Despite getting a brilliant result for the Summer semester, my yearly average is still not good enough for the bastards to let me do straight Law. What’s really sad is that I still have an upper credit average when you take into account a particular subject that I failed by not sitting the exam and got a High Distinction afterwards. I even scored the top marks for three units including a Law subject.

In a way I’m happy because this means I can finish my degree earlier. The Law degree would take two additional years plus another year at Monash to properly become a lawyer. So the changed game plan now is to get straight HDs for the next 4 semesters of this triple major Commerce degree and if I can do Finance Honours it shouldn’t be that hard getting into some sort of a Finance company or an investment bank.

Jessie’s doing Commercial Law and Finance and we have a couple of classes together. As usual, it scares me how much I love her and I’m trying to be prepared for the inevitable heartbreak. We are absolutely mismatched, and I just don’t mean physically. To give you a rough idea, I’m 6′1”, she’s 5′2”, I wear size 10 shoes, and hers are 4. I’m always broke and she wears Prada (well not literally) to bed. Ever since she’s come back, we’ve been spending literally every free moment of day and night together.  She’s a complete neatfreak and I’m oh sooo messy which drives her insane at times.

My fabulous old house got sold and I had to move to a suburb I’m profoundly embarrassed of. To make matters worse, Jessie and I went to Geelong last week and my car broke down twice. First we had a flat near the beach, and it was too hot to change the tyre so we had dinner first only to realise that I didn’t have a jack and it was too late to ask anyone. After wandering around for a few hours we got one (shoutout to Dave the architecture student) and changed the tyre, but on the way back the damn engine blew up. I had to drive at about 20ks stopping every 10 minutes from midnight to six in the morning until we got to Kings way, from where I had to tow the car to my house. The darling angel didn’t complain for a second, and risked life and limb with mad truckies on crystal meth swerving past us barely missing the bumpers.

She also can’t stand how irreverent and disrespectful I am – to people, to life, to religion, to sex and sometimes even to her. What really worries me is that she might think I’m being with her for money or sex. She wants me to go to church and quit smoking but I can’t do either.

Everything I do seems to be wrong, but I do love her, and I think she loves me too. Without her, I don’t know how I’d have been able to get through these tumultuous two weeks.

It’s funny how I never realised that.  Intoxication literally means introducing a toxic substance to your system. I hate drinking by the way. The smell and taste of alcohol sickens me. Smoking is much worse, and I particularly hate sharing a spliff because you have to smoke at someone else’s pace.

I hate what I do when I’m, err, intoxicated. Instead of my usual nonchalant slightly arrogant self (haha), I could become painfully pompous and be hyper-sensitive to the slightest, umm, slight. I get really aggressive and pick fights with random people. Thankfully, I somehow come across as intimidating when inebriated to most people so I actually manage to avoid fighting, although once I got beaten up by a massive goth chick. I completely lose my pride and self dignity, and call up friends to say how much I love them, or how sorry I am that I’ve hurt them in the past and crap

I also forget my resolution to not DUI, so I have to hide my keys (from myself) so that I don’t end up in jail. I have to hide my phone too, so that I don’t propose to someone by mistake. I’ve been known to call a certain friend and ask her out and shit, although she has a boyfriend and I certainly don’t think of her as anything more than a friend when I’m sober. Perhaps all these are repressed emotions that I wouldn’t normally wouldn’t want to explore.

Now I’ve got a massive problem at hand because I believe I’ve professed my undying love UI to a chick I don’t really care much about, and  had little more than a passing interest. I don’t want to hurt her a. because she’s very sensitive, b. she’s friends with lots of people I know, and c. I’m actually partially responsible for her breaking up with a friend of mine. I actually thought the bugger was treating her badly and sort of got into a fight with him over her. I cannot actually go out with her in public because that’d mean I actually like someone that my friend treated like shit. That’s like eating other people’s rubbish. Plus I tried to make up with him saying I can’t stand the bitch either and that she played us against each other which was totally not the case. She’s back in Hongkong now and I’m trying to ignore her calls but it would sort of bruise my ego to see her eventually lose interest in me. The only way out I think is to be ambivalent about everything until she comes back, shag her if I can, and get her back together with my friend. But I’m not a player and I get emotionally attached to every girl I get close to, so I know it’s going to be a lose-lose situation. I don’t know – perhaps I actually love her underneath it all but the social stigma of hand-me-downs is too much to bear for my petty mind. I wish I could be like those PUAs who don’t give a shit if they hurt other people’s feelings, and don’t have feelings themselves.

I know, I know… I never buy credit. But can you blame me? Working for so long in the telecommunications industry has made me completely disillusioned with the whole scam. It’s not that I’m cheap, I’m just taking a principled stand.

Anyway, I’ve just come across this great new website called Jaxtr.  Basically you can just go to my page, and enter your phone number, and the system will dial both you and me, and we can talk on our phones as usual while Jaxtr pays for the call. How awesome is that?

www.jaxtr.com/maldrat

You know, there have been times this week when I really felt that self-asphyxiation with liquid nitrogen gas would be a welcome break from this hell. I mean honestly, how could anyone bear this goddamn insufferable heat and the choking humidity. You’d expect a Sri Lankan right at home in an oven, but not so bitches – because I was born in the  hills of the Up-country where it’s 16′ all year around and the sun always (barely) shines through the drizzle. I am, however, Colombite through and through, without any traces of the tea trees.

And the flies – oh the bloody flies! I hate the damn things so much I actually have vivid fantasies about rounding up trillions of them and setting them on fire in my very own Aussiewitz.  Imagine a gigantic fly ball on fire crackling and popping like mad. Dolfie would be proud.

 I’ve finally realised that the cork hats all Australians are supposed to wear with pride to top off their national dress actually serves a practical purpose. How many of you cork-less hat wearers knew that it is actually an effective fly deterrent mechanism. You gotta give it to the ‘victs – smart buggers, these.

 What I don’t get is the lack of darkened/tinted glass in this country. Granted, there’s an abundance of it resting on people’s noses and ears, but I’m referring to windows, and in particular bus/tram/train windows. Ah yes, I’m back on public transport after my car’s lost her forelegs, but haven’t I informed you world wide wankers of that fact earlier? I forget, and I digress. So here’s a new year’s resolution for you cheap bastards, call Tint Professor and give your car what she deserves. Note that my feminisation of automobiles is a deliberate ploy to rouse your righteous anger at my sexism.

 Thanks to the bitch of a car, I’ve had to postpone the best laid plans of my mice and me to buy a new laptop+plasma (no LCD for me). I’m thinking about fixing up the damn thing and selling it off. Petrol is high as it’s been for months, and the interest rates have gone up. This is good news for me, because all the lords of the McMansions have to sell their flash cars below cost to manage the mortgage repayments. I’ve done my homework, and it seems that I can finally afford a car I need not be ashamed of. Let us que serra serra, shall we.

It’s tough being a smoker when you’re nicotine intolerant. I have of course used my hyper-sensitivity to this family of chemicals to my advantage  in the past. Once I drank one too many coffees, smoked two too many cigarettes and collapsed during the middle of an exam and they passed me on special consideration.

Anyway, like those sodomite crusaders in medieval times, I’ve been looking all my adult life for that holy grail – the perfect cigarette. Something that gives a nice light tingling, but not harsh on your throat, doesn’t smell like a bushfire,  looks nice, feels nice to touch, comes in nice packaging and would not be found in the pocket of your taxi driver, plumber or that gay guy who works at the front end.

I didn’t smoke in Sri Lanka – at any rate I didn’t know how to. Smoking is essentially a working class pastime where I come from. How could I, the scion of the dysfunctional union between an academic par excellence and a merchant banker, engage in such scandalous conduct. So I stuck to pot.

I did smoke in Malaysia – but I still didn’t know how to. Perhaps my doctor will thank me one day for all the cigarettes that I smoked  but didn’t really inhale.

I was taught to smoke properly in Australia. I began with Benson and Hedges Extra Mild which later became Smooth. It was all fine until hordes of bloody Indians started smoking the same brand. So I followed suit with the rest of the Lankans and took up Dunhill Blue. It just wasn’t the same. It is still better than Peter Jackson, Winfield, Malboro and all the other sawdust rolls that tradesmen and pensioners (ie. 90% of Australians) here smoke, but it would make me nauseous and dizzy every time.  Dunhill White on the other hand, was absolutely devoid of any flavour – even Menthols are better than that. Dunhill Essence Lights were quite nice, but it’s a tiny ladies’ cigarette and is too expensive anyway. Peter Stuyvescent smells, and smells bad. Davidoff may make some of the best cigars in the world, but their (outsourced) cigarettes are no better than Holiday despite the fancy packaging.

So I started smoking cigars. Loved it – but it is too expensive and inconvenient a habit. Cigarillos are too harsh and taste like smoke balls. Flavoured Asian cigarettes are fine, except that I can’t be bothered paying with cash every time I buy them and the second hand smoke smells ghey. I rolled for a while, but it was just too embarassing to do it in public, even with Dutch tobacco.

Surely there must be something better. Then I found this, the ultimate cigaritto perfecto… Dunhill Fine Cut. It comes in an unassuming dark blue box, the filter is white just like Davidoff. The vitals are Tar 8 mg, Nicotine 0.5, Carbon Monoxide 10 mg. I can’t believe no one else smokes it, at least that’s what the girl at the counter told me. It’s perfect in every way. Of course I can’t be certain if this is the best cigarette in the world because I’m yet to smoke Rothman’s International, but it must be close.

So I’ve just ordered two cartons (200ea) of Fine Cut from Europe for $28  each. Isn’t that cheap. So the whole point of this post was that I have nothing interesting to write about. I’m back in school for the Summer and I need an average of 84 this semester to get into Law. I got the top marks in the class for one of my Law units last semester, so I must not be a complete retard. One of the subjects that I’ve picked is MME, where I basically learn (along with a dozen Asian girls who don’t speak English) how to use the dictionary and a thesaurus, construct an essay according to a 1-2-3 formula, and the art and science of taking notes. It’s all done in the sort of workbook that you would have used in primary school. I’m surprised we don’t get to draw vegetables and animals as well. Interestingly, one of my friends who took this unit with the hope of getting a guaranteed HD ended up failing it – he had an IELTS score of 7.5. Mine was 8.5 in 2004, but residing in Austr’ia and too much “ima pop a cap in yo ass” tends to corrupt one’s English. From what I gather, the teacher is a sad bastard who takes pride in being the coordinator for this pathetic unit. But I vow to suck up to him, even suck him up if need be, provided I get the requisite average at the end of the term!

So here I am, recuperating after being manhandled by the paw-lice last week, only to realise that I can no longer bench press my body weight! What have the pigs done to me – I only stopped training for a week.

Argh… I don’t each much because I’m so afraid of getting fat. I’m disgusted by fat people. Maybe I’m anorexic or something. I’ve got a friend who’s a professional bodybuilder, and I asked him if I could have some juice. This cunt said if I could come to his gym and work out an hour every day for six months, he’ll think about it. I know I have to eat to put on muscle, but eating makes me hate myself, but not eating makes me depressed and lethargic (as I am now).

I’ve been reading up on juice for about a year now, and I think it’s the best solution. I don’t give a fuck about roid rage or liver cancer. Should I quit smoking? I don’t (ie. can’t) smoke much because I’m nicotine-intolerant and chainsmoking makes me really sick.

I’m all bruised and bleeding, inside and out. I don’t know where the fuck I’m going.

I’ve just discovered something fascinating. Spent the night doing some stupid assignment, and the music was too fast for me to concentrate. So I turned down the play speed to 0.5. Incredible…

Everything sounds so different. How could have I not known this before. I can’t imagine how amazing this would sound if I could find some weed. Perhaps it’s all the coffee I’ve had, but the Simon & Garfunkel at half speed almost make me cry.

Fuck school today. I’m going to get high on cough syrup and listen to Janis Joplin.

Btw 50 Cent sounds completely retarded.

Writer’s block.