March 26, 2003 @ 5:46 p.m.
Oven doors and kitty-cats

I got back to Uni this year to find that most of my separatist lesbian acquaintances are now neither separatists nor lesbians. It was kind of surreal. Especially one of them, who spent most of last year lecturing me about the evils of heterosexuality, and beginning every conversation with "So, have you broken up with your boyfriend yet?"; now she's schtupping anything with two legs, a penis, and a libido. Which, when you think about it, really isn't very selective.

So, how 'bout that war, eh? Melbourne free-to-air television is currently offering viewers a choice of war coverage or sport. Because, you know, the new AFL season is about to start, and we can't have people missing out on vital updates and coverage on important current events just because of some dead Iraqis.

I haven't gone to any of the protests. This is because I have either been working (I have formed a theory that work is conspiring against me on this front) or haven't known about them until afterwards. As such, I've decided to make my own kind of protest, which I am calling Boobies Against War. If any of my female readers, or even my more corpulent male readers wants to join me in this, here's what to do: whenever you hear the name "Saddam Hussein", get your tits out. You can write a catchy anti-war message on them if you like, but the important thing is that you get them out. Come on, everyone, do your bit for world peace! If you wanted to take this protest even further, then I guess you could act appropriately when you hear the word "Bush".

Seguing in my usual clumsy fashion, you know something that's pissing me off at the moment? I've been seeing a few girls wearing those tacky t-shirts with "They're real and they're great" printed across the chest lately. What gets to me is, that the girls I've seen in them have been about a B-cup, maximum. It's like, DUH, bitch, we were really under the impression that you'd gotten implants to get that impressive pancake-like rack of yours. Or perhaps you just wanted to let us know that your impressive A-cup silhouette was achieved entirely without padded bras. Whatever. How about you leave the smutty tit innuendos to those of us who can fill out a real bra, and get back to your "I must, I must" exercises?

Moving right along, earlier in the week I was talking to someone at Uni and I mentioned how our house really doesn't like guys. Like, the inhabitants do, in fact we like guys very much. It's just that the house itself doesn't seem to. We've never had a male housemate while I've been here, but I've heard the stories. Stuff starts going wrong, and the guys themselves either go a bit batty (maybe it's the pink bathroom?), or turn out to have secretly been a smack freak all along. Stuff starts happening again when boyfriends or cheap fucks stay over too much. So yeah, I was telling this girl at Uni about our house, and she thought it was kind of cool. I did too. Until a few days ago. See, Deb has just gotten herself a new man friend, and he's been spending a lot of time here (not that any of the rest of us have actually physically seen him much). I was trying to work it out in my head, and I think over the past week or so he's been here for about four or five nights.

Yesterday, the door of our oven fell off.

We got it back on, but it's still massively screwy. And I can practically hear the house sniggering to itself. I think we may have to step up the male-free alert and put Operation Castle Anthrax into effect.

During the time I wasn't talking to you, I adopted a cat from the Cat Protection Society Hostel in Greensborough. I named her Clea. She rocks and is currently sitting on the desk next to my laptop, alternately bumming pats off me and making sure I don't write anything mean about her. Actually, now she's on the floor playing with one of my g-strings. Getting her has done me a lot of good. I now have someone small and furry to come home to and cuddle (remember, Stuart and I don't live together), someone to fuss over (those would be the maternal instincts), and just general company and affection. She's slightly psychotic, so obviously she fits in really well at my house.
We had a slightly worrisome moment the other night when we heard the screams of cats fighting and realised we hadn't seen her for some time. We raced out into the back yard in time to see a large black cat streaking along with Clea in hot pursuit. She caught up with it and kicked its arse! Ha! My kitty rocks!
Also, the best thing is that now I can say "my cat's breath smells like catfood" and MEAN it.

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