New Years!

So another year has passed. Seriously, 2009 went ridiculously quickly, did anyone else notice that?
I suppose my year could be better summed up by my latest comic or the journal on my website. Did I mention I have a webcomic site?
But anyway, this year's been pretty good. I've learned some things. I've learned that peer pressure works. Not always for the worst, but never in ways you expect it to. I've learned that sometimes, just sometimes, he likes you as much as you like him. I learned the true meaning of Christmas, HA! Just kidding. I learned that Chemistry is really, really hard, but really, really satisfying when you get it right. And I've learned that sometimes, you just have to let it be.
I've also come to realise something. I'm completely freaking amazing. That's right. Goodbye low self-concept, goodbye self-doubt, and goodbye body issues! For now at least.
This year's been a year of inside jokes. From "Hayden is a tool," to Laquisha, to "IT CAN'T BE IMPROVED!" to "computerprogrammers," to "YES Guitarist!" to shazipper, to anything and everything to do with Ziggy and our being the same person, to all the jokes at E Goldman's expense, to ruddyruddyruddyruddyrudd, to sour cream and onion pringles, to the sponge front door, to the all-out backhand war between me and Kris, to sipping coffee after saying things to add emphasis, to "I have six pockets," to "ooh, ahh, interesting, fish, otter, poo, Alex," to "I can't die, I haven't read the 7th Harry Potter book!" to Jellyfish Headquarters, to Andre's Angels, to LEEEEELA LA-LA-LA-LA-LEELA!, to "I MADE IT MYSELF!" to "I need some industrial-strength orange juice," to "runs in the family," to "aww...too soon?"
This year, I've been to Europe, got my first A in English since forever, had everything I own turn to fail, started a website, cried on stage for the first time, completely improvised my way through Ibsen's "A Doll's House," pulled several A-Standard assignments out of my arse, worked my arse off to complete several C-Standard assignments, ate cheesecake, mango and tirimisu for the first time, became the best cymbal player ever, was introduced to Quentin Tarantino films, figured out that I'm on the pirate side of pirates vs ninjas and entered the larval stage of the classic rock snob, thanks to Meredith who introduced me to The Beatles.
All I can say is, even though it'll be tricky, I hope 2010 out-awesomes 2009.

The ghost of Christmas Was Yesterday.

The lesser-known Christmas ghost.
Before I begin this blog, I'd like to say that I may have made the mistake of the afternoon. I forgot that I'd left my tea brewing in the kitchen and left it there for about twenty minutes. Not only this, but I used two teabags because I'm impatient. Not only this, but they were extra strong teabags. Needless to say, I can now see through time.
Anywhoozle. Christmas texts are interesting beasts. People you haven't spoken to in years suddenly let you know that they still have your number and send you a "merry xmas." Every now and again, there's someone who spelt "Christmas" as a whole word, just putting in that bit of extra effort. Now, I went to considerably more effort with my Christmas texts, as did some people I know (Ziggy being the queen of my inbox at present...getitgetit, it's a pun) but my dad's friend Mike probably got the best Christmas text in the history of Christmas texts. "Merry xmas spunkie, love the lesbians." This is amazingness in text message format, which I got to experience because I'd just spent ten minutes trying to teach him how to use his iPhone. I don't even have an iPhone, I've got what is generally referred to as a dad-phone. Not even my dad has a dad-phone. He's got a blackberry, I've got a dad-phone. Where is the justice in the world? I'll tell you, it's in the fact that I have the best text message tone in the universe, and it went off twenty-four times yesterday. If you've had the privilege of hearing my text tone, you will appreciate why I don't want a new phone. If not, you can only imagine its brilliance.
I lost track of this blog slightly, I blame the super-tea.

Christmas 'n' stuff

"Why do you hate Christmas so much?"
The question was fired at me on the second last Thursday of school by Mr Goldman, my guitar teacher, after he plonked the most ridiculous piece of sheet music for Silent Night in front of me and expected me to badly (and grudgingly) sight-read it, not try to stab myself to death with the stand. Now, what he didn't know was that earlier that day, Mr Andre had given me a grand total of five Christmas Carols to learn over the holidays. I don't have the heart to tell Mr Andre that I hate Christmas Carols beyond comprehension. I do, however, have the heart to complain to Mr Goldman about anything he expects me to hack my fingers to bits on my rusty guitar strings with, and this was no exception.
I suppose, when you think about it, it could be easy to think that I hate Christmas. The carols fill me with such fury that if I'd had a toxic waste related incident many years ago, I'd surely become the Incredible Hulk. I never believed in Santa Claus, which, I suppose, saved me from a whole lot of heartbreak. My parents are divorced, although this just means more presents. And, living in Australia, the temperatures are anywhere between ludicrous and is-the-sun-god-just-spiting-me-now. Being a pennyless student, I can never actually get people gifts. My Aunty always used to make me and my two cousins do some kind of god-awful song-and-dance type thing, and looking back on them, they make me feel physically ill; and finally, my dad's place is on the same street as about three churches, so there's the bells to wake me up at stupid o'clock.
But, despite all this, I like Christmas. Whether it's the fact that I get to see all my family members at once (the ones I like at least), or the presents (yes, I like being materialistic, it's great, step-relatives try to buy my love!), or the Tripod Christmas album, or the fact that it gets me two months off school, or my Dad's Christmas Rocket, I like Christmas.
So, in the spirit of multiculturalism and not trying to spell the various end-of-year holidays, Merry Whatever.

PAINFUL DEATH!

Earlier tonight, I had misfortune of watching the trailer to the American version of Death At A Funeral. DEATH is definately the key word, while AT A FUNERAL are merely three sub-words to further emphasise DEATH.
I'd seen 500 Days Of Summer, I'd watched Family Guy, I'd read Looking For Alaska and Paper Towns and thought "hey, maybe the American entertainment industry isn't that bad!" Then they came out with their mutilation of Death At A Funeral and caused me to lose all faith in humanity.

God, I'm Brilliant!

No...seriously!

December 8th: I SAID HEY-OH!

December the 8th, 2009, may just go down in history as the greatest day ever. There is only one way it could have possibly been made better, and that is if when I got home, David Tennant was in the kitchen making waffles. An absurd hypothetical, you may say, but that's how good my day was.
Showcase:
I had my aaa showcase today. Everyone kicked some serious lower-back. Shoutouts to Mateuse, my scene partner who is MADE OF SUNSHINE.

But more importantly...
GREEN DAY:
Yes. I've now seen Green Day in concert. I've been waiting four years for this evening, and it finally occurred.
Billie Joe Armstrong (the frontman for all you noobs) exerted more energy in the first song alone than I've ever required in my entire life. He proves, without question, that the more successful and famous you become, the less justification you need for ADD. He bombarded the audience, between songs, with a super soaker, toilet paper and even a T-Shirt cannon, randomly covered snippets of songs, from Highway to Hell, to Stairway to Heaven, to Eine Kleine Nachtmusik.
Now, here's an honest personal confession. The first time I ever heard American Idiot was also the first time I spontaneously air-guitarred. It then seemed only fitting that during American Idiot, Ayla (who has the credit of introducing me to Green Day, back in year 8) and I spontaneously air-guitarred. That was some damn fine air-guitarring.
Anyone who's seen Bullet in a Bible will agree that King For A Day is probably their most spectacular song. And yes, it was played, much to my enthusigasm (a word I made up which seems to have an effect). But no, it did not morph itself into Always Look on the Bright Side of Life. It morphed, after Shout of course, into several songs, including Hey Jude. Hey freaking Jude. Hey Jude has never been experienced until it is sung by thousands of people at a Green Day concert.
Something about me is that I tend to miss brilliant moments of things for one reason or another. But not this time. I have seen the ass of Billie Joe Armstrong. How many people can say that? Everyone who was at the concert, because he mooned the audience.
Before I faceplant into my keyboard, perhaps I should go to bed. Nighty night.

My cat is sitting on my jeans.

There is a small furry animal in my lap. Her name is Polly or Mini, depending on what everyone feels like calling her at the time, and she is steadily turning my black jeans white using her amazing shedding powers. She is also holding on to my arm, which means I'm forced to use my left arm, my non-dominant arm, for everything, because if I move my right arm too much, she'll bite it. I'd really like to get a drink, but I'm trapped under this cat. All 4 kilograms (approximately) of her is pinning me down. I've been sitting in this position so long that I have pins and needles all the way up my left leg, while my right leg has been in direct line of the fan for so long that it's probably freezing over.
I now know what it means to be whipped.