Reasons you will hate me

i had a spot fire burning until I found out he'd VERY recently escaped ash wednesday.

so now i'm back on a total fire ban.

lucky i'm pretty good at collecting my own firewood*.




*touching myself in a masturbatorial way.

I'm with Nads. My spot fire seems to have smouldered out. *sigh*

#1. Goes all 'backdraft' at any given moment. Impossible to predict. One moment you're roasting marshmellows, the next your face is burnt off and your left wondering why Kurt Russel's career went into decline after 'overboard'.

#2. Multiple fire fronts, none of which look like they're under control. Currently attempting to be the protective fireman type with soot on his face saying "don't go that way ma'am, all hell is breaking loose. It's a helluva day but we're doing everything we can."

*looks around for asbestos gimp suit*

My spot fire escaped Ash Wednesday and then went running back into that particular inferno.

It's down to embers, now.

I still find it very difficult to believe that you ever have trouble in the dating department. Surely you carry around a box of matches, pyro.

Hi Ms Fits,

Not that it's anything to do with today's topic, but how can I contact you via e-mail?

Cheers,

Ben.

I hate you.

anonymous...could you be a bit more specific?...ta

So if you're carrying a torch for someone ...

"It burns when I pee"

An old flame has been obsessively pressuring me to go Ash Wednesday again, but I’m all burnt out – he wore me down to ashes, there’s nothing left to ignite a spark.

So, I keep donning myself in flame retardant, asbestos attire and am cutting off his supply of oxygen. Is keeping me safe so far but I know he’s continuing to smoulder.

Could "backburning" be where you make a slight error of judgment in a spot fire and have to immediately put out an excess of flames from the one person?

Is there any chance I can refer to lubricant as Fire Retardant?

What about "Brigade" as a verb, as in called in the to extinguish spot-faahs.

Well this explains the smouldering looks and hot flushes thingy then.

Kent is single ...

I should have known everyone would run with the fire thing. Pats on backs all 'round.

KENT IS NOT SINGLE, ANON 3:09. No tormenting allowed.

Damn, really? You sure you're not confusing his ex for his gf?

He's been paraded as the counter-argument to the "all the good men are taken/gay" claim.

Nope. I have it on good authority. You must set your jiffy firelighters elsewhere.

I'm too burnt out to contribute to this.

"C'mon baby light my fire..."

'Ash Wednesday' is a bit harsh.

Surely there are some good aspects to being in a committed relationship.

Not that I'd know, being in a total fire ban myself. Sigh.

"Run interference" is not a new term, unless this is 1987 and I'm young again, which it isn't and I'm not, so it aint.

It always used to mean distracting Girl #1's clingy/possessive/less attractive girlfriend Girl #2, so that your mate could run off and do things with Girl #1.

Not quite as evil as you kidses' new meaning - we used to have to do our own "white-anting" back in the Olden Days.

Careful. Soon you'll be encouraging crazed arsonists your way... or worse: phillumenists!

*shudder*

BEING MARIEKE HARDYOVICH

Marieke lives in a converted milk bar in the heart of her beloved bohemia, Fitzroy.

It’s a large old building, about the size of a couple of terrace houses. Marieke’s apartment is on the top floor with two en-suite bedrooms, stainless steel kitchen, laundry, lounge, dining room and a big balcony with views of the city.

It’s a minimalist renovation, all polished boards and white walls, furnished in a mix of contemporary and retro, hung with art notable for its childish execution.

Downstairs is her office and studios. This is where she spends the days creating; writing her word novel, graphic novel, comic book, poetry, journalism and blog, designing her fashion, jewellery, furniture, sculpture and cookware, making her visual art and editing her documentary on the plight of young people whose trust funds have been seized by the tax office.

There is a little space opening onto the alley that she’s thinking of transforming into a tiny café, unmarked and unadvertised except for a single sandwich board on Smith St, with a black arrow pointing up the side street.

She’ll get one of her friends to manage it, possibly Edwina from Northcote who is unable to work at a regular job due to chronic fatigue syndrome and lactose intolerance.

At the rear is an enclosed yard with a neat little garden of flowers, herbs and shrubs. It has a vaguely Japanese aesthetic. Opening onto the street is the garage containing her restored 1964 EH Holden Premier sedan and 1965 120cc Vespa.

It is nine-thirty AM, and a beautiful day is taking shape outside. Marieke awakes to the foetid gibbering of Jon Faine on the clock radio. She stretches, catlike, beneath the doona. She’s a tiny little girl, but perfectly proportioned and intricately detailed. She resembles a doll a man in solitary confinement might carve from a large bar of prison soap.

Marieke is naked. There is no need for nightclothes in this apartment. John Wayne once boasted in relation to his chain-smoking that he only lit one match a day. If she thought about it, Marieke might make a similar boast about her air conditioner.

The size of a toilet cubicle, she’d installed it three years previously, set the thermostat, and had not touched it since. The entire building remained at a perfect twenty-one degrees, 24/7.

Marieke sits on the edge of the bed, lavish ponytails hanging over her shoulders, and reaches for her tobacco tin. It’s a neat, elegant thing; you put the makings into a little compartment, close the lid and a perfectly rolled cigarette pops out the side.

She Zippos the cigarette drags deeply and waits. The cough seems to start in the ground deep underneath and roars up through her like a sonic boom. At first it is more of a protracted, undulating wheeze than a cough, but as the smoke loosens her phlegm it develops into a deep, rumbling hack.

It usually takes Marieke twenty minutes to clear the goo out of her chest. The morning phlegm is the only blot on the otherwise immaculate tableau of her existence. It has been getting worse and worse all year, and the last straw came a month ago.

She’d picked up a real spunky guy, but when he heard the sound and light show he’d turned a funny greenish colour and practically ran out the door. She went to the Doctor to get some pills to make the phlegm and the cough go away.

She thought the visit would proceed as did all her other transactions; “Yada yada, phlegmy chest, yada yada, need pills, blah blah, thanks, see ya!” but had had a rude shock.

The Doctor had coerced her to pee into a little plastic pot, then made her strip off and proceeded to shove things into every hole in her body. Then she’d dragged a stethoscope all over her and made her cough.

She’d attempted a delicate little ‘Ehur!’ but what emerged was a rattling, chesty spasm that would have raised eyebrows in the cystic fibrosis ward. She turned hot with embarrassment.

As she got dressed, the Doctor started in on The Smoking Lecture. Marieke could hardly believe her ears. She was thirty-one, for Christ’s sake! Did this idiot have no brain? What the fuck was the point earbashing a thirty-one year old about emphysema and bronchitis and nicotine patches and twelve-step plans and all the other shit?

Everyone knew that the keys to good health were a positive mental attitude, managing your stress levels, not bringing bad karma on yourself and not getting out of bed too early. It wasn’t about depriving yourself of a few petty treats on the say-so of some sandal wearing nerd.

The woman went on and on. Marieke wanted to leap out of the chair, lean over the desk and scream, spittle flying, into the Doctor’s ugly face “Jesus FUCK!! Will you just shut the FUCK up and give me the FUCKING PILLS FOR FUCKS SAKE!!!”

She didn’t of course; that would have reduced her to the level of a St Albans shop assistant who can’t get the lid off the pasta sauce. Marieke has been bred like a Maggie Beer chicken. Tens and tens of thousands have been spent on her elite education.

She knew how to extract herself from this unseemly predicament. She allowed her face to assume the expression of a naughty but penitent schoolgirl and, like Homer Simpson, just drifted off. You could almost see the cartoon mouse dancing in a thought bubble over her head.

In the event it had all been a waste of time. The phlegm pills did nothing. The other week she had been unable to stop coughing all morning; hadn’t even been able to light up, it was so bad. She’d thrown a mighty tantrum and flung the pill bottle through the window as hard as she could.

Marieke sighs, pulls on a T-shirt and wanders into the bathroom. She turns the shower on to warm up. The showerhead is one of her favourite knick-knacks. From the 1940’s, it is the size of a dinner plate and looks like something out of a John Brack painting.

Marieke makes herself a latte and goes onto the balcony for another smoke. Her mobile rings. It’s Edwina from Northcote gushing on about a boy she met in the George Public Bar last night. They yak girly talk for half an hour or so and arrange to meet for lunch.

By the time she gets into the shower, the bathroom is full of rich, dense steam. She showers away and after half an hour feels a funny little crackle in her chest. She coughs and feels something break away from the lining of her lungs.

Suddenly, she is on her hands and knees, hawking up great chunks of greeny-brown gunk. This, she realizes, is the real thing, the deep-lung, bronchogenic grout that sits wedged in your airways and makes you cough ‘till black dots dance before your eyes.

The steam has obviously loosened the filthy stuff. Why hadn’t that fucking Doctor told her? Probably went through Med School on a government subsidy.

Steam! The one bugbear in her perfect life can be fixed by merely running a few thousand litres of hot water through the shower once or twice a week! As she dresses, she realizes she hasn’t felt this good, this clean, in years. At lunch, she thinks, she’ll ask if Ed’s boy has got a friend.


fin

Wouldn't lubricant be more of an accelerant, TBG, under the circumstances?

Aside from the missing "that" in "a doll a man" that was a reasonably entertaining little piece (especially loved the John Wayne reference). Though you could come off a little (and don't take this as a criticism), say, stalkerishly deranged. Not that I want to get into the whole auteur thing mind you, it's just a thought.

Yeah. But what sort of life would it be if we didn't indulge the inner stalker every now and then?

And it's an interesting commentary on the times we live in when a little piss take at the expense of a minor celeb is seen throught the prism of fear.

Thanks for the heads-up on the missing 'that'. Its just there's so little of me and so much of Fits.

Who the hell is Kent? I'm thoroughly confused.

It's like a highly sexualised Babysitters' Club.

I remember the time when Stacey tried to introduce pyromaniac metaphors to relationship conversation but Mary-Anne misunderstood and set fire to her pubic hair.

How we laughed.

I am one of the very few men who read Babysitters; Club books as a young chap. That's why I have my pick of the ladeez.

La Nadine, how would it affect your opinion of a new spot fire if you found he'd ACTUALLY escaped Ash Wednesday?

Would you be attracted to his courage in the face of adversity, or repelled by his constant night terrors?

Incidentally I find this whole discussion extremely offensive, since my entire family was recently killed by a dragon.

Now don't be too harsh on yourself Mikeed, I'm sure you're not that insubstantial - it's not like you barrack for the Weagles or work in "current affairs".

I'm guessing Kent is the cross counter (in)action. Though between the John Wayne & the Babysitter's Club references he could just as well be the forgotten Teletubby.

What is it called when you're trying to light your bong, but the lighter flame is set too high and your hair catches fire and the firemen come and laugh at you and call you a fucking idiot and take pictures of you on their mobiles for later publication on the web and to put up on the back of the toilet door at the fire station?

schadenfro-ed?

sad 'n' fried

'n' fried 'n' showed

Hey Fitssssss,

What sort of relationship are you in if the previous evening, you were out for dinner and ate roast spatchcock with butter and herbs under the skin and served with a white wine sauce, braised endive and half a head of confit garlic and now you’re at a BBQ but because you usually only eat junk food you’re hyper flatulent from the night before and you’re standing next to the BBQ and a massive fart pops out which is ignited by the BBQ and suddenly you’re alight from head to toe and running around in circles on the grass swatting at the flames while all your friends are screaming and panicking and trying to get the children inside?

What do you do if your boyfriend, brother, father and uncle add up to less than four people and one them gets jealous and burns the house down?

how the fuck could a barbeque light a fart you stupid idiot. what are you, six?

"how the fuck could a barbeque light a fart you stupid idiot. what are you, six?"

No actually the very same thing happened to my uncle and my brother. He's fine now.

mikeed1313, you romantic, you!

*sigh*

"She resembles a doll a man in solitary confinement might carve from a large bar of prison soap."

You wasted this simile in a comments thread on someone else's blog? You goose! (Unless it's been knicked from somewhere of course.)

Naaarr, the origional's on me own blog, silly!

Anon 11:24 AM ... I think I'm in love with you

Hmm. I've just had a look at your blog, Mikeed1313. I just cannot work out whether you exist, are actually Ms Fits, or whether you are a disturbing Robert Drew-esque erotomaniac. So what is it, Mikeed?

Bianca, I think it's more likely a paraphilia such as emetophilia, faecophilia or eproctophilia. As someone else said, the desire is apparent in the insane detail ...

a little jilted are we mikey? now why don't you pack the creepy away and fuck off.

Anonymous 4.34, I think you've just given me my word for the day! Faecophilia ... it sounds just as lovely saying it as it feels to type, and it conjures up such lovely imagery!
You just made my day.

It makes quite a good insult, too.... "Oh, go away, you Faecophile".

Dear Ms Fits,

Your trust fund recently matured and you’ve brought a California bungalow in Malvern, which you’ve just moved into with the new man. It’s a beautiful spring afternoon and you’re mowing the lawns and you need to fill the mower with petrol, but don’t want to turn it off because it’s so damn hard to start. So there you are, carefully trickling fuel into it when your boyfriend, unaware of what you’re doing, sneaks up behind you and gives you a playful smack on the bum, which causes you to spill the petrol on the hot, sparky engine where it explodes and you have to be carted off in the Paramedic truck in critical condition. Which restaurant should you celebrate your first anniversary at?

Hello Bianca. All of it and none of it, I guess. Tell you what, I'm impressed with all the philes that there are! Faecophile is great!

Well I did like that soap thing, but now you're ending sentences with prepositions.

Whoa! Slow down there, The English Patient!

I love this shit, too, but the word is coprophilia. Faecophilia is just made up, or you've all been watching too much South Park. And of course, everyone has moved on to 'tomorrow's' blog, so no one will read this, and everyone will go out shouting 'Faecophilia!" having missed my correction. Hello? - anyone there? Oh, well, never mind, I'll just go home. God, it's quiet in here when everyone's moved on to the next one. Just a whole lot of confetti, burst ballons, empty drink bottles, and a few whistles and party hats. Don't worry, I'll let myself out. It's a bit dark - where's the door?

You’re a strapping young lad and you’ve been going out with a sweet little thing for a few weeks. You slept together for the first time last night, but didn’t have sex because she seemed a little shy and nervous and you didn’t want to fuck things up at this early stage, so you just talked and cuddled until you went bye-byes. But in the morning you wake to find that she’s been consumed by spontaneous human combustion and all you’ve got left is a metre and a half long strip of ash with a few bones in it. Is this bad luck or bad management?

That'll teach you to smoke in bed, Mikey D.

and you didn't get burned sleeping next to someone on fire? this is worse than that bullshit about the barbeque.

Well! That just shows how much you know about spontaneous human combustion! Run, don’t walk to google.

I think all the anonymouses are the same person.

morning, ben!

Ben, you old dog, you!

if you believe in spontaneous human combustion, you'd believe in anything. (How come we never hear about other mammals? - eg spontaneous antelope combustion?). Secondly, if you believe Google has the answers to everything, you'd believe anything.

Spontaneous human combustion is real. Google knows everything.

Nice reverse troll mikie!

Anonymous 11:30 - Hi! How are you all?

Anonymous 9:35 - We never hear about antelope combustion because the other antelopes only rarely report it to the authorities, and antelope police have a standoffish approach to media organisations.