There were two things I was supposed to blog about today, and I've forgotten both of them. I guess that's what happens when you and your mates decide to ring in Good Friday with Jim Beam and double blacks. Nothing celebrates the death and resurrection of Jesus like cheap alcohol and my shitty dance moves.
So here's what happened yesterday: first off, I had work from 9:15 til 8:30. Or as I like to say when I'm tired and looking for sympathy, I had work from 9 til 9. That was fun, but the real madness began after, when Alex and I walked up to The Great Northern for a drink (or six) with Richie and his mate Simon.
Sidenote: Yes, Simon, I'm talking to you! You refused to believe I actually had a blog and here you are making an appearance on it. Now that's what I call...is there a word for that? I was going to say irony but that doesn't really work. Anyway. Yeah.
So we're at The Great Northern. You know how sometimes when you go out, you just aren't feeling it? Like, you're just not in the mood? You're tired, you're grumpy, you're out of money, and while everyone else wants to go dancing, all you wanna do is find a cab so you can get home and curl up in bed with a grilled cheese sandwich?
This was not one of those nights.
I was feeling it.
I was in the mood.
I'd just worked what pretty much amounts to a 12-hour shift without alot of sleep the night before, so from a normal person's perspective I probably should have been jonesing for the whole bed + grilled cheese scenario, but no. Nothing good ever came from going to bed with a cheese sandwich, I say. Certainly not when the alternative is drinks with Alex, Richie and Simon. I knew straight off the bat it was gonna be a fun night when Richie struck up a conversation comparing Harry Potter characters to that dude I used to hang out with. Nothing spells "night to remember!" like your bestie and her boyfriend revealing that they refer to your ex as 'Voldemort' when you aren't around. Does that make me Peter Pettigrew? I don't even care!
Here's what else we talked about at the pub:
- The army
- People we went to high school with
- The idea of shoving a carrot up someone's ass
One of the things I enjoy most about going out is actually the morning after. I'm guessing that's not the case for most people, but I don't care. I love it. It's always such a surprise! I like to look in my wallet first, because I'll always come home with either six times more money than I started with, or nothing but two train tickets and a Gloria Jeans customer card. How does that happen? Then there's that moment when you see yourself in the mirror for the first time and have to figure out exactly how and when you ended up wearing whatever you're wearing. This is one of my favourite post-drinking games to play, despite the fact that 9 times out of 10 I will lose. I once woke up wearing soccer shorts, stockings and a stripey cardigan tied into a crop-top. If I ever figure that one out, I'll let you know.
In other news, I would like to report that my Mother is trying to kill me:
I think that while most people know I'm allergic to nuts, a lot don't really get the extent of how allergic. To combat this, I have drawn up a simple diagram:
So, you know. It's pretty bad. Despite this, my parents never made our household nut-free. In fact, I think we actually have more nuts in our pantry than the average Australian family. Trying to make breakfast is like a fucking battlefield for me. This is one of the reasons I survive mostly on caffeine and lollypops.
I love that there are schools - entire schools - which ban peanut butter because of one kid, yet my own Mother leaves a bowl of Snickers bars on the kitchen bench. I'm going to propose a new house rule until I move out: No Leaving Death-Laden Chocolate Bars Anywhere That Jacki Can Reach Them.
Most of the time it's coffee and sugar, yes, but I am the kind of girl who occasionally gets hungry at 3 in the morning, will wander downstairs without bothering to switch on the light, and eat the first thing I can find in the dark. For this 'first thing' to be a Snickers bar would not be pleasant. Although having to clean up my corpse in the morning does seem like the ultimate payback for having nuts in the kitchen.
Suck it, Mum! Ps I'd like to be buried in a giant disco ball! You know, if that's at all possible.
Have you ever thought about what you want done with your dead body? Morbid! I'm going to donate my organs of course, although I'm not sure how good they'll be. Here is a photo of my liver:
I don't know if I like the idea of being buried. The disco ball thing might be cool, but what I really want my parents to do is have me stuffed and mounted so they can keep me in their bedroom. Preferably in this pose:
Jacki Trew, they will say. She died like she lived: an idiot with 2 thumbs up.