I feel like crap today.

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.
If only.
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.

Anyway.

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!

The Only New Moon Review Worth Reading

So, after my brilliant assessment of The Exorcist, I've decided that perhaps I should become a film critic. Here is my review of the newest film in The Twilight Saga, New Moon:

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

Anyway. After the movie I came home to find that my mother had dumped the entire contents of my school bag, all the fabric I left in the living room, and every single piece of sewing equipment I own in the middle of my unmade bed. And my cat was nestled comfortably on top. That was my "I just enjoyed 2 hours of Rob-Pattinson-infused-bliss, and now it's time for something to remind me that I have just over 14 days to complete my final assessment and am completely fucked" moment.
I loved it.

Damn. I am an idiot. Damn.

The synopsis for tonight's episode of Home and Away reads: It's the night of the year 12 formal, but things don't go as planned.
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.
Damn.

So I know the recession is apparently over and everything, but I still maintain that the human race needs to start taking pleasure in the little things. I don't include myself in this statement because I am not a human, and also because I already take pleasure in the little things. Like today, when I got all excited about the sharpness of a pencil. Yes, planet earth, I am perfect.
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.

Leave It To Lame-Ass

Has anyone else been watching this Leave It To Lamas show on the E! Channel?
It's weird.
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.
Oh, man.
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.

It was effing hot today. Here's what I want to know: how come even on those days that it gets to like 40 degrees, you only start to notice the heat once you get out of bed? I could lie snuggled in my doona until midday and be totally comfortable, but as soon as my feet touch the floor it's like BAM!
HEATWAVE!
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.
I know.
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?
Cheers.

Here is an open letter to the asshole who spilt chocolate milk on my shoes last night:

Dear asshole,

You are an asshole.

Sincerely,
Jacki Trew.

Rove, you made me laugh. Kudos.

So in case you haven't heard, tonight is the last episode of Rove ever.
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:

Rove, you made me laugh.

A really unflattering giant horse laugh.

The one I only do when something is really funny.

Kudos.

A guy came up to me on my way to school this morning and asked for 4 dollars. He wasn't homeless. Absolutely not homeless. I see alot of homeless people on my way to school, and this guy definitely wasn't one of them. For one thing, he wasn't eating his breakfast out of a garbage bin. Also, he was wearing a suit. Anyway, he needed 4 dollars, I had 4 dollars - it all worked out nicely.
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."
How depressing.
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.

Janey's Final Five, Originally Intended For...Katy Perry

A couple of posts ago, I suggested you guys make up crazy questions and send them to me. Holy crap, someone actually did it! Janey Du Toit originally wrote these for Katy Perry and her insane orange dress. But I guess Katy wasn't available, so Janey sent them to me:

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.
Yum.

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.

Thank you Janey. And congratulations - you're officially penciled into my Oscar acceptance speech.

Caffeine, Chlorine and Cannibals: Oh My!

The idea of my face being eaten off makes me very uncomfortable. This is why I will never own a pet snake. Or befriend a cannibal.
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.
Cannibalism?
Canoodalism?
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!

I am not usually one to post and then comment on photos of celebrities, but the longer I look at this dress, the more I feel as if I am about to have a seizure:

Wha? Just...How?!
Anyway.
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?
Eh.
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.

And the joke of the day is...

What did the wife hippopotamus say to her husband after he told her she was getting fat?
Don't be so hippo-critical!

Ahahaha.
Ba-doom-cha!
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.
Yes.
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!
(Silence)

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.

There is a new movie coming out entitled Avatar. I don't know much about it. I don't care much about it. There are humans and blue aliens and a war about some shit that wasn't explained in the trailer. End of story. The best part about this movie is that it sparked the following argument between me and my sister:

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.
Hmmm. Lovely.

Parents Say The Darndest Things

I have had 3 people tell me I resemble some form of male celebrity since I cut my hair. One of these people was my dad. What a confidence booster! Almost as good as the time he forgot my middle name, and even better than the time he spent an entire conversation referring to me as 'Oscar' (Oscar is our dog).
Sigh.
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:

Two things:

1. I have come to the conclusion that you are an old woman trapped in the body of a 21-year-old. You went to bed at 730 this evening. I shake my head at you.

2. Can I borrow your sportsgirl top this saturday? See, I'm asking in advance, so you should lend it to me because...damn, I totally had this logic worked out 5 minutes ago...Um, because you love me? No, that'll never work. Because I love YOU, and if you lend it to me I'll bake you a chocolate cake and buy you a box of tampons. Or, if you'd prefer, I can bake you a tampon cake and buy you a box of chocolates. The choice is yours :)

Hahaha. I'm not even ashamed to laugh at my own jokes. I mean, tampon cake?

How I have not been offered my own television show yet is a complete mystery to me.

E, Me, And Afternoon Tea

So apparently there is this new TV show out there called Nurse Jackie.
Hmm. Yeah.
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!

I had a dream last night. I don't recall everything that happened exactly, but I do know that some seriously crazy shit went down. I remember waking up and thinking "Wow, that was crazy. That shit that just went down? Crazy. Seriously. Crazy shit. Just went down."
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.
Suck it!

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.

Jacki Trew, Heartless Robot?

Imagine for the next 4-or-so paragraphs that I, Jacki Trew, am a film critic. That'll make it funnier.
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!
Sigh.
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?
No.
Thrilled?
No.
Terrified?
Hell, no.
And did I throw up or shit my pants?
No. Not even a little bit.
I mean, really.
Not.
Scary.
At all.
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.

A very happy birthday Deb Hirst and Nathan Gale, otherwise known as The Woman Who Gave Birth To Julia, and The Dude Who Stole Her Away From Me.

Audio Pot

Okay, I know my experience of them live at ParkLife totally contradicts the following statement, but I gotta put this out there: Empire Of The Sun blows my freaking mind hole.
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?
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 have nothing to blog about. Give me a topic, bitches!! Ho hum...let's see...it was Melbourne Cup today. I won 5 bucks. My horse came third - I'd like to think I played a substantial part in this victory.
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.
Catherine: Great.
Jacki: From you.
Catherine: Huh?
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.
(Pause)
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.
Well...I do.

My Sister, The Hypocrite

My sister Catherine said to me today, "You are so overly dramatic sometimes."
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.
Yeah.
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.
Jacki: See?
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.
Sigh.
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.
Um, what?
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.

Holy shit on fire. There's a book coming out entitled Prison Break: Behind The Scenes.
I can't be sure, but I think I may have just spontaneously orgasmed.

Matching Hats? Vomit.

So Australian Idol is on right now, and as I watch it, I'm finding myself disturbingly attracted to Joel Madden. Or is it Benji? No, it's Joel. Or is it? Because they're twins, you know.
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?

Crazed prison-drama fan seeks 31-year-old structural engineer with incarcerated brother and full upper-body tattoo. Non-smokers preferred.

Haha. Call me!

Now, back to the issue at hand...Joel Madden?
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.
...
*Vomit*

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.

Happy Halloween!

I'm not a big Halloween fan, but there is no denying my penchant for playing dress ups. Or watching other people play dress ups. And I know that sounds kind of creepy, but it's not. Is it? Maybe it is, but I really can't be bothered to care since I'm too distracted by the internal debate I'm having over which would be hotter: Wentworth Miller dressed as Rob Pattinson, or Rob Pattinson dressed as Wentworth Miller.
Yeah.
It's like a twisted sexy mind puzzle; a puzzle because the more you think about it, the harder it is to answer, sexy because of Wentworth Miller, and twisted because anyone who has these kinds of thoughts is clearly in need of some counseling.

Anyway.
I meant to get so much work done today, but in the spirit of Halloween, I decided to take a break and watch Carrie. I have nothing to say about it, really, except that it might be one of the most fantastic movies I've ever seen. Even the part where the jocks go shopping together and buy these hideous 70's tuxedos. Especially the part where the jocks go shopping together and buy these hideous 70's tuxedos.
Also in the spirit of Halloween, I convinced my mum that she needed to buy mini Mars Bars for "all the trick-or-treaters" and then ate them myself. I'm pretty surprised she fell for it, since there are never any trick-or-treaters in Longueville. Like, ever. For us Longuevillians, Halloween isn't about dressing up and receiving junk food from strangers. It's about setting off illegal fireworks, having your house egged, and avoiding the guy who chases kids up and down Kenneth Street with a chainsaw.
Yeah. And I am not even kidding; I never saw him, but I heard a rumour. Maybe it's true. Maybe the guy was just really into Halloween. Or maybe there's been a bonafide serial killer running around Longueville for the past 10 years, and nobody noticed. Hey - it wouldn't be the first time.

And now back to Carrie, because I've had a brilliant thought about it: I think it should be used in the government's next high-school anti-bullying campaign. Brilliant, or what? Think about it! Past promotions haven't exactly been effective, but nothing grabs a teen's attention better than the threat of being set on fire at the school dance. Right? I can see it now:

"Get hit by a car, hosed down, electrocuted and locked inside a burning building as a result of telekenetic power - if you bully others, you're just asking for it."

It's cool, anti-bully-campaign-Australia-people; you can thank me later.

Babysitting, TV, Crazy People And A Few Other Things

I babysat last night. It was pretty awesome.
Yeah.
Because as much as I complain about/claim to loath babysitting, it's always pretty awesome. What's not to love? Aside from the part where you have to take responsibility for another persons life, it's a total breeze. Sit on couch + watch TV + consume food. It's an easy enough equation, and one I've had plenty of time to practice at home. Only this way, I get paid!!
About that whole "taking responsibility for another persons life" thing, though. That bit I'm not so fond of. What happens if the house gets stormed by a gang of serial killers? Who do I save first? Myself? The kid? The $4000 flat-screen TV??
Alright, it's obviously the kid. But wait a second...what if there's more than one kid?? Which one do I save first? The 6-year-old, because she's got all the good toys, or the baby because he's easier to carry??
Thank goodness there's foxtel and a pantry full of food to distract me from these thoughts - without them, I might just go crazy!!
Speaking of going crazy, I saw this movie the other day called The Signal, where there was this weird broadcast being shown on all TV/Radio networks, and anyone who saw/listened to it went crazy and killed everyone around them. And then themselves. Needless to say, it was pretty disturbing, but enjoyable all the same. Actually, probably more disturbing than the movie itself was the fact that I enjoyed it. Huh. Just something to think about.

I got my hair cut yesterday. But no. No, cut isn't the right word to use there - it's not dramatic enough. My hair wasn't cut, it was chopped. Sliced. Hacked. Hatcheted.
Alright, hatcheted might be going a bit far. Plus I'm not 100% sure it's actually a real word. But you get what I mean. Don't get me wrong, I like it. I do. It's pretty different, and I feel a bit like the lovechild of Mick Jagger and Joan Jett (minus the musical talent), but it's sorta cool in an androgynous/face covering/did-that-girl-go-back-in-time-and-swap-heads-with-Ringo-Starr? kind of way.

Hairdressers make me nervous. I have this ridiculous fear that if I accidentally look away from the mirror for 2 seconds, they're gonna shave my head. And I'd really prefer it if that didn't happen. As far as I'm concerned, there's only two people who can truly - truly - pull off the 'Intentionally Bald' look:
1) Wentworth Miller
2) Ummm...Okay, so I lied. There is no second person. I just wanted to give momentary hope to anyone who's ever shaved their head for kicks.
Speaking of people who shave their head for kicks, when my Dad asked me this afternoon if I was planning on getting any more tattoos, I told him that yes, I'm going bald and getting a portrait of Voldemort's face on the back of my skull.
How many times have I told that joke? 50? 60? It never dies.

You know, I used to seriously question Julia's reluctance to catch public buses. But when this is the guy they chose for the front cover of the North Shore Line timetable:

Yeah. I get it.

I Swear (MA 15+)

I swear a little too much. Yeah, I am aware of it. But I just can't f***ing stop! Haha. I don't know where I picked up this charming habit, exactly, but I'm told it started young.
Oh, man, that's terrible.
Constrastingly, Julia - also known as My Good Half - doesn't swear much. At all. Much of at all. Did that make sense? Probably not. But yeah, Julia doesn't really swear. Except when she has to: I remember one day in Year 6, Lachlan Notley told Julia he would give her a packet of Tic Tacs if she said "shit". She said it. I think Lachlan Notley felt pretty stupid.

When Catherine and I were like 6 and 7, we had a babysitter named Kelly, who watched us in the mornings before school because our parents left so early for work. I think Kelly must have liked us, because she let us get away with pretty much anything. Yes, I think she must have liked us quite a bit. Or maybe she just didn't give a shit. Either way, we totally took advantage of the situation, especially in the swearing department. We said it all. We really let it rip. And we thought it was hilarious. Now that I'm old and wise and babysit a 6-year-old kid on a regular basis, I find this pretty shocking. Did I really start swearing that young? F*** yeah, I did!
I think I'm pretty good about censoring myself in public though. And by 'in public', I really mean 'on my blog'. Did you notice? Let's rewind:
"I swear a little too much. Yeah, I am aware of it. But I just can't f***ing stop!"
See that? That, right there? Where I used asterixs to censor myself? Yeah. Yeah! So in Blog-Public, I'm totally polite. Real-Public...that's another story.
Ah, well. F*** it!

It's Too Hot Today

I just blowdried my hair. Ugh! Ugh! Hideous. There is nothing worse than blowdrying ones hair in 30-degree heat. Just in case I don't already resemble a sweating pig, let's enugulf my whole head in hot air!
So why, why, I hear you asking, why would I choose today of all days to dry my own hair? I don't know! Because I'm an idiot, okay? Also because when I let my hair dry naturally, it tends to settle into a wild nest of snake-like tendrils, and I love to have just one day where I don't have to go out in public looking like this.

I'm watching Ellen Degeneres right now. Oh man, I love Ellen. She's interviewing Mary Ann Murphy, also known as That Crazy Screaming Chick From So You Think You Can Dance, who is talking about her survival in an abusive marriage that lasted 8 years. Dude. Now I know what my year 12 Modern teacher Miss Shanahan was talking about when she said "Girls, don't joke about rape. Rape isn't funny!" It makes me feel awkward. Listening to Ellen grill this woman about being raped I mean. I've noticed that Ellen has a tendency to make things awkward - like, this one time when she was interviewing Wentworth Miller, and the conversation somehow turned to former-Prison Break actor Lane Garrison, who was sent to prison (hello, irony) for manslaughter. What? Come on, Ellen! You know I love you, but you've got 6 feet and 2 inches of physical perfection sitting less than a metre away from you, and you wanna talk about manslaughter?!
Sigh.
They should have hired me for that interview. Then it may have gone something like this:

Jacki: Hello Wentworth.
Wentworth: Marry me?
Jacki: Oh hell yes!

Ha. Okay, no, that's a tad far-fetched. Realistically, it would probably go more like this:

Jacki: Hello Wentworth.
Wentworth: Um...where's Ellen?
Jacki: Marry me?
Wentworth: SECURITY!!

Apparently my mum is going to be on TV. More specifically, she and her dragonboat team are going to be standing in the background while Tim Bailey does his weather report on the 6:30 news. It's a role that won't likely be nominated for a Golden Globe, but still - being on TV is being on TV. So here is my question:
WHY? WHY, UNIVERSE, WHY? WHY IS IT THE DESTINY OF EVERY LAST MEMBER OF MY FAMILY TO BE ON TV, EXCEPT FOR ME?!
Let's recap, shall we?
Dad - Interviewed on 60 Minutes for some segment about Nephrology.
Mum - Featured in Tim Bailey human interest piece.
Catherine - Multiple television appearances as part of the Wot If? Sydney-to-Hobart yacht raching team.
Jacki - Anything? Anything?? No! The closest I've come is acting out scenes from Prison Break in the living room, which doesn't even count a little bit, because there's nobody watching.
And the worst part is, none of them could care less! Mum doesn't even like Tim Bailey! She makes fun of him! Catherine is totally camera shy, and Dad...well, Dad is such a space cadet most of the time, he probably didn't even realise he was on TV. Still.
I am so bummed out, I'm actually considering filling an old car with joints and cocaine, putting the headlights on high-beam and driving down the Pacific Highway at 140km/h just to get on Highway Patrol. Even then though, they'd probably blur my face out. Also I don't own an old car. And I really wouldn't know where to get any joints, let alone cocaine.
Never mind - there'll be plenty of TV ops once I'm married to Wentworth.

Cry Me A River

Holy bananas, I can't stop crying.
Ok, crying is a bit dramatic. Actually, my eyes are just watering real bad. Real real bad. My peepers, they are a-gushing, yo. Remember that Justin Timberlake song, Cry Me A River? I used to think that concept was idiotic and unrealistic. Well, not anymore. Forget about water restrictions or whatever, I could seriously wash a car with my tears right now.
And it sucks. Really, it does - mainly because I have no idea whats causing the watering, and am therefore powerless to stop it. Also because it's totally getting in the way of my usual nighttime activities: I can't read because the pages of my book would get wet. I can't watch TV because the images are all blurry. I can't go to bed, because if I lay down, I'll literally be in danger of drowning in my own tears. Is there a worse way to die than that? Having the breath sucked out of your lungs by the family cat, maybe. Otherwise, no.

My laptop! She lives!
Yeah, baby! Can you tell how friggin excited I am? Can you? Look at all those exclamation marks!! If that doesn't spell excitement, I honestly don't know what does. But yes, yes, it's true: my computer is fixed, fully functional, and back with a vengence. I'd say get ready for bi-daily pointless posts on anything from bad sushi to Wentworth Miller's chest hair pattern, but if you read this blog on at least a semi-regular basis then you're probably already used to that kind of thing. So there's really no need.

I'm going to make this quick, because Bones is on in 5 minutes, and I don't want to miss any. It's an episode I've already seen, but honestly I don't care because Cindy Lauper guest stars, and in my book that warrants an uninterrupted second viewing.
Oh, alright. Third viewing.

Yesterday afternoon, in my seemingly on-going quest to achieve Death By Calories, I made an Oreo cookie cheesecake. Oh, hell yes. So here's a list of what I've discovered about Oreo cookie cheesecakes:

• I would like to lay down in a bed of them and roll around.

That is all. Coincidentally - speaking of laying down in a bed and rolling around, I mean - I'm taking a little trip to Mobile Computers tomorrow morning, and if my laptop is funally functional, I'll be more than happy to lay down in a bed and roll around with the guy responsible.
No, only kidding - that's an activity I reserve solely for Wentworth. But Computer Dude can look forward to a handshake and a smile at the very least. If he's actually fixed my computer, that is; if not, I'll just kick him in the crotch and steal his wallet.
Yeah. Yeah! I find that to be a good solution to most of my problems.
Alright, enough. Cindy Lauper awaits!!

Alot Of Pointless Chatter About Movies

I don't really know what to say. Am I running out of things to blog about? Well, no. But I just saw on the news that a couple of days ago, some baby got run over by a train and survived.
Dude. My biggest achievement in the last couple of days was fixing our DVD player; at the time it was pretty impressive, but now it just seems kind of mediocre. Thanks, train-defeating baby. Thanks alot.

I watched The Shawshank Redemption today. At least, I tried to watch it. I always wanted to, partially because it seems like one of those critically-acclaimed-type movies that you feel smarter having watched (like Citizen Kane or The Hours), but also because it's set in a prison, and anything that's set in a prison reminds me of Wentworth Miller/Prison Break, and anything that reminds me of Wentworth Miller/Prison Break makes me happier than this guy:

And I mean, that's a pretty happy guy. Can't you tell?
Anyway I'm not sure how long into the movie I got before I realised it really had nothing to do with Wentworth Miller - probably around the point where the protagonist is gang-raped by a band of man-hungry prisoners. And I didn't last much longer than that. I might have actually stuck around for the rest, if it weren't for the fact that my dad was watching it with me.
Yeah. By myself, fine - but there is something acutely uncomfortable about watching a guy get gang-raped with your father in the room. Really, I wouldn't recommend it.
But anyway. I didn't finish Shawshank, I haven't seen Citizen Kane or The Hours, and at college on friday I had a brain-freeze while adding some measurements together, and forgot how to carry the one. So right now I'm not feeling too intelligent.
Hey, speaking of movies and not feeling too intelligent, I watched Dodgeball last night. Now that I've actually typed out that segue, I'm aware of how terrible it is, but hey - it worked in my head, so I'm leaving it. Anyway, I have nothing interesting to say about Dodgeball, except that it'd been a while since I'd seen it, and I'd kind of forgotten how funny it is. I especially liked this line:

White Goodman: Oh, hello Kate. I wasn't aware I was paying you to 'socialise'.
Kate: You're not - I'm off the clock.
White Goodman: Well isn't that convenient for you. And the clock.

Ha. Haha. I don't know why, but that made me laugh. Then again, I am a laugh whore, remember?
Before Dodgeball, I watched X-Men 3. I know what you're thinking - Wow, for someone who has 2 college assessments and a clothing collection due in less than two months, you sure watch alot of TV. Well, my answer to you is this: SHUT YOUR PIE HOLES, I DO WHAT I WANT!
Anyway, my mum watched X-Men 3 with me. Whenever my mum watches a movie with me, the same thing happens; I spend the whole time caught between feelings of amusement and utter rage at her reactions to whatever is happening on the screen. For example, you know that scene where Jean Grey morphs into Phoenix, and her eyes go all black, and her skin turns kind of maroonish and veiny and stuff? This is a normal persons response:

Normal Person: (Silently terrified)

And this is my mum:

Mum: Well, she needs a facial, doesn't she?

I tell you, listening to that woman is almost better than watching the movie itself.
Right. Now I've run out of pointless things to blog about, so I'm off. Hopefully by tomorrow something more exciting than fixing a DVD player or not finishing a movie will have happened to me. Maybe I'll go back in time by 19 years and get run over by a train - fingers crossed!

Yesterday on the bus, a woman fell asleep with her head on my shoulder.
Sigh.
I hate that.
Not people falling asleep on my shoulder. No, I am all about people falling asleep on my shoulder, if I know them. But if I don't, there's no way. It's creepy. It's unhygenic - I mean, I don't know who has swine flu or leprosy or dandruff or whatever. Keep your craniums to yourselves, strangers!!
Anyway, this woman got her own back; since she was asleep, she missed her stop. Eventually she woke up and noticed, and started freaking out. Gold. I'm not even going to pretend I didn't feel a tiny glimmer of satisfaction. It's kind of mean, yeah, but hey - that's what you get for trying to spread leprosy.

Catherine and Jacki: Take Sydney

Is anyone else of the opinion that my sister and I should have our own reality show?
Probably not.
Maybe our mother, if she thought it meant we'd be making enough money to move out, and she could finally retire and buy a house in Avalon. Anyone else? I don't think so. But there should be! Here's a potential episode:

(Scene: We're shopping in Spotlight, and I've just found Catherine loitering in the christmas decorations aisle)
Jacki: What the hell are you doing in this aisle?
(Oh, okay, I should explain: earlier, Catherine had expressed an intense loathing of all Christmas-related decorations, on account of their 'garish-ness')
Catherine: ...I don't know. (Points to a Santa hat emblazoned with the phrase 'Ba-humbug') What does Ba-humbug mean?
Jacki: I'm not sure. I think it's one of those made up phrases, like meshugenah.
Catherine: Meshugenah? What does that mean?
Jacki: I don't know. 'Crazy shit'? It's Yiddish.
Catherine: You're Yiddish.
Jacki: Well if I'm Yiddish, so are you - we're related.
Catherine: (Points to a pile of tinsle in an obvious attempt to distract me from the fact that she has lost the previous argument) Pink tinsle? When the f*** did pink become a Christmas colour?
Jacki: Dude, don't swear. There's kids in here.
Catherine: You swear all the time!
Jacki: Not in front of kids!
Catherine: You swore in front of Sean the other day!
Jacki: Yeah, well...
(Awkward silence)
Catherine: Lets get out of here, I farted.
(Later, at the checkout)
Jacki: (Points to some square stickers) Hey, these are cool!
Catherine: They're square and ugly.
Jacki: (Points to some round stickers) These are cool too.
Catherine: They're round and ugly.
Jacki: You know what else is round and ugly? Your face.
Catherine: (Holds up two 'make your own keyring' packs, one snake-shaped and one dragonfly-shaped) Which one should I get?
Jacki: Neither, they're both stupid - like you.
Catherine: (Looks wounded)
Jacki: Oh, alright. Get the dragonfly.
Catherine: Yay! (Puts on top of my purchases)
Jacki: I'm not paying for that.
Catherine: I know, I'll pay. (Pause). Actually, no, can you pay?
Jacki: No!
Catherine: You have to! You owe me money!
Jacki: What? No I don't!
Catherine: Yeah you do! Remember last time we split the cost of the groceries, and you thought you paid for half, but you didn't, and as we were walking out of Coles I said "Hey, you still owe me seven bucks" and you said "Yeah, I'll pay you back later, I promise", and then you didn't!!
Jacki: You made that up!
Catherine: Why would I make that up?
Jacki: So I'd pay for your crappy keyring!!
Catherine: Oh look, the registers open! (Slides my stuff in front of the cashier and puts the keyring on top)

Right? Right?? And I know I'm not the only one who finds that entertaining, because as it was playing out (oh yes, that conversation actually happened), both the cashier I mentioned and the family in front of us were pissing themselves.
Gold.
Alternatively, someone could just film the two of us sitting around playing a marathon game of 'Would you rather...?':

Jacki: Would you rather I sat by your bed all night flicking the light switch on and off, OR if sat by your clock all night, and every time the time changed, I read it out in a really loud alien voice?
Catherine: You are the weirdest person ever.
Jacki: That's not an answer!

Catherine: Would you rather watch Wentworth Miller get married to someone else, knowing he would never leave them, OR watch him die?
Jacki: Wentworth Miller die? Don't even SAY something like that!!

Jacki: Would you rather rape the cat, OR contract herpes from Paul Walker?
Catherine: How about, would I rather contract herpes from the cat or rape Paul Walker?
Jacki: You can't rape the willing.
Catherine: Damn straight!!

Oh man. You can't make that stuff up.

I'm Jacki Trew, and I'm a laughaholic

I finally found out what kind of whore I am!!
Oh, man. That sounded terrible. Sorry, Mum.
But you know, the other day I was entertaining the idea that I'd become a Blog Whore... I've since decided this is very much untrue, on account of the fact that I've been blogging here for over 5 years, only pausing once for a brief flirtation with MSN Live Space - If that's not a monogamous relationship, I don't know what is.
Or should I say moBLOGamous relationship ;)
I shouldn't?
Fair enough.
Anyway, where was I?
Oh yeah. So I'm not a Blog Whore, but here's what I discovered:
I, Jacki Sarah Trew, am a Laugh Whore.
I am. I really am. Warning, comedians and alike: don't feel too good about yourselves when I laugh at one of your jokes, because I am way loose with the laughter. I give it away too easy. I laugh at pretty much everything - even the stuff you're not supposed to laugh at.
ESPECIALLY the stuff you're not supposed to laugh at. Like, when I was watching this DVD (can you guess which?) commentary last night: all the guy did was say "Cats suck" and I was in hysterics for like, 20 minutes.
...Alright, to be fair, my own cat walking past at that very second while giving me the filthiest look she could muster probably made it a bit funnier.
But still.
So thats it: I'm Jacki Trew, and I'm a laughaholic. (That was for Mum - 'laughaholic' sounds so much more ladylike than 'laugh whore', don't you think?)

Oh, and the DVD commentary? It was Prison Break. Duh.

Dude I don't know what my unconcious-self was smoking last night, but I had some seriously wacked-out dreams, yo.
First off, I dreamed that I was at the airport with Ellen, and my iPod stopped working. Huh. Okay, I guess that one isn't too far-fetched. I mean, it's not as if I haven't broken like, 10 DILLION iPods in my lifetime. I've also been known to visit the airport. And I am friends with Ellen...Let's move on.
Second off (is that a real phrase? I'm not sure), I dreamed that I was one of the characters in Prison Break. I don't remember too much of this dream, except for a scene where I was hiding in a toilet stall, listening to Michael (that's Wentworths character) and Lincoln (that's Dominic Purcell's character) have a massive fight. I remember Lincoln throwing up and running away, and then Michael handing me a green t-shirt over the top of the door and saying "Here, I thought you might like this." Hmmm....Lincoln throwing up was confusing, and I didn't really understand the green t-shirt moment, but seeings as Wentworth is (in one way or another) involved in most of my dreams, I guess this one isn't that weird either.
Right.
I guess the only dream actually strange enough to warrant a blog was the third one, where I sent myself back in time by 4 hours, and then attended a high school formal with my past-self as my date. Oh, my gosh. And I know how crazy this is going to make me sound, but I was like, the best date ever - my past-self and I kept sneaking up on people and sitting on either side of them, then saying the exact same thing at the exact same time...it totally freaked them out!! Hiiilarious!
Sigh.
This is just another one of those times when I (like Emma Gilmore) wish that Hogwarts was actually real, that I actually lived there, and that such magic existed as would actually allow me to date myself.

So it turns out, there is someone more insane than me - this guy:

Donald Earl Fite III, who sought revenge on his ex-girlfriend by stabbing her pet fish to death.
I mean. Who does that? Can...I can't even imagine how that would go down. But yeah, yeah, it happened. And, okay, I haven't even told you the best part: the ex-girlfriend is demanding that he pay for her to get a tattoo of said fish.
In memoriam.
Oh, my gosh. Is this not the funniest thing you have ever heard? For today, at least? And just so you know - no, I didn't go looking for and find this guy on my own. There was an article about it on the ninemsn.com.au website. I'm not THAT big of a weirdo; I only Google-stalk people I like.

Anyway, there are a multitude of things about this guy that kind of totally freak me out - not the least of which is the alarming similarity between his full name and Wentworth Earl Miller III's - but still...it's kind of comforting to know there are crazier crazies than me out there. Yeah, maybe "Craziest Crazy" would be a nice trophy to have, but I'm really not comfortable with stabbing a fish to get it.

And yeah - Wentworth Earl Miller III. I am not even kidding.

Shower Thoughts #33

"Duel" is a tricky word for me.
Is it pronounced like "dwell", or like "jewel"? Or is it neither of those? I need to know because whenever I'm reading and it comes up, I get totally distracted and end up wasting like, 40 minutes pondering over the articulation. Which I suppose wouldn't be that big of a deal, except that I'm re-reading Harry Potter at the moment. Have you ever read Harry Potter? Do you know how often the word "duel" appears in that book? Pretty much every third sentence, that's how often.

Harry braced himself, preparing for the oncoming duel against Malfoy.

It was hard to believe that he had barely been at Hogwarts for 2 months, and Harry had already been challenged to his first duel.

"Hermione?" "Yes Ron?" "Just out of curiosity, how do you pronounce 'duel'?" Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but before she could utter a single word, Lord Voldemort cast a blanket spell that killed every English-speaking human on earth, effectively eliminating the chance of anyone ever finding out the true pronunciation of the word 'duel'.

Alright, one of those isn't entirely accurate. Can you guess which it is? And then tell me how to say 'duel'?

Bearded Lollypop? Genius!

I've started and not finished like 3 different posts in the past 24 hours. I don't know what's going on with me, I'm just having issues committing to any one blog. Am I a blog whore now? This definitely feels like blog-whore-type behavior.

Sigh.

I guess I'm cool with that. Not that there's anything cool about being a whore, but, well, if I was going to be any kind of whore, I suppose Blog Whore would be my first preference. And whoa, this conversation just got way awkward, not only because I just capitalised the word 'whore' (I mean, that just feels wrong to me), but also because my Mum is probably reading this right now and going 'I knew we should have given her up for adoption'.

So, to recap, it's been barely 2 paragraphs and I've already offended:

a) My mother

b) Myself

c) Prostitutes

d) Humanity in general, I'm guessing

Wow. Good day for me.

Anyway as I was saying: 3 unfinished posts in the last day alone. The first was about how much I suck at baking brownies - and I do. I really do. Even if I follow the recipe instructions with exact precision, they always come out of the oven in one of two conditions:

1) Severely undercooked, like, to the point that the only way to consume them is through a straw

2) On fire.

The second was a pointless internal debate over whether Lady Gaga is trying to be Katy Perry, or Katy Perry is trying to be Lady Gaga. I mean, really, who even cares? They're both completely nuts. Whatever. End of story.

The third was the result of a little shameless late-night-surfing-the-archives-of-my-own-blog activity. Yeah, I do that. And good thing I do, because - hello, irony - it gave me something to blog about. Remember this birthday cake Catherine and I made for our friend Daniel a few months back?

Yeah, I know. We are fantastic. Anyway, not the point. The point is, I had several comments on this photo, but not ONE of them was about whats going on in the top right hand corner:

Yeah. That's a bearded lollypop, people. Not only is that hilarious, it's also incredibly strange. I don't know what's going on with you lot; either my readership is way lower than I thought (like, zero), or you've all become so accustomed to my weirdness that a lollypop with facial hair just isn't that big of a deal. Either way, I don't care, because I've just realised that my three previously abandoned blogs are now complete, and I'm off to celebrate with a chocolate icecream and 4 episodes of Prison Break.

Tata!

I was having a pretty slow day, but this excites me: If you go to the website for Drew Barrymore's new movie Whip It, you can enter your name into a generator and recieve your very own Roller-Derby alter-ego. Oh, my gosh - anyone who knows me knows I'm a HUGE fan of alter-egos, with the one exception of Beyonce's Sasha Fierce, who, if I'm honest, gives me the heebie-jeebies. But apart from that. LOVE them.
Anyway, my Roller-Derby name came out as Madame Wheelie-Feelgood. I would ask that you all address me as this from now on. Even better, do you know what my sisters came out as? King Crush. No, really.
King.
Crush.
Oh, man, Whip-It-Website-Roller-Derby-Name-Generator, you don't even know how on the money you are with that one.
Anyway, I should go - there's Greys Anatomy to be watched, chocolate to be eaten and schoolwork to be neglected.
Madame Wheelie-Feelgood - OUT!

Now that Prison Break is over, I feel like our Foxtel providers could cancel every channel on our service except for E! and I would still be totally satisfied. For serious. I am so addicted to almost every show on that channel. Not too addicted though - I learned my lesson with Prison Break; you can't get too attached, because TV shows eventually end, and not all of them are released on DVD.
E! is different though, because it's all harmless idiotic reality shows, and well, long story short, I tend to favour TV that doesn't require a whole lot of brain power these days. Plus, a reality show won't introduce you to the love of your life, string you along for 4 years, then get cancelled and break your heart.

Crap reality shows are great. Not only are they entertaining, but they totally make you feel smarter. Really! Especially that one chronicling the lives of Kim Kardashian's lesser known sisters, Kourtney and Khloe Take Miami. Or as it should be called, Kourtney And Khloe Make Their Living By Hosting A 3-Hour Radio Show Once A Week, Dropping In On Their Family-Owned Clothing Boutique To Boss Around The Employees, And Hosting The Occasional Tranny-Look-Alike Contest.
Oh my goodness that's good television. I love it. And watching them act so stupid makes me feel that much more intelligent! Like Kourtney and her asshole boyfriend, whose name currently escapes me. The two of them are idiots. Idiots. I don't understand why they're even dating; I mean, most of the time, it seems like they don't even like each other. Here's a prime example:

Kourtney: Did you become a member of terror squad?
Kourtney's Asshole Boyfriend: Did you become a member of 'I don't wear shirts that cover my boobs'?

And now they're having a baby together. Yeah. That's going to end well for everyone.

Auntie of the Year

My wireless internet connection isn't working, and it's making me crazy. I mean, more so than usual. But yeah, it's been out for almost a week. I would have blogged about this before now, but um
a) How does one blog without the internet? And
b) I'm extremely busy and important ('Extremely busy and important' here meaning 'A lazy shit')
Yeah. It sucks because the longer I go without internet, the more I want to blog about how annoyed I am that I have no internet. But because I have no internet, I'm unable to blog about how annoyed I am. And that makes me more annoyed - which, in turn, increases my desire to blog. Oh, my gosh. It's a vicious cycle of pointless rage - something I'm not unfamiliar with, as those of you who read this blog on a regular basis might have guessed.

In other news, my sister and I recently had one of our most intelligent and meaningful conversations to date:

Jacki: Dude, how freaky is it that one of us is probably going to have a kid some day?
Catherine: Totally.

Ha! Really though, is anyone else kind of terrified for my sisters' hypothetical future offspring? If my childhood memories are anything to go by, they're all getting helmets for their first birthdays. And some advice: Kids, if you're allergic to anything, don't fall asleep in your mothers' presence.
Jacki Trew - future Auntie of the Year.

Taco VS Taco

I never feel more simultaneously delighted and enraged than when I am eating a taco.
Let's be honest - tacos are pretty flippin' awesome. First of all there's the name. Taco. I mean, that's hilarious on its own. And then there's the contents; corn chips, meat, chili, vegetables, cheese...it's like every food group in one meal! One delicious meal, I might add. Yeah they're not that healthy, they've got that weird vaginal connotation, and if you eat just one too many, you risk spending the night hunched over a toilet, but still...I just can't seem to resist.

On the other hand, though.
Who invented the taco? Who was it? Huh? Huh? I only want to know so that I can hunt them down and smack their bottom, because seriously. Is there anything harder to eat than a taco? I say there isn't. Whenever I see one, I'm overcome with elation and desire and a mouthful of saliva, and at the same time, I know that buying/eating it is only going to end badly. I don't know what it is - the sharpness of the shell combined with the soggyness of the meat? The weird shape? The fact that I possess an unnatural determination to talk and eat at the same time? - but I swear, there is no way to eat a taco without:
a) Spilling on myself
b) Spilling on someone else
c) Spilling on both myself and someone else
d) Choking to death

So here are my thoughts...someone should invent the Bite-Sized Taco. Like a regular taco, except that the corn chip is a hollow enclosed sphere, and all the other ingredients are mixed together inside. Size-wise, it should be large enough that one can really appreciate all the different flavours and textures, but small enough that I won't choke to death should I choose to swallow it whole. Right? Right?!
Yeah. Someone should invent that. And by 'someone', I of course mean 'steal my idea and suffer my wrath, bitches'.
The Bite-Sized Taco - coming soon to an unlicensed truck-stop diner near you!

How On Earth Did I Make It Through High School?

Holy crap, am I on a blogathon today or what? Well, whatever. Not the point.
I was just going through some of my old school notes, you know, seeing what I could throw away, and I came across a class assignment that I'd written for English Extension 1, on the subject of The Bronte Family.
...Yeah. This is - and I kid you not - a direct quote:

"Anyway, the only cool thing about The Bronte Family is that they must have been on drugs or something, because Beth and I figured out that the mother, whose name was Maria, had two children called Maria and Elizabeth, and they had an aunt called Elizabeth, who was Maria's sister, and she also had a child called Maria, who had two children called Maria and Elizabeth. I mean, no one who is not on pot is stupid enough to name that many people in their family Maria and Elizabeth. Right?"

Oh man.
I'm awesome.