Tea. Sleeping Kittens. The Smell of Old Books. Expensive Cheese. Painted Toenails. Lounging Around. Coffee Beans. Weddings. Poached Eggs. Napping. Candles. Secrets. Photographs. Harry Potter. Sex. Hand Holding. Fabulous Hair. Ribbons. Dinosaurs. Rage comics. Air Guitar. Montages. Swooning. Red Grapes. Sleeping. Paper Bags. Stockings. Canvas. Daydreaming. Piles of Book's. Cheap Dvd's. Cheeky Emails. Hand-made anythings. Whispering. Red Hair. Roller Derby. Jam. Laughing. Raspberry Lollies. Hugs. Letter's. Family. Batman. Flowers. Avocado. Art. Text's. Love.

Wednesday, November 5, 2008

I <3 Huffing.

To Huff or not to Huff, that is indeed the question.

What is Huffing?
Well, i just googled that shit and apparently Huffing is the following.

1) Breathing fumes in order to get high.

2)The act of putting a splash of solvent or gasoline in a bad and repeatedly breathing in and out of the bag.

Usually accomplished with the inhalant of choice, silver or gold spray paint, which is sprayed onto a sock and then inhaled. Silver or gold spray paint is thought to have more solvent in it, making for a better high.

The huff er sometimes gets the paint all over their face.

Huffing causes severe brain damage and seriously afflicted individuals can be seen falling down and bruising themselves.
You can learn a lot about huffing from that great TV show, COPS.

This is not the Huffing i know and love!
This is how the Dictionary of Laura defines Huffing.

1) Placing yourself in the vicinity of a person and/or animal that is so ridiculously, adorably, cute, edible, NOM NOMish, that you feel the need to grab a handful of it and inhale said cuteness into your nostrils.
Thus giving yourself a delicious feeling of well being and peace with all the world.

To Huff. Oh yes, is to be at one with the world.
That is my kind of Huffing ladies and gentlemen.
But the problem is in the last few days, i may have huffed too much, therefore losing that deliriously happy feeling one gets from inhaling pure unadulterated cute.
I actually found myself Huffing a photo of Rachel's new kitten the other day, which means i may have gone too far.
I need Huffing related rehab. I need to set myself a Huff limit for the day, because right now i'm Huffing things into the thousands, i'm a Huffing whore, a Harlot, a Huffing crack addict....
The shame.

I'm off to the pound again.
Not a good start.


Sunday, June 22, 2008

We came. We drank. We conquered. We left others with the clean up.

So, I've just been on my first official road trip since gracing the humble shores of Queensland over a year ago.
The destination was Caragh's 21st party in Brooklet, somewhere near China.
There were two cars, six people, four million photographs, two beautiful beaches, a big breakfast, bad singing, two banana's and the greatest costume party i have ever attended.

The convoy?
Super Ted Scott.

Rainbow Brite Diana.

Strawberry Shortcake Me.

Wally Tyaka.

Mario Karl.

and Luigi Ross.

We first stopped off at Coolangatta beach, for general swooning and photo taking of the views/attempts at amusing photographs on the border between NSW and QLD.
When we got to the border, our laziness and lack of creativity stopped us from taking said amusing photographs, so instead we entertained ourselves by putting Karl in a trolley, and taking photo's of the sticker we had stuck on Ross' back an hour ago. Oh the maturity.

Onwards to Nimbin for a mighty feast of burgers (and Earl Grey Tea for Ross) and to my great delight, offers of every type of weed available. I have only heard rumours of Nimbin, and i was suspicious as to whether people people were exaggerating the blatant offers of drugs. So needless to say, i was freaking over-joyed with the eight offers of weed as i walked through the streets. My favorite was the fourteen year old who circled us on his push bike while offering us cookies. JOY!

One of the most amusing parts of the evening was where we got hopelessy lost in the middle of Brooklet bush. We spent an hour driving back and forth in the dark up a road where there was no reception, stopping every now and then to stand on the car roofs in the vain hope of just one bar, we found two Cujo dogs that chased us down the road and a perfect setting for the beginning of a serial killer movie. Our cold and cranky nerves were well and truely frayed, there was talk of going home, talk of CP, talk of physical violence towards the people who had supplyed the directions until we found out that there are two roads called the same. We were on the party-less road. Sadly, the only thing that kept the passengers going was a dodgy a mizone bottle full of warm orange juice and vodka. Shaking our fists at the other road we sheepishly we turned around and ventured forth to the real road, vowing never to mention the freak third dimensional mystery road that we had spend time wandering aimlessly up and down.

So, when we FINALLY got to Caragh's, there was a frantic flurry of primary colours, pins, moustaches and furry bear heads and we were ready.
Everyone made such an amazing effort on their costumes which lasted less than two hours before the bizarre mixing and matching began.
(I will say that my favorite photo of the night was that of Danger mouse with the head of Pink Panther making out with Super Ted. Oh yes. My fantasy has been fulfilled)

It was a fabulous party.
We looked fabulous.
Here -

Here -

and Here -

Go nuts.

Saturday, June 14, 2008

RIght now.

- It is WAY to early in the morning and i am Far too seedy feeling for Target to be playing 'Girls Just Want To Have Fun'
- I want a chicken roll.
- Shattered that my Laptop is too old and crappy for Ashley to download all the Sim's games in the universe.
- Target should not sing. Ever.
- Neither should Flykicks.
- My need for an iced coffee has taken over my need for a chicken roll.
- I am intregued by Ashley's talk of Bucket 'o' Curry.

That's about it.
I feel the need to blog about the world and such.
But the terrible singing, combined with being trapped in a movie cinema and being made to watch Speed Racer for two and a half hours last night has murdered my creativity.


Wednesday, June 11, 2008

Things that make me really happy right now....

In no particular order.

$8 movie tickets.
Video's of kittens falling alseep on YouTube.
Black Tea with honey.
The smell of old, old books.
Giggling like a school girl.
Fresh, clean bedsheets.
Claire, Flykicks and Little Truck.
Hug's from Claire, Flykicks and Little Truck.
19 cent prints at Big W.
Individually wrapped dark chocolate.
The smell of coffee grind at work.
Flykicks talking like WALL-E.
Shiny, red nail polish.
Text messages of love.


Monday, May 26, 2008

Eimörder (Egg Killer in German, apparently)

So. If egg's had a world in which they all live happily, going about their little egg lives, living with egg families and having egg children, I would be Egg Hitler.
Let me explain,
I word at a restaurant that serves all day breakfasts. We go through A LOT of eggs. Fat people love eggs. Fat people love getting bacon and eggs at any time of the day. Therefore, on Friday afternoon, to prepare for the fat people and their egg-fest, I premake an egg mix ready for scrambling.
This is no easy feat. A typical weekend uses about three boxes of eggs (125 eggs each box) and 4 bottles of cream (8 litres), so a fuck load of scramby egg mix.
The whole process disgusts me.
You pretty much get a giant tub, pour the four bottles of cream into it, then proceed to crack the five million eggs into that tub too, add one electric mixer and TADDAAAA, Egg genocide. It's mind numbing really. All i can think about is the tiny little yolks, plopping to their creamy death with millions of their friends and family members. (yes, i do have an overactive imagination thank-you-very-much)

Now i have been working there for three weeks, and i have done this mass murdering of eggs three times, which means i have cracked one thousand one hundred and twenty five eggs in my short time making breakfasts. A tragedy.
But that is not all. Oh no.
On Saturday, i set about making my usual egg mix for the fatties. After i had cracked 375 eggs into the giant tub, and poured the cream, mixed, labelled blah blah blah, my boss comes up to me and tells me that the cream i used to make my scramby eggs of death is no good, and that there was a mixup with the ordering and that i will have to throw away the bottles of mix i had just spent the last hour creating and re-make the whole fucking bunch.
Oh yes.
SO, i ended up doubling my usual genocide and ruining the dreams of 750 eggs.
I am going to be walking alone one day and i am going to be pecked to death by the skinny, half starved little balding battery hens that spend days shitting out the eggs i feed to fat people all day.

Anyway, just thought i would share the fact that i am going to egg-hell.

Wednesday, April 30, 2008

Fish Tales.

I think i may be cursed when it comes to owning a fish of any kind.

It started off many moons ago when we used to have a large tank filled with a million fish in our family home. Naturally being a brat of a child i got a small bowl and was allowed to pick one of the fish to keep in my room as a pet.
I did, and i loved this little black fish immensely for a whole week.
Then i found it floating belly up in it's bowl, unawares that it was the beginning of a long and hate-filled relationship with pet fish. (cause of death? I MAY have left the glass bowl on the window sill, in full sunlight.)

Fast forward a few years, my lovely friends decided to gt me two goldfish for my eighteenth birthday, so i had these two cute little fish, a pretty glass bowl, and awesome glittery gravelly stuff at the bottom, it was a perfectly innocent present, really.
These fish lasted two days. TWO DAYS and they were belly up. SO naturally i assumed something on the water, not my newly cursed affiliation with fish-folk, Off to the pet store i trotted - $50 later, two new (better) goldfish, a filter system, water cleansing droplets and a self feeding cube, Laura was under the impression she was now the master of fish kind.
Waking up the next morning to find that the new, (better?) fish were dead caused mass tantrums and tears.
But i still soldiered on, bought new cleaner equipment, a PH neutralising set, new pipes for the filter etc etc etc.
Oh, two more fish also.

These poor buggers didn't last a day, i got home from work to find my mum walking out from the toilet with my empty fish bowl and a sad look on her face.
I even got the "maybe fish just ain't for you Laura" speech. Cue - Fucking two year olds can own goldfish. Why. Cant. I? tantrum.
I'm all class.
BUT NO! i would not give up. I took the whole tank, the crate of fish equipment, blah blah blah to the pet shop, we cleansed, neutralised, aerated that tank to perfection, put in two more fish and away i went.
Four days these little ones lasted. By this time i was torn between having nightmares for creating a Goldfish Holocaust in my room, and the need for a fish to live longer than a week in my presence.
Long LONG story short, i went through FIFTEEN fish before my friend sheepishly admitted that she had bought the gravel from a $2 shop.
Crappy gravel had been poisoning my fish. It wasn't me! I could sleep at night again.
Or could i?

When i moved out for the first time, i sort of went on a pet rampage, one of the pets i purchased was Boogers the Black Moor (those googly eyed bastard fish) I had erased the Great Fish Genocide from my memory and started a fresh, new bowl, new house, new fish-murder free life.
Now Boogers bless him, lasted a month, he was a tank of a fish. His last few remaining days on our noble land he sort of swam in retarded circles, half floating, half desperately trying to scrabble to the bottom of the tank.
A thousand visits to the pet shop later, I think I'm the only person in history to tearfully turn up at the veterinary surgery and ask for my goldfish to be humanly euthanized. (Even the Vet had no idea what was wrong with Boogers).

This time i vowed never to own any sea-life again.
When i moved interstate i thought a little tank would brighten up my room.
The fish were fine, living a happy life for months and months. Then i got itchy feet. Thought that they needed SOMETHING ELSE. So i bought them real plants to aerate said tank.
They liked this, they loved this, they thrived. I was at peace.
Then i thought that they may need SOMETHING MORE. So i bought two cleaner snails, to get rid of tank mould and all those nasty things.
Six days after buying (the aptly names Pogo and Bundy) i came home to find one of the snails happily munching away on the struggling half dead body of fish number one. Fish number two was floating in the corner of the tank with half a head, and a snail doing a cannibalistic slow dance around it. Yes. I had purchased Serial Killer Snails.
When i moved from that place, i refused to take the snails.
(I never touched the tank after they had finished the remains of my beloved pets, they scared me. The only thing i did was buy a lid for the tank to ensure that i would not wake up to find them munching on my brains)

Two weeks ago i got two fish to celebrate me getting a new job and moving into a new house.
Fish number one lasted two days.
Fish two, who i refused to name for a whole week because i was convinced he was going to die, lasted 8 days.
RIP Matthew.

Please make a note of this people.
If i EVER mention that i might be getting a fish, feel free to punch me in the face.
I'm pretty sure i am fishes answer to the black plague.

End Rant.
Woe is me. I really want a fish.

Tuesday, April 29, 2008

Bam. Ego Boost.

So i just got my very first HD, in my Design class.
It was a making music visual presentation. Basically you pick a song and then you take telve photo's representing different design principles and bang them together in a powerpoint stlye presentation. There is also journal work and research blah blah blah. End of the day. I RULE.
Here is my awesome work. Because i am awesome.
The end.
I am so happy.

Colour Contrast.

Colour Contrast.

Deep Space.

Flat Space.

Focal Point.

Focal Point.

Leading the eye.

Repitition and Rythm.

Tonal Contrast.

Tonal Contrast.
SO i dig nature, n' shit.

I'm out.

Monday, April 28, 2008

I love a good party.

Here i am sitting on the balcony at Uni.
It's fucking freezing up here, but for some reason it is colder in the library.
I am now under the impression that the good folks at USC will die a horrible, melting type death if the temperature goes any higher than minus four degrees.
Seriously, most of my tutors stalk into a class room so high tech in regards to air conditioning that there are eskimo's camping under the tables and start sweating like the fatties off the biggest loser. It's a shame people.

I had a great weekend.
I love a good chance to dress up. So when i was given the chance to dress as a pirate and over-use phrases like 'YARRRRRRR!!!' and 'AVAST YE SCURVY DOG' I was all up on that.
So, Ness' Fairy party went quite well, most people dressed up, although i must say Kim and I went to the best effort, She as a fucking sexy police woman and me as a Pirate.

Told you. Sexy, eh? eh?
We didnt really know any of the people there, so proceeded to sit back and openly mock and judge each and every person that came through the door. Thankyou Vodka for boosting my self esteem to a point where all bets of modesty, and thinking before i speak were off.

The silly girl that i am, dove head first into a bottle of vodka, so when the time came for us to trek up to Florrie and grace Rachel's Welcome to Brisbane Party i was well and truely munted.
I am oh-so-ashamed to admit that i stumbled into Florrie street an utter wreck. Leaving Kim to her own devices with people she had barely even met, i started a drunken rampage that would last as long as i clung to my bottle of vodka.
I vaguely remember the pitying stares of my friends, because for once i was the disgusting drunk slurring bastard that people try to avoid.
I do apologise to all i may have mocked. To the friends of Jess' whose names i refused to learn, instead calling them 'jacket' and 'salt and vinegar' for the evening. To Jess for shunning and yelling at her the next morning when i was hunched over the toilet bowl decorating it lovingly. To my Juno DVD for throwing it to the ground and leaving it outside for the sun to destroy. To the French boys that were out the front for making them say 'Vagina" in French over and over again. (Then yelling at them because the French word for Vagina is 'Shat' which i find disgusting)
Hell, i am choosing to write off that whole evening. I have a whole lot of baking to do to make up for the train wreck of an evening.

It's Tuesday now. I am back on solid food, just. (Anything not resembling dry toast or tea threatens to come right back up)
Lesson learnt.

I kind of feel absolved.
Until Next time.