Can't touch me!

Nothing more apt than starting a beautiful Saturday morning with a song on suicide.

Shotgun fire… anybody home
I got two dimes in the telephone
Alright… It’s not easy tonight

I got around to thinking: I am culpable when I say nothing to something that I know is wrong.
Call me a 'tight-arse'. Fine. I hope your flabby alimentary canals don't whip around in the wind too much. Anal fissures hurt (I am told).

My brother flew in to Melbourne last night and got me to open the damn door at half-past midnight. I was so tired I wasn't even fully aware what was going.
"MMMMmmmmmmmmSNORRRRRRGGG I'm going to bed ZZZZZZZZZ" I said to my brother after letting him in, then I toddled off to bed.
Later my sister came home (from clubbing, that naughty alcoholic) and I heard voices and felt a bright yellow light.
My stomach squirmed so bad.
The last thing I heard before I drifted off to sleep...
"The Americans love him, the Australians love him but are kinda embarassed about him."
Oh, Steve. Poor Jessie. Poor Bindi. Poor Bob.

I think I had a dream about bicycles.

Yesterday morning as I was leaving my apartment for school, guess who I saw? Andrew, the very cute kiwi concierge whose Malaysian mother loves shopping in Singapore. And though the last time I think I even acknowledged his presence was the very embarassing time I asked him about dry-cleaning, I gave him the sunniest smile and said "morning!" Andrew gave a polite smile and a nod. He's a lovely person. Or at the very least, he's a good concierge.

I love the theasaurus. People will tell you, "A good vocabulary is like underwear - everyone should have one but shouldn't show it off." And I say to that, "A great vocabulary is like a sexy lace thong - you should let it slip a tiny bit, once in a while."