And so the lion fell in love with the lamb....

Wednesday night was possibly the most exciting night of my life. Two words. Twilight. Saga. I had been anticipating the premiere of New Moon for many, many months and finally Edward Cullen was back in my life, where he belongs. I managed to find one willing friend, Jo Jo,  to accompany me on the Twilight and then midnight screening of New Moon and boy did I feel like a 12 year old girl all over again. With treats packed and my head filled with naked images of Edward Cullen, I set off for a six hour stay at Melbourne Central Cinema.

The hype surrounding this movie was unbelievable. I must admit, I am a Twilight nut but thank god not half as bad as most people. You certainly didn't see me covered in over priced merchanise, although I need to get me one of those 'Team Edward' t-shirts! Okay, so deep down I am just as bad. Inside the cinema it felt like one massive slumber party, the excitement, even for Twilight, was insane. Edward Cullen made his first entrance and the crowd erupted into wolf whistles, screams and applause. God bless Robert Pattinson, babe-ing out big time. I couldn't help myself but to clap my hands in glee and smile at the thought of one day bearing his children.

New Moon didn't disappoint. I was down a bag of Pods and half a packet of fruit chews, my stomach was reeling with sugar overload but I was still the happiest I've been in a long time. Although Edward isn't in it nearly as much as I'd like so my R-Patz babe watching was limited, I still loved it. Never before have I gotten this wrapped up in something It's as though Stephenie Meyer created a cult where my brain instantly starts twitching in excitment and nothing else matters when I talk about Twilight. When life gets hectic all a girl needs is be distracted by a sexy blood sucking vampire in the name of Edward Cullen.

(un)post.

For the last week I have been trying to write a new blog post. I've started about seven of them only to highlight and click delete after feeling completely unhappy with it. Am I simply just buried in a pit of writers block or is my life at a halt with nothing worthy of talking about? I think it's a mix of both. I started blogs that were way too emo and personal to ones about paddle pops and wanting to wear shorts. Firstly, no one needs to hear me cry a river over the same bloody thing and secondly, paddle pops haven't been exciting to talk about since 5th grade in the playground. As for the shorts one, I don't usually wear shorts, I want to start wearing shorts. Done. Honestly, where the hell did I think I was going with that one? Somewhere between deep thoughts and fleeting ones, I've lost my motivation to write. I haven't picked up a book recently, perhaps that's it? When I would have trouble articulating what I was trying to say, Marcus would always tell me to read more. For some reason I'd get a little mad at that statement but I guess it makes sense to me now. I've stopped reading and in turn have stopped writing. Could the two be connected?

I have some pretty major decisions to make so I think my mind is so far deep in thought and confusion that writing right now seems impossible. So here I am writing a blog post about not being able to write a blog post. Don't try and figure me out, I still can't do that myself.

Monday to Monday.

Work. Wine. Flying Ants. Lucky Coq. Prudence. Heat Wave. Carlton Club. Whopper Meal. Egan St. 3:30am Sad DnM's. Horrible Sleep. Early Morning. Bus Ride. Tivoli Place. Public Holiday. Bed Tears. Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels. French Fantasies. Work. Astro Boy. Cinema Nap. Mexican Food. St Kilda. Meet the Fockers. Sister Sleepover. Work. Vietnam Date. Sister Bellas. Melbourne Bitter. Egg Cocktail. Late Night. Early Morning. Work. Three Bottles of Champagne. Karaoke. I'm Just A Girl. Carlton Club. Hazy. Pony. Red Rock Deli Chips. Tivoli Place. Bed. Sleep In. Jo. Greg. Youtube. Youtube. Youtube. Charlie. Burger With The Lot. Gran Torino. Chips. Cookies. The Hairy Bird. Rock Of Love. Orange Cafe. Lunch. Poached Fruit Salad. The Ladies. Hot. New Purse. True Romance. Matt. Pasta. Special Cupcakes. The Michael Jackson Story. Bed. Work. Home. Hot. Vegetables. Cous Cous. Charlie. Banana Paddle Pop. Prudence. Cocktail. Marie Antoinette. Lesbos Sleepover. Work.

Sing-a-long

"Kill me".

"Okay, I'll come back with a knife".

I'm nursing a horrible hang over. My eyes are burning from lack of sleep and my stomach is craving chicken. The worst part? I have no time to rest, after this it's off to Charlie's for her Graduation celebrations. A bottle of Moet, Vietnamese dinner and a Karaoke room will set the night up for some serious debauchery.

To be honest, I'm terrifed of this Karaoke room. I adore my friends and I know they won't pass judgement on my shocking singing voice, but theres something awkward about getting up and singing infront of only 9 other people. Do I take it seriously? Or do I act like a nut? Do I dance? Or stand still and stare into the monitor? I don't think I'm ready for my stage debut! I may daydream about having Karen O's voice and charisma, but the reality is, I'm awkward and shy when it comes to standing infront of a crowd. I can't even play a game of charades without getting a little nervous. Its the pressure to entertain that makes me want to curl up in the foetal positon.

You'd think years spent being involved in dance and drama productions would have cured this fear but I stopped all that around the age of 16. Thats when the tall, popular girls became too intimdating and the immature boys were on the 'lets tease the flat chested girls' bandwagon. I was not about to put myself out there to be judged by those idiots. However, it's those idiots that make you toughen up and accept an invitation to sing your little heart out in a Karaoke bar.

So it's not really a lack of confidence that I'm worried about tonight, its just that that awkward 16 year old girl comes out in me whenever faced with an audience and I can see Brendan Ellis' face now staring back at me yelling 'GROW SOME BOOBS JENNA!'. Fuck you Brendan Ellis.

Slut.

Today I feel like a cafe slut. I just opened myself up to another option in the way of food on my lunch break. Cafe Veloce, where a cute French boy served me. Whether the boy was cute or it was just his accent that was, I can't be sure. Once he started speaking everything became hazy. $13.50 later and I'm now working 3 different cafes. One of them, Twist, I don't have to say anything when I walk in, the guy knows my order and doesn't allow me to browse another option. Toasted chicken, spinach and cheese sandwich with added mayo, salt and pepper. Even though its delicious, I'm starting to feel a tad boring and overly predictable. Who knew a sandwich man was able to make you feel like this? Then there's Cafe White. They do alright when it comes to wraps and salads but its their banana bread that makes me keep going back for more. They know how I like it, un-toasted, no butter, just as is, thanks. But today they were super busy and I wasn't the mood to be boring and predictable, so I tried Cafe Veloce and discovered a whole new range of sandwiches and baked treats. Oh, and a French boy.

Now my problem is this, all three cafes are within walking distance of each other. Two of them are even neighbours. I've spent a lot of money and eaten a lot of food to become a 'regular' at the first two, and then I go and dip my hungry little fingers into a new one! I feel like a cheating wife. A player, some might say (by some, I mean a thug lovin' gangster from the Bronx). Cafe Twist is like my husband, always safe and reliable yet boring. Cafe White is my boyfriend, we go on dates and he knows how I like it. Cafe Veloce is my sexy European fling. Some might say I have it all but then again, some might say I wasted my time writing about cafes as if they were human.

*note- woman in picture is not me.

I dream of NYC.

I've been neglecting this little blog. I guess it's a mix of busy writing other things and life getting too chaotic to write anything at all. When most people find it therapeutic to write down their life experiences and thoughts, I tend to struggle and don't actually like doing it at all. If I write it all down in black and white then I'm forced to properly acknowledge it and face up to it all. I'm not ready to do that just yet. I wouldn't even know where to start, to know where it all went wrong. Time is fleeting and a lot has happened. I want the world to stop, I want to get off this stupid ride.

I need a new crowd. And I need to start making wiser decisions. To make yourself a better person at this age is fucking difficult. With a mix of parties and substances, its easy to spiral into self destruction. It doesn't make it easier when you've lost the one person that keeps you sane and safe. If studying next year doesn't happen for me then I think I want to move away. This city is becoming suffocating. I dream of New York. Living in a loft in Brooklyn, working with creative people and gaining some perspective. Meeting new and exciting people to refuel my confidence and realising there is more out there. Although, I'd miss my girls, and I'd miss him. Perhaps sacrifices need to be made.

There's the things that make you happy and the things that make you destructive. Some times the line between the two can become blurry. Ahhh, so that's where I went wrong! Now its time to redeem myself and grow up. And move to New York of course.