My cat is sitting on my hands.

That title has nothing to do with this blog, but I feel the need to blog. Why? Because I miss it so.

Dreams
So, I read up on some symbols that are recurring in dreams and, quite frankly, I'm not impressed. A lot of them just lack imagination. Here's a classic example, if you kiss someone in a dream, it means you're quite fond of them, but not necessarily in love with them. i.e. you appreciate their existence. If you go to kiss someone, but don't, it means you're not sure how they feel about you. NO SHIT, SHERLOCK! I thought all this psychic stuff was NOT supposed to sound like anyone could do it.

The Adventures of Izzie
That's my website.

iPod
Mine is being a sillyface.


Trousers
Are an important part of everyday attire.

The Formal
Well, last year I made a fuss, but this year I'll shut up. Mainly because I got my dress today and IT'S SO PRETTY! I don't like wearing dresses, but sweet jumping Jehovah, it's awesome.


Fizzled Out
That's what this blog did.

Toilet Guy

My grandma and I were driving home from school the other day, when we passed a peculiar sight. My neighbourhood is doing a rubbish-collection thing, and someone had put out a toilet. This is entertaining enough as it is, but when we drove past, there was a dude who wouldn't have been any older than 15 standing there looking at it, and a woman in a 4WD on the other side of the street looking at him. We figure that the guy had been sent by his mum to pick up the toilet, and he really, REALLY didn't want to. The situation probably wasn't helped by the fact that Grandma and I were staring at him, on account of how entertaining the whole scene was, so he did what any normal person in this situation would do. He waved to us.
It was an awkward kind of "hey there...it's exactly what it looks like" wave, so naturally, I waved back.
Dear Toilet Guy, I know it's not your fault. I know the circumstances were beyond your control and that you wouldn't, of your own free will, stand in front of a toilet which is placed on someone's nature strip.
This blog is my tribute to Toilet Guy.

Are there immunisations for that?

A real interaction between my father and me while something about Justin Beiber was on the news.
The News: *plays snippet of Beiber 'song'*
Dad: *enters room* Oh god, who's this latest homogonised disney pop princess?
Me: Justin Beiber.
Dad: Justin? Isn't that a boys' name?
Me: You'd think that, wouldn't you.

Now, apart from the fact that Beiber Fever sounds like a deadly disease and that there's an entire website dedicated to lesbians who, through no fault of their own, look like him and the fact that I'm more scared of his fangirls than I am of Twilighters, WHAT BRIGHT SPARK COMPARED HIM TO THE BEATLES?!
[Yes, that was worth the pseudo-interrobang. I'm just that outraged.]
Nobody, and I mean NOBODY makes that kind of comparison and gets away with it. When you insult Izzie's favourite band, three of the most influential composers of the 20th Century (and Ringo Starr), the reason you can misspell "beetle" and get away with it, there will be hell to pay.
Hell hath no fury like Izzie when you insult The Beatles.

Also, just to say, Ringo Starr wrote Octopus's Garden, so think about that. He did do something apart from play the drums and have a silly accent.

Also also, who hasn't seen my website yet? http://theadventuresofizzie.com/

Target sighted/crazy random happenstance.

Subject: Really hot guy

Sighting 1
Location: JB Hi-Fi, comedy DVD section
Subject was dressed in a blue suit and brown trenchcoat. Upon closer inspection, Izzie noticed that he was cosplaying as the tenth Doctor (only exemplified further by his David Tennant-esque hair and sideburns).

Sighting 2
Location: Newsagent
Subject was buying a phone card and mars bar and engaged in conversation with cashier, who he seemed to know, discussing his uni course, how he was making more money with shows he was in than when he had a part-time job last year. Leads to conclusions that Subject is an actor/performer of other sort/berlesque dancer.

Sighting 3
Walking along Queen Street, crossing at busy intersection. Subject was listening to music and holding a plastic bag with his brown trenchcoat neatly folded inside. Eye contact was made, smiles were exchanged. Mental note was made to blog about occurrance.


And now: a crazy random happenstance.
If, today, I hadn't been walking through that particular arcade at that particular time (smiling at Subject), after pausing briefly to give change to that particular busker, which in itself was after waiting for the crossing sign to change, instead of simply crossing when the traffic stopped, then I wouldn't have intercepted my school drama teacher and an old friend, who had moved to Melbourne, as they stepped out of Tiffany and Co. Now, what they were doing in Tiffany and Co, I'm not sure. Why Sam was doing in Brisbane after having moved to Melbourne, I can only speculate. But holy crap, what a crazy random happenstance.

Love.

My drama teacher at the School of Excellence set homework for the class to ask for people's different opinions on the subject of love. It's been interesting getting people's opinions (even though, really, I could have guessed the responses of some of my friends and certain friends could have given more depth) but it's kind of made me wonder what I think. I've never known for sure what I think, I think I know, but I think I disagree. While I agree, to some extent, with the Beatles in that "love is all you need," [obviously, for some things, you would need skills and/or time and/or a forklift, but hey] I disagree with Carrie Bradshaw in that love should be, "inconvinient and all-consuming."
I've always felt that love was something that happened to other people. Not that I'm bitter about this, I've never actively chased it down, nor expected it to chase me, especially seeing what idiots certain friends of mine became when attacked by it. Though I'm confident I'll not become such an idiot, it's still a scary thought.
I'm not sure what I'd do for love. Unlike Meat Loaf, I wouldn't do 'anything for love' [and I definately wouldn't do that]. I don't quite know what I would do, but I know what I wouldn't do. Provided I was in a position where I could up and shift, perhaps I would move country [within reason and only if I were actually planning on spending my life with that person]. I wouldn't change/take up religion, give up a job, kill or die for love and my dignity probably wouldn't survive if I hurled myself at a person immediately [who am I? Juliet?].
For every one of my friends who have the view that love is this shining light that you should search for, live for, die for, I have a cynical friend who I can sit in a corner and grumble with at parties. For every grandmother, disappointed that I didn't dramatically devote all my time and attention and the rest of my life to that guy I was dating for a while last year, I have a dad with my best interests in mind. For every person-who-lives-in-my-house-that-my-mother-seems-fond-of who hints that I might be a lesbian, I have a blog into which I can pour my poorly-constructed thoughts into.
As far as how I feel about love, I think I'll continue with the Modus Operandi I've had for the last 17 years [which, coincidentally, is the M.O. I have with assignments). I'll get around to it.

16, a year in review.

If anyone wishes to sing to me "you are sixteen going on seventeen..." they have exactly 1 hour and 37 minutes to do so. Because that is when the song will no longer apply to me.
I'll be honest, at this time last year, I was signifigantly more pumped than I am now. Maybe I'm just tired, maybe I'm just wondering why it's taken me this long to get 8 hours on my learners.
I'm curious about 17. 16, you can drive, 18 you can drink, but what the hell is 17? It's the cheese in the coming-of-age sammich. Actually, I could probably think of a better metaphor...no, I can't, I'll just work with the sammich.
Without the cheese, the sammich is just two slices of bread, perhaps with a bit of mayo. Mayo doesn't make a sammich, mayo makes two slices of bread two slices of bread with mayo. Although, the metaphor doesn't fully encapsulate the fantasticness of these slices of bread. Maybe it's like...really really good bread. Like olive bread or naan bread or something. But naan bread would be horrible with cheese and mayo...
Okay, 17 is the daal squished into the pockets of the naan bread of the coming-of-age sammich. The naan bread can stand alone, delisciously enough, but daal needs the naan to make sense.
It's okay if that metaphor didn't make sense to you, because according to Foucault, that's what you've come to expect of me.* And according to Wimsatt and Beardsley, you've probably just committed an 'intentional fallacy' by assuming you know what I mean. And you know, that's probably just provided a unique insight to my current mental state. I'll stop now.
ANYWAY! 16's been a pretty good age. I learned a bunch of stuff about myself, and my friends, and my relations. I did my first rebellious action (I didn't have a cause, but I got chips out of it, so that makes it worth it. Totally freaking worth it), launched a webcomic site (how many people can say they did that at 16?), almost (accidentally) joined the marching band, started something I loved, stopped something I hated and learned to cha-cha.
As it turns out, I have about the same musical taste as my English teacher. This is off-topic, but still awesome. We had a discussion about The Dandy Warhols and how we felt about this year's Triple J Hottest 100. How awesome? Very awesome!
Anywhoozle (age 16 I finally stopped hating the phrase "anywho" thanks to sxephil), there's a bunch of stuff I probably should've done at age 16, like build up more than 8 hours driving...T_T...but hey, I've got 17 to do all that stuff, because I doubt I can do it all in the next 1 hour and 18 minutes...Sweet Jumping Jehova...

*To fully understand this, you need to know something about Foucault's theories about author-function, particularly attribution. That's right, I'm blogging my English Extension homework.

Thing of the Week/ Mr Foster's Box of Joy

My Thing for this week is a paintbrush.
Allow me to explain.
Thing of the Week began way back in year 10, when it was just Hug Week. I'd written "HUG TIME" on a heap of cards and was giving them to people all that week, and for a full year, one of them was stuck to the fan in the art room, until, late last year it was tragically torn off.
At one point last year, I came across a rather large amount of string in House Group one fine Monday. This string remained in my blazer pocket for a whole week. I whipped the string out at guitar ensemble...they weren't impressed. But some of us did find some use for the string when we decided to lasso Mars in an attempt to pull the earth further away from the sun. And yes, we did think it would work.
This week's Thing came into my posession during Extension English this afternoon. I was minding my own business, doing my review and defence (*SIGH*) when suddenly, there appears Mr Foster. And what should Mr Foster be holding? Mr Foster's Box of Joy. A box he had while he was teaching primary school full of pens, pencils and weirdly shaped erasers. I do believe the paintbrush I comandeered from kicks some serious lower-back.