The hair in there is square as well

You know it's my birthday soon.

I am turning one of the following: -7, 7, 17, 27, 37, 47, 57, 67, 77, 87 or 92.

I was going to put "97" but dude, I know that would never fool any of youse. As if I am gonna live that long with my "Wild and Crazy" partying lifestyle!

(Exhibit A: it's a typical Wednesday afternoon, the beige sky falling like dust over the silent suburbs. mister nora stares at the computer and asks herself, 'it is time for another cup of "Not Wine"?' She's still wearing her dressing gown, and has the ghostly, vacant look of a girl who's stayed up late to catch the Channel Ten Late News. 'I gotta stop this madness before it kills me', she thinks, pulling the crocheted blanket tighter around her knees. 'A woman my age should be watching ABC news at 7pm.' Oh, but will she ever learn to age gracefully? Who knows, man, who knows.)

My life should totally be XXX rated right now; IMAGINE IF THE KIDDIES SAW THIS SHIT AND TRIED IT AT HOME? The moral fibre of the nation would be turning from wool/silk blend to 70% polyester overnight, no fucking kidding.

So anywayyy, back to my birthday. My star sign is cancer (totally the best ever: you get associations with pubic lice and terminal illness: TOP THAT, you fuckin libran/leo/sagi/cap/fishy/tauran/etc cunts), and I've been looking to the skies for career advice. Apparently jobs that suit cancerians are:

Cook, dietician, farmer, fisherperson, gardener, genealogist, historian, builder, hotel worker, landowner, lifeguard, manufacturer, merchant, nutritionist, non-profit founder or manager, plumber, rancher, sailor.


So basically my future goes like this:

I start reading about like, the dead (all of them), and during my research I take a particular interest in the dead who are related to me, and discover that I am totally in line to inherit a farm from some far flung dead great-great-cousin-uncle-whatever. When I move in to my new digs at the dinky little farmhouse however I find out the toilet is totally not flushing, but when I try to fix it I instead cause a flood, which might phase a non-cancerian but doesn't worry me because with my superb handyman skills I build a damn to like, slow the flow. To celebrate my prowess with tools I go for a boat ride with my dearest tool, The Dude, and when The Dude falls out of the boat (or I push him), I totally dive in and save his life, BECAUSE I AM HEROIC and also like swimming (I am a crab/have crabs, afterall). While in the water I catch some fishes, which I cook up according to the latest modern scientific health advice and then because I am "Jesus-esque" in my work with the loaves and fishes etc, I have to start the "Feeding The Peoples with The Fish" Foundation just to get rid of all the fucking fish. I get a bit jack of working with the fishes however, seeing as I am a vegetarian, so I decide to throw it all in and fulfill my lifelong dream of working in a seedy Queensland hotel, which doubles as a drug factory, but it's so poorly managed (by me) that we go bust, and I get busted for poor management (also for making drugs), and sent off to the clink where I whittle away my final days planting gardenias etc and herding prison cattle (the cows will never fucking tell me what they did to get put in the slammer; I suspect lesbianism/unnatural sexual relations etc). Then I die.

Oh my god I have so much to look forward to. My frown has totally turned, if not upside down, at the very least at right angles.

xoxo nora