My boxing trainer, Rudolph(*) is a short, round, highly Slavic man with a moustache. Every time I see him I want to dress him in overalls and put a pitchfork in his hand, but I get the feeling he'd slap me with one of his horned, wedgelike hands. He has the group of us - one short, nuggety guy also with a moustache and a frightening amount of stamina, a tall, rangy teenager who is clearly the trainer's great white hope, one or two hopeful lads, and me - doing odd calisthenics exercises to warm up every day. If I'd grown up in Soviet-era Russia, I imagine I'd be nostalgic. As it is, I can help but hope such things, in our yogafied, pilates-overdosed world, are good for you. He has us do things like open our and close our mouths twenty times, and jog on the spot bringing our knees to our chests. I'm seriously waiting for him to bust out the kettlebells.

He's interesting, Rudolph. My previous trainer had us doing lots of drills, rote things where you didn't move around much. I've heard from a few people that I have a quick jab and a hard, good looking right, until I move, when my feet have become all thumbs, thus defying every law of God and science. Rudolph is all about footwork and movement, a lot of moving around in the circle swiping at the air like a mental patient, a lot of slapping at speedballs and shadowboxing into mirrors. For the first week or so I stumbled, wheezed, complained and wheedled my way through, but it's starting to filter in to my brain now. I could be getting better, until I got sick last week.

I didn't just get sick last week. I was radioactive. I could see through time, I could hear shit, I lived on a diet of Panadol and tabloid television. So I didn't set foot in a gym of any kind, although I did go to work to distribute liberal amounts of virus to my coworkers.

When I showed up to training I thought I'd be fine, I really did. I ignored the greasy basting of sweat that broke out after a minute of skipping. I ignored the vile, phlegmy coughing fit when I threw punches at the mirror. Then I sat down to try and stay my cough, breathing slowly, when I half coughed involuntarily, making a noise not unlike a seagull with pleurisy. The beginners asked if I was okay, and Rudolph didn't notice.

Okay, that sucked the dogs balls, but I'm trying to get back into the whole writing-shit-down business. Give me a break. Do you know what a week of paracetemol, Paris Hilton and infecting keyboards does to a girl?

There must be an effigy of Catherine Lumby in the office of the convener to be beaten with copies of 'The Second Sex' at will.

No member of faculty should ever have appeared on A Current Affair. Ever. Ever.

Compulsory reading groups for tricky, incomprehensible theorists, a la Deleuze and Guattari, must be undertaken in jumpsuits with a Devo-esque flowerpot upon one's head.

Anyone caught u(sing) pa(rent)heses in the m(id)dle of proper terms will be attacked with flamethrowers by the first year 'Gender: Vaginas and Boobies and Weenises, Oh My' class for assessment.

Thesis notes - hell, thesis drafts - may be submitted on bar coasters. Indeed, such a format is to be encouraged.

I will be allowed to watch endless episodes of 'Hornblower,' and spend countless hours explaining why my delightfully gay Ioan would never marry Julie Sawawawawahala because he was too busy buggering the capstain.

Sitting up at 2am with one's brain tunneling for freedom through one's sinuses and writing a fanciful list of pre-requisites for my dream school is not only genius, it can be submitted as assessment. On a bar coaster, no less.

A month or two back, I bought my first ever self help book.

Now, I'm not too sure if a coolly designed book on the joys of finance really counts as a self help book, but it did promise to have me Living Life to the Fullest in Five Easy Steps. Okay, the steps weren't that easy. They were kind of obvious and rather sensible, but they were worded in simple, friendly language and made me feel Empowered. Step one - be realistic about what you can afford. Step two - figure out what you spend and save your money. Step three - don't get into debt. Step four - invest lightly. Step five - buy insurance, fool. It isn't rocket science, but I've begun telling people to read this book. It's great! I say. Makes you Empowered! Five Easy Steps to Financial Freedom! Meanwhile I'm scrabbling in the bottom of my bag for coins, and skipping out on dinner because I don't want to spend $7 on soup.

Today, after receiving my a thick envelope with an offer for honours and a stack of fliers about time management, I Amazonned Getting Things Done. For the past few months I've been seeing shout-outs for this strident little book everywhere - on the interweb, in magazines, in newspapers. What began as a shrill trickle has turned to a flood and I, seeking to innoculate my messy mind against the procrastination, want in on the cult. Especially as the slings and arrows of my Year of Hell draw ever closer.

I'll admit it, I'm seduced by the idea of transforming oneself from a sloppy, charmingly messy puppy dog into a lean, focused, determined... some kind of lean, focused, determined animal. I imagine for a week or two I'll carry around a stack of index cards bound with a bulldog clip, and read obsessively looking for the latest life hacks. We'll see how it goes.

If you need me, I'll be the one in the tinfoil hat eating handfuls of Adderall, muttering over my growing pile of self help books.

I bought a hair straightener this morning.

I fear my life is forever changed.

Don't look for me over the next few weeks. I'll be in my bedroom cackling into hot ceramic and muttering 'flatter! straighter! faster, pussycat!' under my breath over and over and over.

And over and over and over and over.....

While I'm no fan of the Howard government and its relentless attempts to save us from ourselves (like, we don't need unfair dismissal laws, or 4 weeks leave a year, or student unions, heck, any unions when we have Uncle Howard watching our back), and I have a sneaking suspicion most members of cabinet would like to see the women of Australia back in the kitchen churning out chocolate crackles, but, whatevs. It's not like federal Labor has its shit together. I really dislike the 1 to 1 comparison many of us bleeding-heart lefties make between George Bush and John Howard. While, yeah, they're both conservative fucksticks George Bush is simian-like, inarticulate yokel who has somehow conned the paunchy, sanctimonious, red-faced, sprawling middle classes of America that he represents the common man, y'all, all the while playing with his oil rigs and frying condemned prisoners in Texas. John Howard, on the other hand, is every inch the shrewd, manipulative public servant. There has never been a time in my life when Mr Howard hasn't been in the news. Say what you will, the man has been at this for a long time, and he knows what he's doing. So, whenever my compatriots were trying to make out that John Howard is George Bush's lap dog (he kinda is, but that's beside the point), I'd roll my eyes and ask who would be most likely to wave a cowboy hat and shout 'yah!' as a prisoner is electrocuted, or name a military operation 'Operation Enduring Freedom' (indeed, one of the things to love about this great brown land is that we're more likely to name such endeavours 'Operation Charlie' or 'Operation Go Into Desert, Then Leave.')

I thought all this, slightly ashamed that I could ever defend a government systematically picking away at our nation's union heritage, a heritage which once locked Frank Sinatra in a hotel room for a week. I thought all this, until I tried to do my tax return.

My efficiency and organisation this year astonishes me. I have my tax file number, all my group certificates. I have a pen, i have a calculator. I even cleaned my glasses and found a toothpick to chew thoughtfully. But when I went to the ATO website to download the necessary e-Tax software I found that it was.... PC only.

PC only? Motherfuckers! Haven't they set foot outside their blandly decorated offices, sniffed into the sunshine and notices the millions of gleaming, cannily designed Macs sitting on laps and desktops around this country? Didn't they think for at least a moment that not everyone in this nation uses government-issue Dell PCs, and not everyone can call a lowly IT graduate for help when said PC dissolves under the weight of it's own mediocrity? NO, ATO WEBSITE, I WILL NOT SULLY MY PEARLESCENT DOPPELGANGER WITH AN EMULATOR. In the words of Napoleon Dynamite, gosh.

If only, deep down, I wasn't a filthy capitalist whore, and if only I didn't want pretty new things built from the sweat of the developing world. Damn you, Tax Office! And damn you, craptacular Howard Government! I say good day to you, sir!

There is a chorus of Thunderbird puppets living in my head. Because of them, the past few weeks have been highly unproductive.

You see, my subconscious, kind thing, takes all these people I know and makes them into distorted, wobbly, palsied puppets. It can be anyone, so long as I get the impression they don't like me. People I've dated, girls from high school, vague acquaintances, workmates both former and present, friends, all of them are shrunken down, given wooden legs and strings, and let loose in the frailer parts of my consciousness, all of them with one purpose and one purpose alone - to criticise every single thing I do. Selfish, really, to Supermarrionette all these people because I assume they're obsessed with undermining my confidence. Anyway. It makes the business of blogging, or having a conversation, or picking up after myself, or writing articles, or, indeed, anything that isn't showering or watching terrible tabloid television just about impossible. I'll try to do the blogging thing because I paid for the hosting and the domain name, even though I can't stand to look at this damned website because the CSS has done something funny and its completely beyond me to fix it.

My friend Beth told me once that she thought people got sick from too much thinking and not enough doing. I get that, because now everything I do is preceded by a long, tortured debate with my Thunderbirds. Like this accursed blog entry, for example. I'm trying to do a quick update on what I've been doing, where I'm going, who I'm seeing, and my Thunderbirds have convinced me that everyone I know or have known since primary school will be reading it, shaking their heads, and muttering about how pale and pathetic my life is. I've taken second semester off school, because I need perspective and a brain break. I've been at school non-stop for most of my 22 years, and it's the only thing I really know. The plan is to get a job (done - it's monkey work, glorious monkey work, and I have a security pass and there's a tea room and humourous cartoons pinned to cubicle walls, so I'm satisfied), find a house to move into with some friends (getting there, but I am more enthused about it than my friends and keep emailing them real estate listings, and whenever I talk about bond or how cool it would be to have a butler, they smile tolerantly and change the subject), and maybe do some writing, take some photos.

As far as the plan goes, I'm getting there. But right now, with only my Thunderbirds as company, I feel like shit. Every conversation I have is halting and stilted as the Thunderbirds analyse everything to shreds. I leave trails of books, clothes and empty coffee mugs behind me everywhere I go, and then despair at how disordered the house is. I would sit down and listen to something cheery, but every CD I own is either AWOL or in a case not it's own, and at this the Thunderbirds cheer and high five each other and tell me that if I can't find Jeff Buckley because he's in Public Enemy, then how can I expect to write a book or travel or even look after a dog? I had two articles to write this week, both short little things, but I left them to the absolute last minute. Now I cringe to think of the breathy, glib, manic things I sent off, I really do. As I mentioned, for the past week all I've done, really, is watch the worst tabloid TV I can find, because I can turn my brain off and only return to sentience to sneer or say something snide to Blockhead, take long, energy wasting showers, and go to work. Oh, and box.

Boxing. That's the other thing I should mention. As my friends will attest, I periodically hurl myself into brief, intense obsessions. These have included target pistol (loved it, but it costs a million gerjillion dollars), fencing (lasted for a few years, and has left me with a long scar on my inner thigh), photography (ongoing), and a very short, very strange encounter with Taoism. Boxing is the latest. I've been at it for close to two months, at the type of gym where the mentally ill, children, recovering drug addicts and recent parolees gather to sweat and punch shit. Truth be told, it's great and, weak and feeble as I can be, I love it. Sweet Jesus it tires you out. It shuts out the Thunderbirds, because I get too sweaty and exhausted to hear them. Hitting things is calming, almost meditative, not because it releases any pent-up aggression but because it's so hard to do well, you have to focus.

If you'll excuse me, my Thunderbirds and I are going to sleep. Not clean the kitchen, not fold laundry, not put away my cameras or track down where my CDs have gone, not to do anything to make things that little bit more ordered, controlled, peaceful. We're going to bed in chaos and we'll wake up in chaos. As the tattoo under my arm says, so it goes.

My mother and sister are of a piece. Since coming back Blockhead has neatly sprained her ankle, badly enough to require crutches and a puffily white plaster cast. She's been rolling her ankles since she was 10. It's part of who she is - calm, assured, confident bordering on sanctimonious. Blockhead is rolled ankles and trails of bandages and tissues and a round, inscrutable face sniffing 'go away' behind slammed doors. The thing about Blockhead is that she often, simply, does not care. This isn't to say she's apathetic, she just doesn't give a damn in a way that is completely impossible for my mother and I. While mum and I wheedled, huffed, cried, shouted, fretted and prodded Blockhead rolled her eyes, slammed a few doors and went about her current preoccupation of choice. While I was cultivating a taste for Kurt Vonnegut, thrift store clothes and The Smiths, Blockhead organically, and with no concern for fashion or what cooler people might think, accumulated a huge collection of sheet music, a grand piano, an encyclopaedic knowledge of Red Dwarf, and a bookshelf full of Douglas Adams. When I was ricocheting from college to uni, from boyfriend to girlfriend, from Tori Amos to Bikini Kill, Blockhead met her boyfriend of three years, calmly moved to Melbourne and acquired a job. So, its understandable that, in our family, Blockhead and my mother came to the implicit conclusion that when it came to the business of managing life, I was not to be trusted.

For instance, on Thursday night when I decided on a whim to drive down to the coast (where on the coast? I don't know, the coas, it can't be that big, can it?) in torrential rain, they were skeptical. Mum expressed this by huffing from room to room muttering about road deaths and glaring at me balefully, pausing to sigh 'it's not that I don't trust you, love.' Rebecca chose to roll her eyes from her station on the sofa and say, with lip curled, 'I really think you're being quite stupid.'

Three hours later, inching along Macquarie pass with white water rapids flanking the road and a sloe-eyed stranger talking non-stop over Neil Young from the passenger seat, I didn't once think they were right. One of the benefits of not knowing any better is accumulating great stories to tell afterwards. We made it down - how I still don't know - to Merri, it turns out, and it was much-needed fun. We saw pufferfish undulating their way around rockpools, and liver-coloured starfish eating snails, and we learned that Trivial Pursuit should be avoided in polite company. And the best part is, on the long, unfamiliar drive back home, I didn't squeal in fear at all. Well, maybe once. Just don't tell my sister.