Exciting news!

The Private Press are going to publish one of my poems in an anthology of David Lynch inspired work. See, an Honours Degree in Creative Arts was good for something after all.

And thank you to Julia, for the heads-up about submitting to this thing in the first place. You rock.

My brain is useless

Please help. I know I should be the one to remember this but I can't. For the life of me, I can't recall the name of a girl who was once my housemate for 3 months back in, oh, it must have been the end of 2003. And now that I realise I can't remember her name, it's bugging me. She was a geologist and was very sweet and had a tall boyfriend with curly hair named Dave (see, I remember his name). Then she got a 'proper' job and moved to Canberra. What was her name? Andrea? Renee? Jesus Christ, what?!

In other news. Chocolate. Yum. The end.

I love this little cat so much...

This one was taken a few months back. In fact, last year. He's bigger now. But the point was: he's crazy...

...he likes water! Do you think he knows he's a cat?

(Drought? What drought? Tra la la. ... The photo was taken last year - before the water restrictions, I tells ya.)

What's not to love?

I blame the David Bowie Demons...

Oh dude, it really is true that each year you are out of uni more of your brain cells desert you or die or relocate into grey hair. Not that I've noticed any grey hairs on myself yet, but I notice the lack of working brain cells.

Either that, or the David Bowie Demons (who live in the ceiling) had actually borrowed my copy of Perfume - which you recall I was seeking in my last entry - and had only recently returned it to my bookshelf. Because I swear I searched the bookshelf for it before I posted that, and now, only now, can see it there, nestled up against Isabel Allende's The Stories of Eva Luna. Buggerations. But at least I found my book!

In other news, thinking about the David Bowie Demons makes me recall that just such a phenomenon was mentioned in that thing I fondly, indulgently refer to as "my novel". Even my mother has now taken up saying that I'm "pretending" to be a writer while also being a slave to cheese. Of course, if I would actually write something, then maybe it would be different. Maybe I should make the last so-far-unwritten chunk of the "novel" a Supernatural-style hunt for David Bowie Demons by the main characters (you will recall the dwarf Sam and the train-wreck Lola, who make up the band The Satanic Mechanics). Whoever said plots have to make sense? Also, why don't the boys on Supernatural ever hunt David Bowie Demons? It's almost like such a thing only exists inside my brain-cell-reduced head.