Screw wishful thinking.

Okay, maybe it's because I've had a total of about five hours sleep over the past three days, or maybe it's because I'm nearing exams, or maybe because I'm sitting about a metre away from my dad and his (our) football team is in the midst of a very tight battle for supremacy. But anyway, it doesn't really matter what the reason is. The fact is, a lot of things are making me angry right now! Thus, this blog:

List of things that are making Shannon angry:

My stupid head cold. I remember Lorelai complaining in an episode of Gilmore Girls about having a cold. "It's so common" she said. "Anyone can have a cold". This is true, and that angers me, but what mostly angers me about this irritating snot-filled, phlegm-ified "not even good enough to be the flu" cold is the inability I have to taste and breathe properly! I think that dinner was tasty tonight. It might have been. But I'm pissed that I missed the Tim Tam balls. I may as well have eaten something healthy.

My job. There is nothing quite as mundane as scanning groceries for nine hours straight. Today was another horrific example of the amount of hate I have for my job and for Woolworths. Between half my staff calling in sick and getting stalked by the weird guy with no teeth, I found myself getting very, very angry. And very much in need of a drink. Though, of course I can't have a drink! Stupid cold medication!

The guy that shall henceforth be known as Z. Z is a great guy, but totally clueless, and just needs to kinda back the fuck off and give me some space! I don't like people touching me, even when I'm interested in them, so stop it, Z! I don't want you to push my hair behind my ear- I had it out for a reason, and chances are, I spent a good minute straightening it so it sat right. I don't want you to tweak my hip to get my attention- I mean, seriously dude, do you really think I'm going to want you because you remind me that I have a little excess flubber?

Z's housemates. Let's call them W, X and Y. Clever, yes. It's not so much that they all anger me, because W and X don't really anger me. X, especially is a great guy, funny as all hell, and W has a cool British accent, which I find impossible to raise annoyance. Y, on the other hand, has a whiny accent, normally accompanied by a whiny sentiment. You said the other day that you were getting desperate to meet a girl, and were perfectly willing to drop your standards. Well, here's an idea, genius- maybe it's you! Maybe if you started making a freaking effort to be nice and get to know other people, you might find that girls are interested! Ugh, the anger is just intensifying! The thing is, Y has every bit the potential to be a great catch- he can be quite funny, he's smart, and he looks flippin' brilliant without a shirt. Too bad he seems to have had an overdose of the bitch pill, of late.

I'm in the wars....

I bruise like a peach, and at the moment, I look like a peach farm. There's a huge one on my left calf where I walked into a drawer while attempting to stealthily steal rocky road. I have three in a row just above my right knee from pushing trolleys around at work. Both my left and right forearms have little egg-shaped purple patches. My left elbow is bruised. My right wrist is bruised.

I have mosquito bites on my feet, on my legs, on my side, on my back. I have a cut down the length of my middle finger that I sustained opening a bottle of beer (yes, kids, alcohol is very bad for you- in more ways than one).

Then, there's the sunburn. See, everyone says the reason that I burn so easily is because of my Irish heritage. But my rello's haven't lived in Ireland for nearly two hundred years- we were convicts, k? So, why do I have to still suffer? Shouldn't I be a bronzed up Aussie by now? No, I still slather myself religiously with sunscreen every morning. Except, Monday morning, I accidently missed a few spots, and now I look like I'm wearing a pair of red thigh-high stockings.

Pity party, table one.

Get Your Thinking Cap On

One: I've always wondered what a thinking cap looks like. A fedora, maybe? Oooh, a Sombrero- that would be a good thinking cap, because it's wide and you could encompass a lot of ideas from that width.

Two: The reason you need to put your thinking caps on, is because I need a hobby. I want to do something interesting. So, I'm open for suggestions. Hit me up.

Confession Time

Hi, everyone. My name is Shannon, and I am an addict.

I am addicted to buying lipgloss. There's something about the little pots of strawberry and mango goo that makes me happy, and I think that my day actually brightens when I put it on.

But what has led me to the realisation that I may have a problem, you ask? Well, yesterday, I found myself having this disturbing conversation...with myself.

Addict Me: Oooh, look! It's a new lipgloss!
Rational Me: Shannon. Step away. It's not worth it.
Addict Me: But it's grapefruit flavoured.
Rational Me: Who wants their lips to taste like citrus? Strawberry or chocolate, yes, I can understand that. But, grapefruit?!
Addict Me: But it's got Vitamin E!
Rational Me: So?
Addict Me: And jajoba!
Rational Me: Oooh, jajoba! I love that word! Put it in the basket.

Apart from the fact that I was talking to myself in the middle of a supermarket, several things struck me about this conversation. One, jajoba is actually a really cool word. Ha. Ho. Bah. Love it. Two, I realised that whenever I see that something has Vitamin E or something fancy sounding in it, I jump on it. But really, it's just a marketing spiel, isn't it?! It's all chemicals that will probably shred my stomach lining eventually. And three, when I thought about the strawberry and chocolate comment, I realised that I do have lipglosses in those flavours! In fact, in my handbag alone, I have upwards of seven different lip balms!

Quick. Someone get me to cosmetics rehab.

goodbye, lay the blame on luck

I like to think that I'm a good person. I think that the world is a better place than what it might actually be. I think that one day, Ryan Reynolds will knock on my door, just by chance. I like to think that everything will be perfect and that sometime in the future, I will be the epitome of fulfilment and completion. And I think that this leads me to my current source of frustration; I think too much.



I am the Dawson Leery of my world. I overthink the events that happen in my life to the extent that, if these events were tangible, they would be mangled, faded and lumpy. I work myself up so much dissecting and overanalysing everything that happened to me- "what did she mean by that?", "why hasn't he called?", "why can't I look like that?" - even little things! I am meticulously organised in my head. I know what I'm going to be doing in an hour. I know what I'll be wearing tomorrow. So now, I'm thinking, what if I'm doing more thinking that actually living? What if I'm spending more time listening to my voice than to everyone else's?



I want to be spontaneous. I want to drop everything and run away for a day. I want to say the wrong things, and wear the wrong clothes. Part of me wants to fail something! Just one thing, just to see what happens. Does the world fall apart if I'm wrong? Do I still keep going? Or do I fall apart?



And now, for a dose of emo.



Well I talk

Too much

To myself

And I turn my back on my faith

It's like glass

When we Break

I wish no one in my place