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Holy Shit

It turns out I don’t “need” the internet as much as first thought. Of course, it’s certainly something to stem boredom, or in most cases to stem the tide of work that I should be doing. Lately I’ve been substituting internet addiction with GTA3 addiction (or supplementing, or both), which is fitting in just fine since I’ve also been substituting Coca Cola with NoDoz, and clean crockery and cutlery with empty pizza boxes and sharp sticks.

Last night, hepped up on NoDoz and ice-cream, Garth and I achieved the impossible — we cleaned the dishes. Considering we had run out of every kind of dish in the house, and were using such ridiculous substitutes as a sugar bowl instead of a bowl of any normal description, the cleaning was a step in the right direction. It’s also led us to the creation of new rules —

  1. if there’s a dish in the sink that is perhaps suited to your current dish-needing situation, rinse and use it rather than dirty a new one
  2. Always cover dishes that go into the microwave
  3. Do not let Richie eat anything while he is in the house. Not only does he devour things that do not belong to him and that were strictly off-limits (case in point: Lee’s apple strudel), he also never finishes anything, leaving a bite or two in the dish because of some strange neuroses of his

I also washed my clothes, which I had run out of. I was roaming the streets of Joondalup in a wet towel most days, and frequently went to work wrapped in my doona. If I had an important engagement I’d put on my good shoes and just go naked. It seemed like the best option, really. Now that everything is washed, I’ve decided to stick with the naked thing... mostly because it has been raining and raining and raining since the day I put the washing on the clothesline, so “dryness” isn’t really something I have in large amounts. NB: The preceeding paragraph is a damn lie. While I did wash my clothes, no excessive nudity was indulged.

I’ve revised the list, making additions and subtractions, perhaps even explaining certain choices. It’s still entirely impossible to define an order, though. I assure you that it cannot be done. If I were required to build a Top 10 punk songs, or Top 10 songs featuring the lyrical stylings of Joe Pesci then it’d be an easier job, but trying to order your 10 favourite songs of all time, from “worst” greatest song to “greatest” greatest song is a ridiculous and unachievable feat. So here’s the digs, ordered alphabetically