Show me the mula

Another thing. I think I've established by now that, despite all my very best intentions, I just can't escape my innate miseryguts... ness... and all I can do is accept it and try not to be too moany. I will never have a pastel-coloured, charming blog; nor will I be deep and significant. My doom is to be flippant and jaded. I'm just too goddamn Australian.

Which is why I'm unashamed to present the pinnacle of Western literature, the meeting-place of many great minds: the indescribably sensational and regrettably literal sh*thole that is the Flinders Str Station bathrooms. Known widely as the worst in the city, they're my only option at that lolly-shop job you're acquainted with; and, since I take at least four bathroom breaks a shift to segment the monotony, they're something I've had to come to terms with. Naturally, much like Lizzie for Mr. Darcy, my hatred turned to passionate love. I want to share the enlightening things I've read there for two reasons, the first being that they deserve it. They're masterpieces. The second is that I want you to never have to go there yourselves. These bathrooms are disgusting.

Here's a selection of the best to enjoy in the comfort of your (clean, sweet-smelling) home. Fair warning: some of these are reasonably unpleasant, which you can understand given the context.

"'If high shcool's the best time of your life, I'm hanging myself with a jump-rope tonight' - Jackie-Onassis Kennedy" "Actually darling... it's 'Kennedy Onassis'." "Look closely... I added in the 'nassis Kennedy'. Her name isn't Jackie-Onassis. Darling." (Jackie-O is an Australian radio host that falls into the famous-for-being famous category.)

"You forgot the apostrofy." "Apostraphe!" "Noobs!! It's Apostrophe!!!"

"I don't hate you. I just lost all my respect for you."

"Show me the mula $$$" (My personal favourite.)

"Thank you all for the wonderful literature! you all make my purging much more entertaining and enlightening." (Despite the use of alliterated, double-superlatives, this little note is not courtesy of me. I'm engaged at the moment in a serious debate over if anyone truly cares about the various measaurements of a young man named Austin. I deemed it a little too inappropariate for here. I'm sure you'd agree.)

Unfortunately, I just realised that this is my last post before Christmas. What timing! I hope you had/are having/will have a great non-denominational, general festive period.

 

20/20

For reasons too tragic to disclose (I'm learning to be responsible and senior at my once-a-week lolly shop job) I was up at five today. I'm not really a morning person, as evidenced by the fact that once, still drunk with sleep, I took a swing at a friend and made her lip bleed. Wonderful, wonderful me.

But I pulled myself out of bed at the prospect of those three sweet minimum wage hours (remember from the last post how desperate I am?) and off I went. In a way, it was nice; there was a sense of community in the mutual hatred of that ungodly hour. It was mostly weary tradies (do other countries use that word?) and shocked-looking businesspeople... and me, poor little lolly girl. You might feel like I'm getting a bit off-topic in a moment, but stay with me. One thing was different on this trip, and it wasn't the number of folks fumbling with broadsheets. I had new contact lenses.

For the right sighted, contacts and glasses and complicated surgery all seem like such a hassle. Let me level with you: for a vast majority of the time, they are. Apart from the cred you earn from having prescription glass in those frames and being able to terrify eight year-olds by sticking fingers in your eye, it's not much joy. But when you have your script updated; that's when I pity the optically sound.

How can I describe what it's like to relive the novelty of first sight? Over time, as your eyes wither, you don't notice that details fade. But when your -2.75 script jumps to a -3.50, you abruptly realise that you've been missing out. Everything is suddenly clear-cut and beautiful. The first thing I do is look at leaves; what grows to be a blurred green mess becomes thousands of individual shapes, all crisply edged with individual shadows. Then everything comes in a rush: power lines and eaves on houses and the deliberate lines of a skyscraper. The morning helped: I managed, through dumb luck, to time my departure so that my ten-minute walk fell in that golden half hour, when everything is dripping with light and you feel like the air is thick with it. (Naturally, I was too busy gawping at No Parking signs to take any proper pictures; just these blurry hot air balloons from the train.)

Sometimes it's the small things, I suppose.a

 

This is getting Dickens-esque

 

I'm going to end up as a chimney-sweep. --Alright, I'm over-dramatising (as usual), but you've got to hear me out. I'm currently involved in this ridiculous job hunt -- and Lawd help me when I try to get employment in the sector I actually want a career in, because right now I'm nursing a serious case of the blues at Kmart's stony silence. It should not be this hard to get a retail job.

Some pretty interesting things have come out of my job hunt, though. I've been going in waves: first the undeniably better-paid world of sales and marketing, known also as "Hello, have you heard about the savings you can make if you switched to So-and-so Energy?" While I'm not sure how I would have enjoyed being hated for a living, it was a reality I never had to face as they were looking for people older and taller. I suppose I wouldn't buy energy from some bored-looking kid (it's just my face, there's not much I can do) who has to get other people to get the cereal down in the supermarket for her. I'm going to be very kind to door-to-door salespeople since I've had a brush with their world.

After finding myself without any interviews, I began panic and went through an application frenzy on the Internet. A lot of pride was forsaken that day; I admit to writing "...and I just LOVE LOVE LOVE coffee!" on my Starbucks application. Also, I made an application to Starbucks.

Finally, a couple of days ago, I gave up on glitzy, fast-paced dreams and faced reality: my local suburb. Williamstown is a seaside 'burb with a towny feel; everybody knows everybody's business. Naturally, we attract too many daytrippers and Hong Kong tourists not to have 47,000 cafes; so, resumes in hand, I stalked the streets. Williamstown's an old place, by colonial Australian standards, and we have many old and beautiful things, like the trees you can see up above. It turned out to be quite a pleasant afternoon, with the sun shining and the cookware store hiring. Kmart may have forsaken me, but hope endures.