HEY SPANKEYES!

Dear Life Counsellor,

Today I realised that I rarely get to use the terms COCKSPANK and CUNTEYES in my day to day routine.

Do you think this is because I am a Cancer? Sometimes I think my life would be wholly different if my star sign had been named after some less terminal disease. I know with these days with Chemotherapy and Leaching etc the prognosis is not always totally hopeless, but still, being riddled with tumors is just not glamorous in the way that, say, Syphilis or Dwarfism are glamorous. Obviously, for my particular problem, the illness of choice would be Tourette's, but even Gangrene has a certain way of catching the public imagination which I feel it's not entirely unreasonable of me to envy. You know, like you go off on a dangerous yet exhilarating mountain mission and/or attend an icecapade and you come back to civilisation with an aura of inner stillness and a more limited number of toes, and suddenly everyone thinks you're some kind of HERO. Call me crazy, but I feel that if I had a Gangrene related star sign not only would I be feared and admired in equal measure by my adoring public, but the words COCKSPANK and CUNTEYES would also be featuring pretty prominently in my everyday communications. But then I'm no expert on these matters...which brings me back to my initial question, life counsellor: ARE YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR BECAUSE YOU HAVE BEEN STRUCK DOWN WITH PSYCHOLOGICAL MUTENESS AND AS SUCH YOU ARE FILLED WITH IMPOTENT RAGE AND WORDLESS DESPAIR are my extensive and highly stylised personal woes my own fault, or merely the unfortunate result of a mistimed birthing incident? I.e. CAN I BLAME MY PARENTS.

I look forward to your prompt response.

Yours,

xoxo nora

PS Myers Briggs says I am ENFP if that is of any assistance.

Legally a Midget?

Fuck, bros. Despite earlier claiming that 'reports of my death are grossly exaggerated' etc it seems that those reports were FAR MORE ACCURATE THAN INITIALLY PRESUMED. I am at home with THE ILLEST ILLNESS OF ALL TIME; it's a pretty sad story but essentially what happened is that I ordered for my limbs to be sawn off in the dead of night and replaced with BIONIC LIMBS that would mechanically enable me to Effectively Fight Crimes in my Ill Fated Quest for Justice (or whatever), only it seems my cosmetic surgeon fucked up bigtime with this shit as my new bionic limbs are made of BAMBOO and are about as fucking useful as a sack of rats. THANKS A MILLION, DR 90210. I am baking up some tort(e)s as we speak so I can slam Dr Nine Oh in the face with a (low)CLASS ACTION in PROFESSIONAL NEGLIGE.











Eat my torts, motherfucker.


Basically, I am feeling a lot less like this Bionic Woman:
























"Yes, yes I DO fully endorse the Mister Nora School of Hair."


and a lot more like this bionic woman:
















"I AM NOT AN ANIMAL UNREALISTIC ROLE MODEL FOR IMPRESSIONABLE YOUNG WOMEN!"



Still, despite the Illness, I made a commitment, and this week MISTER NORA SAYS YES TO RELIABILITY. As a result I am dictating this blog to the cats from my death bed in order to bring you the promised WEEKENDE ROUNDE UPPE. I must warn you it may be long and nonsensical as I am poss suffering from delirium OF THE BRAIN. In case you are wondering, this is much, much worse than delirium of knuckles/glutes.

1. FRIDAY NIGHT

Friday night was pretty much a journey into the darkest, most perverse reaches of the contemporary suburban psyche, i.e., I went to a Foot Ball. It was a lot like other Balls I have attended only with less Satin Frocks and also THE BEER WAS LITE. I won't even attempt to express the depths of my horror. Still, it was a pretty good excuse to yell out "KILL HIM" and "GO PUSSY" and "SUCK SHIT SUCK SHIT SUCK SHIT!!!" in the presence of some small children. I recommend it - you might discover your inner banshee, get touched up by the common man, etc etc. IT CAN'T ALL BE BEAT POETS AND WUTHERING HYATTS YOU KNOW.

After the Ball we went to a Delightful Venue full of scrubbers and balding drunks. HOT. There was an awesome band on though so we watched that, and then afterwards made up for the not-beer at the Ball by getting steadily hammered with the lead singer like the DESPERATE GROUPIES sophisticated adults that we are, and then stayed up smoking and ranting in our kitchen until some hour much later than is recommended by your dermatologist. TSK.

2. SATURDAY

Clearly, this began with a hangover. What followed is a bit hazy but involved a "COMPETITION OF PIE", to which The Dude took a Vegetarian Pie, which was SCORNED by the slavering carnivores. FUCK YOU, SLAVERING CARNIVORES. The Dude's pie was totally delicious [NB: no double entendre intended], and I feel he was fully justified in telling the Pie Judges after they had failed to Award him Medals that the pie they had just eaten and scorned was SEASONED WITH URINE and STIRRED WITH PENIS. They took it on the chin. <--also not a double entendre.


3. SUNDAY

HIGH VIBES. I have not been to this event before and was expecting basically a heap of shit. It was actually Fucking Awesome, and if I knew any positive words except 'Awesome' I would describe it as those things also.

[OH WOES, BEING AN EMU EMO SPOILS YOUR VOCABULARY SO.]

We saw several Bands, and those that fell under the category of "AWESOME" include: Johnny Got His Gun, Touch Typist, Charles Jenkins & the Swedish Cowboys, and Wagons. Highlights were a Swedish Cowboy's Gram Parsons haircut, the supernaturally lanky washboard player from Wagons busting a rap, and the lead singer from Johnny Got His Gun, who The Dude described as 'Taxi Driver does American Idol as Axel Rose'. Yes.

Falling under the category of "HIGHLY IRRITATING" was the non-attendance of The Commas, the unfortunate attendance of Martin Martini, and the large number of Dancing Ferals who became particularly prominent as the day wore on into night:


















"Hi! We're Ferals! Our hobbies include discarding our shoes, rubbing poo in our hair and raping your retinas with our crazed leaping funky moves!!


I embrace my fellow man, I really do. But I'm telling you now, brothers, I will draw the line [and possibly also a gun] at a dancing feral. STANDARDS MUST BE MAINTAINED.



xoxo nora

OK ALREADY

Sheesh. So I have been a bit slack. Dudes, you must understand that it’s hard to muster the motivation to blog when your life is more boring than an endless reel of Ingmar Bergman films.

"WTF? SCREW YOU, MISTER NORA"


Sorry Ingmar. But you can't deny it's true.

Anyway, for the last couple of months I've pretty much done nothing but go to work, fantasise about the dole, sniff white out, go home, drink myself into a stupor, and fall asleep in front of Quizmania.

"WHY DON'T YOU JUST KILL YOURSELF AND HAVE DONE WITH IT, YOU MISERABLE WHINING BITCH."


Am thinking about it, my furry little brothers.

Anyway. I am doing some fun things this weekend involving
1. BALLFEET
2. PIE COMPETITIONS
3. GETTING HIGH

If exciting things happen I promise I will compose something SPECTACULARLY HILARIOUS/barely worth vomiting all over.


xoxo nora

Sometimes it hurts to be alive.

You're at your desk right now thinking THANK FUCKS it's NEARLY OVES. Tell me it's not true.

This weekend I am intending to blow. Take that how you feel you must, because y'know what, on Monday I will be 28. TWENTY FUCKEN EIGHT. That's heaps more years than it should be. May as well throw myself wholeheartedly into financial planning/get a small dog, in a jacket/give away all dreams of getting hot new role in Home & Away as hot new year 7 student who gets impregnated by hot new student teacher and then gets kidnapped by crazy buddhists right before going into surgery to abort they baby and then during the rescue discovers that she is actually Alf's daughter and ALSO HIS SISTER, except that she is actually a boy.

"LIKE, OMG."

I know. To be honest, I'd rather that on Monday I was turning 23. And not just because getting so old is fucking up my chances with H&A. Twenty three was a pretty awesome age. Maybe because I met The Dude when I was 23, maybe because I spent that year basically drunk out of my fucking brain roughly 78% of the time. Ahh, 23. Those were sweet days. At 23, getting cirrhosis of the liver seemed as far off and fanciful as getting a law degree/job. Aww. I was like, so fucking dumb adorable, back then.

But then, when I was 23 I had to live in a sharehosue with approximately a million other people, including a political advisor to the liberal party, a quasi-anorexic psychology student with a major personality disorder, a cranky graphic designer with an iron will, a jewellery maker with a seedy boyfriend and a hot rack, a highly promiscuous Californian midget, a lovelorn chef (who was constantly engaged in bitter psychological warfare with the quasi-anorexic), a Dutch PhD student with a tiresomely complicated personal life and a wardrobe full of colourful pants, a naturopath who was also known as the Most Boring Girl in the World, and a stoner physiotherapist who hid in his room, feigned an allergy to cats, and ripped us all off majorly. Fucker.

WHY CAN THEY NOT GET SUCH A LOVEABLE CROWD OF FEUDING MISFITS ON BIG BROTHER.

Whatevs. I guess the moral of the soiree is that it's heaps nicer to be sharing domestic blisters with The Dude, even if I do have to be twenty fucken eight.

xoxo nora

1. High level written communication skills

Dear Optus,

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

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

xoxo nora



Dear Nancy,

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

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

No hard feelings.

xoxo nora







Dear Electricity Meter Man,

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

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

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

xoxo nora

all my troubles seemed so far away

OK so it's like 1 am on a Saturday and I am writing a blog. DON'T JUDGE ME, BROS. I have heaps of a life it's just sometimes I choose not to use it. Also, BONEFINGER is on TV. Awesome.


I was at a bar with the Dude and some awesome booky kids last night and we were kind of laughing maybe a little bit meanly about the fucktards at the next table (pretty harmless badmouthing, you know how it is, 'HAHA are these fuckers from like Templestowe [or similar] or what* HAHAHA did they arrive on a bus AHAHAHAHA that HAIR CUT is not HAIR CUTE AAAAAAHAHAHAHAH ' etcetc, ok maybe not superwitty or whatever but in my defence I PUT IT TO YOU, LAYDEEZ AND GENTLES OF THE JURY that at this point there were some alcohols involved, and SOMETIMES IT'S FUN TO BE CUNTY).

Anyway, we thought we were pretty safe cos the bar was in Northcote and as we are all FROM Northcote basically we assume we rule the palazzo and as such possess unlimited power over life, death, pool etiquette, bar snacks and approximately everything else. This turned out to be slightly incorrect however because last night THE FUCKTARDS FOUGHT BACK. Apparently they didn't like the way we were lookin at them.

We had some delicate moments there with one fucktard in particular, who took poorly to our random snakey jeering. We dealt with this in different ways, with me going 'heh heh let's all be friends heh ehe eheh heh PLEASE DON'T BEAT ME' and our friend L going 'hmmm you ARE a curious specimen, let me provoke you a little more BECAUSE IT GIVES ME PLEASURE' and The Dude going 'I WANT TO KISS YOU' and L's boyfriend G indicating quietly and convincingly that he could take this fucker DOWN. Luckily it didn't turn to fisticuffs though since somehow I think in the Drunks of Northcote v Fucktards of Templestowe bar brawl the Drunks are lookin at some pretty long odds. L and G can probably hold their own but The Dude prefers to conduct his homicides using large ammunitions and I can barely stand up without giving myself brain damage.



Aw Bowfinger just ended. SAD.



Anyway it all ended sweetly when the fucktard got a bit scared of The Dude's vaguely menacing homosexual advances and ran away. Sorry about this lame ending to a pretty boring story. If you like you can give it more Human Interest by imagining that it ended in much the same way as Al Pacino ended in Scarface, and that we were all dressed as GIANT PILES OF SNOW.


SUCK IT UP MOTHAFUCKAS.


Yeh.


xoxo nora

PS NORTHCOTE DRUNKS: 1 / TEMPLESTOWE FUCKTARDS: 0.

PPS clearly this is yesterday's news, but like WHAT HO brothers, sometimes Australia Post is fucking slow. SO SUE ME.

CAUTION : NEVER RETURN DRY, HARD SPECIMENS TO TETRACHLORIDE OR BENZINE YOU MUST RELAX THEM FIRST !

So in case you were wondering, I have spent the last couple of months in a pretty dark place. It was pretty much identical to that squelchy passage that Indiana Jones walks through in some fucking movie or other, except that instead of exploding with snakes or whatever it was fucking teeming with rats, earwigs, lawyers, and generally just heaps of germs.

“LIKE, EW!”

Tell me about it. If you are squeamish/below the age of consent and want a more ‘Wordsworth-of-the-Antipodes’ type explanation, basically I haven’t been blogging because I’ve been trapped at the heart of a balloon full of poo, where pretty much all I can see or think of is poo. There were occasional sweet evenings where I got to wave out the Poo Balloon window at The Dude & the Pussycats as they slopped around town mopping up blood, ‘busting moves’ etc & so on, but mostly it’s been All About Eve Poo. Let’s just say that after all the good times of my trips abroad, I have been wearing The Dude’s ‘I hate my life’ shirt around with a renewed sense of authenticity.

“IT’S GOOD TO BE HEARTFELT WITH UR TSHIRTS, BROTHERS & SISTER[N]S OF THE LORD.”

Totally. But anyway, point is that since my head fucking exploded last weekend, things have been looking up, and I am now ready to ONCE AGAIN enjoy all the WONDROUS FRUITS that the world has to offer me. So far I am focussing on pecans. Is this fruits?

Also, I am thinking of taking up a hobby so that I can acquire the ‘totally achievable work/life balance’ that is surely the POISONED CHALICE HOLY GRAILS of the Modern Young Professional. After some extensive research I have decided that my new hobby will be…




"OMG is this like Dancing with the Stars or what."


That's right bros, I will totally be COLLECTING BEETLES.

This is also known as ‘coleoptera’ and so I am pretty much counting on it involving pantswork with Mark Antony* OR dying of cholera. Obvs I will have to do more research but basically I am just deeply attracted the list of necessary equipments:

- killing jar

- killing agent

- sweep or/and aerial net

- aspirator

- knife (poss. a steel throwing knife called "silver arrow")

- Portable light

- pitfall trap

- berlese funnel

- sifter

- chopin and prying tools

- malaise trap


DOES THIS SHIT CRY OUT NON STOP GOOD TIMES OR WHAT.


How awesome would prying tools and a malaise trap be?! E.g. ‘Suck shit malaise, try keeping me down with your fucking neuroses/savage ennui/pestilence of the heavens etc from the jaws of my awesome trap! NOW I WILL USE MY TOOLS TO PRY U. AHAHAHA, etc.’ This could poss be the key to Eternal Bliss!


“THAT’S AWESOME MISTER NORA. I’D LOVE TO STAY AND CHAT BUT I HAVE TO GO PURCHASE A KILLING AGENT”


Guess I’ll see you later then.


xoxo nora
* Hot Roman, i.e. not J-Lo’s corpse bride.


P.S.
"Where you look and collect beetles:
a. under the bark of trees
b. under logs and stones
c. on the flowers and leaves.
d. on and in the soil under carcasses
e. in animals excrements, especially cows"