Monday, November 30, 2009
It seems like I've been blogging alot lately.
Well, the reason it seems that way is because it is that way. I have been blogging alot lately. Still, I think you should take advantage and enjoy it, because one of these days my sister is probably going to run me down with her car, and then there'll be no more blogs for anyone.
Holy balls, did you guys know it's the last day of November? 2010 here we come. I'm getting so freaking old! This sucks! I was gonna ask for a new wallet for Christmas, but now I think I'd prefer it if someone discovered the Fountain of Youth. And then gave it to me.
That's an awesome name for a band. Fountain of Youth. If there are any aspiring bands out there looking for a name, I suggest Fountain of Youth. Just give me 80% of all profits you make, and you are welcome to it.
So, I was watching Signs with my Mum earlier. Remember that movie Signs? With Mel Gibson, and the aliens? Remember? Signs? Yeah, I was watching it earlier. With my Mum. I have nothing else to say about that, except what the hell happened to Mel Gibson's career? Seriously? I think the actor who played the alien is booking more jobs than him at this point.
Anyway, back to my previous rant about Christmas and eventually having to grow up, I just realised that at some point, I'm going to have to grow up and organise my own Christmases - 'Organise my own Christmases' here meaning 'Organise who is going to feed me on Christmas'.
Holy crap! Why didn't anyone prepare me for this? Getting older totally sucks ass! I mean, I doubt my parents are going to invite me to join them at the nursing home, and if my sister's future husband is anything like her, he's not gonna want me over for the holidays. And there is no way I'm going to be throwing my own Christmas, since I can barely make grilled cheese without burning the house down. Also because by that point, I'll probably be living in a cardboard box.
I don't know how this is going to work out. Maybe I should audition for a role in the next Twilight movie so I can spend Christmas at Rob Pattinson's house. Probably. Probably I will do that. My backup plan is to stay at home and cry in the tub.
Either way, I will be naked.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
I know I only blogged like, 75 seconds ago, but I just can't get enough.
Oh, wow, do you know I've posted 3 blogs today? That is alot, especially considering the first sentence of one read something along the lines of "I have nothing to say that will entertain you today."
Well, I only have a couple of things left to talk about. The first is that Saw V is on tonight. I'm trying to figure out what V means in roman numerals, because until I know, I won't be sure if I've seen this one or not. I would ask my sister, but she is currently ignoring me.
Oh! That's the other thing I had to talk about. Apparently, me saying that if there is any justice in the world, all of Catherine's hair will fall out is really offensive. She is mad. She says I'm not allowed to blog about her anymore, so from now on if you want to hear about Catherine and her insane escapades, you'll have to read them on my Secret Catherine Blog.
By the way, that is a link to nowhere. There is no Secret Catherine Blog. Why would I put all that shit on a free website, when I could publish it in a book and make a million dollars?
My Mum is thinking about buying an iPod. Yeah, she doesn't have one yet. She's pretty behind the times. I mean, she's ahead of my Dad, but my Dad is a caveman, so that's not saying much. Anyway, I hope she does end up getting one, because I anticipate that watching her try to use it will be hilarious. Kind of like watching Dad try to work the DVD player - there's alot of screaming and crying and bashing in of other people's heads with a baseball bat.
No, I joke. That's abuse. He doesn't bash people with a bat, he just kicks the crap out of them.
How come old people don't know how to do stuff like listen to iPods or use DVD players? Is it because they didn't have iPods and DVD players in their day, or just because when humans pass a certain age they forget how to do everything except drink whiskey and shake their fists at unruly teenagers?
That is a million dollar question. Seriously, if you answer that question, I will give you a million dollars. I am lying about the million dollars of course, but I still think you should answer me. Or not. Whatever, just make sure you visit the Secret Catherine Blog.
Dad: Do you have an evacuation plan?
Dad: Do you have an evacuation plan?
Jacki: Again, what?
Dad: What would you do if there was a fire upstairs?
Jacki: Oh, um...I'd come downstairs.
Dad: What if there was a fire in the stairwell?
Jacki: I'd jump off the balcony.
Dad: What if there was a fire on the balcony?
Jacki: I'd climb out my bedroom window.
Dad: What if there was a fire in your bedroom?
Jacki: Well, I'd probably be dead.
Dad: Are you taking this seriously?
Jacki: Are you taking this seriously?!
Although he probably has a point. The only fire evacuation plan I know is the one we used in high school. Here's to hoping there are no fires at my house, because unless I see my tutor group and Mrs Cridland holding a clipboard, I'm totally lost.
And finally, here is a picture of Wentworth Miller pondering the best way to ask for my hand in marriage.
"Hmm...Would she prefer it if I cooked dinner, or re-enacted a whole season of Prison Break?"
a) I'm lazy, and
b) ...I got nothing. I'm just lazy. I advise you to suck on it.
Okay, so this dream.
Before I start, I need to tell you how afraid of spiders I am. Pretty. I am pretty afraid of spiders. If you've ever had a conversation with me that lasted more than 10 minutes, you probably know this. Anyway.
So the night before last night (ie 2 nights ago. ie the night of the dream. gasp!) I was ironing a shirt, and suddenly this red spider crawls out from under the iron and, like, bolts towards my hand.
Holy shit! And did I mention it was red? There is nothing more frightening than a red spider, apart from a red spider with red eyes - which this spider also happened to have. Red eyes I tell you. Red. Crimson. Scarlett. Whatever you want to call it, they burned like the fires of hell.
This isn't the dream by the way. This is what happened before the dream. Let's call it The Dream Inspiration.
As for The Actual Dream, well, I can't exactly remember the whole thing, but basically I was in my bedroom and suddenly a nest of spiders appeared in the corner. Then they (the nest spiders) banded together and started marching towards me.
The worst part about the dream was that the spiders weren't regular Huntsmans or Redbacks or even FunnelWebs, they were these freaky albino spiders with really muscular forearms which made them walk weirdly. And what's that about? I mean, come on. What the hell is going on in my subconcious that I can come up with this stuff in my sleep?
The second worst part was that even though I practically screamed up a lung, nobody came to help. The only company I got was my cat, who didn't do anything because she's a cat and doesn't give a shit about you unless you're pouring food into her bowl.
That's just great.
I am so never feeding her leftovers under the table again.
Anyway, then I woke up to find a giant Huntsman sitting on my left cheek.
Okay, kidding. I only woke up. No giant Huntsman. Still, now I'm kind of totally freaked out, because even though I know there's no such thing as Muscular-Forearmed Albino Spiders, there's every possibility that one is forming under my bed as we speak.
I mean, my room is pretty effing messy. You leave a regular spider under a pile of dirty clothes for 5 or 6 weeks, and in this heat?
Who knows what could happen.
To be honest, I'm pretty ambivilent about the whole Harry Potter movie franchise. Do I like it? Do I love it? Do I give a shit? I don't know - all I can say with complete certainty is that the guy who plays Dumbledore makes me want to kill myself and everyone around me.
I don't really know why, I just go with it.
Other than that, the only things I can actually remember are Ron and Lavender Brown hooking up, and Ginny Weasley having fantastic hair. So there is my review of Harry Potter 6. To sum up:
"Dumbledore sucks. 3 stars."
Speaking of things that suck...ah, I got nothing. What a terrible segue.
It's been so hot lately that I've decided to boycott blowdrying my hair. I just let it dry naturally now. The result - to put it simply - is not pretty.
My hair is probably crazier than I am. I can hear most of you contradicting me, so I will answer you with one word and three letters:
What kills me is that my sister has that perfect dark brown wavy-and-curly-but-not-frizzy hair that everyone wants, while my 'natural' hairstyle can only be described as a cross between Crazy Cat Lady and Victim Of Electrocution. How is that fair?
If there is any justice in the world, she'll be bald in 6 months. Fingers crossed!
Thursday, November 26, 2009
- Kate Ritchie and Gyton Grantley. God and this blog knows I love them both, but it confuses me that two actors would host the Australian music industries night of nights. Just, you know. What?
- Was Robbie Williams high?
- If Robbie Williams was high, Keith Urban was definitely drunk.
- Missy Higgins probably shouldn't have worn those shoes.
- Empire Of The Sun. Yay. Yay for you. I would offer more praise, but you guys won 4 awards tonight, so I'm guessing you've filled your 'praise' quota for this year.
That's it. That's all I've got. Oh, and I'd also like to extend a formal invitation towards either member of The Presets to marry me and have my babies.
Now, that's all I've got.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Genius. I know. You don't have to tell me.
So it's now Wednesday. It's early Wednesday, but Wednesday all the same. I seem to remember predicting that my college-work-related-mental-breakdown would arrive today. Hmm. Nothing much yet, but it's only 4:40; there's still plenty of time for me to freak out and stab somebody. My sister Catherine has a cold which I think she is giving to me, so it might be her. Or one of my parents. And I just remembered that I have to play netball tonight, so now I'm kind of concerned for everyone in my team. Moreso, everyone on the opposing team. And moreso than that, the umpire. I mean it about the umpire. If he calls me up for obstruction, I will probably take a dump on the hood of his car after the game.
Okay, I can see the sun peeking over the horizon, so it's probably time for me to get back to work. As a parting gift, I will leave you with this photo of my name on the 'prefect board' at my primary school, Greenwich Public. Yes, that's real gold stick-on lettering. I shall be imortalized forever.
Or at least until I flip out and burn the school down:
Monday, November 23, 2009
Hey, I have a question: Why are you such a self-obsessed idiot on your blog?
So what I think you're asking is why - on my blog - I talk so much about myself and all the crazy shit that happens to me. And you are also wondering why I am such an idiot.
Well, I don't think 'self-obsessed' is the right term. I think I'm just giving the people what they want! Why? Well, notice the address of my blog: www.jackiiscrazy.blogspot.com.
I mean, if you willingly click onto a website that has the words 'Jacki', 'Is' and 'Crazy' in the title, I am assuming you want to hear at least one thing about Jacki and whatever it is that makes her so crazy. Am I right? Plus it's not as if every post is about me - this last one was pretty much all Victor Garber. And the one before that was mostly New Moon.
As for the idiot thing, I have no answer. Except that if I'm an idiot, so are you, because we're sisters and I'm pretty sure idiocy is genetic.
I was going to blog about how hot it was yesterday, but I decided it'd be pointless; you guys were there. You know. It was freaking hot! It was like, "My eyeballs have melted out of their sockets" hot. Like, "The sun is blistering my skin" hot. Like, "I think my chest hair just caught on fire!" hot. I don't have any chest hairs, but I'm sure if I did they'd have caught on fire yesterday. I remember walking home from Lane Cove and at one point crossing the road without looking, because I didn't even care if I got hit by a car. I thought, "Well, if I get hit by a car, at least I can get out of this damn heat."
No, I joke. Actually, the reason I wouldn't mind being hit by a car is because it would probably mean not having to finish my final collection for college. Gah! I know I've been all cool-as-a-cucumber about it so far, but I anticipate some sort of mental breakdown in the next couple of days. If I had to guess, I'd say Wednesday will see the worst of it. Yep. Watch out Wednesday, there's a big old crazy front coming in from the south.
Huh. I guess I did end up blogging about it. The heat. Also the fact that I'm crazy, but mostly the heat. So I said I wouldn't do something, and then I did it - what else is new? Again, it was freaking hot. Did anybody drink milk? I hope not. It would have been a bad choice.
So anyway. I'm watching the final episode of Alias right now, and - SPOILER ALERT - Victor Garber just died. Holy crap, is this the saddest moment of TV ever? Well, no. But top 50 for sure. Victor Garber is amazing. If I could choose my own TV-father, it would either be Victor Garber or the dude from Titanic who fixes a clock and then dies. Who was that again? Oh yeah, it was Victor Garber. Victor Garber, you rock my freaking world! If I were 20 years older, and you were 20 years younger and named Wentworth Miller, it would be on.
It would be so on.
Speaking of Alias...has there ever been a more ridiculously complicated show on Television? Has there? I say there hasn't. I probably wouldn't have watched it all the way through except that there is a character named Michael, and everyone knows I'm a total sucker for anyone named Michael. Also, Victor Garber is in it. Did I mention how much I love Victor Garber?
Victor Garber! Victor Garber! Victor Garber!
Damn, I hope Victor Garber is one of those celebrities who Googles themselves - because if he is, he'll probably find this, read it, and either be totally freaked out or set himself a mission to become my best friend.
And just so you know Victor, I am cool with either of those options.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Holy balls, did I tell you about these beetles that have infested my room? Holy balls! I know I already said that, but dude, these beetles are insane. They are effing everywhere! Not to be confused with the sentence "They are effing, everywhere." No, that is not correct. There are not thousands of beetles having sex in my bedroom.
No, all they do is crawl and buzz and fly really close to my ear so I get all freaked out and look like I'm having an epileptic fit as I swat them away. Ugh.
So right now I'm watching Ellen interview Andre Agassi. Aggasi? Agasi? Who gives a crap. So right now I'm watching Ellen interview some dude that plays tennis, and she just showed the cover of his autobiography. Wow! I don't know who photoshopped that thing, but he looks like the love-child of Voldemort and Gollum. If Voldemort was half-cat. Voldemort, Gollum and a cat engaged in some crazy three-way sex and Andre Agassi was the result, is basically what I'm trying to say.
And on that note, I'm out.
Talk to you tomorrow!
Thursday, November 19, 2009
To set the tone, let me tell you that the first thing I remember when I think about this movie is Rob Pattinson's nipples - because they were really lopsided. And not in a good way. Is there a 'good' way for nipples to be lopsided? I don't know. Evidentally, neither does Rob Pattinson.
The second thing I remember is how the Cullen familys amber-coloured contacts made them all look like robots. So that's it. My evaluation. New Moon: If you like robots and irregular nipples, you'll probably enjoy it.
No, I joke. In all fairness, it really was very good. And I'm not just saying that because I dream of creating and then getting married to some sort of Wentworth Miller/Edward Cullen hybrid. That's a large part of it, but there were other things I enjoyed. One thing I liked was how closely they stuck to the original book. How close? I hear you asking. Well, quite close. Closer than Harry Potter, that's for sure. Suck it, Potter! You just got schooled by a bunch of vampires, bitch!
Okay, back to the movie. I was honestly surprised at my reaction to the almost constant presence of Jacob Black. Don't get me wrong, I loath Jacob Black with the fire of a thousand suns and always will, but it's possible that I'm becoming more tolerant of him - I only vomited a little at the sight of his face. And in my mouth. And now, because I am what some people call efficient and others call lazy, I will sum up the rest of New Moon in dot-point form:
- Rosalie/Nikki Reed wears a blonde wig that is lower on the 'real-looking' scale than Bert Newton's toupe
- Jasper's expression when trying not to attack Bella is the funniest thing I have witnessed in about 4 years
- Edward and Bella are the world's most awkward kissers
And on a more serious note:
- Even if you have read the book, the ending will shock you
I loved it.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Yeah, okay, Channel 7 synopsis-writing-dudes. Thanks. Because I so didn't see that one coming. One can barely walk down the streets of Summer Bay without getting shot - you try going to a school formal, and you're pretty much asking to be locked unconcious in a burning car that's slowly filling with gas.
I'm just saying.
Speaking of being locked unconcious in a burning car that's slowly filling with gas, that is probably a perfect description of how I feel right now. Mostly on account of the fact that I haven't slept in 42 hours. Damn. School work. Damn. I would say that this is the last time I'm going to leave anything to the last minute, but we all know that would be a lie. So I'll just say damn. I am an idiot.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
The rest of you could use some improvement.
Okay, so obviously I am kidding. I'm not perfect, I'm an idiot. Here is a story to illustrate my idiocy:
Today I was sewing one of my final collection dresses. For school. If you don't actually know me or about the school I go to, all you need to know is that for my final 'assessment', I have to make three dresses. Whatever.
So, the low-down on this dress is that it has a big box-pleated skirt, and the inside of each pleat is decorated with strips of silk. Which have to be sewn on. Individually.
I know. Do you think I could have made it any harder for myself? Do you? Do you? You probably don't. Well, you'd be wrong.
See, here's what happened. I sewed the strips on, then realised I'd sewn them in the wrong positions.
So I took them off.
Then I sewed them on again, this time in the 'right' positions. Only it turns out that I was right the first time I sewed them on, and now they were in the wrong positions.
So I took them off.
Then I sewed them on again again, in the same position that I'd sewn them the first time. Nope. Wrong again. I'm sure this story will be hilarious to me one day, but right now all I want to do is kick myself in the ovaries.
Oh, and just a note: each round of sewing/unpicking the strips takes about 2 hours. Honestly, I am baffled by my own incompetence.
It's like the new Keeping Up With The Kardashians, only not funny. And not good. And nobody is pregnant. And Kim Kardashian isn't in it.
Who are these people? I don't understand them, nor why anyone would give them their own reality series. The most entertaining part of the whole show is probably the oldest son, just because he's so flipping hot. Or maybe the mother because she's menopausal, and apparently people who are menopausal do stuff like stand naked in the kitchen rubbing frozen chicken breasts all over themselves. What the hell? I am so not looking forward to that stage of womanhood.
Speaking of stages of womanhood that I'm not looking forward to, I realised the other day that since both of my parents are pretty much legally blind, I am probably going to end up with glasses.
Not that I think glasses are ugly. Oh, no, glasses are fantastic. Glasses are great. Glasses are fabulous - just not on me. I can't pull them off. I can't pull off 'Dirty Librarian'. I can't pull off 'Clean Librarian'. I can't even pull off "Regular Librarian'. You know what I can pull off?
'Ugly Girl With Glasses'. And that's it.
Hopefully by the time I need glasses, doctors of the world will have perfected the eye transplantation technique. Kiera, I'm counting on you for this.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Is this just me? Is this just my bed?
Maybe my bed is the portal to another dimension. A cooler dimension.
Speaking of things that happen in bed, last night I had a dream that I made out with Jacob Black from The Twilight Series at Julia's circus-themed birthday party.
There are so many awesome things about that sentence, I really don't know where to begin. Dream? Making out? Twilight Series? Circus-themed birthday party? Julia??
Anyway, I enjoyed it. The making out. I enjoyed it. Which was weird to me, because I'm usually not a fan of Jacob Black - I'm strictly an Edward Cullen girl, always have been. Whatever - they're both hot. I'm not complaining.
Here are some other crazy dreams I have had recently:
- That I won Australian Idol
- That I could breathe underwater
- That my good friend Gem Goodwin had a split-personality disorder, and one of her "alter egos" was a serial killer who dressed up as a clown
Wow. What the hell is my subconcious trying to tell me?
Subconcious? Are you there? What are you saying, you crazy bastard?
Oh, and another thing: the make-out dream was much appreciated, but next time could you use Wentworth Miller instead of Jacob?
Sunday, November 15, 2009
You are an asshole.
Yeah. Yeah. Last episode ever.
I know what you're thinking. "Golly, Jacki. Another of your favourite TV shows comes to an end? And less than 6 months after the untimely death of Prison Break's Michael Scofield? You're so lucid. So calm! You're taking this awfully well."
Am I? Am I?! Because I just threw the TV through a window and shot my dog.
That was a lie, but still. I probably should be more upset than I am, especially considering that Rove was my fail-safe plan to get famous. Why? When? How? I have no idea. Stop asking me so many questions! This is a blog, not an interview!
In all honestly though, I am quite sad. Quite sad? Who am I kidding, I'm devestated. First Prison Break, now this? If they cancel Home and Away I will probably off myself.
Adding to the giant crapstorm that is my day, I'm eating the worst icecream of my life right now.
It's terrible. Just terrible. The flavour is off, the chocolate tastes weird, and - this is the worst part - the cone is leaking. As in, the icecream is melting, and then seeping through the cone. Dammit. That is the last time I buy 30 cones for $1.25.
Alright, confession - the problem with the icecream taste is actually my fault. It's mint chocolate chip, which everyone knows is my favourite flavour of all time, but it's this new brand that uses butter milk instead of regular.
Ew. Whoever came up with that idea deserves to have their legs eaten by a great white shark.
Anyway, I'd already had some of this mint a couple days ago, so I knew it tasted weird. But I chose to have it anyway because the only alternative was vanilla, and vanilla is the flavour of icecream they serve in hell.
Is that blasphemous? Maybe.
Come to think of it, they probably don't serve any kind of icecream in hell. All I mean to say is that vanilla is the worst flavour of icecream to have ever been invented, and if there is even the slightest chance that hell has icecream, I'm betting that's what it is.
And now to close, a dedication to Rove in honour of his final episode:
Saturday, November 14, 2009
I told my sister about this when I got home, and her only response was to scoff and say "He probably just wanted to buy pot."
Huh? I don't know. I'm no expert on pot, but I'm guessing it costs more than 4 dollars. I mean, if I was a pot-dealer, I'd at least round it up to a fiver. But Catherine didn't agree with me: "Well then he probably wanted to buy a train ticket so he could catch the train to wherever they sell pot."
What kind of society do we live in that the only reason a person could be asking for money is either to buy drugs, or to pay for public transport so they can travel to a place where drugs are sold. Maybe I'm being naive, but I just thought the guy wanted a sandwich or something. I suppose by that logic, I should have given him a sandwich, but
a) I didn't have a sandwich, and
b) I can totally picture him throwing the sandwich back at me and screaming "I said 4 dollars, bitch!"
Ugh. Could I have used the word 'sandwich' any more in that last paragraph? It's starting to look like a typo. Sandwich. Sandwich. Sandwich. Great, now all I can think about is that scene from Little Rascals where they make the sand sandwich. Haha. That's genius.
Anyway, I'm not really sure what to think about this 4-dollar-man. I hope my 4 dollars helped him get whatever it was that he wanted. Unless of course what he wanted was drugs; in that case, I hope he got mugged.
Friday, November 13, 2009
1. Do you think crematoriums should give discounts for those who died in fires?
I think crematoriums should work free-of-charge. There is nothing creepier to me than the idea of paying to have a person incinerated. Except maybe the serial killer doll in that movie Child's Play. Ew.
2. Would you rather name your first born child Lester or Souffle? Why?
Souffle makes more sense to me, because it's gender-neutral. Can you imagine naming your baby girl Lester? Whatever - It's a moot point anyway, because everyone knows my first born will be a boy named Wentworth. After his daddy.
3. You can only have one kind of sandwich. Every sandwich ingredient known to man is at your immediate disposal. What sandwich do you make?
I assume you mean traditional sandwich ingredients only? In that case, I do love me a good ham and cheese. I realise I can have any kind, and there are alot of cramazing (thats crazy and amazing, see how I did that?) sandwiches out there, but you can't go past the classics, and ham and cheese is about as classic as they come. However. If non-traditional ingredients were available, I couldn't imagine anything tastier than a toasted Jacki on Wentworth.
4. If bread could be baked into a heart-shaped loaf, would you pick that over the regular square kind?
In my experience, things that are shaped like a heart always taste better. Does anyone else do their grocery shopping at Coles in Lane Cove? The butcher there makes special heart-shaped chicken schnitzels, and I don't know - maybe it's just all the peyoti I've been smoking - but to me, they taste better than regular chicken. Like, a thousand times better.
Okay, I was kidding about the peyoti thing. I've never smoked peyoti. I'm not even sure if that's how you spell peyoti. Not important. The heart-shaped-food theory was not a joke. Those schnitzels tasted like love solidified.
and finally, 5. What's the first thing that comes to mind when you see this picture:
Oh boy. And I just thought of the perfect headline, should this photo ever make it into a newspaper:
RUNNER GETS THE RUNS.
Ha! Right? I should get paid for this stuff.
Though maybe I'm assuming too much by thinking that a cannibal would want to eat me. I mean, think about it. I eat cows and pigs and fish and whatnot, but I don't eat all of them. I've never seen a chicken by the side of the road and been so overcome with hunger that I whipped out a knife and fork and tucked in right away. So who's to say a cannibal would do the same?
Then again, it's not like cannibals have unlimited access to their preferred cuisine, the way the rest of us do. Plus I'm guessing the kind of people who eat humans aren't exactly known for their self-restraint. Well, whatever. I have a feeling I wouldn't taste very good anyway. Cannibals, be warned: I am the human equivalent of brussel sprouts.
Weirdly enough, this isn't the first time I've pondered what my own flesh would taste like.
Oh, yeah, I'm a little bit insane. Sorry, hadn't you figured that out yet?
My best bet is that we are flavoured by whatever we consume. So, in accordance, if you took a bite out of me, it'd taste like caffeine. And bubblegum. With a hint of chlorine, on account of the fact that I went swimming yesterday and for some reason find it impossible to keep my mouth closed underwater. My sister would taste like bread. My mum would taste like salmon. My dad would taste like chocolate. Ooh, note to self: If ever marooned on deserted island with family, eat Dad first.
Maybe I'm wrong. Probably I'm wrong. I tend to be wrong about everything that isn't Prison-Break-related. Yeah I know that show like the back of my hand. Except for the whole Nick-and-Veronica storyline; that just bored the shit out of me. And now, because I assume none of you know what I'm talking about, we shall return to cannabalism.
Just kidding - I know that last one's wrong.
Actually you know what? Enough with cannibalism. I think I've disturbed enough people for one day.
Peace! Love! Don't eat me!
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
I wasn't sure at first, but I think the new season of Girls of The Playboy Mansion (or for you American readers, The Girls Next Door) is growing on me.
I like the twins. They don't even pretend to have different voices or tastes or personalities, so they're actually more like clones than twins, and I like the idea of clones. Freaky yet entertaining. I don't hate the new 'number one', but she has some work to do if she wants to live up to Holly Madison. I love Holly. Holly could literally take a dump on my front lawn and I would still love her. But this new chick?
If she grows wings, finds the cure for cancer and introduces me to Wentworth Miller, I might start paying attention. What's her name again? Karissa? Kristina? Oh no, it's Crystal. Karissa and Kristina are the twins.
Clearly, Hugh Hefner is a huge fan of alliteration.
Alright. Enough talk about Playboy - I'm starting to sound like the pervert I don't want any of you to know I am.
You dedicated readers may have noticed that I haven't posted any 'Rove's Final Five' blogs for a while. Well, this is because Rove doesn't do Final Fives anymore. Blame him. Rove, if you're reading this, I implore you to bring back Final Fives - and of course by 'implore', what I really mean is 'demand'.
If you enjoy watching me struggle to answer hilariously ridiculous questions, feel free to make up your own and email them to me so I can publish them on my blog. Anyone who does this will recieve a hug and a mention in my Oscar acceptance speech.
Don't be so hippo-critical!
Don't ask me why, but I feel like Kiera will particularly enjoy that joke. Apart from the fact that she can drive, is an almost-3rd-year medical student and has a larger vocabulary than all the members of my family combined, we're about equal on the immaturity scale.
Then again, I could be wrong. I haven't had much luck in the humour department lately. Take what happened at Julia's mum's 50th last saturday night, for example. Nathan had ordered a bouquet of flowers, which came wrapped in a what can only be described as a blue tin-foil vase.
Blue tin-foil vase.
Needless to say, Nathan experienced some embarrassment. To lift his spirits, I tried to convince him that it wasn't tacky at all, but very post-modern. I can't remember the conversation exactly. It went something like this:
Jacki: Wow, that flower arrangement sure is...
Nathan: Don't pretend. It's terrible.
Jacki: No! No, it's very...post-modern.
(Nathan gives me a weird look)
Jacki: Whenever you don't understand something, just say it's post-modern. No one will question it, and you'll sound really smart.
Nathan: (Doubtfully) Uh huh...Well, it was either that one, or one with red roses and red gerbras wrapped in red tin-foil.
Jacki: Oh, man. That sounds like Satan's bouquet!
What?! How could anyone not laugh at that? Satan's bouquet! That's hilarious! I've never been so witty in all my life! Maybe they just didn't get it. Here, I'll explain:
Satan is red.
The bouquet was red.
See how that works?
Just for good measure, I kept directing the conversation back to Nathan's almost-flowers, and repeating the line about them being Satan's bouquet. I mean it.
I said it like seven times. Nothing.
This does not bode well for me - it's said that girls are either pretty or funny, and at this stage in my life it would appear that I am neither.
All I have to say is, thank goodness I have a mother willing to pay people to be friends with me.
Monday, November 09, 2009
Jacki: There's a new movie coming out called Avatar.
Catherine: (With a scornful expression) You mean Avatar?
Ugh, okay. This would be easier to explain if I was on the phone with you. The way I pronounced the title was like this: Avah-tar. So pretty much how it's spelt.
The way Catherine pronounced it was like this: Ay-vah-tar. So pretty much retarded.
The thing is, I knew I was right, because I'd seen the trailer not 15 minutes beforehand, and in the trailer that I'd seen not 15 minutes beforehand, the title was pronounced Avah-tar. I informed Catherine of this - loudly - and felt the tiny glow of victory that comes hand in hand with the public humiliation of a loved one.
So Julia tells me the European MTV Awards were on TV today. I'm sad that I missed this. Although by the sounds of it, I really shouldn't be. According to Julia, it was terrible. Awful. Horrendous. All I could find of it on youtube was a mash-up performance of Halo/Pokerface by Katy Perry, and that alone was enough to make me want to vomit from every orifice of my body.
Shame on you, Katy Perry. Shame on you and your Vegas Girl outfits.
Speaking of vomit and my body, I only got four hours of sleep last night and woke up feeling worse than as if I had spent the night in a bathtub full of puke. Now there is a disgusting visual for your reading pleasure.
My sleepless night was the result - once again - of a Red Bull overdose. Man, those 335ml big cans really get me good, especially when I drink three of them in rapid succession. Still, despite the insomnia, heart palpitations and constant need to pee, it was worth it - I am never more amusing to myself than when jacked up on caffeine. Proof? Here's a little diddy I posted on my sister's facebook at about 2 this morning:
Sunday, November 08, 2009
I don't know anyone who watches this show, nor who stars in it, nor what it's about, but I can say with absolute certainty that it is the worst thing to have ever been invented. And I'm not just talking TV-show-wise. I mean out of every invention, every concoction, every development, every thought that has ever existed since the beginning of time, this show is the worst.
It is unacceptable to publicly advertise the spelling of my name with an 'e' on the end. Do you know how many years I have endured the assumption that J-A-C-K-I-E is correct? Do you? DO YOU?? If you do, could you let me know? I'm a bit hazy on the exact amount of time, seeings as for the first part of my life I was illiterate and therefore didn't realise when people typo'd my name. If I had to guess I'd say 15, maybe 16 years.
And yeah. Typo'd. You heard me right. When that turns up in the Macquarie Dictionary, I'll expect to be paid.
And now for something completely different.
A very clever young man by the name of Tym Yee recently started an online magazine entitled 'Always Late For Tea'. In Tym's own words, Always Late For Tea 'aims to discover the challenging, honest and amazing stories of interesting individuals who can, in some way or another, inspire us.'
Yes. It's brilliant, no? And not just because he found my blog, read it, decided it was somewhat funny, and asked me to join him as the magazine's 'live-in humourist'. If you've come within 10 feet of my father in the past week or so, you will already know this. My dad is way too excited. I think he massively overestimates my skills in the writing arena. Dad, if you're reading this right now, I'll tell you the same thing my year 8 English teacher told me: If you think this kind of writing is good, you need to pick up a real book. Like, now.
Still, crap literary skills or not, it's quite exciting. I even get my own by-line. I think. Note To Self: Check definition of 'by-line'. Well, I get a description. And my own column. I am so Carrie Bradshaw right now! Only instead of writing about sex, I string stories of how my mum is addicted to housemaid-specific steroids and can't stop vacuuming our house. Also there's no photo of me, but I think that's just to avoid scaring potential readers away. Whatever, not important.
Anyway, if you're interested, check it out here. And if you're not, that's cool - just prepare to be stabbed.
Kidding! Or am I? Click here to find out!
Oh, man. I kind of wish I could write more about it, so you could all join me in this pointless train of thought. I'd try harder to remember but it's been a long day, and I don't want to strain myself.
No, that's a lie. It hasn't been a long day. I'm just lazy.
You may have noticed an increased usage of the word 'shit' on this blog. Yeah, that's accurate. I enjoy the word shit. If this offends you, you will have to get over it. Unless of course being offended means you'll stop reading - in that case, I'll try to cut back.
Because let's face it, www.jackiiscrazy.blogspot.com might be my peak in life. So I need all the fans I can get.
Oh, and just for the record: I am about to tear The Exorcist a new asshole. If your name is Linda Blair or William Peter Blatty or Ellen Burstyn, or you just worked on that movie but aren't famous enough for me to know your name, you should probably look away. That is all.
I don't know which critic called The Exorcist 'the scariest movie of all time!', but they need to grow some serious testicles and then punch themselves in the face, because they are misleading thousands - nay, millions - of people. This isn't the scariest movie of all time. It's not even the scariest movie of 1973! And you just know people freaked out over pretty much nothing back then. I'm not saying this to make myself look hip and cool and macho, either. Because I'm not hip. I'm not cool. I'm not macho. I'm a little bitch and I know it! But when I rent a scary movie I expect to be scared, dammit!
What's the deal with that anyway? You can't just go around calling any old crap the scariest movie of all time. I mean, that's a pretty heavy title to carry. Scary movies are supposed to nauseate, thrill, terrify, shock and make you want to crap yourself all at the same time. If I get to the end of a horror film and haven't filled at least four of these catagories, I'm not satisfied. And during The Exorcist? Was I nauseated?
And did I throw up or shit my pants?
No. Not even a little bit.
I mean, really.
The closest I came to being frightened was during the nursing home scene, and that's only because I have an unnatural fear of old people/becoming an old person.
I'm not sure what to think, really. Either people in 1973 scared way too easy, or I'm a heartless robot. My mums going with the robot theory. Well, whatever.
So, to sum up:
- Mum gave birth to a robot
- My underwear is still clean
- The Exorcist is a disappointment. Unless of course, you watch it expecting a comedy. In that case, I'd give it 5 stars.
Wednesday, November 04, 2009
I can't get enough.
I just can't get enough. I just can't get enough. Get it? Like the song? Whatever, I'm high.
No, that's a joke. I'm not really high. I could be though - that's how Empire Of The Sun makes me feel. Stoned. In a good way. It's like audio pot. Soundtrack for stoners. Marijuana music. Enough?
I actually feel like a bit of a gimp writing this; having never actually smoked marijuana myself, I can't say for sure that listening to Empire Of The Sun is akin to getting high.
I may have to consult an actual pot-head on this matter. Hmmm. I wonder if Kristen Stewart is available.
I actually didn't watch the race itself, because I was too busy saving the life of a small child who had fallen into our pool. No, okay, that's not entirely accurate; I was just rushed off my ass with piles and piles of schoolwork.
Also a lie. I was watching A Nightmare On Elm Street II. Whatever.
What else? I had this conversation with my sister, which you may find entertaining:
Jacki: I know what I want for Christmas.
Jacki: From you.
Jacki: From you. I know what I want for Christmas from you.
Catherine: Fine. What is it?
Jacki: Well I don't know if you've read my blog recently, but there's this book coming out, and it's called Prison Break -
Catherine: Oh, here we go...
Jacki: (Continues as if she never interrupted) it's called Prison Break: Behind The Scenes, and -
Catherine: (Groans) Oh no.
Jacki: Oh yes! 200 glossy pages of sweet PrisonBreak-y goodness, my friend. It's everything I never needed to know about Wentworth, but always wanted to.
Catherine: You need help.
Jacki: Maybe. But not as much as I need this book.
See, this is what I'm talking about when I say me and Catherine need our own reality show. So what if we're not talented or super-famous or intelligent or attractive? Hardly anybody on reality TV is. At least Catherine and I know the difference between tuna and chicken.
Monday, November 02, 2009
Eh hem. This annoyed me. I'm overly dramatic? I'M overly dramatic? SHE'S the one who's overly dramatic. And if you don't agree with me, just keep reading, because I'm about to convince you.
My Mum went up to Lane Cove today, because she wanted to hire The Exorcist on DVD.
This was weird to me, because my Mum is the kind of woman who can't even sit through Jaws; last time she tried, she ended up cowering on her hands and knees behind the couch. I'm not even kidding. Jaws. I mean, it's not even horror. It's more like action. Slash comedy. Still, something about that big plastic shark must really freak the shit out of her, because she just can't handle it. The Exorcist, on the other hand? Spinning heads, projectile vomit, a demonic omnipresence? Sure, no worries.
Weird. Not that I was complaining. After all, The Exorcist is practically the only decent horror movie I haven't seen, and besides - who doesn't wanna see a 10 year old kid crawling around upside down and puking blood? Nobody I know!
Anyway, back to Catherine. The whole Exorcist tangent relates to the story, I promise. So Mum announces her plan to hire the movie, and invites Catherine and I to watch it with her. Here's how that conversation went:
Mum: I'm gonna watch The Exorcist, anyone want to join me?
Catherine: The Exorcist? Are you serious? Do you want me to move out? You do, don't you? You want me to move out! Oh, my gosh, The Exorcist. I cannot believe you would ask me that.
Jacki: Dude, don't be such a pussy!
Catherine: Jacki you know I hate scary movies!
Jacki: It was made in like 1972! How scary can it be?
Mum: It's not scary at all.
Catherine: Jacki shut up!
And so on. Yeah. Yeah. You see what I mean? She claims she'd rather move out of the house than risk walking into a room where a moderately scary movie is playing. And then SHE calls ME dramatic.
The whole thing turned out to be a moot point anyway, because Blockbuster was all out of of The Exorcist. Mum got The Secret Life of Bees instead.
I'm sorry, but I fail to see how The Secret Life of Bees works as a consolation for The Exorcist. Really. It's like going to the movies, paying to see Saw IV, and walking into Nanny McPhee (which, incidentally, is actually a kick-ass movie, but that's not the point).
Sigh x 2.
I'm surrounded by idiots.
Sunday, November 01, 2009
I guess I should explain why I'm talking about Australian Idol and Joel/Benji Madden in the same sentence: well, they're guest judging. There. Explanation over. Now back to the attraction thing - I'm not sure what it is. No, that's a lie. I know exactly what it is. It's the tattoos. Oh baby, oh baby. Who knew I was so into guys with tattoos? I can't be sure, but I suspect it has something to do with Wentworth Miller appearing on my TV screen 4 years ago with a plan to break out of prison and a full chest of ink. Oh, my gosh. Listen to me. I'm nuts!Can you imagine if I published a personal ad?
Huh? What? How? When did that happen? I mean, the guy isn't bad looking, but he's certainly no Wentworth. He's wearing a pork-pie hat, for crying out loud!! Which, admittedly, wouldn't be so horrendous, except for the fact that his brother Benji is also wearing a pork-pie hat.
And sitting next to him.
And the hats match.
And they're sitting next to each other.
In matching hats.
I can't decide who my favourite Idol contestant is. Nor whether or not I actually care enough to choose a favourite. I think if I did, it would be Hayley or Nathan. Hayley is good. She's a good singer. And Nathan kind of looks like a young version of Rachel Zoe's husband Rodger, which is just amusing to me.