June 03, 2003 @ 11:40 p.m.
Lady Maladjusted of Psychopathia

You know how last time I wrote, I was really worried about that story I was writing for my creative writing class?

Less than 48 hours before the assignment was due, I suddenly realised it wasn't going to work. So I looked through an old Word document full of story ideas, found one I'd forgotten about, and started writing. I banged out a 1600 word draft in a little over half an hour. It came really easily. The voice of the main character came quickly and naturally. Which I'm a little unnerved by, because he makes Norman Bates look like a well-adjusted and contributing member of society. Not that I set out to write a psychopath. It just sort of happened.

Maybe there's a reason why, though. Last night I had a very odd dream. It was long and involved and had a cast of many, but I'll boil it down to the basic elements for you: it involved Harrison Ford and Sylvester Stallone helping me to kill a girl my boyfriend had cheated on me with. Our method of murder was to put her into one of those trucks that are also tree-mulchers (like city councils use to tidy up nature strips), then stand around smirking and listening to her screams as her flesh was torn from her body.

Something tells me I don't want to embrace the darker side of my nature.

My housemates have branded me a psycho. Moreso.

But apart from wondering if my unconscious is trying to tell me that it's time to move the bodies, everything is absolutely peachy. I've got bugger all homework left to do for the semester, and only two assignments left. Going out with Miss Leah on Friday night (so good to have her back from her trip! And her and her boyfriend are even more besotted after having spent two months together and not bathing for days at a time, it's so cute). Am getting me some Nashville Pussy on Sunday night, with fine company in the form of Stuart (got him his ticket as part of his birthday present. Am best psycho girlfriend in the world).

Speaking of Leah, she had a small intimate "hello world, I'm back!" gathering last Friday night. It was a jolly good time. I got rather severely sauced. I would have been fine had I just stuck to beer. But Leah pushed a cocktail called Sex With a Crocodile on me and...well, let's just say that judging by my actions thereafter, a more appropriate name for it would be Chateau Legopener. Leah's boy was very, very drunk and decided that Stu was his best friend, and that he wanted to kiss him. The look of sheer, unadulterated terror on Stu's face as he sat on the couch and a drunken, 6'6" man weighing 130kgs lurched towards him with puckered lips was hilarious. The kiss did not eventuate, and I was somewhat cheesed off. Told Stu he should kiss a guy for me, because I'd kiss a girl for him. No deal and he said I'd kiss girls anyway, which I thought was rather beside the point.

Leah's friend Adrian was being a bit of a sexist bastard at one point, so I decided to use drunken verbal vigilante justice.

Me: Hey Adrian, are you single?

Him: Yeah...

Me: Have you ever wondered why?

I am fluffy and lovable, really.

I woke up fine the next morning, albeit wondering how hard I'd been to be around. I vaguely remembered a long, rambling and one-sided conversation with Stuart on the way home (guess who was talking?), and shouting in his ear because alcohol inhibits my volume knob.

"Was I a pain the the arse last night?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
Yes. You were fine. You're cute when you're drunk."
"Really?"
"Yes. And easy."
"Easier, Stuey. Easier."

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