Internet, I'm not doing too great. I have 9,000 words worth of coursework due in a couple of weeks that I've barely started, and I have neither the energy nor the inclination to do anything about it. One of those papers involves reading a lot about dead people and mortuary practices, and whilst I thought I was pretty thick skinned a day worth of decay, dismemberment and waiting mortuaries takes it out of you. A friend came to visit last week before they go off for Spain and elsewhere for a few months, and then onwards, twirling towards infinity. Despite two years of Spanish in college* I know nothing about Spain except what I learned from the Fast Show, so said friend was subjected to a week of 'hath-eth-eth-er, hath-eth-eth-er el scorchio!' Despite scholarship and thesis crazy, it was a great week. The house feels emptier now, and I traipse through the city with no one to hear my witty remarks. While it was only a week their absence is palpable. All I want to do is lie on the couch watching Oz wondering what the go is with Adebisi's little hat.

Also, the gorgeous KP, knowing my fondness for talkback radio, sent me this gem about Melbourne's own Peter Faris QC. Now, Mr Peter is one nasty piece of work, in many ways worse than my BFF Mr Alan Belford Jones (kisses!), but his on-air hissyfits and nicotiney voice are understandably not all that popular. But Jesus H. Christ on a bike, fuck off. What bothers me most about all this Sheikh Hilali stuff is that it displaces anxiety and outrage about sexual assault and rape onto an easily stigmatized 'other,' and it gives vicious little turds like Mr Faris grist for their hate-mill (how's THAT for a pinko turn of phrase??) Sheikh Hilali's attitudes are abominable, yes, but they are far from restricted to one Islamic leader, and I also hasten to add that these attitudes are hardly shared by the majority of Muslims in Australia. There have been so many high profile cases of the rape and degradation of women in Australia, and all the media seems to do is whisper behind their hands that the darkies did it.

Violence against women is complex, but it's the product of a range of cultural logics that the media does little to recognise. The fact is, in our society, men often use women's bodies to assert their own power. Just look at the Werribee DVD, Diane Brimble, the Sydney gang rapes. But these events are so often twisted, distorted. In Australia's mediasphere, it appears that a woman's rape is always about a man. There are so many forms of structural violence in our culture - marginalising women, non-Anglo Australians constantly called on by our increasingly conservative media to 'demonstrate their assimilation,' children, old people, fat people, the gays, even men - that make me want to put my fucking fist through a wall. And, increasingly, I feel like the voice of opposition is becoming fragmented, disorganised, weak. Where is the left now, I ask you? Feminists, where are you?

If you'll excuse me, I'll be pressed against my poster of JD whispering 'soon, soon we will be together.'


* By 'college' I mean the ACT version of college, which is to say years 11 and 12. We got to call the teachers by their first names and smoke outside. Jealous?

My head has been in the sand. I am, and continue to be, in schoolwork lock down and, anyway, lately I don't read any paper that doesn't have a picture of a slack-jawed Lyndsay Lohan on the cover. And when I do raise my head a little I find out this has happened.

Oh, bitch, please.

I was vaguely aware of some kind of harebrained churchy pregnancy counselling scheme by La Abbott late last year/early this year, but I chuckled and said to myself that not even the Howard government could be so screamingly stupid. It's not that I'm bothered by pregnancy counselling per se, it's that the scheme is designed to, quote, cut the abortion rate in half.

To that I say fuck off.

The reason why abortion is such a hot topic for feminists is that it seems to unearth a lot of broader political problems and attitudes towards women, and when you think about it the statement 'too many abortions' is by turns patronising, insulting and dangerous. I believe, and it definitely seems the majority in the community believes, that abortion is a private decision made by a woman for a myriad of reasons that she shouldn't have to justify to anyone. In that little news article they trot out the 88,000 abortions per year figure, but that number is arbitary and meaningless. Where does the figure come from? What do they classify as 'abortion,' keeping in mind that some right to life groups classify the morning after pill as an abortion? How many live births are there? How many miscarriages?

But all of that, ultimately, is meaningless, because the 88,000 figure is designed to be horrifying. It's clear that La Abbott thinks that one abortion is too many, and wants to shock the community into thinking hysterical women need to be talked into keeping innocent babies in their uteruses.

To that I say fuck off.

If this government wants to be pro natalist, there are far better ways to do it rather than attempting to cut the abortion rate, which is none of their beeswax, anyway. I want to have kids. I've only recently figured out that not only do I want kids, but my kids will be totally rad, like, they'll be wearing rocketpacks to school and shit, and I'm entering the age where having a kid is not completely beyond the pale. But if I was to fall pregnant now I'd get a termination, do not pass go, do not collect $200 dollars, certainly do not collect a $55 Medicare rebate. Out of anything, I don't think I could handle the social isolation that would come with being a mother at this age, and I'm not in a relationship, certainly not with anyone who shares my pro-rocketpack parenting ethos. I know for a fact that, without access to decent childcare, having a kid would impact heavily on any career prospects I'd have in the future, and I'd want to wait until I have enough money to put said rocketpack toting kid in some blouse-wearing hippy school where they'll be taught the pinko commie black armband history I approve of.

But, ultimately, it wouldn't matter if my main reason for wanting an abortion was my deep love of wet t-shirt contests, or because pregnancy is so 2002. It's my body, my choice.

Post thesis knees up tomorrow (aka Friday the 27th, which I guess is today). 9pm at the Melbourne Supper Club. Look for the bespectacled girl in laughably high heels staggering about like Norma Desmond.

If there are enough people we'll go do karaoke after a few soothing bevvies. I bags TLC's 'Waterfalls.'

REUBEN AND ELAINE I ESPECIALLY MEAN YOU. ALSO, KP & THE TT. I LIEK ALL CAPS ROFLWAFFLES!!!

I think I love you.

Regards,
The Thesis.

At the beginning of the month I was listening to nothing but this:



this



and this



Oh, and sometimes also this.



Now it's all this man



and also this one.



I have become a mopey softcock someone please to assist. If you're out there, please save me Lisa 'Left Eye' Lopez.

Before I forget Aleks and the Ramps will be bringing their sinister lullabyes and phat rock eisteddford moves to the Pot Belly TONIGHT, and you shall get yourselves there for a jolly good night. Yes, I know it's all the way out in Belcompton (holla), but pay that no mind! If you don't make eye contact with the locals you'll be fine.

Sydneysiders can see them at The Kirk Saturday night. Yes, Jobe, once more I mean you.



These are them.

Greatest. Thing. Ever.

Should I apply for a PhD now, knowing that if I am accepted I'll have to start next year, or should I take a year off, away from the academic ivory tower that I both love and hate, to explore the world and perhaps learn to pull a beer, and then apply, not knowing if I'll be accepted?

Extra marks for noting that I am not a free floating hippie type. I need a trajectory the way fish need water.

That I could express my amourous intents towards someone the way turtledoves do. I like the idea of following closely on someone's heels, chest thrown out, head pumping back and forth, cooing relentlessly. I think it'd be charming.

Speaking of amourous...



I finally got to saw this woman and my mind was completely blown. I am in love. And the rumours are true, her DJ is a lissome little hot thing indeed.

I don't mean to be all maudlin lately, I don't, but I'm wandering around all dazed and confused. I keep forgetting important (IMPORTANT) things, like paying the rent, seeing a man about a dog (aka gettin' myself a big phat cheque, then sending aforementioned big phat cheque off so I can do stuff), and submitting the essay I finished. That last one deserved italics because, honestly, who forgets to submit a finished essay?

Le sigh. At least I got to hand out chocolate crackles to strangers on South Lawn today. That was four different kinds of fun. However, people can be surprisingly hostile when some strange girl approaches them, plate of chockie crackles in hand.

Get out of it.

Regards,
Everyone.

1. Carbohydrates.
2. The fingering of expensive dresses on hangers at small local boutiques.
3. Large lattes.
4. Morrissey.
5. Who magazine.

My tummy hurts. I've hit the someone-dropped-a-cartoon-piano-on-me-and-it-ain't-that-funny part of the whole process.

Also, the other honours blogger folks don't seem to be puddling around the internet as much as I am. Either they are working more or they are all hiding under their beds hoping the whole thing will go away.

After a lot of to-ing and fro-ing I've found myself living with three guys. It's all good. My only real objection is that I no longer have someone to consult with about outfits before going out, but (a) such is life and (b) Miss Chlo lives down the street if I'm in a real bind about whether heels or flats are better with a particular dress (such things are terribly important).

But this morning was a milestone. This morning, after returning home from the gym to the empty house, was the first time I sniffed the air and realised this house smells like man. It's neither a bad or a good smell, it just... smells like man. It should be said I'm not really improving the atmosphere with my post-gym funk.

TODAY I WILL FINISH MY CHAPTER REVISION OHMIGOD YES!!

Does anyone else, when contemplating a small, cute, common bird, like a sparrow, get an uncontrollable urge to pick said bird up? I mean, it's not like you actually could pick up a bird, on account of the bird probably wouldn't like it and they'd freak out, but I always want to hold birds. Big birds, like seagulls, I'd hold in both hands, thumbs behind their neck, feet poking out between my fingers. Little birds would take just one hand.

I talked about this with Mr Jo the other day and he said he, too, sometimes wanted to pick up birds (... heh). But surely someone else must feel the same way. Come on, people, I can't be alone on this one.

I just checked the word count on my third first draft of my second chapter. It is 5,195 words. My fourth first draft of my first chapter is 7,169 words.

My thesis will be two chapters when it is done.

It has to be 12,000 words in total.

5,195 + 7,169 = 12,364

We're out of the danger zone, people. God, I want a lie down. But this chapter draft needs to be more done before I can send it to my supervisor. So I shall continue. And continue. And continue.

Apropos of nothing #1: This is the greatest thing I've seen on Flickr yet.

Apropos of nothing #2: I am retaining water like a good divorce lawyer, or so the saying goes. So bloated I could roll instead of walk. I'm staying inside the house until it all goes away. I'd like to say I'll be lolling on the couch eating bonbons and watching Gilmore Girls, but sadly I suspect I'll be at my desk going quietly mad.

'There's a cosplay conference on campus and there are all these people running around dressed like Sailor Moon. I have an uncontrollable urge to go wail on some nerds.'
'Do it! For my honour if not your own.'
'You know, a gothic lolita loses much of her mystery when you see her bum a smoke off a stranger at a tram stop.'
'Or using a public bathroom.'