IT'S BRITNEY BITCH

     There are some mornings you wake up and know that it's a good day to shave your head. And well last Sunday was that day for me. So far I've been told that I look like a cancer patient, that I'm the only one who could make a shaved head look gay, and that somehow with a shaved head I'm more gingery. So great...I KNEW this was a good idea. I even tried to play the part of the whole shaved head persona by running to the gym in a tank top looking "tough" only to blow any chance I had by flipping over the locked turnstile. But luckily hair comes
                                               back...unlike Heather Gaines' dog Dice...TMTS??!?!

     But besides pube head, life goes on. Not sure if I mentioned it, but this is the popular toothpaste here. So if I'm not being called Yankee Doodle, I'm called Colgate. I'm a winner wherever I go. I find it appropriate that it's Macleans' Ultimate White too. "For a whiteness you can see." Trust me...take one look at Maclean and you see plenty of whiteness.  So I guess now it's safe to say that most everyone in Melbourne has had some Maclean in their mouth...

     But at least the Asians think I'm cool. No really. I was out to dinner with a mate and approached by two Koreans who had found out my nationality. They were ecstatic. They asked me to tell them hip greetings we use in America. After a "what's up bro" and a fist pound, they were wide eyed and amazed at how awesome I was. If only it was like that for me in America. Heather I completely understand why you went to Singapore now...

  
     But apparently everyone wants some Maclean. Dancing at a girls' club Sunday night I was approached by a lesbian couple who propositioned me for my sperm. I kid you not they were drawn to me by my "dancing". I told them that reason alone was means that they were on crack laced with meth. To save them from a lifetime of disappointment I denied them their wish.
  
    But I think they used their lesbian voodoo on me because as a punishment I awoke the next morning with slut stamped on my wrist, and then was stuck in a stalled car in the middle of the city with a menstruating lesbian who tried to beat me up. Yay flannel! And of course the car I was in needed two loads before it started up again...typical.

     So in the state of Victoria there is hardly any tv censoring. On the 4 channels we get they can use the f bomb and talk about all aspects of sex. I find this fantastic except for the commercials where they use scare tactics to get people to be safer. These ads always start off pleasant, and then before you know it there is a baby being rocketed out the windshield and smearing on the asphalt. I had

nightmares about one where a woman was grabbing a book from the top shelf only to slip and split her head in half on the corner of the desk behind her. It's just what I want during commercial breaks for Monster's Inc. to see some guy holding the remains of his eyeballs after a bike accident. And don't even get me started about the police ads where the slogan is "WE'LL GET YOU".

     And to the left I now no longer see as cute, but as a delicious meal for lunch. I had my first kangaroo burger on Monday. The little ones are especially tasty. Much like Tiffany Chang's hair these animals are hazardous to the environment, and we are encouraged to eat them...the roos...not T-Chang's hair.

     But alas I'm back on my job search. Working 6 days every two weeks just isn't cutting it. So God speed to me on that one. And God speed to me on the fact that I just figured out that even if you have your ipod on really loud doesn't mean others around you can't hear it when you pass gas. That explains so many past awkward situations... and speaking of awkward... did I go grocery shopping sporting both of these dos?...maybe...maybe... are Molly's boobs real....maybe...maybe...

Gayzed and Confused

     "I love watching you run around in circles trying to figure out our culture."- Becstasy (the flatmate). It's true. I have been so bewildered and  perplexed since I stumbled onto this island. Somehow waking up 8pm on a Wednesday covered in glitter and sharing a bed with a girl, boy, and a hair dryer is completely acceptable. And last Sunday was no exception.

     Ah yes. The "Sunday Session". I was invited to experience this miraculous occasion last weekend. I was on my way to the library when I received a call to get my ass dressed up and head over to the Manor. Now wearing a button down, sunnies, and jeans while strolling down the local main street at noon is a ritual I like to save for my walks of shame either from UV or the IM fields during Sportsfest, but yet I was able to whip it out for this occasion. So after my flatty held me down and told me to close my eyes and swallow, I was on my merry way six pack in hand and wasted before noon on a Sunday. In Tennessee you can't even buy

alcohol before noon on the holy day, but there I was doing cartwheels on a tram...alone.

     Now flash forward to being inside a club at 2pm dancing your white ass off with boys drugged on everything from cocaine to birth control. The only remembrance you have to it still being light outside is when you emerge into the courtyard to catch a breather. It seriously is like Dorothy stepping out into OZ except the

munchkins are drunk, shirtless, and hot.  And Glinda the good whore was absolutely there, but she was pole dancing and handing out free drinks. Next thing I remember I'm buying cholesterol at McDonalds scaring kids at 7pm. Somehow I manage to make it home to bed. But it was short lived as an hour later I was rung again and told to be ready to go out in thirty minutes to continue the night. 7 hours later I called it "early", picked up my Hungry Jack's chicken cellulite supreme, and went home for the second time. Thank you Australia for putting the hospital in hospitality.

     Last night I ventured out with my flatty. We couldn't find a bar that suited our needs, so we crashed a house party. But really. We legit found a random house that sounded like it had a lot of people partying and snuck in. While Bec was scoring beer from the fridge, I was finding out the gist of the celebration. Apparently it was someone named Tim's going away party. So it was only appropriate that after drinking all his beer that we found him and told him how much we were going to miss him and then let ourselves out.

     And later on in true form Bec picked up the bouncer at a gay club while I was busy in my fascination with one of my mate's friends who had a beard. I chased him around screaming Gimli and trying to dwarf toss him. I make such good impressions. Only confirmed when I was approached by an unknown who said "You're Maclean McAlister aren't you". Trust me. That is something you NEVER want to hear at a gay club. Turns out he worked somewhere where I applied for a job and handed over my resume. I really hope he was turned on by illustrious career paths at the UM bookstore and World of Coca Cola.

Life is good, and I could not be happier. And god speed to John Nolan and his endeavors in Texas. You were successful in having people care WAY more when you crossed states than when I crossed an ocean. Can't wait for the camera to put on even more pounds...

Two Months Too Much Too Soon

     You know. I really was under the impression that "casual" was a good word. Casual dating…casual attire…casual sex…all great things. Casual Employment however is Lucifer's toilet paper. It's about as misleading and disappointing as a Shyamalan movie or Kate Ruebsam's personality who FYI is in fact NOT an ugly gay man. Well after six days of great working hours, Law in Order is short on business, and therefore us "casuals" are not being called in, and lord knows I don't need any more time hanging out with myself. So I'm back on the poor man express. The homeless guy who sits by our tram stop has even stopped asking me for money. Instead he just smiles and waves at me as if he knows we're about to be BFFs in a couple of weeks. I got shortchanged ten bucks at the laundromat last wednesday and with the frustration consuming me I almost started crying when I couldn't get my clothes to fit back in the suitcase. But college has taught me to be an excellent stuffer so no use spilling tears over things that won't fit…….Ginny. 

This is my neighborhood! Ignore the homo ruining the picture. The days are finally getting longer even though my list of friends is not. Just look at them all!

So I'm still applying for new jobs by day. I've applied for just about everything. My favorite had to be an acting role where I submitted a resume with such career experience points as that I was "friends" with theater people in college, and a list of broadway shows that I've seen. To top it off my submitted headshot photo was a Facebook profile pic that may or may not

Nope wasn't this one

have had other people and alcohol in it. Man I'm a winner. But at night, poor or not, it's game on. I always somehow find ways of acquiring booze.              

     So the whole frat look doesn't cut it down here. Before going out one night I'm told, "So America. I don't mean to be insulting but we're gonna need to change your attire. No really. I brought you a change of clothes". Shortly following I was dressed in an incredible ensemble of GStar shoes, tight pants, shirt and jacket. No I don't have a picture...yet. But I looked better than a cheesy gordita crunch served in a natty light can. For some reason I always just assumed I could attract people with my incredible demeanor…oh wait. 

     So continuing on topics I know nothing about…drugs. They are more rampant than Roni Sepe's herpes down here. Seriously. I'm scared to even talk at clubs cause I'm convinced some type of illegal narcotic is just gonna fly in there…amongst other things. So the drugs I've learned the most about are E, K, and G. So naturally assuming always to know more than I do, I figure since I know the alphabet

 I can converse with randos about drugs. "Man my ass was flying on all that M I took last night. I'm actually really into V". Yes, these are real words out of my mouth. If only they knew how many times I overdosed on TMTS in college…Kristin am I right?! But I find I fit right in with the whole drug culture. I love to binge eat at night, I like shiny objects, and no one gets more excited than me being handed a lollipop at a club...except maybe Amar...BHH.

     But Australia is still just as weird as when I got here. The accent has become far less noticeable but there are indeed times when someone is talking to me in "English" and I have no idea what they are saying. Cobbers, galahs, fair dinkum, mozzies, and budgie smugglers. A toilet is called a thunderbox, and I'll just let you imagine what "floggin the wagon" means. And no it's not what John Nolan does alone...every...single...night. And I still think everyone wants to be my best friend when they call me mate. But the asians are a serious issue. I was minding my own business on a tram when it was overrun by spiky haired engrish speakers who had just been released from Inception. Regardless the movie is ruined. Shortly after exiting the tram there was a wind storm…followed by a hail storm…then sunshine. And no I'm not just talking about what goes on in Heather Gaines' bedroom.

     But pray I start making real money soon. Given that being me on a daily basis is an adventure in itself I need to start making real stories. I refuse to be forgotten by my american friends. You know. Like that guy that pops up under your Facebook birthdays and you sit there debating if you want to write on their wall. That better NEVER be me. EVER. Shut ya gob, mate! 

Ordering from the Dollar Menu of Life

      I now fully understand why 13 is an unlucky number. On my first day of work, I stood in the elevator alone for maybe 5 minutes debating whether or not I would push the button that said 13 to take me to my floor. Wasn't the first time I was clueless of what to do inside a box, but yet I went against fate and pushed. And now I find that 13 is not only the amount of days I have to wait to get paid, but also the amount of dollars I have to get me there. "We only give cash advances if it's a really really desperate situation. Are you in such a situation?" 

Okay look bitch I'm not gonna get on the floor and beg, but I need to get my drink on. Trust me, I know how to be desperate, just look at my dating track record.

     

     Regardless. In the spirit of youth I still went out on Monday night to an event called "Fuc* me with a pineapple it's Monday!" Nothing made me feel more at home than watching a bunch of drag queens back from the debutante ball performing Dolly Parton's "Workin 9 to 5". But why did I feel deserving to go out on a Monday? Because I didn't drink all weekend. Why? Because I fell down a flight of stairs and onto the main dance floor in front of everyone at a club on Thursday. It was almost as bad but way less rewarding than the time I drunkenly dropped Ginny Brown onto a concrete driveway. But it was quite the joyous experience waking up on Friday covered in Hungry Jack's and having to piece together why I was sore and scabbed. Good thing I'm an expert at doing that.   

     But nevertheless heading to work last Tuesday still a bit buzzed was quite a success. 

I found for 8 hours I was required to play with stickers. I KNEW never growing up past the maturity of a six year old was a great idea! And now I can get paid for it. So we play a daily trivia game around lunchtime in the office. Being the only one in the whole office to know the answers to the questions: "What is Will's surname in Will&Grace?"; "What band was Justin Timberlake a member?"; "Who is the voice of Dory in 'Finding Nemo'?", has really given me a boost in the corporate social ladder. And when I say 'boost', I mean booster seat, because I need one. I failed to know a simple question about baseball as everyone turned to me expecting me clearly to know

since I'm a yank. I refuse to tell you what the question was since it's embarrassingly obvious, but the answer was "catcher". How I failed to know that I'll never know. But I'm glad after only three days everyone knows just how special I really am. 

     But I am disheartened and famished, so this entry is going to be as brief as the amount of people that are actually showing up to Heather Gaines' 21st birthday party. I'm considering walking to the Espy to chill with mates and cure my thirst with a $13 martini. It's time to put the fun in funeral as I boldly march to my demise these next two weeks. I have no doubt I'll get by. In the words of a dear friend of mine…just keep swimming….just.keep.swimming!

And speaking of still swimming.  

     HAPPY BIRTHDAY HAVENS! 

50 Never Looked So Smokin

Two Livers Are Better Than NONE

      Well I hate to burst everyone's bubble, but my recent employment is going to save me from an early arrival back home. So basically, Havens, I am pretty sure you are the only one bummed out. And Kristin, sorry, looks like Heather Gaines is going to be your only fake friend.

     But after years of studying meteorology and mathematics in college and 15 years of wanting to chase tornadoes and hunt hurricanes, I am finally pursuing my dreams and becoming a paralegal. Okay so maybe it's just a stepping stone. Hmm. Getting paid to sit around all day reading about other people's drama and misdoings…wow…that is just so unfitting for this gossip queer. Legally Ginger…thoughts?…thoughts? I start on Monday, 7-3:30 usually, but could work weekends and all nighters. I get paid 5 beers an hour, so I'm not complaining.

     But bless a lucky ranga I'm employed. I have been spending a rude amount of time with myself. I actually had to air dry my clothes this week. And this wasn't a picturesque vision of a young woman hanging pristine white sheets across wind-swept rolling hills. I was in a public alley way using any makeshift object I could (plants, chairs, wine bottles, John Nolan's ego), and anytime a garment would blow away I would scream "Ohhhh reallllyyyyyy". So basically half the area has seen my underwear…I feel right at home.

     But it's the time you spend waiting for your clothes to dry that you start to go crazy. Your mind starts to drift into random thoughts…what are my friends doing back home…did I shit today…is Amar still single…where is Bobby Fischer…is it wrong to be attracted to a cartoon character? But nevertheless I always end up on Facebook. But here lies a serious problem. Aussies aren't into Facebook or taking pictures, and as far as I'm concerned there is nothing more important in life. I get blank stares when I'm suggesting poses every five minutes.

     Okay. Lets pretend to be Aboriginals doing Bad Romance…no?…just Bad Romance?…okay fine…next time then! It's not fair that my albums have to be the ones to suffer. I have more profile pictures than these people have total, and that doesn't make me cool…nor has it ever. I thought I had found a group who believed in the good Book as much as I did when I heard someone say, "I know. It's getting too much with the amount of Facebook friends I have!" I jumped in adding my two cents only to hear the end, "Hell, I'm about to break one hundred on my friend's list". Well. I had to back out of that one quickly. But I don't despair, I'll crack these people soon.

     So to escape the horrors of hanging out with myself all the time. I have tried to accept the aussie drinking culture this week. This basically means getting piss drunk every single night…and I'm talkin like Roni Sepe piss drunk…as in you actually pee on people's personal property drunk. So I can handle drinking Thursday-Saturday night. Nothing new there. But it was on Sunday night that things got interesting. At this point my memory became shorter than Brandon Gross' hookup list, and all I can remember is sculling a jug full of foam for a jager shot followed by a full on karaoke performance of "Look at me I'm Sandra Dee" in front of a crowded room at a lesbian bar. Won't go to bed till I'm legally wed?...well...good thing it's not legal cause I have been lousy with my virginity.

     And after my lady escort for the night got too drunk and was childlocked in a car for her own protection, I had to continue the night on my own which included 3 dollar shots, a pregnant drag queen, and after singing "Bye Bye Miss American Pie" I received the lovely and charming pickup line, "I don't know about bye, but I'd love to say hi to YOUR American pie". And social cue...

    

      Monday night to keep things more local, my recently acquired American friend and myself ventured to a gay bar called Prince of Wales a block from my apartment. After a healthy serving of jugs, I remember watching three Tiffany Chang drag queens performing a very politically incorrect version of "I'm turning Japanese" in a show called Prince of Males. And then on our way to a bar that was open later I got chased around the sidewalk screaming as a tranny 

tried to undress me. It made me reminiscent about Monge. But we were thrown into another bar with a handful of drinking vouchers. Here I met an aussie, a brit, and a scotsman. It really is becoming a game for me acquiring all these international friends. Every time I meet one I hear in my head pokemon's "Gotta catch em all!" Except Cubans, they're like that weird pigeon pokemon card no one wants. Wing Attack? Isn't that what Heather Gaines does with her arms when she walks? 

     And then Tuesday I was up on Brunswick street at a popular bar called Bimbos. But yet no one seemed it to be weird or disturbing that the theme of the bar was DEAD BABIES. Yes. There were baby dolls strapped with dildos hanging from the ceiling. And this was a STRAIGHT bar.

There were even mutilated baby dolls in pickle jars at the counter. But. The bar did have a room called the "cavern" which was a big dome with a circular sitting area where the acoustics allowed you to hear every single person's conversation. I sat in there just nodding affirmatively at complete strangers…nothing new for me.

     But Wednesday morning after I felt like I had run a marathon just by rolling out from the covers to get to the bathroom, it was time for a break. Finally could revisit my childhood as I had the opportunity to see Toy Story 3D. Suddenly I feel no shame in having two stuffed animals on my bed. And Mr. Pricklepants could not be more of a role model. He has an odd similarity to Ginny Brown.

     So long story short it's yet another Thursday. And apparently now I have an alter ego as a lesbian named Sandra Dee. I really am a complete package deal, Mike, I know you couldn't be prouder. But I miss all of you dearly…except Amar. Can't wait to start making some dough, so I can go on some real adventures. And if you haven't had the chance to video chat with me yet…get on it…it really could change your life. Kristin am I right?! Am I right?! Or am I WRONG?!

The Fourth of No One Cares

Not much to say here. It was a typical Sunday morning except that I had set my alarm to You're a Grande Ole Flag. But things got really special when I found I had an email from Barack himself reminding me that it was not only the day our country was born, but also the day that he and Michelle became parents 12 years ago. So I took it upon myself to put the riot in patriotic and march around wearing red, white, and blue and going up to random aussies telling them it was the birthday of my country...and Malia Obama. Ahh to be American. But I found myself awake early because my flatmate Beck and I were going to a magazine launch. Now neither of us were too sure what to expect but we knew there would be giveaways and door prizes.

Femme Fatale. Apparently it's supposed to be some regal film noir style, but it was a bunch of overweight lesbianonic housewives wearing corsets, skulls, and more leather than at a Kansas Daddy's Bar. It was terrifying. But seeing the front page and noticing that I can relate to both McLean and Notorious Dames, I tried to strike up conversations to no one's interest. Thank God Beck was on the same wavelength. We took our social Q's and jetted out of there like John Nolan at an undergrad function. And Havens sorry about my abandonment on the door prize, I know you would have looked great wearing a black corset with a huge skull on it at your next book club meeting.

But on the topic of things that are unnecessary and scary, I have recently found out that with a US license I can legally drive here. But not only are the cars on the wrong side of the street, but the wheel is on the wrong side of the car. Now I've handled some sticks in my life, but I have no idea how to shift that thing. So much for driving.

I had my third and final interview as a paralegal today. I really hope this is the last chapter in my Chronicles of the Unemployed. I'm sick of my diet consisting of water, oats, and beer. And Spooner Street in Rhode Island is my daily home as I watch nonstop Family Guy. I decided to forego doing laundry this week so I could afford a 12 pack. So I'll get to be drunk this week at the cost of dying alone.

How unheard of. But the interview went really well, and the front desk guy even winked at me as I was leaving. So I'm either getting a job or raped. Great.

Anyway. The night of the 4th I traded in the red, white, and blue for the red, white, and black. At least I could celebrate America with footy and beer. It was the Saints versus the Demons, and

it was biblical. There were balls, booze, and beef so lets just say I got to see fireworks that night too. But it was awesome and with the Saints pulling out a victory, it was a night of celebration. I was introduced to a bar that had a "pull here for cocktail jug" string.  You can imagine how the rest of my night went. But do pray for a job offer soon or your worse nightmare will come true, and I'll be coming home at the end of the month...

Maclean Makes it a Month

Nope. Still haven't been deported yet. I can't believe it's been a month since I was rolled into this city. Speaking of which. Now go with me on this one, but it's the first trick Melbourne played on me. Okay so imagine having just gotten off your third connecting flight after days of traveling with two four hour energies and countless airplane mini bottles in your stomach. You're delirious, you can't see straight (as if I ever could), you're drunk, confused, and dazed. Basically you're Kristin Wright on any given night in the Grove. The first picture here on the left is the iconic "Batman Building" of downtown Nashville. It's the main landmark of the city. Now the second picture is of Melbourne Central.

Holy similarity is right. There was a good 20 seconds on the bus ride into the city where I thought I had just endured the worst joke ever. But luckily not even Heather Gaines could pull something over me of this magnitude. Regardless I had a horrified face that must have scared everyone on the bus, if my mammoth sized duffle bags that kept attacking people after every slightest turn hadn't already.  But it was the first of many tricks to come.  Next would be the 4 seasons in a day trick, basically the weather here suffers from multiple personality disorder. Followed by the trick of the goon...then the trick of the Simply Fucked. Everyone including myself is getting excited about what's going to happen in the Glee finale coming here in 10 days...oh wait...tricked again...I've already seen it...twice.

The most recent trick happened last Thursday morning. I turned on the tube and this little fox was waving at me as my new prime minister. Now I knew that Kevin Rudd was the PM when I got here, and I felt safe knowing that he was an old white guy. But son of a ranga out of what kitchen did this woman march?! Now I thought Obama was progressive...but I guess I was tricked again. The public did not actually vote for her; she was placed in power from within the party. I can't imagine if this had happened back home. If during the next presidential address suddenly Hilary Clinton popped from behind the podium screaming surprise, well, then maybe

I'd have more people come visit me in Australia. But I suppose I can handle a ginger who from Whoville as the prime mistress. Thank God she's against gay marriage, or we would have a real problem on our hands.
    So this disturbing little image to the right is what all the cigarette packs have on them. Yes. That is a dead baby in a pool of blood. How lovely that I see it daily. I find that the "shock factor" is hard to find here. After refusing to give

her money yesterday, I had a homeless woman call me a "povo slut" audibly in front of everyone on the tram. I quite appreciated it. I only wish the homeless back in Miami were so funny and witty.
    But in the category of things that do scare me are the skinny jeans for men. Thank God I can't afford to eat because they are a staple here. Everyone and their gay boyfriend wears them. I was convinced to try on a pair this weekend, but I screamed in the changing room because I thought I was turning into a Jonas brother. I'm not quite ready to look like an albino poor man's version of Josh Garcia just yet. Camel toe...more like Camel hoof, leg, and an oversized ass.

My favorite new Melbourne past time is definitely footy. My boys are the St. Kilda Saints. Never being graced with the sports gene myself, I'm amazed at how this sport combines every ball sport I know. It's intense, engaging, sometimes quick, sometimes long, and leaves you screaming...much like...umm...a good debate with your mates. But seriously it's got heaps of history and local rivalry. And since no one wants a popsicle in Winter it keeps

             me busy. Anyway. I really am trying to become adapted to the Aussie culture. This lovely beverage to the left is known as Victoria Bitter, and no I'm not talking about the lesbian next to me. But after a swallow it's definitely not something I want to put in my mouth again...I'll let you distinguish which one I'm talking about now. And yes the lovely new haircut was a result of a pregame gathering before we headed out to the pub. They think I am too "innocent" and "boyish", imagine that, so after a few drinks I handed over the scissors...and the innocence. So now I can continue to do my mating call by means of the single lady dance in style.

But being so povo I haven't been able to venture out more than to local attractions and pubs. But as Avatar is coming to the local theater here July 10th, I have plenty to which to look forward. And having traveled all the way from Nashville, I'm taking up the guitar and becoming a country singer. It's all part of the master plan to marry a lesbian and get a permanent residency. The band's name is Aretha and the Oompa. If you have to ask...

But as always I'm missing everyone...except Amar. And speaking of things with which you don't want around, it's so cold in the apartment I can see my breath. I hate the cold. Send the warmth my way...please. And Hurricane Alex. But keep the oil...and Justin Bieber.  Cheers!

Don't be stupid. Of course that's me...