It's true, I'm obsessed with Allie Brosh. And it would seem, with an average of more than 100 comments per post, a lot of other people on the internet are too.
I have an insofar unexplained tendency to mimic those who a) I spend too much time with (this is why I say things like "ain't nothing but a thang, heeey"), or b) I read too much of - this is best exhibited in my "Anyway." topic indicators, something I stole off of Jonathan Safran Foer. On a side note, holy crap does anyone else get annoyed at the array of possible spellings for the name "Jonathan"?! Good grief!
Anyway.
The good thing about Allie Brosh is that I will never come even close to being able to mimic her deranged artwork, or her hilarity, so you guys are getting off pretty lightly.
My sister is getting married. You might not even know that I have a sister (you'd even be forgiven for thinking I don't have a family, since I pretty much NEVER talk about them), but I do and her name is Louise. She's marrying a guy named Nick in February of next year, and I've recently begun agonising over what I should do with my hair on her big day. I know, I know - it's ridiculous. In my defense, however, it is the middle of the holidays, I am so so bored, and I am also incredibly conceited and appearance-driven, so you really shouldn't be so surprised.
Since my sister is currently studying for a Master's degree in psychology (I know, I hate pyschology too), her wedding planning efforts are well, intermittent. She hasn't decided on a colour for her bridesmaids' dresses, which is a problem for me because it means I can't choose a colour to wear, either. Say I go for, I don't know, magenta. What if she decides on tangerine for her bridesmaids? I'm sure she won't, because even though she's doing psychology, I don't truly believe that she's an idiot. But she might... and then we'll clash, and I don't want the reason I stand out at my sister's wedding to be because I clash with her servants. Oh, bridesmaids.
An obvious solution to this matter of extreme and all-encompassing importance is to wait for my sister to choose a colour for her bridesmaids' dresses, and then make an informed decision based on that. But I don't want to! I don't care that it's 11:10pm on a Sunday evening. I want to choose the colour for my dress right now.
Anyway.
Haha, I did that on purpose.
Has anyone tried Shellac nails? I'm not going to lie. I am tempted. You probably know about my obsession with nail polish (and as such, you may be astonished to learn that I'm currently sporting naked nails. Take note. It doesn't happen often). I read about Shellac nails in the weekend insert of the newspaper - in the beauty column, which I one day intend to take over, because the current writer is just so average - and since then I've been toying with the idea of taking a stroll (yes, a stroll, for reasons I will explain shortly) down Casabella Lane and getting Shellac nails in a colour like Taffy Pink or Indian Rhubarb (or maybe not Indian Rhubarb, since I hate both the country and the ... what is rhubarb? Is it a fruit or a vegetable? I can't believe I don't know!). Since Shellac supposedly lasts fourteen days, I'm going to have to make a really good decision about what colour I want. I've never had to commit to anything for fourteen days before! Unless you count my tattoo. Or maybe my boyfriend or my degree.
And now, why I have to walk to Casabella Lane.
O.M.G.
You know my car? The 1984 (or so, I've never actually been 100% sure on what year it is) Honda Civic that may have followed you home more than once? Yep, I had to leave it in Waipu the other day.
I was coming home from my fun-filled trip to Whangarei Heads when I happened to notice an unusual amount of smoke pouring from my exhaust pipe (in my rear view mirror, which was probably in all honesty, actually a glance up to check my eyebrows). I felt a little bit uneasy until I saw even more smoke seeping out from under my bonnet. And then I screamed and pulled over. I was somewhere close to where the red X on the map below is drawn.
There's a chance that unless you're from Northland, you have no idea where that is, but it's just far enough from Whangarei for it to be annoying. Luckily, my mum knows I'm completely car-illiterate and bought me an AA membership so within a few hours of parking up by Bridge 2898 over the Tauroa Stream (amazingly, this didn't help the AA representative pinpoint my location) a tow-truck driver arrived and dropped me and my car off in Waipu. He advised that my car was done for.
Last year, my car nearly exploded when I drove it home from a week of shooting (film, not animals) in Katikati. Amazingly, it survived that ordeal, but this time I wasn't so lucky. I had to leave my car in Waipu, where it's due to be picked up and salvaged for parts some time this week.
Since then, I've been relying on my feet and my mum for transport. It's been kind of crappy, but anyway that's why I have to walk to Casabella Lane on Tuesday. Sigh.
It's a hard-knock life.
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