If you've ever wondered what happens to all the Rhodes scholars, Ivy League graduates and Johns Hopkins researchers in this world, look no further than the cosmetic surgery clinics in L.A. Apparently, they're all sucking fat from the asses of trembling, twitchy, depressed women from the Midwest, and have absolutely no problems with the glaring ethical dilemmas that come with equating a person's self worth with the size of their nose.

Then again, I spent a better part of today grinning at my feet because I just got new pink shoes and pink shoes are cool, so maybe I should get off my high horse and stop watching 'Extreme Makeover.'

Sitting outside Supre Blockhead and I made several interesting discoveries. By several, I mean two.

(1) The lights in the slick-looking, yet cheap, white disco gogo baby yeah shopfittings change colours. It turns from trampy white and pink to trampy white and blue to trampy white and green and back again. Truth be told the self-conscious girly exuberance of the place squicks me out, but not as much as

(2) The shirt reading 'M.I.L.F. in training', in white lettering across a cutesy pink singlet. What. The Fuck. For those who don't read the subject lines of their spam, M.I.L.F stands for 'mum I'd like to fuck.' Can you imagine this stretched across the budding tits of thirteen year old girls all over Australia? Christ, Supre, your shirts reading 'boys stink!' and 'kiss me before my boyfriend comes back! were tasteless enough. Still, I don't imagine a business dedicated to the proliferation of rufflebutt skirts really considers taste in its shirt designs. A very lucky boy in California may be receiving this shirt in the mail soon...

Actually, the only bond I ever shared with my former housemate was M.I.L.F porn. When I was in the 'States I lived with a couple, who I will call Dexter and Sinestra in reference to the Karma County song. Sinestra was a nervous honour student, Dexter worked at a Starbucks and went to a community college in Woodland. They had been together for years. I bitch about Dexter and Sinestra, but they were never really mean to me, just inconsiderate sometimes. Sinestra didn't like it when I played music loud enough to be heard outside my room, Dexter didn't like it when I left the dishwasher door open. Mostly, I just got on with things and pretended they weren't there. One day I came home to find Sinestra sitting, stunned, at Dexter's computer. "Look at this," she said, pointing to the open Kazaa window. "It's nothing but M.I.L.F porn!"

"What are you going to do?"

"We have to get him back. What should I do?"

Without hesitation I told her to fill up his hard drive with gay porn. Fight M.I.L.F with fisting, so to speak. For the next hour we sat cackling before the computer as "hottt MILF blowjob!!" was replaced with "football changing room frenzy!" and "XXX hardcore moms!" became "hot beautiful twink foursome!"

In other news, if Karl the pirate store puffer fish doesn't make you immediately happy, I don't want to know you.

After spending my Christmas day watching 'John Safran vs. God' and listening to Public Enemy, I have learned that it is my life's mission to lick John Safran from head to foot. After I'm done with Scarlett Johanssen, of course.

I was walking through Civic the other night during the bogan hour - when the pizza carts come out, the skirts go up and vomit flows freely through the streets - when a very cute girl and her girlfriend asked me where I was going. "You must be going to Cube," says the cute girl drunkenly. "I saw you and I said, that girl, she must be going Cube."

"Uhm, I'm actually going to my car."

"Nonononono," protest the cute girl's girlfriend. "You're coming with us." Cue giggling from several girls in ruffly chiffon tops and tight jeans.

I was flattered, not because a drunk couple wanted to take me to Canberra's only gay bar, but because they saw me and thought I was gay. I am gay, so they weren't too far off the mark, but it was nice that people can look at me and think "that girl there sure does like other girls."

Yeah, the gay thing. I don't like writing too much about stuff relating to my actual life online because such things only generate drama, but I'm starting to get hits off Queerfilter, and strange girls on the street want to take me to gay bars, so maybe it's time I get this one out of the way. I like girls. I've slept with boys - and, to be honest, probably will again - but, to channel my inner counsellor, men aren't where I'm at right now. Right now I'm at the bottom of the ocean sucking carbon and plankton from the water, metaphorically speaking, of course.

There was once a time, when I had a ton of blonde, curly hair, and actually wore a bra every now and then, when I collected boring straight men like Star Wars figures. Not because I necessarily wanted to, because they kept popping up everywhere. I'm not saying I was some kind of stunning sex goddess tripping over love struck men. It was just that a certain type of older, boring, straight man seemed to be attracted to me. I blame it on a general aura of bookish bewilderment and sexual passivity. I blame culture, too. From the time we're born we're given all the tools we need to be heterosexual. We're told how to behave, what to expect, what to look like, what to desire and what not to desire.

Like olives and sea salt, men were an acquired taste for me. Growing up the first stirrings in my no-no place came from women, but I thought I'd grow out of it. I never did, but I did go to a girl's catholic school. If anything will beat a burgeoning homosexuality out of a girl, being surrounded by hundreds of polyester-clad bitch monsters conspiring to make your life a living hell will.

Clearly, things have changed. Without going into detail, I've finally realised that I don't have to be straight. Moreover, I don't want to be. It's not who I am. Which leaves me here, asexual as a sea cucumber (see earlier reference to the ocean floor), with a lot of sensible shoes and a glaring inability to talk to girls.

I find watching the fish fluttering about in their tank like Heian era courtesans particularly gratifying.

(I've been lucky with Eduardo and Hernandez. They're both large, healthy and active with un-torn fins, although Hernandez has punched a couple of holes in his tale on the silk plants. Wtih enough room to move they keep egging each other on through the glass. In addition, the Pillow Book of Sei Shonagon is one of my favourite books of all time. While some people like reading Lord of the Rings and imagining themselves as elves or hobbits or armoured armadillos or whatever, I like reading the Pillow Book and imagining myself swanning around a Heian palace, drowning in layers of silk and cotton, getting terribly upset about poetry contests, musing over the best way to write a very elegant letter and so on. Conclusion - I'm not just a nerd, I'm a really, really, lame nerd.)

When the physio congratulated me on developing that muscle above my knee (y'know the one - the bulgy one on the inside of your knee) to the point where it actually pops out a little, I almost cried.

(Speaking of lame, I limp. It comes and goes but, in general, I walk like a pirate. I'm actually really self conscious about it. Gone are the days when I could shake it like a polaroid picture with a bunch of fags to trashy hip hop, now I sit in the corner with a drink and a cigarette wondering if anyone will notice me walk to the bathroom. Yeah, having a limp, or a chronic illness causing aforementioned limp, truly sucks. I've lost a lot of muscle inside my left leg, and I've been trying to gradually build it back up. It's taken me weeks of cursing, sweating and teeth-gritting to get this little muscle to pop out. Sometimes I think I only go to the gym so the physio will give me a gold star and a pat on the head [note: he actually gives me neither, but he really should start]. Next stop - rebuilding the inner hip abductor through a series of increasingly humiliating exercises. I am a glutton for punishment.)

Monkey is teh rad, but Indian kohl surma is teh crap.

(I spent some time with ma Monkey last week, and it was heaps tops good, because I love ma Monkey and we don't get to hang out nearly often enough. I picked her up at a bead shop in Philip where her mum was exploiting her mad beading skillz for Christmas. Next door is this great Indian store, great because they don't look at you too strangely when you stick your head in, sniff, and go. We stuck our heads in but saw Bollywood DVDs, so we had a poke around, and Monkey shouted me a tube of real kohl. For those who think kohl comes in pencil form from Avon, real kohl is a dark, dirt-smelling powder which comes with a little stick. You're meant to dip the little stick in an oil, like olive oil, then dip it in the powder, then smear it on the inner rims of your eyelids. Smart, really, to put dirt right near the pink sensitive slimy parts of your eye. Cut to me shrieking with pain in my bedroom, reeling back from the mirror with my hands over my watering eyes. Yeah, don't think I'll be trying that one for a while.)

Eminem is a strange little man.

(I was at the Singer the other day when I heard that new song by Eminem on the shitty cable music channel, the one with the incredibly catchy hook where children sing about toy soldiers. Ol' Slim Shady was talking about the trials and tribulations of being a hip hop leader. Honestly, he sounded like the Lord Admiral Nelson. Oh, Eminem. I bet he's constantly getting all Elton John on his flunkies.)

Lately I just don't want to be at work. There are other things I could be doing, different and better places where I can stare at my shoes, cigarettes that need smoking and conversations not involving the question "so, what are you doing for Christmas?"

Oh, I don't fucking know.

Hang on, I do. Mum and Blockhead will be upstairs working their way through 12 DVDs of Lord of the Rings goodness, while I will be downstairs in my room listening to gangsta rap and doing the running man until I pass out. Shouldn't be too bad.

Last night a group of us cruised around Civic in the Burgmann College van shouting 'poontang' at passers by. It was good, necessary. There are few other things to do in Canberra now I've figured out that our only gay club is, like, totally lame, and that South Pac's floors are sticky with actual bodily fluids.

So, I had this dream the other night where all the carp in Lake Burley Griffin climbed out of the water and marched to Mongolia where they joined the hordes of Genghis Khan, put on little sheepskin hats and rode rats to England where they would rape and pillage to their heart's content. Sadly, half-way across France they remembered they couldn't breathe air, and all dropped dead.

I didn't really have a dream about carp. I dreamed about getting a job at Supre. I'm still kind of traumatised by that.

Oh yeah, and Missy Higgins is really starting to shit me.

The Girl is back, and I couldn't be happier. It feels like a limb has been returned to me. Yesterday I made the long, familiar drive out to her place and loitered for a few hours with her and Jamie, two people I would definitely call if there was a dead hooker in my hotel room. I have some fucking amazing friends in this town, it's easy to forget that.

There's a big scab on my inner thigh, and a bigger, greenish bruise surrounding it from the fencing comp. I feel cheated - I was at least expecting some nasty forearm and elbow hits.

Discovering your newly-acquired tattoo of a swift will flap its wings when you raise and lower your arm - priceless.

Tonight I will be sitting in Blockhead's living room in hot pink undies kneading my one good quadricep (I think I'll name her Trudy) with Tiger Balm, not paying attention to 'Queer Eye for the Straight Guy' except to note that one of the friends sounds very much like my friend David, who I bonded with over Clinique Tinted Lip Balm and vodka.

This off the top of my head - I first heard the Smiths when I was curled on a stained sharehouse sofa with a boy as substantial and graceful as seaweed. They were playing music on the Playstation and I asked (all wide eyes and ham-fisted, kittenish flirtation) about the man with the beautiful voice. The man with the beautiful voice was, of course, Morrissey, and now I howl along with him while driving through my home country.

Hmm. Funny. A few days later that same boy, about to leave me with a cold bed and a pelvis-crushingly bad case of sexual frustration, told me that I would be okay. His exact words (come to think of it, he was pretty wide-eyed, ham-fisted and kittenish, too) were "Rachael, you'll be alright. You seem like the kind of person who will always be fine." At the time I wanted to slap him for being a fool. If I did I probably would have knocked him out. He's right, though. I continue to be, and always have been, really fuckin' fine.

Last night I drove home along the beautiful, unfamiliar expanse of the Eastern Freeway listening to New Buffalo and feeling comfortably tired.

(I overthink things. Lately I've been reading nothing but books written by oversexed, overthinking New Yorkers. Erica Jong, Peter Roth, Woody Allen. I identify but, of course, I can't participate in the fantasy of being intellectual and mildly aristocratic and cool. I'm not aristocratic, I'm not even intellectual. For instance - I've been home close to an hour and have written exactly six lines.)

I spent last night sitting in a darkened room with a collection of Melbourne hipster kids watching New Buffalo and, like, chilling out, man. I smoked four cigarettes; each time I had to ask the pretty goth girl to my right for a light. She was a VCA student, and kept up a quiet, soothing monologue throughout the show about canvases, flesh tones and her band. Later I ran into at least four people I knew from college. Funny, the further you go from Canberra the more Canberra people you run into.

(Aww, man, now I'm thinking AGAIN. Will I never stop with the thinking? Think, think, think, think, think. Now I'm thinking this has all the wit and enthusiasm of a high school writing assignment. Herpes niblick cockatoo salamander! Waterslide kangaroo squirrel thong liver! Now I'm thinking of all the youth theatre stuff I did as a youngun. David Branson got frustrated me. "You are too damned uptight!" He would wail in his smoky baritone voice. "Why can't you just loosen up?" Unfortunately he didn't offer me a couple of cones or a glass of wine, so I never did loosen up.)

Today - fencing, what I came to this town for. It was fun, kind of. A lot of people with national ranking. I came in the top 15, so I'm happy. I also discovered that strapping tape really farkin' hurts when ripped off the back of one's knee. Oh, and I christened my new uniform by bleeding into it.

I'm itching to be distracted. Someone talk to me.

I have trouble listening to Modest Mouse now. I can fully appreciate how 'The Moon and Antarctica' may be one of the greatest albums ever, and if any song was to be horribly overplayed on Triple J, it might as well be 'Float On,' but I just can't do it. Too many associations with way too many people.

Same with Imogen Heap, although I never liked her, anyway. I actually walked out of a store the other day when they began playing her.

Fortunately, I have been able to reconcile with Blonde Redhead and Little Wings. This took a very long time. And, while I should be hating The Smiths with every fibre of my being, I just can't do it. Nothing beats wailing along to 'Unloveable' when you're feeling a little, well, emo.

My loathing of Bright Eyes, however, remains unwavering.

On the other hand, Mates of State make me dizzily, stupidly happy. Mates of State sound like the best parts of California, just as Deerhoof sounds like Santa Cruz.

Pearl Jam and Dido are the soundtrack of every shitty relationship I've ever had. Considering, in retrospect, that every capital-R Relationship I've been in has sucked the dog's balls, this means a lot of hatred for Pearl Jam and Dido.

I'm lukewarm on the Mars Volta. A Perfect Circle and I remain irrevocably separated.

I am very tired and blank. I keep thinking about the music I don't like and the reasons I don't like it.

Met up with some Canberra bloggers today. It was fun, even though I was exhausted and have a deep fear of small children.

Coming home from work, I went to TamsonCat curled in her customary position on my bed. She smells like tobacco (I can't be the only one who begs to sniff the packet when people roll their own), so I buried my face in her fur and thanked her for not being a fish.

These things are necessary.

I talk to animals. I can't help it, it's unconscious. It's not some Dr Doolittle "they speak back!" anthropomorphizing thing - well, maybe a little - it's the way I was raised. My mum talked to our animals ever since we were little. She talked to them as though they were inept, if charming, adults, and this is the way I speak to them now. There are three cats in this house now, and two horrendously spoilt fish. The pair of elderly Burmese, BB and Kiri, claim ownership of mum, while Tamsoncat (aka SplodgeCat, aka Splodgealot, aka Her Splodgeness, aka Miss Splodgenheimer - repeat ad nauseum) has decided that I am her familiar. I talk to her a lot. This has really disturbed some people. Oddly, Splodge is the same nickname I use for my sister, Blockhead. Do I think of my sister as a housecat, or my housecat as a sister? Who knows?

I'm distracted by things this morning, such as all the shit I need to do before heading off to Melbourne next week, and the trip I'll be taking to the 'States and, hopefully, Edinburgh next year. I really don't know if the 'States is a good idea. This doubt may or may not be ex-girlfriend related.

SAGE FRANCIS IS TOURING AUSTRALIA???