are you still out there?

Well, I've been ready to fire this bitch up again for a while now, so let's cover some ground. I couldn't be bothered checking when it was I last posted, so I'll assume it was back in the Eighteen Hundreds (oh, dates, why doth your capitalisation vex me so?) when bustles were the latest fashion and men wore lots of talc on their faces and would settle arguments with their muskets. I also couldn't be bothered caring about how many anachronisms or historical innacuracies I drop in this post, in fact it might even be the theme, so don't even tell me pterydactyl birdstrike wasn't the cause of Hitler's death in the Hinderberg Tsunami of 1732.

Currently, I'm back in Bangkok, in the first trimester of the year (or last, if we're talking silly Thai calendar years). I sublet my friend's apartment in a place called something you will never be able to pronounce correctly if you aren't Thai, but there are lots of big department stores nearby and a restaurant on the sixth floor of the building that will just bring you beer and toilet paper if that's what you ask for. You don't get a smile with that particular request, but when you have beer and TP when it was previously lacking, that's enough.

Also, the neighbours are timid Asian folk who don't complain about being aurally assaulted every night (oh not like THAT) by my bf and me or him and his mates recording really loud music. It's not like recording a song is like playing a song either, it's like playing a few bars of a song wrong 50 times then playing it right once, then moving onto the next few bars and doing them wrong 50 times and so on until you're either a) finished or b) the constant listening to the same effing thing 500 times in a row has made it so that no one can even discern what it is they're listening to anymore.

So I work from home. Doing the Ministry of Sound Australia website when my expensive yet temperamental internet decides not to not be a massive pain in the twat. Also some other freelance work, which pays in US cheques; apparently the least valid legal tender in the world. I don't have The Ninja as he is excrutiatingly still in KL with his expensive-yet-caring foster mum, while I fantasise about robbing people who deposit vast amounts of business-derived cash into ATMs during Friday evening peak ATM rush (seriously, people, use the farking human teller - it's faster than trying to feed your thousand crumpled notes into the machine sixty times while I plot ways to take your poorly secured cash since apparently neither the machine nor even yourselves seem to care about it much) or running opium rings so I can afford to fly Ninjoir back into my arms and those of his MySpace fans. I do, however, have a little part-Jack Russel called Frankie. Or Francois. Or Frankston. Or 'DON'T!' as is most often the case.

He's just a lil thing - all beady black eyes and floppy ears and stumpy legs that mercifully keep him from being able to jump on the bed and nip at our* faces while we sleep. Before, he was young and irritating and mostly just a shit machine, but he's mainly stopped being an annoying bastard now and can do cute things like wai for food (or at a thing he wants, even if there is no person anywhere near the thing to give it to him) and do air vomits due to running around the apartment too much.

I did a TEFL course recently, as well. It was mostly painful and demanding, which is what I expected for my two thousand Australian dollars, but I did get a lovely certificate in a binder and at least 20 hours of be-stressed lesson planning. The teaching itself was not painful but the pay is - but writing about TEFL bores me into a coma, so let's not go there. Honourable mention should go to my homeboy Stu, without whose presence and continued sarcastic support I would not have completed the course. 'Aw' moment.

Anyway, onto the juice: who is this boyfriend and what and why and how and wherefore? I'm going to generally have problems articulating this because the critical sarcastic percentage of me (quite large) that compels me to write this blog in the first place pathetically has no comment. The unsarcastic, uncritical percentage of me articulates it thusly: he's awesome. Not very articulate at all.

The facts are: his name is something you'll never be able to pronounce correctly unless you're Thai, he's of muslim and buddhist heritage (but suspicious of and generally unimpressed by organised religion - awesome), plays bass in a band that is awesome, writes awesome songs just for fun, cooks awesome fried noodles at 2am, hails from the awesome Krabi area of southern Thighland and also thinks I am awesome. We also never fight and I HATE couples who never fight and therefore may have to break up with him if we don't have some sort of heated argument about something soon, so here's hoping we can disagree on something profoundly important in the near future, just so we can stay together. And yes, he does speak English, so no, the no-fighting thing isn't due to us having purely mime-based communication.

So that about wraps up lately. The next post, I hope to include something about having a high-paying job doing nothing, or at least a low-paying job working my ass off AND to have The Ninja facing off against Francois, but in the mean time, it's the League of Extremely Poor People Posing As Bohemians And Eating Fried 5-Baht Noodles Every Night.

Love ya and leave ya - hopefully not for another seven hundred years.

b