JILL

I think by now, we’ve all heard the tragic tale of Jill Meagher. 

A beautiful young twenty-nine year old wife, snatched from the streets of Brunswick, raped, murdered, and dumped in a shallow grave in Gisborne South.

What the fuck…

It’s interesting how this case has gripped our state.  Sadly, many women have met the same, terrible fate as young Jill, but this one is resinating through us all.

It has us all asking one simple question: why?

It’s something about ‘disappearances’ that grip us.  People just vanishing, inexplicably, from their ordinary lives that’s more akin to a Hollywood script than real life.

Elizabeth Membrey, Karmen Chan, and last year, little Siriyakorn Siriboon; affectionately known as ‘Bung’.  These three people, two only children, simply vanished, ripped from their ordinary lives.  They eventually found Karmen, but Elizabeth and Bung are still missing…  robbing the families of closure.

My Facebook newsfeed today was full of status sending condolences to Jill’s family, and blessing her to rest in peace.  Strange, considering her family will more than likely not see any of these posts. 

However, it’s an outlet isn’t it?  A way of coping with the shock?  A way of publicly expressing the grief we feel, as human beings, over the suffering of a complete stranger, who was taken from this world.

And how quickly and brazenly she was taken, too.

At 1.30am on Saturday morning, she leaves a club after a work function, and staggers homeward.  She lived less than a kilometre away.

At 1.40am, she’s seen on CCTV footage staggering past the entrance of a dress shop, talking to this mysterious man in a blue hoodie.  Minutes later, she’s gone.

Gone from the streets, and soon after, one would assume, gone from this world.

What that poor woman must have gone through in the last moments of her life.  The horror.  The fear.  The desperation.  The resignation as she took her final breath…

All whilst her husband was calling her to see where she was.

He was in their apartment, less than a kilometre from where she was taken.  So close… I couldn’t even being to imagine his desperation.

Over the last couple of days, one of her work colleagues came forward, and said that he tried to convince her to let him give her a lift home.  She insisted that she was only around the corner, and she’d be safe.  How that poor bastard must be feeling today…

The positive about all of this, if there is one, is how swiftly the police found the alleged killer.  Six days.  Got ‘im. 

Sadly, not quick enough to save Jill’s life, but let’s be realistic; she would have been gone within hours, I’m guessing.  By the time they started questioning people, she would have been kissing the Gisborne South soil I’m afraid.

I think they would have known pretty quickly that it was more a matter of finding a body and a killer, than finding her alive.  This is reality after all, not a tv show.

How many of you thought, straight away, that the husband had something to do with it?

I did. *hangs head in shame*

How terrible for him.  Knowing that his beloved, beautiful wife was treated so horrendously, and taken so violently from him. 

I would suggest putting him in a locked room with the accused killer, and see what happens.  May be enough justice for us all.

Adrian Ernest Bayley.  This is a name we will remember for a while, I imagine, as we will be hearing it a lot over the next few months.  I just hope the fucker doesn’t plead ‘not guilty’, or tries to cop the ‘insanity’ plea.

Though, when you think about it, to rape and kill another human being is insane, isn’t it?  It doesn’t matter if it was pre-meditated or spontaneous; it’s not the actions of a sane person.  So should he be locked away in a padded cell forever?  Should he be removed from society, and ‘treated’?  Can he be rehabilitated?

Who cares?

My hope is that he’s thrown into a little cell where he can rot for the rest of his life, hopefully being arse fucked by a big, fat fucker with tattoo’s called ‘Bubba’.

Hopefully, the hell he’s dished out to Jill Meagher is rained down on him for an eternity.

RIP Jill Meagher.  At least they found you, sister.  At least your family can grieve now.

Peace out.

50 SHADES OF CRAP

Firstly, I would like to thank my friend Jane for the title of this blog. 

Though, her opinion of the 50 Shades of Grey trilogy is shared with another friend of mine, Marika.  She got 250 pages into the book, and gave up.  Bored her shitless.

Not wanting to be left out of the ‘mummy porn’ rage of 2012, and being keen to fire myself up and sexually maul my husband, I downloaded the trilogy onto my trusty kobo, with the intention of doing some ‘research’. *rolls eyes* 

At this point, I am ever thankful for my Kobo.  Plain, black little e-reader that gives you complete portability, but also complete privacy.  No one can see what I’m reading.

I could imagine myself sitting in a café, 50 Shades paperback in one hand, the cover of which is on full display to the world, with a chai latte in my other hand, frozen between the table top and my mouth, as I sit there, mouth agape, engrossed in some raunchy, overly descriptive, kinky sex-act.

The people walking past would be like ‘check out the fat old tart reading porn.’ 

Yep.  Thank heavens for my Kobo, and my preserved modesty. 

Though, EL James, the author of the porn trilogy, said that she designed the covers unlike any other ‘romance’ novel (which is usually plastered with a half naked man, with a semi naked, desperate looking woman draped all over him) to maintain the readers privacy. 

Brilliant idea, because the cover gives no indication of its contents .  Shame the entire fucking planet now knows what 50 Shades is about. 

So; 50 Shades of Grey, 50 Shades Darker, and 50 Shades Freed.  Mmm… for those of you who haven’t read this series, I’ll tell you a little about it, but I won’t spoil it for you.

Mind you, I’ve only half way through Darker at the moment, so I haven’t read the whole series myself yet.

So, 50 Shades is the story of young Anastasia Steel, who is a 21 year old virgin that lives in Seattle.  She’s just finished university/college or whatever the fuck they call it over there, and according the author, is absolutely stunning, but completely unaware of it.

Imagine that.  A collage graduate that’s 1. a virgin, and 2. so stunning she doesn’t even know it. 

Remember; this is a fantasy book… *rolls eyes*

So, Ana meets Mr Christian Grey, who is a billionaire Adonis who likes to get up to all sorts of kinky fuckery.

So, we’ve a billionaire spunk that falls for a virgin stunner.  Yep. Reality at its best.

So, the books are basically about their relationship.  That’s it.  Their relationship, and how fucked up (pardon the pun) it is.

My friend Jane read the book and wanted to report Christian for domestic violence, and slap some sense into Ana, cos she’s so fucken stupid.

My friend Marika just got bored with it all.

Me: I love it. 

Pushing all the smut aside, I’m fascinated by their weird relationship, and am interested to see where the hell this is going.  The books do continue on from one another, so you need to read the entire lot to get the full story.  It’s not like Harry Potter (how’s that for a contradiction), which has a happy ending (again, pardon the pun) in each book.

But I tell you this: after reading one and a half books, I’ve learnt quite a few things.

Firstly, I’ve learnt that my relationship is relatively normal, if not fucken boring.  Apparently, Charlie and I have ‘vanilla sex’.  Yep.  Vanilla sex. 

What is this you ask?  Let me tell you.  Is plain boring old sex without toys and whips and chains and blindfolds and kinky shit.

Yep.  Vanilla.  My favourite flavour.

I’ve also learnt that it’s apparently a turn on to get spanked, tied up and fucked in all sorts of ways, and in all sorts of places, by an obsessive control freak nymphomaniac. 

Can men be nympho’s?

I also fear if I ever go to one of my friends horse shows, that I’ll never be able to take them or a riding crop seriously again.  Ever.  In fact, I don’t think I can even look at one without blushing, let alone touch one.

Speaking of blush, if this fool Ana blushes anymore, I think I’ll slap her.  Yep, she’s a fictional character that I want to slap.  Go figure.  She’d probably enjoy it though, and her nympho boyfriend would possibly get off on that exchange as well, the sick fuck.

Says a lot about the quality of writing if I want to hurt the characters…

I’ve learnt that billionaires can play the piano like a concert pianist, fly a helicopter, a glider, drives a massive boat, can stalk really well, and live in multi-level apartments with ‘play rooms’. 

I’ve learnt that 21 year old stunning virgins stumble through life saying ‘oh my’ a lot, and incessantly blushing. *rolls eyes*

This series is nothing if not entertaining.  And eye opening.  And educational.

Fuck my life is boring.

Next time I find myself in Sexyland (?), I will certainly be looking at that joint through very different eyes.

I can’t believe that there are actually people out there that are into this S&M shit.  I don’t get it, but hey… whatever rocks your boat.

Or cracks your whip *rolls eyes*

I wonder how I can get Charlie to read the books…. Mmm…

If you’ve nothing better to do with your time, instead of sitting in judgement of losers like me with vanilla sex lives, get into 50 Shades of Grey.

You just may learn something.

Peace *cracks whip* out.

PEAK HOUR FLAT PART III

Tuesday 28^th August 2012: 4.51pm – Tullamarine Freeway, Bulla Road exit

Have you ever tried to hold a casual conversation with someone, in the middle of the Tullamarine Freeway, during peak hour traffic? 

It’s a challenge to say the least.

However, my new buddy and I managed to chew the fat, at a very loud volume, whilst he changed my tyre like he was working the formula one pits. 

I would have struggled to lift the fucken tyre out of the boot, but he picks it up like it’s a friggin donut, and has the old one off and replaced in like two minutes.

I laugh at my ignorance, thinking he would use the jack that comes with the car.  Of course not: he has one of those groovy hydraulic drill nut changing thingies that undoes the nuts in seconds.

I’m standing there watching his stealth efficiency, and wondering if the friggin wheel will even stay on there!  Five nuts it’s all the fucken thing is hanging on by.  Five nuts are holding up the entire back right section of the car.  How the hell does that work?

Great… now have visions of driving along the Tulla, when my back wheel comes flying off, causing me to career out of control across three lanes of traffic, which causes a major pile up that keeps everyone from getting home for the next three hours.

I’ll be the most hated woman in Victoria.

I shake my head and focus on what my new buddy is saying. 

He’s turning over my flat to see if he can find something in it.  ‘Whatever it is, it’s gone straight through…’ he says, pointing to a hole the width of a cigarette.

‘Holy crap… I’ve never seen that before…’

‘No, that’s unusual.  Straight through.  Normally you can see a nail or a screw in there, but whatever it is went straight in.’

I glance back up the freeway whilst my buddy replaces the flat in the boot, and packs all the useless jack crap back in that’s still all shiny in it’s pristine newness.  I wonder what I ran over… and why did I cop it, and no one else… how interesting…

Then it dawns on me as I stand there watching all of this traffic…. How the fuck am I going to merge back into it?

Tuesday 28^th August 2012: 4.56pm – Tullamarine Freeway, Bulla Road exit

The engines running; she’s in gear, and I sit there looking in the rear view mirror, waiting for a break that just won’t come.

How the fuck am I going to do this?  The emergency lane disappears about two hundred meter’s ahead of me… I’ve really got to force my way out here…

Sometimes, you just need to make things happen.  So I do what any woman in my position would do: I floor it.  Well, as ‘floored’ as you can get in a fucken Hyundai.

Some poor bastard in a 4WD takes pity on me, and let’s me into the stream; thankfully, as I just run out of emergency lane as I merge in front of him.  I give him a wave of thanks (fucken hate it when I don’t get a wave of thanks), and I’m on my way. 

My knight-in-Citylink-uniform’s van vanishes into the distance behind me, and I send him a silence thanks.

My heart has finally started to settle back into something that resembles a relatively normal heartbeat, and I’m on my way again.

I flick through the favourites on my phone, and select one.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi Mum!’

‘Hello love!  What’s going on?’

‘You’ll never guess what’s just happened to me…’

PEAK HOUR FLAT PART II

Tuesday 28^th August 2012: 4.41pm – Tullamarine Freeway, Bulla Road exit

‘RACV.  How can I help you today.’ A kindly voice greets me and my still hammering heart.  I watch the rear-view mirror nervously.

‘I have a flat tyre.’ I simply say.  ‘Can someone come and change it for me?’ Can someone come and rescue me?

‘Oh, that’s no good!  Where are you?’

‘Tulla Freeway, just near the Bulla Road off-ramp.  Airport bound.’

‘Oh no… of all places love…’ he says sympathetically.  He sounds older than me, and clearly feels sorry for me.  Dish out the sympathy mate, cos I’ll take it.  ‘Do you have your membership number or registration number?’  I rattle off my rego.  ‘Just a moment whilst I bring up your details…’ and I hear him clicking away.

My hearts still hammering and my car’s still rocking as that traffic bears down on me.  How the hell are they going to change my tyre here, and how the hell am I going to merge back into this stream?

‘So, we have a little red Yaris?’

‘No.  It’s a blue Hyundai i30.  I’ve actually rung up and changed the details with you… I don’t know why you would still have the Yaris in your system…’

‘Mmm… that’s odd.’ He agrees.  ‘Not to worry.  We’ll change it now.  It won’t affect anything, Mrs Buttler.’

‘Cool.’  Thank fuck.  I couldn’t handle them telling me ‘you’re fucked because you’ve got a blue car, not a red one.  Change your own fucken tyre.’

‘So, you’re near the Bulla on ramp, you say?’

‘Yep.  Right next to it.’

‘You’re just off Citylink then….’

‘That would be right.’

‘Did you know that Citylink will come out and change the tyre for you, free of charge?’

‘No… I didn’t know that…’ Fuck.  Do I have to ring them now?

‘Yes.’ He says happily.  ‘It’s a part of the tolls that you pay.  If there is a break down, they like to get out there as quickly as possible to move you on so you don’t hold up the traffic.’

‘Makes perfect sense to me…’

‘If you hang on a moment, Lee, I’ll ring them for you.  Sometimes, they will get to you a lot quicker than we can…’

‘Okay then.’ And I relax back into my seat, the hold music a dull noise as I watch the cars in the rear view… they just keep coming and coming… I sigh as I accept that I may not actually get to my osteo appointment on time to night… fuck it… I’m not calling my buddy Bek, who works at the osteo, just yet to tell her I’ll be late…

‘Are you there Lee?’ my RACV buddies voice breaks through my thoughts.

‘Yep.’

‘Well, Citylink have found you on their cameras.  They can see you in the right hand emergency lane, and it’s your back right tyre that’s flat.’

‘Holy crap! They can see that?’

‘They certainly can.’ I can hear the smile in his voice.  ‘They said you had a sticker on your back window; top right corner?’  An image of my Hello Kitty sticker pops into my head. 

‘That’s right…’

‘Yep. They have really good vision with their cameras.  A Citylink breakdown vehicle will be with you very shortly.’

‘Really?  Define ‘shortly’.’

‘He said no more than five minutes.’

‘Really?’ this sounds promising!  Might get to my osteo appointment on time after all…

‘Yeah.  Like I said before; they’re often a lot quicker getting to you than we are.’

‘Awesome!  So, do I need to do anything else, or just wait?’

‘No.  Just wait there for him, Lee.  If you have any problems, or if he doesn’t come, please give us a call back.’

‘No worries.  Shall do.’

Tuesday 28^th August 2012: 4.48pm – Tullamarine Freeway, Bulla Road exit

I wonder how long this dude is going to take, I think to myself as I watch the traffic disappear around the bend ahead of me, toward Essendon Fields.  How the hell is he going to change the tyre?

I glance up in the rear view, and nearly leap out of my seat: the Citylink van is pulling up behind me.  Holy shit: he was quick.

I squeeze my arse out of the car again, and near plaster myself to the concrete barriers, as far away from the traffic as I can be, as I make my way toward my night in shining armour.  Well, a Citylink uniform, anyway.

‘How are you going there love?’ he asks in a friendly tone.

‘To be honest, I’m absolutely shitting myself.’ I admit.  I’m not too proud… ‘This traffic is frightening… it’s going so fast!’

‘Yep.  It’s scary when you’re in a tight spot like this.’ I realise suddenly, that we actually have to shout at each other to be heard over the roar of the traffic.  I never realised how loud eight lanes of peak hour traffic could be!

‘What I might get you to do love, is limp your car a couple a hundred meters down the road there-‘ he points to a section of the freeway a little ahead of me that distinctly wider than where I am now.  ‘It’s wider, and I will be able to change the tyre there.  I can’t change it here.’

‘God no!’ I agree.  ‘There’s no room here at all!’

‘For sure.’ He nods.  ‘Look; just travel really slowly.  We’re in no hurry.’ He says, holding his hands up as he explains.  ‘If you take it nice and easy, you won’t damage the wheel or anything, and I’ll be right behind you.  Just park a little further down to give me some room to get in behind you.’

‘No worries…’ I nod, hoping to fuck I don’t get cleaned up by the lunatics flying past me. 

I scramble back into the car, kick her back into life, and push her along at about 10 kmph, with my knight-in-Citylink-uniform right behind me.

PEAK HOUR FLAT PART I

Tuesday 28^th of August 2012: 4.25pm – Tullamarine Freeway, near the Dynon Road onramp

‘Get a fucken move on, clown!’ I scream at the fool in front of me that insists on merging onto a fucken freeway doing 80 kmph, when every other fucker is travelling at 100kmph. 

Jesus mate; you’re gonna cause an accident if you don’t get a move on…

After driving like a rally driver to avoid a collision with this fucken idiot (who turned out to be an old man in a fucken cap), I successfully blend into the stream of flowing metal and rubber, and settle myself in for the flow to the airport.

Tuesday 28^th of August 2012: 4.31pm – Tullamarine Freeway, just past Pascoe Vale Road

What the fuck is that noise? It sounds like a truck? Where is it? I look in the rear-view and side mirrors, but can’t see a truck.  I look over my shoulders; no truck.  I turn off the radio, and can hear a loud rumbling sound.  What the fuck is that?

The steering’s fine… I’m near the airport… maybe it’s flying over me? 

The rumbling sound dies down a little, and I continue along the freeway.  I figure if I had a flat or something, that someone going past would say something… surely…

Fuck!  I grab the steering wheel as I feel the car lurch to the right, and then I can hear it very clearly; the distinct slap slap slap of a flat tyre.  My heart immediately starts hammering in my chest!

Holy shit! I’m in the third lane of the fucken freeway! It’s peak hour! I flick on my hazard lights, and start slowing down… gotta get over to the emergency lane; now!

This can’t be happening…I push my way through the reluctant traffic, and squeeze myself into the skinniest emergency lane I’ve ever fucken seen.  I kill the engine and force my big arse out through the tiny gap between the car and the concrete crash rail to see which tyre it is.

Back right tyre; flat as a tack.

Oh Christ… I groan as I melt back into the car.  What the fuck happened?  I must have picked up a nail or something… great…

I sigh heavily as the peak hour traffic absolutely hammers past me, causing my car to rock.  I look in the rear-view mirror at the traffic bearing down on me, and realise that I seriously have no room to move here.  I must be right on the white line.  How the fuck does a car any bigger than my little hatchback deal with this shit?  There is seriously no room!  How am I going to change the tyre?

Suddenly, this emergency lane doesn’t feel so safe.

What the fuck do I do now?

Tuesday 28^th August 2012: 4.33pm – Tullamarine Freeway, Bulla Road exit

‘Optus directories, which suburb are you after please?’ a heavily accented voice barks.

‘I’m actually after the RACV; I don’t know what suburb it’s in.’ I sigh, cursing my stupidity at not having their number in my phone.  I fucken hate calling the idiots at Optus Directories. Incompetent doesn’t even begin to cover it.

‘Just one moment please…’ he says, and I can hear a keyboard clicking.  ‘Roadside assistance or general enquiries?’

‘Roadside assistance, please.’

‘Would you like the number sent to your phone?’

‘Yes please.  Don’t connect me.’ I’m not paying the four billion dollars you like to charge for the call to be connected.  People don’t realise that even though the call to directories is free, they fucken charge you extra for the connected call.

‘No problem, Madam.  The number is on it’s way to your phone.  Have a nice day.’ and the line goes dead.  Fucken lovely!  Don’t hang on to see if the number comes through, you fucker!

Tuesday 28^th August 2012: 4.35pm – Tullamarine Freeway, Bulla Road exit

‘Optus directories, which suburb are you after please?’ a heavily accented voice barks.  I reckon I’ve got the same person.

‘I just rang before for the number for the RACV, but I haven’t received the text from you.’

‘Oh!’ he says.  ‘You just called a few minutes ago?’

‘Yep.’ Hurry the fuck up and send me the number again.

‘I’ll text you the number again-‘ I can hear him clicking away.  ‘and if you wait a minute, it should come through.’

‘It’s normally instantaneous…’

‘We ask that you allow up to a minute.’

‘Well, I’ve nothing better to do.’

Tuesday 28^th August 2012: 4.37pm – Tullamarine Freeway, Bulla Road exit

‘Optus directories, which suburb are you after please?’ a different voice this time.

‘This is the third time I’ve called for the number to RACV roadside assistance, and I still haven’t received the texted number from you.  Can you please give me the number over the phone?’

‘Certainly… just one moment…’ I hear her clicking away, envisioning that she’s rolling her eyes and flipping the bird at her headset.  ‘I’ll find the number for you.’

I had found a scrap of paper and a pen in my bag, and impatiently wait. 

‘Won’t be much longer… just searching for the number…’ she says as the clock ticks away. 

How fucken hard is it to find a number?  What are you searching with? 

‘Won’t be much longer… still searching…’  Does it take longer to find these things from a call centre in India?  What the fuck is taking so long?

‘Still searching…’

‘What the hell is taking so long?’ my impatience get’s the best of me.  ‘It’s a phone number for Christ’s sake… it should take this long…’

‘I have a number here for RACV general enquiries,’ she says, ignoring my complaining. 

‘As I said; roadside assistance.’ I enunciate. 

‘Oh.  The number is 13 1111.’

‘Great.  Thanks ever so much.’ I hang up with a heavy sigh.  Fuck, that was harder than it needed to be.

I look in the rear-view, and momentarily watch the traffic.  That’s when I see it; a white Camry and he’s over the white lines!  Fuck mate! Open your eyes!

I’m gonna die! I’m gonna die!  How can he not see me?  I’m stationery and he’s going to hit me at 100 kmph?  This ain’t gonna be pretty! Relax! Don’t tense! Fewer bones will break if you’re relaxed!! These thoughts flashed through my head in the milliseconds it took for him to close the gap between us, and at the last second, he merges back into the lane.

I close my eyes and sit back in my seat as my car continues to rock to the passing traffic.  Fuck me!  My hand flutters to my chest in a vain attempt to calm my hammering heart. 

Someone please rescue me! I want Charlie…

ABSENCE MAKES THE HEART GROW FONDER?

So, I’m back.

And I’m sorry I’ve not been blogging.

I’ve had a bit going on the last month or so, and it’s been a complete whirlwind.

A lot is happening in my simple little life, but a lot of it I can’t talk about.  Yet.  In time, I shall reveal all that’s going on in my world.

My friend Bek will be pleased to see this blog, as last week I received a rather blunt email from her advising that she’s having blog withdrawals.  I best do something about it.

When I looked at my last published blog, I was quite shocked to see that a month had slipped by so quickly.  How the fuck did the world still manage to turn whilst I stopped blogging, I ask you?

Fucked if I know.

What I do know, is that sometimes, lift just get’s in the way.

So what’s been happening?

Well…I’m a few weeks behind on my Simplify Your Life Challenges.  Even though I haven’t blogged about them, I’ve been keeping up with them.  So, I’ll bring you up to speed on that shortly.

Tennis is going well.  This week, the player I knew was in me, turned up to play.  ‘Bout fucken time, lazy cow.  She was hiding behind some lame arsed excuse, and finally fronted up; much to the oppositions disgust.

Not that I give a fat rats arse what the oppo’s think.  Fuck em.  Cop Lee in all her glory, my friends.  Yaheah!

I’m totally addicted to Puberty Blues, by the way.  I’m so glad to see the term ‘moll’ has found it’s way back into society’s vocabulary.  Well… into the vocabs of my bffl’s anyway…

Did anyone watch the revamped Dallas?  I didn’t, and it would appear that most of the nation overlooked it as well.  Fail.

Who’s gotten into Big Brother?  Not me.  As predicted, it’s full of the same self indulgent, attention seeking oxygen thieves that I thought it would be.  Though, those BB addicts will be totally loving and hating all of the overdramatic, over produced bullshit.  As long as they’re happy…

I’ve started reading the Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy.  Interesting… shall blog about that in greater detail (I’ll make sure I’m sitting in the corner in my panties when I do it….)

Sunday just gone, I participated in another sausage sizzle for the CWA.  Held it at Bunnings in Craigieburn, and needless to say, none of you fuckers turned up to buy a snag.

I slaved over a hot bbq plate for eight fucken hours… least you could have done was come and buy a fucken snag.  Tight arses.  I don’t care that you possibly live in another fucken country… that’s a lame excuse.

Jokes.

It was another successful day for us, and again, we were able to raise some much needed funds for our cause, and hopefully, for the betterment of the CWA charity groups and our own local community.  Good times.

*sigh*

Even with all of these seemingly simple things happening, my life over the past month has been a mass of contradictions.

You see, I’ve got a lot of changes happening around me at the moment; some really, really positive ones, and some not so good, and quite frankly, scary ones.  It’s been hard to find a decent balance with it all.

It’s been challenging, to say the least.

I’ve lost focus on a few things that I had in place, and have struggled to get back in touch with them all.

I’ve been writing lots of goals to combat the way I have been feeling, and that has helped me immensely.  Helped me regain my focus, so hopefully I can kick some of that shit into gear, and get my mojo back.

So, I’m sorry if you have missed me, and my absence has left a gaping hole in your life (like it has with my friend Bek, who will simply read that comment and tell me to fuck off).

I promise that I will endeavour to do more blogs sheerly for your entertainment pleasure. 

For my mate Bek, who needs to get a fucken life if she relies on my blogs (yeah I know Bek: don’t flatter myself), for my cousin that travels interstate for work and reads these blogs out to her co-workers (hey Sissy), to my Aunty Mole who has a printed collection of my favourite blogs, which apparently her husband loves, and to my other peeps that I know have read every single one of them when they’ve filtered through.

For you I shall dissect my life, push it through a mincer, and serve it up with a side dish of Rectinol.

Just for you.

Peace out.