I Remember...

I remember when Postman Pat had no wife or child.  I remember being allowed an ice cream every day after school, and nobody worrying that it would make me fat.  I remember petrol being 80c/L.  I remember the Gateway Bridge toll being $2.  I remember a $2 toll being considered a rip-off.  I remember Paddle Pop and Billabong ice creams being 75c each.  I remember Magnum ice creams being really expensive at $2.50.  I remember "A Country Practice" the first time it was on, and I remember the first time my Daddy was at work for Christmas.
My family had always head a family Christmas party when I was little, Christmas was a big deal on both sides.  My Nana had come over from England as a litttle girl in 1925, and was still cooking a traditional hot Christmas dinner in 1991, til my mum (her daughter-in-law) explained to her, very gently, the insanity of her plan.  My Mum would always organise a Christmas lunch for whomever was available to come from both sides of the family (mostly my dad's family, because my mother's family in the local area was just her brothers and one of them had a wife.  Their parents had died before I was born).  My Nana would do Christmas dinner, mainly for her children and their sposes and her grand-children, but sometimes a spouse's brother or sister would be there, and Nana liked a big gathering, because it made her feel needed and gave her something to complain about.
In 1996, my Dad started work on an oil rig out in the desert.  He was working as the campie (camp attendant) which means he was essentially the "house keeper" for the camp where the drillers live.  Dad started work on the rig in August.  I was told he'd be away for three weeks, but then come home.  I presumed that after he went away for three weeks, he'd be home for good.  Imagine how I felt when, only one week later, he went away for another three weeks!? Christmas 1996 was my first Christmas without Daddy.  I was nine years old.  My Nana had stopped having her Christmas party about two years before, sighting "oldness", but Mum still had hers, even without Dad there.  I was excited that the party would go ahead, and extra excited because Mum said we would have a second Christmas with Dad when he came home.  It would have been OK, but at the "real" Christmas party, well-meaning friends and relations kept trying to comfort me.  My Aunty was the worst, my father's sister, whose husband had gotten Daddy the job in the first place.  Her husband was rostered off for Christmas, so I didn't want any comfort from her!
The next year Dad was working Christmas too, but Mum didn't have the Christmas party.  She told all the family they were welcome to come to our Christmas party when Dad got home, but none of them did.  I had my Christmas breakfast that year on December the 25th, and I opened half my presents, but Mum left all of hers for when Dad got home.
When I was fourteen years old, they started shutting down the rig at Chritstmas Time.  My Dad was home!  We'd moved from the Gold Coast to Maryborough by this time, so we had no family for a Christmas party, even if they chose to come along for the first time in five years.  I'd stopped caring about Christmas, and started being embarressed about how many presents I got each year.  Just.  Too.  Many.  Especially since I knew that, even with the rig job, my parents could not afford what they gave me.
It was nice to have Dad home for Christmas.
So now fast forward to the present day.  I've wanted nothing more than to move back to the Gold Coast since about a year after I left it.  This year, I make it back.  After some mental tossing and turning, a lot of re-shuffling and ridding myself of 80kg of ugly fat in just one day (for those of you who are slow, I dumped my boyfriend) I ended up living with my Uncle.  You can read about him if you search for the tag "potato".  It's actually not too bad, there.  So, anyway, my mother's other brother has kinda been kicked out by his current whatever-she-is, not because of anything he's done, but simply because she's crazy.  It's kind of OK, because he was going to come to Maryborough for Christmas with his sister, anyway.  He now lives in a tent in our yard until further notice.  I came up to Maryborough by train, and even though they've stopped closing the rigs for Christmas (because they are miserable arseholes) my Daddy came home a little after me. My uncle on the Gold Coast won't take the train, so got his brother to drive down and get him, all for the low, low price of double-the-cost-of-the-train.  We were together.  Not my whole family, but my immediate family and my mother's brothers, currently both wife-less.  Family Christmas was beautiful.  I'm going home in January, my uncle is already home, having again gotten his brother to drive him.  Dad's rostered off for a break, so I think I go home before he goes back to work.
A lot of shit went down this Christmas, and a lot of shit hit the fan, but over-all, this was the best Christmas I can remember.

Signed with love,
The Pretty Kitty.

I'll be home for Christmas...

...Whether I like it or not. I'm here, Mum and Dad are both here. My two uncles are still on the Gold Coast. My father is a very upsetting human being since he turned sixty a few days ago. He keeps saying things like, "I'm old, I might be dead tomorrow!" and "Nobody wants an old man around, I'm just gonna go rot!" I find these things very distressing. Last night he came out with about five similar things in a row. I burst into tears; he then berated my mother for upsetting me. In a wet, puddly mess I went into the room he'd skulked off to to tell him my mother had not, in fact, upset me, he had upset me. He yelled out to my mother, asking her why she'd made me lie about who upset me. I'll be 23 next month, I believe (although, I have been wrong before) that I am now old enough to know how I feel without being told, and in fact have been old enough to know how I feel without being told for oh, 22 and a half years!

This situation has elevated my father from "stupid potato" to "Giant Retarded Butt-Monkey"!!!

Thank you for your time,
Signed with love,
The Pretty Kitty

I live with my uncle now.

It may not be a creative title, but it's the truth. No, you freaks! Not that sort of uncle! My actual uncle; my mother's brother. It's... interesting. At least there is no secret meat. I'm not on the Gold Coast at the moment, anyway, I'm in Maryborough, visiting my Mum and that guy she's married to. Ok, he's my Dad. I have an interesting relationship with my father. I don't dislike him, but sometimes it's like trying to be friends with a potato. A really stupid potato that moves my stuff without asking, and then forgets where he put it.
My Uncle is exactly the same, but the opposite... He keeps the box to absolutely every appliance he buys so he can put everything in its own original box if he moves house or if the Secret Toaster Police come around or some such thing. I dunno. I took one look at the pile of boxes and I quit. I just plain quit. The boxes may not be flattened. They are all box-shaped, full of air and in my way. Don't touch the empty boxes, whatever you do! Also, don't touch the garden! The land lord weeds the garden twice a year. That's right, two times every year, so there's no need for you to weed the garden! Never mind that you go outside completely devoid of vegetation upon your person and end up a vector for about seven kinds of seeds, you don't need to pull the weeds up, the land lord will do it in three month's time!
"Did you wash my mug?" My uncle asked me the other day. "Yes." I said, "I wanted to know what colour it was." Honest to God, that mug had not been washed in over TEN YEARS! I bleached it. I plan to bleach it once-per-month.
I like, love, the area where I'm living now, though. I walk across the highway and then down a few metres and I'm at one of the most beautiful wave beaches in the world. Stunning! And, of course, owing to my dream to one day live in the ocean, I do so love that location! I seem to be in a very '!' mood tonight. It may be because it's just after 3AM? We may never know the truth, but be sure the truth is out there... wait, I don't have to pay copyright to use that line, do I!?
I'm also near a great shopping centre with everything, including a place that sells kitchen sinks.
But for now I'm in Maryborough. It's Christmas time, and so I will be with my family. For the first time in about 14 years, my mother and both of her brothers will have Christmas together. My Dad is home from work (he works on an oil rig in the desert) and I've come up from the Gold Coast, so we will be having a family Christmas! My Mum's brother (the one I don't live with, not in any way potato like) in camped in my parent's back yard in his tent. He's been here for about a week already. Tonight he drove down to the Gold Coast, and on Monday night he will return with his brother. That's the other thing about my uncle. He doesn't drive, (well, neither do I), but he won't take the train like a normal person, even though the train is less than half the cost of his brother making a round-trip to drive him... POTATO MAN!
I'm gonna go put stuff on ebay now, then I'm going to bed, coz the sun'll be up real soon!

Signed with love,
The Pretty Kitty.

Some stuff about me.

My name is Cassandra, Cassie, Blossom, Blossy, Iris, Kitty or Kitten, depending who you ask (don't ask my mum. She'll give you the boring answer). I have six friends my own age (between 16 and 32) living in Australia. Only one of these six friends lives on the Gold Coast, and that's a very delicate, new friendship which is still in the stage where it needs to be sheltered and protected. Should turn out well, though; she's a very nice girl, and I'm the Pretty Kitty. Four of these friends are male, out of these four, one is ex-boyfriend, one lives in Victoria, and is in jail, so it's difficult for him to visit, one hasn't been answering my messages or calls for a few weeks without letting me know why, and one is getting married to my very best ever human friend.
My very best friend ever was a dog. A little yappy dog who thought she was the biggest animal on the face of the Earth. She died five years ago, aged somewhere between 12 and 16. I still miss her every day, and sometimes I sit in the park and talk aloud to her like the crazy lady I am.
I believe in Faeries.
I read Tarot.
I want to live in the ocean.
I love people, and take any opportunity to surround myself with them, even people I don't know, and even though I'm painfully shy and socially retarded.
I'm slipping back into depression, despite things going well for me at the moment, and I may have to go back on anti-depressants, even though I hate every little thing about them, except the not feeling quite as depressed part.
I hate shop mannequins. I hate that they try to tell me I should be shaped like that to wear those clothes- which means sometimes I should be silver and have a 20 inch waist and no head- and now they all have nipples, so I know my nipples aren't the right size or shape for their clothes either, so maybe I should just go naked all the time!?
I love that all babies, all around the world, make that little "ble-le-le" noise with their tongues.
Why am I telling you all this seemingly disjointed stuff? Because I'm moving house on Monday and I don't know when I'll get back to tell you more.
If any of my friends are reading this, call me, I'm pathetically lonely at the moment, and I really miss my cat! I also miss Alvin. Alvin was my pet crayfish. S/he died early this year. We'd almost gotten to the point where s/he'd let me touch him/her.
I think I should go now. If I stay I'll start saying even more ridiculous things.
Signed with Love,
The Pretty Kitty

And now I just want macaroni

A few weeks ago, ex-boyfriend told me he was moving to Tasmania. No plan. No reason. Just going. Fine then. I don't need you anyway.
Few days ago I got a phone call from a Queensland phone number I couldn't place. It was ex-boyfriend. It was his parent's phone number. Ex-boyfriend explained that he really was in Tasmania, but he had had his calls routed through his parent's phone number.
During the call, however, he spoke to his dog (which is at his parent's house). He later admitted that he was at his parent's house at the time of the call, but "couldn't see the point of telling me the truth". Now I'm dead inside once again. I'm only worth lying to. Thanks for that, butt-monkey.

Pretty Kitty.

Moving house.

I've told you I have to leave the house I've been staying in. We all do, it's been deemed "unlivable". I'm going to be living with my very wonderful uncle, who obviously loves me more than Nana does (maybe she found out about the "secret meat" blog post?)... only kidding, Nana. Anyway, I won't be paying rent at his place, just a few dollars a week for utilities. I plan to use the money I would otherwise spend on rent to actually have a life! I plan to go out and do "person" things. Yesterday I went on the monorail at Broad Beach for no real reason, to practice being a person, doing person things (people go on monorails for no reason, right?).

I know this will be a wonderful new start. I'll get an actual job and maybe make friends with people I didn't meet via the international-computer-webby-thing. I'll be kicking everything off with a picnic in the park in my new suburb. I've tentatively chosen a park, but I've never been to it yet, so I'll keep everyone posted.
I also know I'm going to miss a lot of things about Southport a really big lot, despite what I've said about it in the past. Especially five-year-old, dog and baby (in no order).

I'll try to keep you posted,
Signed with Love,
The Pretty Kitty.

I'm leaving Southport

Despite what I've said about Southport in the past, I will miss a few things.

1. The parks. Partially because they are beautiful, partially because all the play equipment is strong enough to hold me.
2. The pigeons who come into my backyard every day. The same two pigeons, doing adorable pigeony things.
3. The dog. He belongs to the family I'm living with. I call him "Doggie" even though that's not his name.
4. Five-year-old, even though she climbs into bed with me and wakes me up at 6AM if I leave my cubby unlocked
5. Baby, who is beautiful and wonderful, even when she's going on a biting rampage. I think I will miss her the most.

I'll also miss the international computer webby thing. I'm going to live with my uncle who doesn't even have a CD player. I'll still be on the Gold Coast, and in a much nicer part. Hope I can tell you all about it soon!

Signed with love,
The Pretty Kitty.

Why I hate unisex public toilet blocks.

Simple: Because a lot of men pee with the door open. Even if I know you, even if I like you, even if I love you I don't want to know how you stand when you pee.

Thank you.
Signed with love,
The Pretty Kitty.

Women are people too. Just sayin'.

OK, I'm gonna start with a story and then launch into random but related crap:
The first time I tried to kill myself I was only ten years old. Not a joke. I tried to hang myself with a skipping rope (that part is a little funny...) but knots were not my strong point, a fact that saved my life. I had two skinned knees to explain to my mother, but I was alive to explain. Now I'm glad, back then I just got pushed into a deeper depression; I'd found something else I'm no good at...
I was very good at creative writing, very good at craft, at art, at singing, at maths, at science and at computer studies. None of those things mattered. They were barely ever encouraged. All that mattered to my teachers was that I had bad handwriting, and didn't like sport. All that mattered to my peers was that I was bad at sport, spent a lot of time with the year one kids, and had no friends my own age. Children my age had been calling me "ugly" the entire time I was at school, even at preschool, and before that at childcare when I was three. I'd always had no friends my own age and been called ugly. I look at pictures now which were taken at the time, and that is not an ugly little girl! But when you hear something so often, how can you help but think it's true? I related this situation to fairy tales. The evil witch is always evil, scary and mean. Good fairies, good witches and princesses are always beautiful. I "knew" in my heart that if I was ugly, I would live my life hated, because, after all, it's not like I'm a man and my looks don't matter... I even thought that maybe I was evil, which is why I'd turned out ugly. I "knew" nobody would ever love me, I'd never get married or have a family, men only want to marry the princess, not the warty old witch! It certainly didn't help that for almost two years at this point I'd been getting the occasional pimple. I equated them with the witches' warts and arrived at the conclusion that I was hideous and unlovable. Thank God for bad knots! I stood up, went inside and had a cry. About an hour later my mum made me a cup of tea and brought me a cupcake. I was glad I had my mum, but I didn't feel any better for years.

I was twelve when a girl in my class at school said to me, "You'll never get a boyfriend if you don't act how boys want you to act!" I asked this eleven year old girl what that meant, and she said, "You need to wear shorter skirts, unbutton your skirt, stick your boobs out when you walk and wear lots of make up, like me." I looked at her, saw Barbie, and felt sick in case it was true. I interrupt this post to bring you my list of things I see/hear about little girls doing that makes me sick:

1. Wearing string bikinis (outside of dress-ups)
2. Wearing high heel shoes (outside of dress-ups)
3. Talking about kissing boys and making their friends who haven't been kissed feel inferior (have seen this in four-year-olds)
4. Calling each other ugly
5. Calling each other sluts (have seen this with year two kids!)
6. Using "bitch" as a term of endearment.
7. Teasing friends who aren't allowed to wear make-up

Anyway, I'm basically bothered in a big way by anything that makes out that girls and women aren't allowed to be smart else nobody will love them, or if they're pretty they must be stupid, or if they enjoy playing or watching sport they're obviously gay. Other things which irritate me include the phrase "women and children", indicating that women are somehow below men and need to be sheltered and protected, when people say "men and girls" when they mean "men and women" and being addressed as "bitch" EVER.

Also, I don't like being asked, especially by men, why I don't wear make-up. To those men I say, "You first!". I shouldn't have to remove every hair below my eyebrows, and some from my eyebrows, cover my face in goo and force my body into all kinds of painful contraptions because I was born with a vagina! Yes, I said "vagina". I have one of those and a brain at the same time.

I was thirteen and really wanted to get a job as a trolley collector at Coles (please don't laugh. I just really like shopping trolleys). I told my dad and he said, "I've noticed something about all the trolley girls in Maryborough; they're all boys." I then stopped talking to him completely for two weeks while mum and I looked around for trolley girls. We found several, I then spoke to dad to point this out to him and he said, without ever meeting those girls, "Yes, but they're not smart! Most girls aren't smart like you! You can get a nice inside job behind a cash register!" So, that's what intelligent women have to aspire to, eh dad? Checkout chick. Great. Alert the Nobel people.

As a child I played with an equal mix of "boy" things and "girl" things; my Barbie really loved her monster truck. My dad drew the line, though, when I had my heart set on a skate board. He said they were only for boys and lesbians. He actually told his seven-year-old she couldn't have a skateboard because he didn't want her to turn gay. Yes dad. That's what'll do it. A skateboard.
I've still to this day never ridden a skateboard.

If anyone has similar stories to anything outlined above, I'd love to hear from you!

Signed with so much love,

The Pretty Kitty.

Southport.

Christians with bad haircuts in suits keep coming up to me and asking me if I know Jesus. There may be some kind of convention on, or they may just feel I need saving from the fiery depths of Hell because I'm not wearing a bra today. Either is possible in Southport...
If you've never been to Southport, I envy you. I really do. I love living on the Gold Coast, nowhere else yells "home!" to me. Southport is a suburb of the Gold Coast, so it gets points for that. In every other way, I'd rather be in Maryborough, I really would. At least in Maryborough you get a warning before you get stabbed; they at least yell "Oi! Skank!" or something. In Southport the stabbing is always a surprise.
I go walking here at night sometimes, just me. I fidget so much at home that it's the only thing that keeps me remotely sane. I try to talk to someone on the phone the whole time I'm out. I put my little ear bud thingies in, then it looks like I'm really enjoying a conversation with myself and all the crazy people leave me alone because I've out-crazied them (not really that difficult, when you're me).
I moved down to the Gold Coast to live somewhere near Coolangatta, and I've ended up in Southport. People who know the Gold Coast will know what an anti-climax that is, for everyone else, that's why God made Google.
Southport is 2 kilometres away from Surfers Paradise. (Hooray!) No. You're not listening. Southport is TWO THOUSAND METRES away from Surfers Paradise (oh...). Not much until you have to take a bus. Have you noticed how much buses cost!? The answer is quite a lot indeed. If I'm getting on a bus, I'd rather go all the way to Coolangatta...
... So I'm sitting, listening politely to this Christian man, as he tells me how much he hopes the Final Judgement comes soon, because he just can't wait to be beheaded. I get up, walk away quite fast and go hide in the sex shop where it's safe. I ask the girl behind the counter if she knows why there's so many mad Christians about today. She doesn't know either. I peer out the doorway to see if that particular guy is gone yet. He is. I go buy hot chocolate. That's my life. Yep. That's all there is.

Signed with love,
The Pretty Kitty.

Not sure if I'm lonely, or just alone.

But I am in love with a T-shirt. A particular design of "Guns 'n' Roses" band tee, to be more specific. Every time I'm over at the shopping centre I go in the shop where I know (or hope!) I'll find it. I move all the 'smalls' to the back of the rack and stare longingly. If someone wants to lend me $10 so my true love and I can finally be together, much appreciated...
I go visit my love, the T-shirt, about twice per week. Whenever I have some spare change and a coupon, I take myself out for a treat. I'm a good date, I buy me all kinds of things. I buy me hot chocolate, waffles, pancakes or pretty much anything else within the limited budget. I've gotten used to sitting by myself in the food court now. I don't believe I'm actually going to admit this in a public forum, but I don't have any friends my own age in the same city as me. Talking isn't my strong point, and note passing isn't really an accepted form of communication after high school. I spend this time by myself doing a spot of people watching, and catching up on important activities like text-stalking my mates from all over, and fantasising about the day I finally have $10 spare, and can be united with my truest love, the T-shirt.

Signed with love,
The Pretty Kitty.

Some prople are just plain odd.

Seriously.
I felt a sudden urge today to put on my blogging shoes and tell you all about someone I almost worked with. It will explain itself, promise!
One of my many, many hats is that of a freelance photographic model. Great, when people need one of those. Less great when they don't. I posted an ad on a website to try to find people who did.
One person who answered my ad was Fishface. His first message to me was "Hi! I'm a model too but I've just started out as a photographer. I'm looking for models. Would you like to meet up next week, just for a chat?" Seems fine so far. We arranged a time, and a public meeting place, with a plan to go for coffee.
The day we were meant to meet, I got a text message an hour before "Where are you? I'm already here" It's an hour earlier than we're meant to be meeting, but I figure I'll do a rush job to get ready, I can be there in half an hour. I tell him this. The reply: "I'm here now" Very good. Do you know any big-boy words?
I get dressed (OK, so I was still in my nightie at midday) brush my hair and walk down town as fast as my unusually long legs can carry me. During this process I get three more messages from Fishface, "Where are you? I'm already here" I send replies, quiet, calm, and complete with over-use of smiley faces, "20 mins. :-)", "10 mins. :-)", "I'm on my way, OK!?! :-)"... I arrive, and find Fishface, looking disheveled and in the process of texting me again.
"G'day, I'm Blossy." I say, nice as pie (nice as nice pie, not like, kidney and brain pie) "Yeah, fuck, wow, hi!" Says Fishface. Great start. We begin to walk towards the cafe. He starts scratching his head like he has nits. Him: "So, um, you're a model?" Me: Yes. "Do you do much work?" Not as much as I'd like, but every few weeks I have a shoot "Fuck. Um... Would it be rude if I bailed? This is too weird. I gotta go. I gotta go home." Sure honey. Whatever. And I've never seen anyone scamper off faster. That night, I check my emails. A message from Fishface: "Sorry about today, but I thought you were a cop and I was going to be arrested"
I replied: "OK. I've never had that before. Wanna try again?" We decided to meet up again, and then go to his studio for a photo shoot. He then asks me questions like "Do you shave your legs?" Well, when I have a shoot I do. Mostly. I tell him I do, anyway. He asks me not to. He tells me he wants to do a transgender shoot with me, because I have "very masculine features"!!!!! I tell him where he can stick this idea. He asks if I've ever needed to do a poo during a shoot. I ask what the fuck this has to do with anything ever and he says it's important and I have to answer. I stop responding to his text messages and emails.
After a month or so, Fishface saw some pictures of me on the international-computer-webby thing. He retracts his comment about my "masculine" features, but asks if I've ever considered breast implants, informing me that sex workers can claim them back on tax, so they'd end up free, anyway. I try not to answer, but can't help it. I tell him "THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH MY BODY AS IT IS! I HAVE NEVER CONSIDERED GETTING IT SURGICALLY MUTILATED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" just like that, but in bold and with more exclamation marks. He didn't answer.
Months pass again, and he calls me. "I can't talk." I say. "I'm at work in a childcare centre. I need to devote my full attention to what I'm doing." It was true. "I wanna talk to you about a shoot." he says. "Can you meet me in Surfers Paradise on your way home, tonight?"
"OK, but now I've really got to go!"
I check my phone on my lunch break. Five messages from Fishface, "Are you off work yet?" "Where are you?" and three times, "text me when you're on the bus, ok?"
I text when I'm on the bus. "On the bus. Will be about 50 mins. :-)"
Him: Where are you?
Me: Currumbin. 50 mins.
Where are you?
Palm Beach. 45 mins.

He seriously text me every five minutes. If I didn't answer, he called me. "I'm on the fucking bus, mate! I'm not sure when I'll get there, I can't control it!"
I got to Surfers Paradise, and text him to say I was finally off the bus. He sent back an abusive message accusing me of promising to get off the bus, but then staying on the bus. I didn't answer. He called me.
I told him I was standing in Surfers, waiting for him right then. He didn't believe me. After fifteen minutes I convinced him I really was in Surfers.
Now he asked me if I had enough money for a drink for me AND one for him. "Honey," I begin, "I've got my bus fare for tomorrow, plus about four dollars!" He then abuses me again, saying that since I said yes to the meeting, it's my responsibility to have enough money for a drink for both of us, and not to waste his time, he even threw in the line, "I may look like mister money bags, but I'm not, I'm broke this week and you're supposed to buy me a drink!" I told him to go fuck himself and hung up. I got on the next bus home. When I got home I emailed the prick. I told him that my average weekly expenditure was $270, my income varied depending on modelling opportunities, but had a tendency to be nothing. I told him to pull his head out of his arse, and I summed everything up with "Never contact me again, you demoralizing piece of shit!"

So that's what's been on my mind. :-)
Signed with Love,
The Pretty Kitty.

Dear Internet...

...I do not suffer from erectile dysfunction (I usually find it quite amusing), but thank you for asking.

...I am quite happy with my current penis size, but because of you I know what to do if that ever changes.

...I do not wish to gamble from my own home unless you give me free money to do so.

...Most importantly, when people try to put money INTO my bank account, YOU LET THEM!!!!!

Signed with something,
The Pretty Kitty.

My Rules To Live By

Previously I've only shared these rules with people closest to me. But that's not enough, because so many people seem to really need them. So here they are. Rules to live by as thought up by the Pretty Kitty when she was between the ages of 12 and 22:

1. Don't spend money that doesn't need to be spent
   In other words, if you're already scratching to get by, don't buy things just for the sake of having them. I still don't have an iPod and I'm doing fine. I can't, however live without music, so when my Walkman finally died about a month ago, I went straight down to Kmart and bought a CD/cassette player. This is money that did need to be spent, to stop the Kitty climbing the walls.
2. Don't send things to landfill which don't need to go
   This is actually my favourite. I made this rule while watching my housemates clean out their wardrobes. With other people in the house who would have loved the almost new things they were throwing away and two op shops within an easy walk of the house, they were just throwing their 'old' things in the bin, purely because they had new things. I found this absolutely appalling, and took it upon myself to remove as many things as possible from the rubbish as quickly as possible, the things I didn't want then found their way to the op shop. The other thing that people seem really bad at is recycling. If you don't recycle, don't complain when the world runs out of EVERYTHING! Also, you may think you're recycling simply by putting things in your recycling bin, but here's why you're not: Food is not recyclable. If you throw things in you recycling bin without washing them out first, they will still end up in landfill. The people at the recycling plant are not there to wash out your milk cartons, bottles and jars. Clean, recyclable materials are sorted and recycled. Containers that still have bits of food in them are allowed to slip right past and go into the rubbish. Also, if you put your recycling into plastic bags before you put it in your recycling bin, it goes to landfill. Recycling is sorted on a conveyor belt. They do not have the time to undo you stupid knots or empty plastic bags.
   So basically, if you can think of another use for something, employ it. Cracked plastic box could be covered, strengthened with cardboard and used for a foot stool, for example.
3. Don't judge what you don't know.
   What you think is rudeness may simply be shyness, what you call stupidity may just be ignorance. You don't know anybody's background unless they tell you. A girl wearing a short skirt is probably just feeling the heat, today; that quiet old gent at the bus stop can probably teach you a few things, if you don't dismiss him as just another old man.
4. Every situation is meant to teach you something.
   In other words, The slow elderly lady in the queue in front of you, the one who feels the need to tell the cashier her life story, is meant to teach you patience. Your teenage daughter turning up with a boyfriend from a background you never realised you didn't approve of is meant to teach you acceptance. Try to find the lesson in every situation.
5. Never break a promise
   This is a simple one. If you say you're going to call, call. If you say you're going to be somewhere, be somewhere. It's ok to just plain forget, so long as you make it up later.
6. Don't ever have too many rules.
   There are more, but revealing them all at once may cancel out rule #6...

Signed with love,

The Pretty Kitty.

Thing boys say.

This post contains a list of things which boys- or actually, supposedly grown men have said to me in the last month, in order of how much they amused me (least amusing first).

1. "Excuse me, do you put out?" - Yes I do, but not with you.
2. "Excuse me miss..." (good start) "... would you like to suck my dick?" - No. No I would not.
3. "Excuse me, ma'am..." (I actually like that better than 'miss') "...you look lovely tonight, and I was wondering if you'd like a shag?" - No. Very no.

But the winner is: "Show us ya tits, bitch!" No manners, and yelled from a moving car. What am I supposed to do, run beside the car yelling, "Wait, you haven't seen my breasts, yet!"? I don't know. I really don't. And can somebody, male or female, please tell me what part of that comment is meant to make me say, "Hey yeah! That's a great idea! I'll just strip off right here."?

This is not wisdom, this is simply logic.

Boys: Shape up! I don't care how big any part of you is and I don't care what you do or don't wax; just attempt to be a human being, and we'll all get on fine.

Signed with love,
The Pretty Kitty.

I think I only need to blog when I'm sad.

I'm not sad today, but I was hoping you missed me. I've gone from crying in general to only crying when I think of something worth crying about. I've been happy most of the time, and I've even been smiling. My face feels all funny and odd-like. I suppose it's hard to explain unless you feel it, smiling so much after so long, but I suppose everyone has felt it at some point.

Yesterday I got enough food for almost two weeks for myself from the wonderful feople at Food Aid. This cost me $7, and included cake. It has been a while since I've had more than one kind of cake or other sweet baked good in my home and for my consumption. It's just a good feeling in general.



I'm still not sure what's happening with my life, but I'm rolling with it. I know it's all good. I am a child of the Universe, blah blah etc.

"If you enter this world knowing you are
loved, and you leave this world knowing the same, Then everything that
happens in between can be dealt with." - Michael Jackson.

I'm steeling that quote and claiming it as Wisdom of the Pretty Kitty. Maybe shouldn't have left his name on it, then...



I will try to remember to write to you, even when I'm not sad,

Signed with love,

The Pretty Kitty.

Letter to a very good friend

I'm sharing this letter here because I feel it will help people other than me and the addressee. If you have friends you feel could benefit from this, please refer them to it. If you have no friends, I'll be your friend and you can refer it to me if you want, but I have already seen it...

I'm going to say: To my Sweetheart,
because, under all the layers of asshole, you do have a sweet heart. So you may no longer be my sweetheart in the cute, 1950s "going steady" way, but my point still stands.

I miss you.

You know, since you went away, before we broke up, I've just wanted a kiss so bad. Just a kiss. I was telling myself, "Just a week or so. He'll be home. You'll get your kiss." But then disaster. You're stubborn and arrogant, I'm stubborn and have an absolutely flaming temper. With this combination, we're broken up, yet again, but this time for good. So I'm sitting here wondering if I'll ever be kissed again, you know I don't want to kiss someone I don't love.

Tempers cool. I stop swearing at you in every text message and every phone call, and you stop calling me names (most of which aren't even applicable, I don't do that!). You ask if you can be my friend, and I'm so glad you asked because it means I don't have to (it would have been embarrassing for me, after I told you to get the f'k out of my life... Sorry about that). That's what I wanted when I first met you, your friendship, with the future possibility of kisses.
You ask if you can call, and I say yes. You're so supportive and sweet. You build me up instead of tearing me down. You offer advice when I feel lost. Every time I talk to you, you're seeming more and more like the wonderful man I fell in love with. Good one, you giant retarded butt-monkey!!!!!

That message I sent you last night, please disregard. I was listening to stupid soppy love songs at the time, and they made me remember I miss you. I tried to fix it by listening to the "Dirty Dancing" soundtrack, but that just reminded me that people die, which made things worse. Sorry. I know we probably could get back together, and it would be beautiful for a while. We'd smile and laugh and love each other, we'd say and do nice and beautiful things, but one day I'd irritate you and you'd be a bastard and I'd end up ripping your lungs out and feeding them to my cat.

I think we both know I'll probably end up with a girl one day, anyway. Even you must have noticed by now, boys SUCK!

I can't write anymore for two reasons: 1) The tears in my eyes are making it hard to see and 2) I'm writing with a permanent marker, and the fumes are starting to make me dizzy.

I want to sign this "Love from your Blossom", but I can't.
I will say
Signed with love, in some way, for always,
The Pretty Kitty.

PS- I found my sewing kit and I'm still willing to sew up those pants for you. I can't find them. If you threw them out, you're a wanker, they were just torn, not ruined. If you didn't, disregard.

Can I come live with you?

I'm now miserable again. In Hervey Bay, my Mum mentioned my break-up, and I burst into tears and said, "Make it not be real, Mummy!". People stared. Mum hugged me and bought me a hot chocolate sponge pudding.
My trip home was pretty good. I now feel expert at trains and things, and I like them much better than buses.
I got home this afternoon to be told by my mother (over the phone) that my Nana, my own sweet little Nana, doesn't want me to stay with her. She says I, an adult human being whom has been taking care of herself at least mostly independently for about eight years now, am too much of a responsibility for her to look after. FUCK! (Maybe she read what I wrote about the "secret meat" and is taking her slow, elderly revenge?)
Anyway, here's the list of why I can't stay where I am living and this situation as a disaster: 1) can't afford the rent; 2) Tearful memories of both good and bad times spent with ex-bf; 3) sometimes things fall on me through the upstairs floor, including muddy water and sand (or I hope it's only sand) which goes in my eyes/on my face/in various other places; 4) I would quite like my own space; 5) Maybe I could have a pet living somewhere else?...6) There is no lock on my door, and one night I came home and a woman I didn't know was sleeping in my bed.

I'm actually applying to be a house-sitter, which means I only need somewhere to go for about a month, until I get a "sitter's gig". I feel so lost. I have no home, no job, very little money, I'm having trouble with my childcare course, no boyfriend/girlfriend/whatever and my Maryborough church has closed for good, which sucks some of the fun out of Maryborough.

All suggestions are welcome if any of y'all have some ideas.

Signed with love,
The Pretty Kitty.

My trip to Maryboring (Maryborough)

I woke up at 5:30 last Monday morning. I wasn't previously aware that there was a 5:30 in the morning. Last time I woke up at that time, I had a small freak-out, thinking I'd accidentally slept until the late afternoon, before realising there are twenty-four hours in the day, and it was unlikely that I'd been asleep for seventeen of them. I was woken, an hour before my alarm was due to go off, by a small herd of elephants in the house above my head. Well, it sounded like a herd of elephants, it was actually a one-year-old running back and forth at great speed. I don't know whose idea it was to take the baby out of her cot at half-five in the morning, but I'm going to have him/her stuffed and mounted when I get back to the Gold Coast.
I stumbled out of bed at 6:45AM. I dragged myself upstairs and I ate half a punnet of strawberries and some plain corn chips for breakfast, not wanting to actually cook before my day of travelling. I gave the baby half a strawberry, and she ran around the house with it in her hand for about twenty minutes, before squishing it into her hair.
I hugged the five-year-old and told her I was going away, before racing out the door to run to the bus at five to eight.
I don't travel well on buses. They are not good for my stomach. I got to the train station and threw up at the bus stop. I then threw up on the train platform and in the bathroom, a very long way from a toilet or a sink. I didn't feel any better, but had run out of things to throw up, when I looked at my watch and saw there was only five minutes before my train pulled up. I ran back out to the platform, looking like death in a microwave, and waited for the train to the train to the other bus.
The train trip to Brisbane was good, not so sick-y. I arrived at the Roma St. Transit Centre at 10:05-ish. I had almost an hour before the tilt train left to take me to Maryborough, so I wandered around for a while. I still felt sick, so I didn't want to even think about food, but I was hungry, so I bought some sort of purple drink that implied it's good for hangovers... I felt a little better when I drank that (no, I wasn't, it's just very vitamin-y juice stuff).
I tried to send my Mum a text message from a pay phone because I'm cheap, and it's actually cheaper to send a text from a pay phone than from my mobile, but it refused to send. After I grumbled for a while and sent the text from my mobile, I took my ticket out to check the details. It was in my hand, and then all of a sudden, I couldn't find it anywhere. This was most unsettling for me, as I'd never travelled by train before. It was all ok- the very hot guy at the traveltrain office printed me a new ticket, and this one was stapled to a nice cardboard thingy, which you don't get if you print the ticket yourself- very swish!

I arrived at the Maryborough West train station at about half-two in the afternoon. A big sign at the station says "You are now entering Maryborough, Queensland's friendliest town" Which leads me to think, "What!? Was every other town full of emos or on fire or something on voting day?" Yeah... most Maryborough people don't do much for me.

Since I've been here in Maryborough I've seen all the people who made my life here beautiful, especially my cats. Maybe I'm a crazy cat lady too, but I'm allowed to be, I think it's genetic.
I've been to Childers. That's a nice little town, it's about half-way between Maryborough and Bundeberg. I bought new sunglasses there, which I've needed for some time. These ones have big frames, which are necessary due to my freakishly large, almost frog-like eyes. I also got myself "Goddess Diana" incense, which confuses me because it's got musk in it which I really don't like, but it's also got vanilla in it, which I really do like... It's very complicated living in my head. Everything is a drama and I like to make things as hard for myself as possible.

Last night was the last ever church service for my church here in Maryborough. That's the main reason I was up here. I cried so much that when Mum and I got home, I had to listen to "Rockin' Robin" five times, just to make the pain go away!
My church was the Angels of Light Christian Spiritualist Church. It has to close as we know it because our Reverend is leaving for family reasons, and nobody can take her place. It wouldn't be the same without her, anyway.

Today I'm going to Hervey Bay. I'll be shopping at Target for the first time in ages (there's not a Target within an easy walk from my home in Southport) I'm quite excited, and I'm hoping to buy a Space Bag to put all my clothes in to take with me down to the Gold Coast. I've basically been wearing the same ten or twelve things for the last year, which is just not right for a lady!

Signed with love,
The Pretty Kitty.

Can't think of a creative title. Bugger!

I was going to have a nice picnic dinner tonight with a friend of mine that I've so far only met on Twitter, but this happened and that happened and now it's not happening tonight. It's ok, I was already wearing make-up so I went out anyway. I took some of the food I'd bought for the picnic and I bought myself a choc-top ice cream from Hungry Jacks; I can't figure out for the life of me why everything is an average of 55c more expensive from the Hungry Jacks in the shopping centre compared to most others. My ice cream was $1.10, making it 10% more expensive than usual. Explain that, corporate giant!

Anyway, after I leave the internet cafe tonight I will probably do exactly what I was going to do if my friend had been able to make it- I will go to the park and play in the children's playground for a few hours, or until the park security guard feels the need to inquire about my well being.

Tomorrow I will be packing my bag for an action-packed week of adventure- I'm going to Maryborough on Monday. For those of you who don't know, Maryborough is a small semi-rural city (28 000 people) north of the Sunshine Coast, south of Bundeberg, near Hervey Bay. I'm going to be visiting my mother, who is obviously a crazy cat lady (and a crazy frog lady) but it's ok, because she has a husband, so she can have as many cats as she wants (she only has four, plus two of mine she looks after until I find a place where I can keep them myself; not so bad). She has frogs everywhere. Live ones, statues, postcards, fridge magnets, whatever! The area at the top of the back steps is called "Frog City". Up to fifteen frogs camp here every night. Frogs in Frog city enjoy the luxury of a swimming pool (pH balanced and regularly cleaned) and a white light that draws lots of bugs, turned on for this purpose for half an hour per night. All this is nothing compaired to what the cats get. One of the cats sleeps on Mum's bed. If she's lucky, Mum is allowed to sleep there, too. Three of the cats have their own bedroom with everything a cat could ever dream of (no dogs allowed!) and the other has claimed the entire area under the high-set house. The sixth cat is a stray, but I'm his favourite person, so one day he will live with me. When we first met this stray cat, he was skin and bone, and unable to eat due to infected gums. We prepared mushed food mixed with egg and milk for him a few times a day and he would drink it down and purr happily. His gums are long since heeled, but he expects this meal to be prepared for him regardless, and will not eat anything else! Mum is more than happy to do this for him. Crazy cat lady.
We also have two dogs, a bird, some *beautiful* water snails and some gold fish. They're all very loved and spoilt, but I think the cats and frogs get the best deal.
My Dad works away on an oil rig out in the desert, so he won't be home when I go to stay, which is a shame, but I'll take a Fathers' Day pressent up with me anyhow and leave it for when he gets back. (I love you, Dad!)

This is all for now,
Signed with love,
The Pretty Kitty.

Tears in my cornflakes

I'm exaggerating. I can't afford cornflakes. But I have now cried every day and every night since I broke up with my boyfriend. The first time I was just walking down the street listening to the radio on my mobile phone. Some stupid sappy song that I usually wouldn't have listened to came on, and I turned it right up so at least I couldn't hear my pathetic bawling. Never mind that everyone else could.


I can be lying in bed, thinking about nothing in particular, and just start weeping. I leak like an old tap!
I was offered a free feed last night. A bowl of fried rice "but you'll have to pick the ham out." I accepted, but then cried again, because my boyfriend used to eat the meat I picked out of things. Now who will eat the bits I pick out of my food!?I cry because he's not home, then I cry because when he does come home, he's not mine anymore, then I cry because I don't care if he loves me or not and I'm fine, then I cry because I do care if he loves me, then I cry because I can't remember why I'm crying anymore. When all that crying is done, I usually cry a little because I'm hungry, because all that crying uses a lot of energy.
It's not just crying, though. It's all manner of emotional outbursts. I was in a toy shop two days ago. I went there to cheer myself up a little. The young and old and depressed 20-somethings can all find a few minutes of joy in a toy shop. While I was there, and I had not been there very long, I walked past a large "Thomas the Tank Engine" toy. "Hi! I'm Taaamis!" the train tried to tell me, in a very strong American accent.

"No you're fucking not!" I raged (inwardly, thank God!) "You're an American. Thomas is English, and his name is said 'Thomas' not 'Taaamis', and also, you suck, and also FUCK YOU!" I don't know how it all stayed in my head, but it did, and I ran out of the toy shop and hid behind some shoes in Kmart for half an hour until I got over the horrible shock of those elongated American vowels. Wisdom of the Pretty Kitty: Americans love vowels and want them to last forever. The British hate vowels and want them over and done with as quickly as possible.
While I was hiding behind the shoes, a nice lady, about 55 or 60 years old, came and asked me if I was alright, because (sweet fucking HELL!) I'd started crying again. In my most grown up voice I said, "Yes'm. It's just... I just... EVERYONE HATES ME!"

I actually had a good day today. I did cry (pretty constantly for most of the day) but there was no sobbing, so it was harder for people to tell. I had a little money spare today, so I bought myself a nice lunch. I went to three different places but I ended up getting a toasted salad sandwich;pancakes with raspberries, ice cream, cream, chocolate fudge and icing sugar; and coffee and two mini cream puffs for about $8 all together. And I got a new dress for $10, too. It may be retail therapy, but I figure therapy is therapy, and therapy is good.

Signed with Love,
the Pretty Kitty.

Pennies from Heaven

Literally: pennies (old people, explain to the young people. I'll wait...) twenty cents has mysteriously appeared in my bank account. (If anyone from my bank is reading this, nothing has appeared in my anything. I'm making it up.) Seriously Twenty cents. When I found it today, it made me feel SO happy, because it's the best thing that's happened to me in a long time. Then I felt sad, because if getting 20c is the best thing that's happened to me in a long time, the rest of my life must be a big crunchy plate of crap.
I then went grocery shopping. I went to Coles, which is becomming delightfully affordable, even for wonderfully broke people who get excited about 20c. I bought enough food for myself for 3-5 days for under $7, and am no longer the worst vegetarian ever, as I am now the proud owner of three carrots, a pear, a potato two apples and a tomato... plus this thing that is a vegetable but I don't know what it is and it came in a soup pack.

I will be going up to Maryborough next week to visit my mum. I was hoping dad would be there too, but he'll be at work on an oil rig. I'm a little nervous about the trip up, coz I'll be taking more than one train, and I've never done that on my own before. I figure my dad does it all the time, and he once tried to make a call from the TV remote, so it can't be that difficult.
I'm not sure if I should start packing to move to Nana's now, or wait until I get back from Maryborough, so I can pack things in my travel bag as well? I may do half-and-half. Input on this vital decision is welcome from all members of the peanut gallery (old people, explain to the young people. I'll wait...).
I'll let you all know how my trip went once I get to Maryborough, if I can get library time to use the computer. I may have to pretend to be my mother and use her library card.

That's all for now,
Signed with love,
The Pretty Kitty

Very First Ever Blog...

Well, it's not my very first ever blog, it's just the first one I intend to update more than once every six months. I actually have about five blogs floating around out there. Maybe more. Some I forgot where to find them, Some I tried to delete, but they just won't die!



There's a lot happening in my life at the moment, so I thought I'd find an outlet. And this is it. My mindless dribble, for sentence after sentence, just to clear my head.

A little about me:

I'm qualified to work in childcare, but I can't find anyone to hire me. I'm a nice girl. They all suck, obviously.

I am the worst vegetarian ever. There are no vegetables in my house. If I were vegan, I would starve.
I've recently broken up with my boyfriend. I need to leave to house I've been living in with him, for various reasons, which I will get into later unless I forget to. I have the memory of a brick. The main reason is that he lives here too, but that's not the only reason. I'm now going to be living with my Nana for a while, which will be great, but she does try to feed me meat. Sometimes she makes a game out of it, by doing things like hiding little bits of meat in my mashed potatoes. She calls it "secret meat" and assures me it doesn't count.
While I'm living with my Nana, I'm going to try and plant a veggie garden. She doesn't know it yet. Nor does her gardener. My Nana's gardener is a very nice man. He's profoundly deaf, and my Nana feels she's being very community minded, having a deaf gardener. She talks about how deaf he is, and what a wonderful gardener he is even though he's deaf, until everyone listening wants to pull their own ears off and put them down the garbage disposal. Fun times.
While I'm there, I will be looking for a place to live that isn't with my Nana, but is still cheap.

The current home I'm living in is wonderful. There's a pool, two small children and a very good friend here. I'm leaving here because 1- I'm sharing a room with my now ex boyfriend, 2- Sometimes the kids spill things on the floor above my room and things drip on my face while I'm sleeping and 3- Living in this house is giving me a massive nicotine addiction. I'm not going to start smoking just because I'm addicted to my house!

I think that's all I have to complain about at the moment. Hopefully I'll check in again in about a week. :-)

Signed with love,
The Pretty Kitty.