Well, originally I promised myself that I would blog every day. However I have fallen in love. The name of my beloved? Guitar Hero.
I can't explain exactly why this game is so addictive. It just is.
Anyway, I already had a topic picked out a while ago for my next blog, so I'm going to go with that one.
For my birthday, my older brother paid for me to get a new tattoo. A tattoo that I had been agonising over for months because I wanted it to be exactly right. And to be honest, I wish I had never had to get it done. By "had to get it done" I mean that I had been planning to get this tattoo after a certain event occured, and I wish the event hadn't occured.
The tatto I got for my birthday [21st, by the way] was the name "Chloe" on my inner left wrist. Chlow was a himalayan persian cat that I got for my 5th birthday, when she was just a kitten. She was my best friend for as long as I can remember. My family moved around a lot, so I never had many friends because I was constantly changing schools. I have no lasting friends from school like a lot of people do. But Chloe was always there.
She would wait by the door for me to get home, she followed me around at the ankle while I was at home [yes, she even accompanied me to the bathroom] and she slept on my pillow, occasionally wrapped around my left arm. If I accidently closed her out of my room at night, she would cry and scratch at the door until I let her in.
In late September I came home from work and found she had had a stroke or several. I laid on the couch with her on my stomach, and she couldn't sit up without falling over to her left. I knew that was it and I didn't want to take her to a vet and have her die on a cold table. She probably wouldn't have made it that far anyway.
I sat up and cradled her like I used to do when I first got her and she started to seize due to not being able to breathe and then she just fell limp. Right there in my lap. My best friend in the entire world was gone and my world fell apart. She only missed her 16th birthday by 2 weeks.
Now, this isn't the actual topic I was going to post about but the backstory is very important. I think it is plainly obvious why I chose that particular tattoo. And why it is so important to me that I have it. I have a permanant reminder of all the happiness she brought to me.
I don't take tattoos very lightly.
Now, when I went in to get my tattoo done there were two forty-something women in before me. While sitting around and waiting one of the ladies asked what I was having done. So I showed her the print out. She asked who Chloe was, and so I told her. And she laughed at me. So utterly disrespectful that I got very, very angry.
At this point, her friend came out going on about how the tattoo she was going to get was too big and she wanted it to be smaller. The tattoo was about the size of a 10c piece. The tattoo artist was trying to tell her that any smaller and it would be too hard to do and it would look distorted. She had a huge whinge and then went and did it.
When I was called in to have mine done, I was with another artist and we were having a chat about the two women. Apparently they had been in the studio for a few hours deciding and changing their minds on what they wanted to get off the wall.
I get absolutely furious when people walk into a tattoo studio on the day they are having their tattoo done, pick something off the wall and say "I'll have that". Especially if they change their minds several times before actually getting the tattoo. I don't think these people realise that what they get will be on their body for the rest of their lives. If you've been changing your mind about what you want every 10 minutes for a few hours, there is no way you're going to like what you got tomorrow. That shit is permanant.
Halfway through my tattoo one of the ladies came back in because she had decided on a whim that she simply must get her nose pierced too. I wanted to slam my head into a wall. At least you can take a piercing out.
So not only was she disrespectful to me, she was disrespectful to her own body and the art of tattooing.
But, in times like these I just have to say "It's your body love, fuck it up if you want to, it's no skin off my nose".
I hate people.
24 November, 2008
12 November, 2008
Four...
I'm going to be honest here.
I don't understand furries. Not in the slightest.
Mainly, what I don't understand is whether or not they feel connected to the animal that their "fursona" is or whether they think they are part animal or whether they are that animals soul, trapped in a human body. Or whether they are batshit fucking insane.
My main grudge is with the ones who think they are part such-and-such or their soul is a such-and-such.
I've seen a lot of photos of furries in their little fursuits, I've seen a lot of furry art and hell, I've been curious enough to research furries on this fine little thing called the internet.
It seems to me that every furry ever always seems to be a "cute" and "fuzzy" animals [of course, the not-so-fuzzy Orca furries are still included here, though it seems they should be called rubberies or something. Though that isn't quite as cute and animalian]. How is it that it is only the souls of foxes, cats, bears, dogs and even dragons seem to be invading human bodies.
If this furry thing was really legit, it would seem to me that somewhere there should be some, say, barnacle furries. Or anglerfish furries. Or cockroach furries. I have decided that if I ever decide to be a furry, I'm going to be a barnacle, the underrated mollusc of the sea. Great and noble. Keeping the whales clean. [But hey, I could just be using it as an excuse to get into the pants of a whale-furry].
Anyway, in my opinion the whole kit and caboodle of being a furry is very much an attention thing. Or a way to ignore or lovingly accept mental issues such as attraction to actual animals.
I know there are some people out there who identify as furries, but really they only like the art or they draw the art themselves [with a "fursona" they have chosen for themselves] but even then, a lot of the art consists of personifying animals and giving them over-scaled genetalia. Usually that genetalia in inside another furry. It's not art, it's porn. Freaky porn.
Basically what I'm getting at is, I don't believe for a minute that you are a fox trapped in a human body. Most of us keep our freaky fetishes behind closed doors. You know, in our bedrooms. But who isn't going to look at what seems to be an adult, dressed as a giant cat, with a huge fabric penis while they walk down the street, or sit on a train, heading to the nearest furry convention. How is it that you aren't looking for attention? Oh right, you are.
Now don't get me wrong, I have some fetishes that most of you would cringe at, and say something along the lines of "OH MY GOD ARE YOU SERIOUS? GROSS", however I choose not to involve my friends, or the general public in my bedroom habits. Everyone has the right to enjoy life, and get as much out of it as they want [so long as you're not harming anyone in the process, or using unwilling participants] but keep it in your own home.
I don't understand furries. Not in the slightest.
Mainly, what I don't understand is whether or not they feel connected to the animal that their "fursona" is or whether they think they are part animal or whether they are that animals soul, trapped in a human body. Or whether they are batshit fucking insane.
My main grudge is with the ones who think they are part such-and-such or their soul is a such-and-such.
I've seen a lot of photos of furries in their little fursuits, I've seen a lot of furry art and hell, I've been curious enough to research furries on this fine little thing called the internet.
It seems to me that every furry ever always seems to be a "cute" and "fuzzy" animals [of course, the not-so-fuzzy Orca furries are still included here, though it seems they should be called rubberies or something. Though that isn't quite as cute and animalian]. How is it that it is only the souls of foxes, cats, bears, dogs and even dragons seem to be invading human bodies.
If this furry thing was really legit, it would seem to me that somewhere there should be some, say, barnacle furries. Or anglerfish furries. Or cockroach furries. I have decided that if I ever decide to be a furry, I'm going to be a barnacle, the underrated mollusc of the sea. Great and noble. Keeping the whales clean. [But hey, I could just be using it as an excuse to get into the pants of a whale-furry].
Anyway, in my opinion the whole kit and caboodle of being a furry is very much an attention thing. Or a way to ignore or lovingly accept mental issues such as attraction to actual animals.
I know there are some people out there who identify as furries, but really they only like the art or they draw the art themselves [with a "fursona" they have chosen for themselves] but even then, a lot of the art consists of personifying animals and giving them over-scaled genetalia. Usually that genetalia in inside another furry. It's not art, it's porn. Freaky porn.
Basically what I'm getting at is, I don't believe for a minute that you are a fox trapped in a human body. Most of us keep our freaky fetishes behind closed doors. You know, in our bedrooms. But who isn't going to look at what seems to be an adult, dressed as a giant cat, with a huge fabric penis while they walk down the street, or sit on a train, heading to the nearest furry convention. How is it that you aren't looking for attention? Oh right, you are.
Now don't get me wrong, I have some fetishes that most of you would cringe at, and say something along the lines of "OH MY GOD ARE YOU SERIOUS? GROSS", however I choose not to involve my friends, or the general public in my bedroom habits. Everyone has the right to enjoy life, and get as much out of it as they want [so long as you're not harming anyone in the process, or using unwilling participants] but keep it in your own home.
11 November, 2008
Three...
So Lyndsay and I just watched an episode of King of the Hill just a moment ago about Sex Education.
At the beginning of the episode, Hank and Peggy, Bobby's parents, are disgusted that sex education was going to be taught at school and that it was a parents job to teach their child about sex.
There is a particularly amusing scene where Peggy attempts to tell Bobby about sex but she just can't say the word.... penis.
It made me think about my upbringing. My parents never taught me about personal development or sex. In fact, I'd had two periods, absolutely petrified about what was happening, without ever knowing what the hell was going on. At the start of my third period, my Mum asked if I'd noticed something in my underwear, handed me a packet of pads and told me to stick one on the crotch of my panties.
That was it. I hear about people who had talks about "womanhood" and how they were becoming a lady. I got.. something. Of course it didn't help that I was one of those early bloomers and we hadn't learnt anything about it in school yet.
I never even heard my Mother say the word sex until I was 16 where I was dating a guy nine and a half years older than me. Yeah. Her big talk then?
"You're not having sex with that boy are you?"
Of course I was. So I awkwardly said no and avoided the subject all together.
My Mother and I never really had a really great relationship where we could talk about anything (obviously) but I was kind of dissapointed that she had let me down on that one. I started having sex very early because I was curious about how it all worked. I'd never really had any guidance on what was right and wrong. Which is probably why I thought it was perfectly fine to be sleeping with a 25-year-old while I was 16.
I havn't turned out badly because of it. In fact, I'd say that I know a lot more about sex and all the ways people can make the most of their bodies for their own pleasure. I did a lot of learning on my own very young.
Honestly though, I really don't think it should be that hard to talk to your parents about sex. I occasionally wish that my Mother and I were more able to talk about sex.
I do plan on doing things differently when I have kids of my own. Of course, I don't know just how difficult it will be to talk to my children about the ins and outs of sex and their bodies. But it shouldn't be such a huge deal to say the words penis and vagina to fellow humans who HAVE said body parts. I don't want my kids thinking doodle and hooha are the correct words for their anatomy.
My children will be aware of how they ended up on this earth. They will also be aware that their bodies, and sex [including masturbation] are nothing to be ashamed of. It might just spare my children from making the wrong decisions too early.
At the beginning of the episode, Hank and Peggy, Bobby's parents, are disgusted that sex education was going to be taught at school and that it was a parents job to teach their child about sex.
There is a particularly amusing scene where Peggy attempts to tell Bobby about sex but she just can't say the word.... penis.
It made me think about my upbringing. My parents never taught me about personal development or sex. In fact, I'd had two periods, absolutely petrified about what was happening, without ever knowing what the hell was going on. At the start of my third period, my Mum asked if I'd noticed something in my underwear, handed me a packet of pads and told me to stick one on the crotch of my panties.
That was it. I hear about people who had talks about "womanhood" and how they were becoming a lady. I got.. something. Of course it didn't help that I was one of those early bloomers and we hadn't learnt anything about it in school yet.
I never even heard my Mother say the word sex until I was 16 where I was dating a guy nine and a half years older than me. Yeah. Her big talk then?
"You're not having sex with that boy are you?"
Of course I was. So I awkwardly said no and avoided the subject all together.
My Mother and I never really had a really great relationship where we could talk about anything (obviously) but I was kind of dissapointed that she had let me down on that one. I started having sex very early because I was curious about how it all worked. I'd never really had any guidance on what was right and wrong. Which is probably why I thought it was perfectly fine to be sleeping with a 25-year-old while I was 16.
I havn't turned out badly because of it. In fact, I'd say that I know a lot more about sex and all the ways people can make the most of their bodies for their own pleasure. I did a lot of learning on my own very young.
Honestly though, I really don't think it should be that hard to talk to your parents about sex. I occasionally wish that my Mother and I were more able to talk about sex.
I do plan on doing things differently when I have kids of my own. Of course, I don't know just how difficult it will be to talk to my children about the ins and outs of sex and their bodies. But it shouldn't be such a huge deal to say the words penis and vagina to fellow humans who HAVE said body parts. I don't want my kids thinking doodle and hooha are the correct words for their anatomy.
My children will be aware of how they ended up on this earth. They will also be aware that their bodies, and sex [including masturbation] are nothing to be ashamed of. It might just spare my children from making the wrong decisions too early.
10 November, 2008
Two...
I also bitch about my job a lot.
Don't get me wrong. I adore the people I work with, I love my job. It's easy, it's fun, I've learnt a lot.
But sometimes the customers make me so angry.
I got a call today from a customer to tell me they had lost a tin of their seed.
Ok? What do you want me to do?
He started by asking what was in the box I sent him. So I told him. He said okay and hung up.
Then he called back saying he couldn't find it and the fellow who opened and unpacked the box said there was one free space in the box with only packing material.
Yes. There were 9 tins in the box. The box fits 10 tins. There should have been one space left with only packing material. He said okay and hung up.
He called back again, saying he still couldn't find it and that he'd also lost another half of a tin [half of which he had already used].
What the fuck do you want me to do about it?! I can't exactly take responsibility for something you have bought, and received, and then lost at your place of business.
So I printed out another packing slip to show him exactly what should have been in the box and how it meant that there should have been one free space. He hung up, and I faxed it to him.
Why would I stiff you on one tin of seed when you buy so much? Why would I want to piss you off?!
So then he calls back and asks if two of the smaller tins would have been stacked on top of each other. No, they wouldn't be. Because stacked on top of each other they are too tall. He asks if I'm sure. Dude, you have the tins right there, and the box. Give it a try, I promise you will definitely be dissapointed.
So he finally accepts that he's lost the tins on his own, I didn't stiff him and he's a moron.
Maybe not so much the last part, but moreso the other two. He hangs up again.
And then I get another call. This time when I hear him say his name and work, I nearly stab myself in the eye with a pen. He tells me again he still can't find them and he would like to order another two tins.
I chirpily tell him that thats fine and they will be in the post today! I hang up and slam my head into the desk. No really.
I then swore a lot and one of my colleagues made me feel better by telling me to relaaaaaax.
I swear too much.
Don't get me wrong. I adore the people I work with, I love my job. It's easy, it's fun, I've learnt a lot.
But sometimes the customers make me so angry.
I got a call today from a customer to tell me they had lost a tin of their seed.
Ok? What do you want me to do?
He started by asking what was in the box I sent him. So I told him. He said okay and hung up.
Then he called back saying he couldn't find it and the fellow who opened and unpacked the box said there was one free space in the box with only packing material.
Yes. There were 9 tins in the box. The box fits 10 tins. There should have been one space left with only packing material. He said okay and hung up.
He called back again, saying he still couldn't find it and that he'd also lost another half of a tin [half of which he had already used].
What the fuck do you want me to do about it?! I can't exactly take responsibility for something you have bought, and received, and then lost at your place of business.
So I printed out another packing slip to show him exactly what should have been in the box and how it meant that there should have been one free space. He hung up, and I faxed it to him.
Why would I stiff you on one tin of seed when you buy so much? Why would I want to piss you off?!
So then he calls back and asks if two of the smaller tins would have been stacked on top of each other. No, they wouldn't be. Because stacked on top of each other they are too tall. He asks if I'm sure. Dude, you have the tins right there, and the box. Give it a try, I promise you will definitely be dissapointed.
So he finally accepts that he's lost the tins on his own, I didn't stiff him and he's a moron.
Maybe not so much the last part, but moreso the other two. He hangs up again.
And then I get another call. This time when I hear him say his name and work, I nearly stab myself in the eye with a pen. He tells me again he still can't find them and he would like to order another two tins.
I chirpily tell him that thats fine and they will be in the post today! I hang up and slam my head into the desk. No really.
I then swore a lot and one of my colleagues made me feel better by telling me to relaaaaaax.
I swear too much.
09 November, 2008
One...
Well, well, well. Three holes in the ground.
First post, eh?
So I'm starting this whole "blogger" thing because my bosom buddy, Jasmine, said I had to.
So HI.
Hmm, best put some stuff here about me.
My name is Katey.
I'm a gothic nerd from Brisbane, Australia.
I live with my partner of just over 3 years, Lyndsay.
Jasmine lives in our cupboard under the stairs. Or the spare room. She is made of awesome.
Just so you know, I despise Harry Potter more than anything ever, don't talk to me about it, I don't care.
We live two houses away from Lyndsay's mother and her other 3 children.
It's my birthday on the 17th of this month. I will be 21.
I adore animals far more than I ever will people. I currently have 11 rats. I also have two foster cats, Bandit and Malika. They are amazing.
I know far too much useless information about cats and rats.
I will have two permanant cats come December should our financial situation get better by then.
I am short. I am big. I don't, however, actually LOOK my weight. I am far heavier than I look.
I have an arthritis like condition in my left shoulder, you will quite often hear me whinge about it.
I hate bad grammar and spelling, but I am dyslexic. Go figure.
I play bass guitar fairly well but I havn't picked it up in a while because I can't afford new bass strings.
I love House MD far, far too much. I have Seasons 1, 2 and 3 on DVD. I don't have enough money to get 4. Sigh. Though I don't like where the story is going.
I have an immature obsession with Pokemon.
I love heavy metal, metal, rock, hard rock, JRock, Jpop, classical, dance, techno, house and most things inbetween.
I go to bed late and I get up late.
I work in a vegetable seed warehouse picking and packing orders and occasionally packing samples. Because of this job I know a lot more about vegetables and melons than I ever thought I would.
I have a severe caffiene addiction. If I go a day without a caffinated drink I get major headaches.
I love Stephen Kings books.
I smoke far too much.
I'm addicted to YouTube.
I love to argue, but only it is mature debate. I hate petty name-calling.
I'm an extremely sexual/touchy-feely person. I'm not afraid to admit that I like sex. I love pornography. I like erotic literature. I know far too much about vibrators, sexual aids and fetishes.
First post, eh?
So I'm starting this whole "blogger" thing because my bosom buddy, Jasmine, said I had to.
So HI.
Hmm, best put some stuff here about me.
My name is Katey.
I'm a gothic nerd from Brisbane, Australia.
I live with my partner of just over 3 years, Lyndsay.
Jasmine lives in our cupboard under the stairs. Or the spare room. She is made of awesome.
Just so you know, I despise Harry Potter more than anything ever, don't talk to me about it, I don't care.
We live two houses away from Lyndsay's mother and her other 3 children.
It's my birthday on the 17th of this month. I will be 21.
I adore animals far more than I ever will people. I currently have 11 rats. I also have two foster cats, Bandit and Malika. They are amazing.
I know far too much useless information about cats and rats.
I will have two permanant cats come December should our financial situation get better by then.
I am short. I am big. I don't, however, actually LOOK my weight. I am far heavier than I look.
I have an arthritis like condition in my left shoulder, you will quite often hear me whinge about it.
I hate bad grammar and spelling, but I am dyslexic. Go figure.
I play bass guitar fairly well but I havn't picked it up in a while because I can't afford new bass strings.
I love House MD far, far too much. I have Seasons 1, 2 and 3 on DVD. I don't have enough money to get 4. Sigh. Though I don't like where the story is going.
I have an immature obsession with Pokemon.
I love heavy metal, metal, rock, hard rock, JRock, Jpop, classical, dance, techno, house and most things inbetween.
I go to bed late and I get up late.
I work in a vegetable seed warehouse picking and packing orders and occasionally packing samples. Because of this job I know a lot more about vegetables and melons than I ever thought I would.
I have a severe caffiene addiction. If I go a day without a caffinated drink I get major headaches.
I love Stephen Kings books.
I smoke far too much.
I'm addicted to YouTube.
I love to argue, but only it is mature debate. I hate petty name-calling.
I'm an extremely sexual/touchy-feely person. I'm not afraid to admit that I like sex. I love pornography. I like erotic literature. I know far too much about vibrators, sexual aids and fetishes.
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