The fault of the Sims.

After analysing my roster I've come to the discovery that I can make myself not home for the house inspection. This delights me a lot, especially since I have also discovered Josh will be home. So, much to his displeasure, I am shipping off to my hometown for most of a week and leaving him to the awkward situation that will surely ensue.

But that, disappointingly, means that I have quite a bit to do before I go home. For one, pretend that Elliot doesn't live here, as on paper he doesn't. I'm not sure what would happen if she discovered that he does, so rather than find out, I am going to make his bedroom look very much like a study.

This being my responsibility is my own fault. He intentioned to do it himself before he went home for the holidays but I persuaded him to instead spend hours trying to get the Sims to work on my computer because THE SIMS!!! The benefit of sleeping with living with a nerd is the ability to mention on a whim something that you feel like watching, playing or otherwise and then BAM he's built it from the internets. As it was though, it ended up taking way more time than we had to put it from his computer to mine because of *insert reason that I don't remember and didn't understand anyway here*. Piracy is a tricky business, apparently. So in the end, as it was insanely late when he did go to organise his room I told him I would do it and to go to bed because I didn't want him dying on the cartrip on the way home from being tired and having one of those microsleeps that Dr Karl is always talking about in his pyjamas. I don't want that on the conscience of myself and the Sims for the rest of our lives.

Man, I can not spell conscience. And I'm starting this new thing where I actually look the word up rather than just spelling it abysmally and then talking about how it's spelt abysmally. Which I guess isn't really working as I'm talking about it now anyway. Hmm.

Anyway I'm going to go be super sneaky and hide all the things that make his room look not like an office. Namely the clothes, manfume and bed that looks vaguely slept in. (I don't freaking know why it looks like that, I don't even remember the last time he slept there)

Adios

like, like, whatever. OHMYGOD. zz

So it turns out not having facebook is the way to motivate myself to update. The bizaare thing is that I don't really spend that much time collectively on facebook, but it's always open, and I'm always flicking back to it and remembering something I have to tell someone or wanting to post something that just happened as a status. So not being able to do that is getting on my nerves.

I was perusing over old entries, for old times sake, and my goodness. I didn't think I'd matured that much between year 12 and now. It has been over three years since I started writing this, but I recall thinking I was pretty damn mature back then. And for fucks sake I was doing my Higher School Certificate. Studying Advanced AND Extension English. I know I definitely casual down my writing for something like this as opposed to an English essay, but capitalisation and paragraphing would have been nice.

I couldn't handle it, so I edited a few posts. I limited it to punctuation, spelling, grammar and paragraphing. I felt if I removed all the ridiculous occurances of 'like' or reworded sentences so they didn't sound completely ridiculous I would be somehow damaging historical artefacts. I need to be able to look back when I'm forty and remember how hyperactively retarded I was. Or something. I also have a new very important rule, that I re-read and edit any post 24 hours after I write it. I feel this is probably for the best. To save 23 year old me coming back and hating myself again.

I think the thing I find the craziest, is that I know when I was 17 I was looking at things I'd written when I was 14 and hating my past self. I don't think I was ever an age where I thought 'hey I'm not very mature right now, these things I am saying/writing sound dumb' and yet I always look back on myself and detest those things. Which make me paranoid because I'm completely secure in myself now, but the evidence seems to point to the fact that I'm actually a ridiculous person I just haven't realised it yet.

In the end, I think disciplining this writing is probably the best for my sanity.

Wow, I sure wish I had something interesting to write about...

Life at the White House

So I managed to lock myself out of facebook. I changed my password, as I do every few months, after I get paranoid that too many people know my password and worry about the things I say in chat messages. Of course I then blab my password in general conversation and the cycle continues.

When I went to log back in the new password didn't work. Neither did the old password. I have no idea what I managed to do, because it makes you enter the new password twice, but I managed to try and work it out enough times that my account got locked for twenty four hours. Which is pretty awful on a day that I don't have uni, work, and Elliot left with his computer- ie my access to the Sims.

Oh, he lives here now. And Cody only kinda lives here. Cody, and his friend Josh. Or Herro, which is way easier because there is already one Josh in our house, fondly referred to as the White House by its residents and the troops of obscure and wide-ranging characters that come and go from its confines from time to time. Cody and Herro got a gig on a cotton farm. Driving tractors apparently, although I like to muse that they are off pickin' cotton or lament about the the old cotton fields in general, because I think it sounds way cooler, or atleast, southern. This means that they come and go, usually gone for a few weeks and then spontaneously in the house for a few days.

With them come, Lucy, Lucy's friend Alice who has this thing going on with Herro and any number of folk wandering into the kitchen munching on whatever we happen to have in the cupboard, traipsing from the front door to the garage with a simple nod of the head as they walk past the rest of us most likely doing something ridiculous awesome like playing risk. Only to return hours after we'd assumed no one one was home from the haze of the garage, cheerily say 'bye' as though we have any clue who they are, and return, in the form of somebody else in the morn.

The menagerie of drugs, people, people sleeping on the loungeroom floor and so on bothers Josh a touch. I tend to shrug it off, in return for having a few extra housemates for a few days and ignoring the ridiculous amounts of people coming in and out of the house (and not questioning what some of them are actually here for) we get Codys rent and share of the bills paid in full despite the fact that he quite often isn't here, the payments usually aren't on time, but they do come through. Not to mention, when they are home, free weed. Perhaps there is some deep psychology to it as well, a highly dysfunctional home environment is all I know.

I don't mean to paint the rest of us as motivated down-to-earth studious angels either. In fact, who am I fucking kidding, I live in a uni-style party house that is trashed most nights of the week. All my friends fuck each other and are drinking themselves out of livers three nights a week. Often in my loungeroom.

But, life at the White House is pretty boring tonight. Cody and Herro are out west. All the college kids and most of the uni town kids including Elliot have gone home. Josh is at a meeting. And I'm trying to get the Gruen Transfer to load while I procrastinate cleaning the ridiculous mess of a kitchen.

That being said, life at the White House is going to be worse next week when the incompetant real estate agent comes over for the house inspection. There is not even words to describe the cleaning we need to do. And how annoyed I am that I'm the only one that will be home to make awkward small talk with her.

And this, this is why I detest the holidays. I'm off to watch the simpsons clean the house.