Sometimes it hurts to be alive.

You're at your desk right now thinking THANK FUCKS it's NEARLY OVES. Tell me it's not true.

This weekend I am intending to blow. Take that how you feel you must, because y'know what, on Monday I will be 28. TWENTY FUCKEN EIGHT. That's heaps more years than it should be. May as well throw myself wholeheartedly into financial planning/get a small dog, in a jacket/give away all dreams of getting hot new role in Home & Away as hot new year 7 student who gets impregnated by hot new student teacher and then gets kidnapped by crazy buddhists right before going into surgery to abort they baby and then during the rescue discovers that she is actually Alf's daughter and ALSO HIS SISTER, except that she is actually a boy.

"LIKE, OMG."

I know. To be honest, I'd rather that on Monday I was turning 23. And not just because getting so old is fucking up my chances with H&A. Twenty three was a pretty awesome age. Maybe because I met The Dude when I was 23, maybe because I spent that year basically drunk out of my fucking brain roughly 78% of the time. Ahh, 23. Those were sweet days. At 23, getting cirrhosis of the liver seemed as far off and fanciful as getting a law degree/job. Aww. I was like, so fucking dumb adorable, back then.

But then, when I was 23 I had to live in a sharehosue with approximately a million other people, including a political advisor to the liberal party, a quasi-anorexic psychology student with a major personality disorder, a cranky graphic designer with an iron will, a jewellery maker with a seedy boyfriend and a hot rack, a highly promiscuous Californian midget, a lovelorn chef (who was constantly engaged in bitter psychological warfare with the quasi-anorexic), a Dutch PhD student with a tiresomely complicated personal life and a wardrobe full of colourful pants, a naturopath who was also known as the Most Boring Girl in the World, and a stoner physiotherapist who hid in his room, feigned an allergy to cats, and ripped us all off majorly. Fucker.

WHY CAN THEY NOT GET SUCH A LOVEABLE CROWD OF FEUDING MISFITS ON BIG BROTHER.

Whatevs. I guess the moral of the soiree is that it's heaps nicer to be sharing domestic blisters with The Dude, even if I do have to be twenty fucken eight.

xoxo nora