My Journal

Which Discworld Character are you like (with pics)
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You scored as Lord Havelock Vetinari

You are Lord Vetinari! Supreme ruler of Ankh-Morpork! Cool, calculated, and always in control. You graduated from the assassins guild, but failed a course on stealth and camouflage, because the professor never saw you there (even though you attended every class). You always seem to know what everyone is thinking, and after a conversation with you, people feel that they have just escaped certain death.

Lord Havelock Vetinari

75%

The Librarian

63%

Death

56%

Gytha (Nanny) Ogg

56%

Rincewind

56%

Commander Samuel Vimes

50%

Greebo

50%

Esmerelda (Granny) Weatherwax

44%

Carrot Ironfounderson

38%

Cohen The Barbarian

25%

You scored as Loach. Loach, lazy, lonely, clean and skinny

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Goldfish

75%

Loach

75%

Plecostomus

63%

Betta

38%

Angelfish

38%

Fancy Guppy

13%

Clownfish

13%

What Fish Are You?
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A while ago I went to a job interview. Well, that was the plan. In reality I was bundled into a car, driven half an hour to the middle of suburbia and told to follow some guy around while he went door to door, selling home phone plans to soggy eyed housewives. It was awful. This was a Saturday, so we were dragging people away from the only time off they had all week to force feed them a pitch, a great deal, guaranteed.
I felt dirty, like a cockroach scurrying through someones pantry or the ants that settle on my dirty laundry. I didn't need to know what pyjamas the girl in no.97 wears. I don't want to talk to the Dad of no.10, and hear a child crying in the background. I'm busy. Not interested. This isn't the right time. It was the worst kind of intrucive.
Did I mention that it was raining? My hair became a big frizzy afro when it wasn't dripping wet. And my shoes (my beautiful job interview shoes that screamed sophisticated yet spunky) would squelch onto the grass as the spiked heal pierced the ground, meaning I'd have to free myself everytime I wanted to take another agonising step. And they were agonising. These shoes were designed to look pretty peaking out the bottom of some office desk, not for cross country trekking though manicured lawns and garden beds.
I just wanted to go home. And thats the worst thing, that I actually sorta was. See, the suburbia I'd been driven to was mine. My suburb. I knew those houses, I'd seen these people walking their dogs and washing their cars. I could have said "screw you, and your funky monkey", walked round the corner and been home in five minutes. I was miserable, there was no way in hell I was going to take the job, so why didn't I?
Well, here is the point of my story. This says all you'll ever need to know about me. I didn't stay out of a feeling of sticktoitness. I didn't stick around because once I start something I see it through, no matter how crappy. I don't have moral fibre.
I stayed because I was asked to by some guy in a suit. Because it would have taken a small amount of backbone to say "Thank you so much for this opportunity, but you can stick this job up your ass". For the same reason I was the teacher's pet at school - because I just can't do the wrong thing. The unexpected thing. Rebel. Its not within me to forget my homework. I am, and I shake with disgust as I write this, a good girl.
So, miserable and tired and with wet underwear, I was driven back to the office where another guy in a suit offered me a job that I wouldn't take ever. Then I went back home. Again.

I hate it. I hate being nice.

I really have neglected this journal havent I?
This is the start of some half-assed regular updating.

Erm.
Well.
Yes.

I hate summer. Tis the season when humungus cockroaches from hell come out to play, hordes of the hideous beasts scurry through kitchens intent on their plans to 1)Find the biscuits and destroy 2)Run up table/human legs 3)Take over the world. Just this second one did a tap dance above my monitor, was
this (<--------------------------->) big I swear. I squeeled and did the "Icked out" thang, while Dad just sat and grinned at me. Bastard. I managed to trap the ugly little twat under a cup (the cockroach, not Dad) and now its making painfilled scurrying noises from under its porcelain prison.

Why do they always go after me? Are they attracted to my pine fresh scent? Does my voice reach those legendary octaves only cockroaches can hear, and I call to them every time I use this angelic voicebox? Do they realise how hollow my head is and wish to enter it, via the ears, filling the cavity with straw and droppings, and using it to nest in, to raise their young in, and as a place to house their weekly poker night in.

There is nothing more unnerving than getting into bed and seeing a nasty big cockroach walk across your doona cover. Hmmm, thats not really true, but still it happened to me once and I've never forgotten.

I bought the black books 3 season box set yesterday. Ooooohhh yeah.

Words I cant spell: tomorrow, school, porcelain, alcohol, beautiful.

Words that sound dirty but aren't: affluent, gazebo

Since Im not an interesting person, or at least the events of my life are almost as dull as my wit, I shall just assume that no-one will visit my sad little blog and that I shall be writing just for me. Sigh.

Still, I always wanted to write a journal, but never had the energy to stick with it. I got one when I was like 10, wrote 3 entries then gave up on it. Screw feelings and memories, I'd rather spend time watching TV.

I'm ment to be doing my assignment right now. Since I'd prefer to make kebabs out of my eyeballs than start it, I am instead procrastinating by starting this log, stardate 200904. Oh yeah, and I live in Australia so I do my dates in the logical day-month-year format rather than the screwy way you Americans seem to revel in. Crazy, crazy people.

I'm a uni student, as opposed to the other billion uni students at live journal, and am studying to be a teacher. Which is funny since my demeaner demands no respect from anyone, especially small children, and i left any organisational skills I had back in primary school (along with my self-respect and dress sense)

Rock on

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