Thursday, June 24, 2010


The sadness comes from an unfortunate incident at the library today.

Me: [about a million books, crammed into a bag] Returning books! Halting overdue fines!
I am notorious for overdues.
Me: [wanders over to holds section] And lookie here! A hold for me! Hurrah! [attempts to borrow book] Why flashing red, screen of general love? Dost thou hate on me? [wanders over to counter, pays off fees and tries again] Confusion! Excuse me, library sir? Why is my card blocked?
Library man: [scans card] You have $23 of overdues when that pile of books is processed.
[cue dramatic music]

So, yeah. Brisbane City Library users, I hope you’re happy. I fund your books. Now one of you must give me a job so this cycle can continue.

Anyway, as I am broke, I am avoiding the library until funding arrives. It will, cause God’s looking out for me, but yeah. This puts a significant halt on the reading list. Glancing over it, I own few of these books.

As my lovely pal in crime Kathryn said, I should be paid for being such an avid reader. I should have overdues cancelled. This is a great idea in theory, and I know in practice it fails, so don’t ack at me, as fun as it is. I will return my books on time, or overdue and pay my fines. I abide to the law.

Anyway, Kathryn then bought me a hot chocolate and I realised that ingesting whipped cream, marshmallows and Starbucks’ signature range in grande form is not the best thing… especially when one must rush to a bus station, to home to grab a laptop for a recently remembered tutorial, and then to said tutorial, then back home upon realising the tutorial was cancelled. I spent most of the afternoon on my bed. Then on my floor, curled up in a ball waiting for this to happen:
“And that was it. Right there. That was the moment. I suddenly realised that unless something changed soon I was going to live a life where… I’d finally die… and be found three weeks later half-eaten by Alsatians.”

Ah, Bridget Jones.

My brother kind of does this thing where he Kramers his way into my room (if you don’t understand that reference, I disown you), and he chose this contemplative moment to do it.

Me: You’ll come home, find me dead, and being mauled by German Shepherds.
Him: Why?
Me: I am broke.
Him: Right.
Me: So yeah, make sure that happens.
Him: Are you kidding me? I’m tossing you in the Ganges.
Me: Huh?
Him: Well, it’s supposed to be spiritual and stuff. Then you get an overseas holiday, too. And your corpse might meet up with George Harrison’s. Then you get to meet your favourite Beatle.
Me: I can deal.
Him: But if I can’t afford that, you’re going in the Brisbane River.
Me: You truly care.
Him: Don’t say I don’t love you.

I later call my father to inform him of my eventual demise, lack of money/job/mind, and my brother’s funeral plans.
Dad: Well, you get to go overseas, right? And then you might cross paths with George.
Me: *facepalm*

I think my funeral, which hopefully will not happen soon, is only safe in my mother’s grip. And Kathryn’s.

Or, this entire thing could be solved by getting a job (or Centrelink payments), and paying off overdue fees.

Back to the hunting of jobs. Another reason we didn’t evolve - I suck at hunting.

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