"Grool!"

I love me some Mean Girls. So I'm sitting here, taking a looooong, extended break from study, flipping between the footy (that of the 'Wha-? The boys are trying to win, you say? Well, I never!') and that delightful Lindsay Lohan vehicle that ultimately gave her reason to believe she could run around Hollywood like a crack whore thereafter.

(14 minutes have passed and the boys are down to chasing only 3 points. History-making game right here, y'all.)

Rachel McAdams and her wig are the bomb. And it makes you wish you'd gone up to those Regina Georges in high school and yanked their hair just to see if it too was a wig. Not that I really knew anyone as vindictive as Regina George in high school. Or maybe I did and I'm repressing...no, there were no Reginas. There were definitely Plastics though.

(24 minutes. Trailing by 4. Damn those stupid losers for raising a flare of hope in me!)

In fact, I could probably say I spent an earlier part of high school being part of a Plastics-wannabe group. We weren't in the same bitchy league as Regina George, but we definitely had some Gretchen Weiners's and Karen Smiths.

(27 minutes and it's still by 4. What are they playing at? BASKETBALL CRAP?! Oh Kevin, I miss you.)

Why, oh why, did I waste my time with these insipid twits? I ask myself the same question every now and then, when something arises to stir my memories of those days.

(Oh really? Oh really? 5 points? Full time and Crappy Crows won by 5 points?! What'd they do, basketball it around for 15 minutes only to be able to score a behind? Good job, Radelaide. You have just lost all credibility for letting my boys come THIS CLOSE to beating you and let me tell you, my boys are a pack of whiny sissies, so what does that say about you?!)

I guess the only really good thing about my time as Plastic-wannabe was my fateful discovery of eyeliner. It was bound to happen one day, but being a Plastic wannabe meant I was encouraged to explore Slut Eyes sooner, you know, the better to lord it over the makeup-less nerds and geeks and dorks with (ouch). Eyeliner and I have been BFFL ever since. Clouds and silver linings blah de blah.

(Also, what the fuck? McPhee scored 3? McPhee scored 3?!? What, is it Opposite Day and everyone forgot to tell me?)

Okay, I think I'm pathetically at the end of my blogging tether for tonight. Yeah, I'm disappointed by my effort too.

(Seriously. What. The. Fuck?)

10.12pm Friday

And what am I doing at this happening hour? The night is still young, the possibilities still endless. Well, I'll tell you what I'm doing. I'm sitting here. With a bunch of lecture notes in front of me. Going through actual lectures. Making my own notes.

That's right. I am studying. Because uni? Ruins lives. Like, I don't currently have a social life to speak of on account of imminent exams, but if there was one, uni would've ruined it. As it were, uni went straight to my actual life and dismantled it. Damn non-existent social life, for not being my buffer!

Also? 6 minutes into the fourth quarter of an Essendon game and we're only 9 points behind? How can this be?? Who the Hell is actually playing football on our team?!? Matthew Knights, you joker, you.

Why Can't My Life Be Like Reality TV?

Then I'd at least get to be a famewhore in addition to suffering from mylifesucksitis, instead of just being plagued by the latter. If my life were like reality tv, I'd sit here and all the assignments and study and dishwashing and feelings of lazy and unwashed hair and cold tea and piles of laundry and unpaid bills and people to call back would still drain me of any motivation for, you know, existing right now, but people would actually sit there and watch me suffer. They might even suffer alongside me. They'd tune in to see if I might fall into a woe-induced coma. And then they'd leap onto a forum and start pulling for me to rise above it and emerge victorious/bitching about how I'm a lazy slob who has no-one to blame but herself and that my hair is absolutely disgusting to boot.

If my life were like So You Think You Can Dance, right now I'd be sobbing about how tired I am and how hard this assignment is and how much harder it is for me to grasp, what with being so burdened with my life's multitude of difficulties. I'd keep the whining to a minimum (so as to not be a complete douche. That's more apt for when my life is like Big Brother) but amp up the sympathetic-victim-who-valiantly-tries-and-aims-to-succeed vibes (so as to win underdog votes). There'd be a lot of shots of me working on the assignment, grinning ruefully when I accidentally screw up the Word document template and meticulously saving after each word that I type ("I'm so scared of losing it all, so I'm being extra careful this week- better safe than sorry!"). At the end of my montage, I'd have a laugh with my partner, who has already completed the assignment but is playing the role of All Around Nice Person Whom Everyone Loves, so is goodnaturedly helping me out with their, no doubt, flawless research technique and mad typing skills. And scene. I mean, autocue.

Also, if my life were really like SYTYCD, I'd totes be hanging with Demi and Rhys and not giving two fucks about this shit. Evidence Based Practice assignment, be damned!