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

1. High level written communication skills

Dear Optus,

Dude, thanks for your offer of heaps of megabytes, but basically things are really fucked up right now and I have no time to deal with the Big Questions you keep posing re: DO I HAVE ENOUGH BROADBANDITS IN THIS AGE OF MODERNISM/internet malls. Like, do you remember how I used to lie around on those hazy summer days drinking Sangria and chatting to your sales representatives like there was no tomorrow? THOSE DAYS ARE OVER, BABY. I'm a professional now, and it fucking hurts.

Not that I can't be your friend again ever but seriously your lousy call centre marketing drop-outs are totally getting on my nerves.

xoxo nora



Dear Nancy,

I know you're checking me our right now thinking 'hm that bitch looks vaguely familiar. Also, like, AWESOME HAIR.' And I can understand if you don't immediately recognise me given that you're a complete fucking fucktarded motherfucker whose syphillitic cuntbrain is pretty much full to the fucking rafters with baby spinach and beetroot salad and various species of exotic poos we've never met. Still, you might remember me as the woman who now inhabits the sweet little hovel you once called home, 'once' meaning like 10,0000 mega-aeons ago when the earth was still flat and you had a big crush on that charismatic amoeba with a minor substance abuse problem who ended up fucking your sister, just because she had bigger tits than you and could pay for her own drinks. Man, I guess that must have hurt.

Anyway Nancy, now we've gotten the introductions out of the way, I would totally love to stay and chat about the weather/the genuine awesomeness of my hair etc, but as it turns out I am too fucking busy SETTING FIRE TO THE 3 MILLION TONNES OF MAIL ADDRESSED TO YOU THAT STILL ARRIVES AT MY HOUSE EVERY SINGLE MOTHERFUCKING DAY, CLOGGING UP MY MAIL BOX WITH ANNUAL REPORTS FROM ONE OF YOUR 89 SUPERANNUATION FUNDS AND MENACING NOTICES FROM THE MAGISTRATES COURT AND LOVE LETTERS FROM BEARDY MEN AT VICROADS AND DAILY FUCKING UPDATES FROM NATUROPATHS R US AND SO ON WHEN IT COULD BE FULL OF PRESENTS. AWESOME PRESENTS. PRESENTS FOR ME, BITCH, FOR ME! sharpening my knives.

No hard feelings.

xoxo nora







Dear Electricity Meter Man,

God, you look so fucking hot in that orange jacket. And I really love what you've done with your hair – no really, that's like a
serious compliment coming from me. I don't fucking joke about hair.

What is not so much of a compliment is my appraisal of your TIMING SKILLZ. I don't mean to be touchy and shit but must you always come to read the meter when I am sitting around in yesterday's knickers, idly masturbating over some story about childhood wheat allergies (or similar) in the Herald Sun? It's like you're just parked around the corner for months on end, waiting like a SPIDER for the moment when some fat little kid dies of peanut head explosion and I find it so INEXPLICABLY AROUSING that I just can't quite resist coming over a bit Chrissie fucking Amphlett over my morning bowl of Grits. AND THEN, ONLY THEN, DO YOU POUNCE, throwing me right off my game with your tight safety jacket and your SEXY ELECTRICAL HAIR.

We could have been so happy together, Electricity Meter Man. Your Timing Skillz suck shit.

xoxo nora