I will once again find in myself a love of toil. But right now, it's Tuesday afternoon and bitches, this monkey refuses to boogie.

xoxo nora

mister nora will kill again.

So it seems like the soul of mister nora has been left to die a slow and undignified death in obscurity while some monstrous bitch with excellent skills in Microsoft Office cavorts around in her old, bloated body, making it do humiliating things like attend professional development seminars or plot how to make a rapid ascension up the pay-grade scale. Worst thing about this impostor is that she is fucking terrible at scaling the grades, so bad at it that she is in fact climbing downwards. If this shit continues, it looks like her five year plan is for her to be paying her employers a reasonable wage for the grand fucking honour of getting her name impermanently tattooed on the textured plastic wall of her very own sky-rise cubicle. This bitch sure knows how to live the high life.

Soul of mister nora is scratching around out there somewhere, though. Sometimes the impostor can feel one of mister nora’s claws pressing itchily on the underside of her pitiful conscience. This occurs most often when, cruel mistress that she is, the impostor is forcing the bloated body to stride intently past an inviting public bar without stopping by to exchange even a brief bit of chit-chat with a cold beer. When she’s at work, too, the impostor occasionally experiences a startling flicker in the corner of her eye, and she could almost swear she sees a large, three legged martini glass crawl speedily up the cubicle wall on her left before disappearing, in one slick manoeuvre, into a slender crack in the ceiling. And then there’s the thing that happens on the train on her way to work, when, lulled by the rhythmic sway of the carriage, the impostor will find herself gazing lovingly at the passenger beside her and listening to a gentle crooning on the inside of her head: hey there, pretty lady, would you like a small aperitif? A teeny weeny breakfast snack? A delicious and nutritious beginning to your busy day at the office? Well then, pretty lady, say hello to THE SEVERED HEAD OF YOUR FELLOW COMMUTER!

It’s times like these that the impostor thinks maybe she’s not quite rid of mister nora afterall.

xoxonora

HEY SPANKEYES!

Dear Life Counsellor,

Today I realised that I rarely get to use the terms COCKSPANK and CUNTEYES in my day to day routine.

Do you think this is because I am a Cancer? Sometimes I think my life would be wholly different if my star sign had been named after some less terminal disease. I know with these days with Chemotherapy and Leaching etc the prognosis is not always totally hopeless, but still, being riddled with tumors is just not glamorous in the way that, say, Syphilis or Dwarfism are glamorous. Obviously, for my particular problem, the illness of choice would be Tourette's, but even Gangrene has a certain way of catching the public imagination which I feel it's not entirely unreasonable of me to envy. You know, like you go off on a dangerous yet exhilarating mountain mission and/or attend an icecapade and you come back to civilisation with an aura of inner stillness and a more limited number of toes, and suddenly everyone thinks you're some kind of HERO. Call me crazy, but I feel that if I had a Gangrene related star sign not only would I be feared and admired in equal measure by my adoring public, but the words COCKSPANK and CUNTEYES would also be featuring pretty prominently in my everyday communications. But then I'm no expert on these matters...which brings me back to my initial question, life counsellor: ARE YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR BECAUSE YOU HAVE BEEN STRUCK DOWN WITH PSYCHOLOGICAL MUTENESS AND AS SUCH YOU ARE FILLED WITH IMPOTENT RAGE AND WORDLESS DESPAIR are my extensive and highly stylised personal woes my own fault, or merely the unfortunate result of a mistimed birthing incident? I.e. CAN I BLAME MY PARENTS.

I look forward to your prompt response.

Yours,

xoxo nora

PS Myers Briggs says I am ENFP if that is of any assistance.