There was a random killing in my house this morning. Or to be more correct, a body was disposed of in the house – the actual killing probably took place outside.

I found feathers on my bedroom floor, and two possible cat culprits trying to implicate each other. 

The old cat would fail a bird recognition test. Absolutely no reaction to twittery, feathery things.

The baby goes all Hannibal Lecter at the sight of birds through the window. Mad chattery teeth and manic stares. He therefore wears a dirty great noisy bell around his neck. And he’s little and innocent. And mostly inside the house.

So there they were, both at the crime scene, sniffing at the feathers ON MY BEDROOM FLOOR, giving each other, ‘Holy shit, look what you’ve done’ looks. Bastards.

They have besmirched their impeccable reputations. They can share the guilt. There will be a bedroom ban from now on.

And before I forget, I’d just better go check under the bed for partially dismembered corpses.

So I’ve been meaning to end it for about the last 3 years. Talked about it a few times, thought about it a lot more. Finally did it. The gutless way – I sent an email.

I want out.

I missed the first call, listened to the message, didn’t call back.

The second call caught me by surprise. ‘But it’s been six years….’

“I know, it’s not you, it’s me’ I replied. (How lame is that?)

‘I want to do other things, you’re holding me back. I’m stuck in this huge rut, and I can’t see a way out of it while you’re in my home. I need my space back.’ 

“Well, let’s keep in touch……a phone call every so often?”

‘That would be nice.’ I lied. ‘How about you call around Christmas? Things might be different then.’ (Not likely.)

And that was it. Done. Over.

As of 11 August, my Austar subscription ends. (AKA cable, Foxtel, the only thing worth watching on the box.)

I am grieving. I’ll miss it terribly. But I know, in time, I will rebuild my life. Better, stronger.

I could end up like Alex Blagg.

He has read the whole internet like four times.  

I’ll let you know how I go with that. With the extra 16 hours each day that I won’t be watching Austar, I just might do it.

Why do kitchen appliances make such fucking annoying sounds?

My dishwasher beeps FIVE times when it’s finished. FIVE irritating, demanding, ‘look at me, look at me’ beeps to notify me that the dishes are now clean and shiny.

DO. NOT. WANT.

Yes, I am incredibly grateful that I have this wondrous machine that converts crud-covered slabs of stickiness into purdy, shiny, strokable crockery, but why the fuck does it have to beep FIVE times?

Couldn’t it have a nice, discreet English butler voice that says, unobtrusively, ‘Pardon me, Ma’am, the crud-covered slabs are now dishes and they are sparkly and squeaky clean.’  

Or a sound effect. Themed. A wave washing onto the shore. Symbolically representing the cleansing of the dishes. Or a waterfall. Cleansing, soothing, makes you want to pee, but that’s okay. Better than those FIVE fucking beeps.

I’d settle for one beep. Or a volume control.

Or instructions on how to hack the dishwasher and kill the beeps. I am willing to pay.

Springsteen. Bruce Springsteen. Born to Run was one of the anthems of my teenage years.

I wanted to be Wendy.  You know, ‘Wendy let me in, I want to be your friend, I want to guard your dreams and visions…..together Wendy we can live with the sadness, I’ll love you with all the madness in my soul……’

I wanted somebody to love me with that kinda soul madness – until I got it, and found out that it wasn’t so much fun. The best part was wanting it – feeling that heart wrenching desire  - vodka on a Friday night brings it all back, 30 something years later. Mad soul always. 

Think I’ll change my name to Wendy.

I lay in the bath this evening, bubbles on, eating chocolate, wondering what happy thoughts I could conjure up. A man?  Hmmmm. 

No husband / partner / BFF of the male variety at present. Nobody I have an obligation to think about first before moving on the fun stuff. I can think happy thoughts that involve anyone I damn well like. So who will it be? 

This is where it gets weird.

My current fantasy man is part this:

And part this:

I’m thinking this is a turning point. I have hit a whole new level of unattainable man -anime meets tv fiction. So I’ve had a bit of a crush on Spike Spiegel for years, but to actually put him in the role of ‘hot hunk’ – and then to combine him with Mr Big……..WTF? 

I am looking into the future……. give me a few more years, a few more cats (current cat count: 2), and this will be me:

But in Second Life or some other not-IRL place I’ll be this:

And Iiving out all my Spike/Mr Big fantasies…………

And SO NOT thinking about what he looks like IRL!!