I just found out I have to hand in a final draft of what I’ve written of my thesis so far on Monday week. Said thesis, while I’ve been working hard on it, is admittedly a long way off being finished.

See Aimee.

See Aimee panic.

PANIC, AIMEE, PANIC!!!

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to buy myself a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of Scotch.

I went to see Margaret Cho’s show at the Athenaeum tonight. She was fabulous. I’d previously seen one of her televised shows on SBS, Notorious C.H.O. I think, and I’d enjoyed it and had bit of a giggle, but didn’t find her overly hilarious, although I really liked what she had to say - very political and thought-provoking and right on, sister, but it didn’t have me clutching my sides. However, the Assassin show tonight was hilarious, and I was laughing and hooting and cheering almost as much as the gay boys in the row in front of me. Maybe her comedy is better in the flesh, or maybe I was just more in tune with her humour tonight, but whatever the reason, I thoroughly enjoyed myself and did a fairly respectable impersonation of a hyena on laughing gas. I think I can well and truly count myself in the realms of hyperventilating Cho fans now. Plus, it was good to see Ms Nous, however briefly.
I went with my boss and her husband and my co-worker; our tickets were a present from the boss to say thanks for working so hard and rocking so much, and she told us to look on it as a team bonding exercise. I have already pointed out that my boss is the coolest boss ever, but in case there were any doubters, this should confirm it.

While waiting for my tram home, I was accosted by a homeless man who told me that I had to be at the Exhibition building tomorrow morning at 7:30 for a barbecue, and that God had told him he had to tell me. He also told me that if I did not turn up, he would hunt me down and knife me. He didn’t clarify if this was also a directive from God, but considering my on-again off-again on-again permanently-off-again relationship with the Big G, I wouldn’t be entirely surprised. Then he asked if I was married, and was affronted to discover I was not available. Which I can kind of understand, because I bet the “I will stab you” line is usually a real winner with the ladies.

I love this city.

This is a true story. Happened to a friend of a friend of mine…

Actually, it is a true story. I still work at the library, but not so much these days, due to the fact that they don’t give me as many shifts as they used to. But a friend and colleague of mine, whom I’ll refer to as Tish because that’s her name, keeps me in the loop with everything. She kindly agreed to let me post this anecdote from an email she sent me recently:

“One of the borrowers came into the library today and while I was checking his books through he commented that it was getting dark so early now. I said that at least we were past the solstice now …meaning that soon it would start getting lighter. That’s not how he took it.

“Instead he started telling me about how he’s a seventh level wizard (the highest level) and through numerology and his gypsy bloodline on the day of the solstice time stops, the Egyptian gods of 5000 years ago pass through and come alive, and he transcends to a higher state of consciousness - the ‘Jesus’ level. He also told me that he was a Buddhist and he had to be very careful as those powers can be used to kill.

“Then he pointed to the book I was putting through for him (Numerology for Dummies) and told me that was why he needed the book.

“I just kept thinking ‘must…keep…straight…face.’

“I swear to God I’m not making any of that up.

“Also there was a man who thought people were spying on him through Microsoft Word, but he wasn’t as funny.”

After two and a half years of working in this very special sector of the public service, I can attest that one could not make this shit up if one tried.

When you start insisting that your companions refer to you only as Googlor, Mistress of Internet Information, it’s probably time to stop drinking.

Now I have post fright.

My sister Anna, who lives in London, was home with the flu when the bombs went off. I have never been so pleased to hear that someone chucked a sickie in my life as I was last Thursday night. I just wish she’d come home. I’ve been wishing that for a long time. Sometimes it’s hard hearing “I’ll come home soon, I promise” when you know that’s not true and when the person in question is deeply depressed and isolated and on the opposite side of the world.

I wanted to post more about the London bombings, but I honestly don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to say that hasn’t been said before, and eloquently, or even what it is that I want to say.

Reasons I haven’t been around:

1) Internet connection died.
2) Sort of fixed Internet connection.
3) Computer died. Cue Aimee sitting with head in hands, thinking of all her un-backed-up work.
4) Computer fixed. Back everything up. Still not sure what went wrong with computer and slightly nervous about it all.
5) Internet connection dies again. Hangs out in cave with Jesus and Elvis despite repeated attempts at reviving. Tech support man nice but useless. Internet connection remains dead.
6) Posting at work, fully aware that I’ve probably lost the five posts I’ve been working on mentally for good. Glargh. Also, suffering some sort of late-onset teenage ennui. Don’t want to post anything. Don’t want to write anything I need to write. Don’t seem to be able to write for own pleasure. Don’t want to work on thesis. Don’t want to do anything except find a nice corner to curl up in and not exist for a while. Not doing so good.

If this keeps up, I’ll be forced to dye my hair black again and dig out the Marilyn Manson t-shirts.

Today was the big rally in Melbourne against the Howard Government’s proposed changes to workplace laws.

I was catching the tram in to work, and running late because my tram was. I got off at La Trobe St, where the tram was turning, and stood at the corner watching the marchers go by and getting a little bit sentimental about the importance of unions and the rights of citizens to demonstrate against their government, because I am a big ol’ softie. I walked with them as far as my work, and then I had to dash because I was already late.

Much to my surprise, my boss was not in when I arrived. She turned up half an hour or so later and told me she’d been marching, because she believes in unions and “because you can bet that the bloody media will be playing it down, so they need everyone they can get!”. I thought this was pretty cool in itself, but also because my boss is legally blind and sometimes finds crowds upsetting for obvious reasons.

What was even cooler was when she said “do you believe in the cause?” and I said “yes” and she said “why don’t you go and march for a while then, and I’ll hold the fort?”

So off I went with my grotty pink backpack and a smile on my face, and joined the crowd, which was by now wandering slowly down Swanston St. It wasn’t long before I was accosted by Socialist Alternative members trying to sell me copies of their magazine, and not long after that they were asking me about my views on all matters political. Even when there are no magazines to be sold, I seem to attract members of the SA; sometimes I feel like I save “Ask Me About My Views on Marxism!” tattooed across my forehead.

One girl I was talking to was asking me getting-to-know-you questions in a bid to pretend she wasn’t trying to sign me up. She asked me why I was there and I thought honesty was the best policy:
“Actually, my boss sent me.”
“Your…boss?”
“Yeah. I got into work and she asked me if I’d like to march for a while, so here I am.”
“Your…boss encouraged you to march.”
“Yeah. Cool, hey? My housemate’s boss told everyone at their work they could march if they liked but their pay would be docked.”
“Ah! Well, that’s just typical and exactly the type of thing we’re marching against!” We were on familiar territory again.
“Yeah, it’s a bit lame. I’m lucky I have a cool boss.”
Her eyes clouded over slightly. We were back on that unfamiliar territory.
“So…does your boss have a boss?” She left unspoken the assumption that that could be the only plausible reason for my presence.
“Oh, no, she’s the owner of the company. Doesn’t report to anyone but herself. I guess she just thinks it’s important for workers to be able to stand up for their rights.”
That was obviously the final, incomprehensible straw. If this girl had been a FemBot, her head would have exploded and her boobies gone whizzing off in different directions. One of her friends appeared and she muttered something along the lines of “I have to go over there now” and made her escape.
Not long after I made the acquaintance of another SA member, a sweet boy with whom I had a rather good conversation about politics and who made an admirable attempt at pretending he wasn’t looking at my chest. Maybe I ought to get myself an “Ask Me About My Views On Marxism!” badge, and wear it pinned a little lower than would really be necessary. That’ll stuff ‘em.

I’m nearing the end of my degree (one semester to go!) and am having a quiet little angst over exactly what I’m going to do with myself once I’m no longer one of those studenty people. The Real World is cold, and there’s wolves after me. And they’re not even the nice kind of wolves.

Part of my angst stems from the fact that a job has come up at an arts organisation I’m a member of, which I know I’d be perfect for and which would be perfect for me. It’s in an area I’d like to work in, for an organisation I’m familiar with and think is really great. So I’m applying, of course; where the angst comes in is the whole “oh, I don’t have a chance in hell, and these sorts of jobs never come up!”. It’s an entry-level position, which is all I’m really qualified for at the moment, and would give me the chance to learn lots of new things and meet interesting people. It would mean actually beginning a career I could settle into and start developing, rather than just finding another job, which is part of why I want it so much, in addition to the job itself sounding great.

All I can do is put in the best application I can, I know, but that doesn’t stop me stressing.

I like my current jobs but I’d also like the opportunity to do something that stretches me a bit more. I’ve got everything this job requires plus bucketloads of enthusiasm for it and the organisation. Just like everyone else who will be applying does. Bah humbug.

As long as I can resist the urge to imitate John Safran’s Ozzy Osbourne prank from Music Jamboree in a desperate bid to be noticed, and hence avoid turning up at their office dressed up like Ozzy, weilding a giant crucifix and speaking lyrics backwards while waving pills at people, I should be okay.

That sort of thing would never work. For one thing, I look really silly in white jumpsuits.

Note to self: when required to spend time in a public area such as a suburban shopping centre, it is a good idea to take the random assortment of hardcore pornography out of your backpack first.

Dear Inner Voice of Criticism and Reason,

I know. I have been a very naughty girl tonight. I know I said that I’d finish the first draft of that story I’m working on, that I’m really enjoying writing, tonight. “Monday night!” I declared, in the hearty tones of one devoted to getting stuff done. “I’ll type up what I’ve written by hand so far and finish the fucker! Then I’ll sit on it for a while and redraft! I am so clever! I am so ahead of that first of August deadline! I laugh in a cocky manner! Ha HA HA ha!”

It seemed so plausible, too. Smack bang in the middle of a week off I’m giving myself after the end of a mentally, emotionally and phyiscally gruelling semester that witnessed depressive episodes and tearful threats to drop out, before I begin to work on my thesis in earnest. Play time! Time to write those nagging stories and poems and enquiry letters that have been left in the wake of my demanding, mountainous Uni work. It all seemed so easily organised last week.

“I will work on it Monday, and knock that fucker to the ground,” I said. “Sure, Beloved Father is visiting, but I will get up early and work on it before he arrives, and surely his visit will only take a few scant hours of my writing time. Besides, now that I am over the Teenage Embarrassment Stage, hanging with my dad is fun! And cool! And always involves a free lunch at the eatery of my choice! What’s not to like about kickin’ it old-school with dear old Dad?”

It was not to be. Still recovering from the physical side of the Great Drain of Semester One 2005, I slept in. Not seriously, but enough to put me slightly behind the eight ball. Feverish typing was offset by hanging out with my housemate, and the siren song of the washing machine and its promise of clean towels. I’m not quite sure where the morning went, but hey I got some stuff done! Brownie points, right?

So, Dad’s visit ended up taking up the entire afternoon and a great portion of the evening. Not to worry. I can at least get some more work done! Yay me! I am strong, I am invincible, I am caffeinated!

But it all went to hell in a handbasket, didn’t it? We had to hang out in Jo’s room listening to the dodgy eighties CD she bought for her sister as a joke 21st present, didn’t we? We had to dance around to “Footloose”, didn’t we? We had to follow it with several CDs’ worth of happy-making music of dubious artistic merit, didn’t we? We had to get out our hairbrush microphones for “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” and every song thereafter, didn’t we? Oh, sure, I wasn’t the instigator of that last one, but did I back away when I realised I was far more used to the Cake version of “I Will Survive” than the Gloria Gaynor one? Oh no, I did not. Did I shy away from belting out “Hit the Road, Jack” in its entirety? Oh no, I did not. Did I resist the pressure to get down, get funky and assorted other activities not at all related to the banging out of Great Literature?* Oh no, I did not. Did I laugh my arse off, fall over myself in the name of “dancing” and enjoy myself thoroughly? Oh yes, I did.

So as you can see, O Voice of Reason, I may not have a legitimate reason for not having finished my story per se, but it stands as a reason I did not complete my self-assigned homework. What’s that? Why didn’t I finish it in the time after the hysteric giggle-dancing ended? Um. I had stuff to see, people to do, blogs to read. You expect me not to chuckle over Stu’s latest email? You expect me not to get my daily dose of the wonder that is Perez Hilton? What’s that? You do? Oh. Surely you jest? No? Oh.

Well then.

Whilst I would argue that your threat of a vigorous spanking is hardly the sort of thing that is likely to send me to my keyboard in a panic-induced horror, your threat to remove all chocolate, coffee and assorted other pleasures from my life until I get the damn thing written has been taken on board. From now on, I will be a good girl. Starting tomorrow. After I’ve had a leisurely lunch with Deirdre and done my shopping and gone to the library. Pinkie swear. Honest to God. What’s that? Atheists can’t say “honest to God” and expect to be taken seriously? Oh. All right then. I’ll swear on a deity I do believe in then.

Honest to Britney.

There, that ought to shut you and your goddamned, sorry, britneydamned carping up. I’LL DO IT TOMORROW. Shit, bitch, can’t a shirker get any peace around here?

I’m on it. Totally.

And if you still have doubts, I invite you to remember my past history of efficiency when it comes to forcibly removing little nagging voices in my head with a cotton tip.

I’m glad we had our little talk. I feel like we understand each other better now.

Send my best to the Self-Doubt Voice (be seeing her again shortly) and the Voice That Lets Me Walk Out of the House Looking Like That.

Regards and/or cotton tips,

Aimee

*Actual story may be neither great nor literature.

This morning someone rang my mobile asking for what sounded like Peter Andre.

I can see where someone might find similarities between me and a sixpacksome, ugly-model-impregnating hasbeen of nineties pop, but I had to point out to them that they had the wrong number.

They seemed really affronted, as if they thought I might just be pretending not to be Peter Andre for my own malicious purposes. They were reluctant to hang up the call, even though my call display showed they were ringing from Sydney at a peak time.

Perhaps I should have sung “Mysterious Girl” at them. That would have not only proven my not-Peter-Andre status once and for all, but also gotten them off the line quick smart.