Author Archives: Kitta

If you accidentally drop your MacBook onto a tiled floor – and you don’t suffer a heart attack or shock – upon inspection you may find it seems to work perfectly fine, not even a dent or shutdown. But be aware, before you go back to icanhascheezburger.com, BACK THE FUCKING SHIT UP, as it may still fail later leaving you minus two major uni assignments and plus a huge amount of stress. You will also be shocked to find yourself mourning a HDD.

More details will emerge when I stop pulling out my hair.

I will be turning 23 years old on August 2nd, a pirate themed birthday party is in the making to celebrate, yarr, and my friends and family have started enquiring about my desires in the present department. I have a feeling that my mother will be giving me a Nintendo DS Lite because, well, I have been brainwashing her since about January with Nintendo propaganda. My brother and I have birthdays only weeks apart, so every year my mother complains about how insensitive we are to have been born so close together, and how she has to pick one to spend more money on…

“Your birthdays are too close, I never have a payday between them to buy your presents.”

“You say that like it’s our fault,” I replied.

“I should have waited a few more days to have you, so there was a payday between your birthdays.”

“I’m sorry that my lungs developed too quickly and my impending birth wasn’t synchronized after payday. If I had womb wifi, I could have checked my Googlegaga calendar and then I would have known to spawn slower to allow for a payday, but I was a tad busy growing major organs at the time.”

“Always an excuse,” said my mother, who managed to own my rant in only three words.

“Did you not learn anything from Aston Kutcher movies?”

“Who?”

“Demi Moore’s boyfriend, in the Butterfly Effect.”

“Oh, him, I thought he was her son.”

“So does the National Enquirer.”

Only my mother could take a conversation from birthdays to incest in a matter of seconds.

The boyfriend has a cold. And in true man style he is being ranty, cute, sinffly and calling me “pookie wookie smookie wookums” while I keep telling him to take Panadol every six hours. We were watching Family Guy, the episode with a leprechaun on the board of a smoking conversation, so he had to ask…

“Sweetie, can we get a leprechaun?”

“No” I replied, as I have many times before when he asked if he can have a penguin and keep it in the bath tub.

A few seconds after I turned down his request, I remembered another leprechaun related issue…

“Some guy is hot linking to an image on my server from his Myspace profile. I wanted to teach him a lesson, and as I was looking for some suitable porn to replace the image with, I found cgi leprechaun porn.”

“That’s some good porn,” he said with a laugh after I showed him the images.

“If we can’t get a leprechaun… can we get a dishwasher?”

“Yes”

For those of you interested in how my devious retaliation plan turned out, you may want to check out the guy who has lovely leprechaun porn as the background on his Myspace profile, and for archival purposes, here is a screen shot for when he realises hot linking is not cool.

A random person (who used a fake email as a sign of maturity) sent me hate mail today making fun of how I seemingly spend my days with the ants, doing nothing that normal people do, just hanging with the ants.

Yes, if that is what you want to believe – forgoing the fact my blog only covers a minuscule facet of my life – I spend my days with the ants. I enjoy knitting them tiny mittens, calling them my pretties, and having tea parties at three o’clock with them. You can make fun of me, but I ask you this; have you ever tried fabricating tiny ant tea cups? I think not. Little daises don’t just appear on miniature tea cups, someone has to invent nanobots to paint them on there.

It’s a hard job, but someone has to have tea parties with the ants.

Alas, I am totally falling behind in my studies because of my solid dedication to said ants, but I am hopeful that one day – when they take over and kill all humans in a tiny bloody rage – they will spare me, make me queen, and torture said person who made fun of my days spent with the overloads, formally know as the ants.

Now if you don’t mind, I have to go grind some human cookies into little ant sized cookies and brew a drop of tea. Toodle pip.

I was reading an article in a newspaper today about the increase of births taking place in hospitals instead of home, it quoted an associate professor on the subject, who said, “Women are using things they don’t need, things like epidurals.”

Did I ever share with you, dear Internet, that I am blessed with psychic abilities? No?

Well, I totally am… No, I can’t read your future or your mind, but I do predict that the person who was quoted in the article will meet a mob of crazy-ass pregnant chicks (two of whom are pregnant friends of mine, that pray to the anaesthesia god daily) late one night in an alley way, they will be armed with breast pumps and wearing nappies as ninja face masks to hide their identity. The mob will proceed to break the professors legs and then ask if they would like to kindly retract that statement.

I also predict rain on Wednesday.

My mother stood outside inspecting what little of our garden that actually grows – with no silver bells or cockle shells, and absolutely no pretty maids all in a row – when she found an intruder. I was busy loading the washing machine and wasn’t too bothered with it all.

“What is that?”

“A plant” I replied.

“What type of plant?”

“A green one that grows in soil.”

“No, is it a weed or a tomato bush? Maybe it’s… A drug plant.”

I stopped what I was doing, took a quick glance at the ‘drug plant’ in question and laughed.

“It’s not pot, Mum.”

“How do you know?”

“You sent me to a public high school.”

Dear Ant Colony,

Your efforts to gain entry into my home and eat my muffins have been futile. I am human. I have bug spray and can fuck you up. How would you like it if I entered your home without permission, ate your muffins, then crawled all over your kitchen and laundry? Didn’t your Queen ever teach you any manners?

As the sun was going down and light rain was falling, I set a trap to catch you unaware. I dropped a chocolate biscuit upon the ground and then acted all coy, as if I didn’t notice it fall from my hand. Alas, it was all part of my devious chocolatey plan. As night fell, you scampered to grab crumbs of the delicious biscuit to take back to your lair, to be enjoyed later by your Queen as she lays eggs and reads Ant Weekly. I awaited in the shadows – bug spray in one hand and a bottle of the flea spray in the other (I know you’re not fleas, but it was all I had) – as your little antennae could not believe their luck of finding a chocolate biscuit, ripe for the crumb picking, I suddenly leaped out and waged a ninja style attack on you, spraying you with copious amounts of bug spray and toxic flea spray (again, not calling you fleas… not that there is anything wrong with fleas). I then followed you back to your lair, watching you run screaming, “Save the queen! She thinks we’re fleas!” while twitching from the toxic spray lingering in the air. You were probably thinking, “Dude, my entire body is burning, BURNING! AHH!” as I poured death into your lair, and as a final retaliation you sent a few of your guard ants to attack me, whom were met with my fluffy Elmo slippers swiftly smooshing them into the ground.

Don’t mess with me again, ants. Next time I shall bring out the kettle, and I will cook you little buggers alive, then you will know what it feels like to be a crab in a seafood restaurant.

Hate always,
Kitta xoxo

As I was trawling through my vast amount of emails in Mt Gmail Inboxiton – including various emails from MySpace, Virb, Twitter and Facebook alerting me users have requested I add them as a contact – I thought about how amusing parties would be if ‘add as a friend’ applied to real life socialising…

“That weird guy in the corner just totally tried to add me; he says he’s into fried chicken, Little Britain, Postal Service, and that he is a drummer in a band.”

“He tried to add me before when I was at the bar. Cindy added him by accident last week when she was drunk and now she doesn’t know how to delete him without him stalking her, adding all her top eight friends, and asking why she deleted him when they totally share the same interests.”

“I listened to his song, called ‘Where R U Baby’, his band sucks harder than that porn star which is one of his top eight friends.”