In my life, I hope I lie, and tell everyone you were a good wife, and I hope you die.

So, as you know by now, most of my time I spend dwelling in my abandoned Cat Lady Mansion, guzzling gin and hurling kittens at innocent bystanders from balconies, cackling in a manner as to show all of my gold false teeth and listening to Edith Piaf playing through a gramophone.

(Except exchange "Cat Lady Mansion" with "North-Eastern outer suburbs home", and "guzzling gin and hurling kittens" with "playing flute and drinking coffee" and "playing Edith Piaf through a gramophone" with "listening to Jay-Z from my Ipod". So... essentially the same thing).

The point is, my penchant for living in my own head leaves me a great deal of time to dwell on things that cause me bitterness (see: everything), and therefore, without further ado, I announce: It's that time again... SPONTANEOUS AND UNNECESSARY HATING ON SMALL ANNOYANCES IN MY LIFE TIME.

HOORAY.

1. Disgustingly Joyous Occasional Moments of Good Weather that Fade into Winter in Frustrating Mockery of our Hopefulness.
- For all the Melbournians out there (Melburnians? Whatever, get a fucking dictionary or something, I'm not here to teach you... how to... label... regional groups. FUCK OFF), you may have noticed that the weather has been entirely disgusting and depressingly awful for many, many months. Usually, I'd be okay with this.
Well... no, who am I kidding, I'd normally be ranting about it anyway. But at least when it's winter one can learn to accept that there's some kind of worldly natural force that creates "seasons" that are difficult to change with sheer force of will. Not that I haven't tried. And trust me, I can yell and scream like a crazy psycho bitch when I want to. An elderly man once told me that my voice would give him a seizure. Clearly he has never watched an episode of "The Nanny", because if you want to hear a seizure voice, Fran Drescher is probably the best option. Except for "Battling Seizure Robots", but I guess that's more to do with lights and stuff, but... where was I going with this? RIGHT, ANYWAY, SEASONS = UNCHANGEABLE FOR THOSE OF US LACKING IN OMNISCIENCE/OMNIPOTENCE/OMNIPRESENCE BLAH BLAH BLAH.
The point is: it's spring. It's still 14 degrees every day. EVERY MOTHERFUCKING DAY. And I realise that 14 degrees is not really cause for alarm. I am yet to bring my snow shovel to uni every day, and as a general rule I don't wear thermal underwear, but IT SHOULD BE WARMER.
Sometimes, however, I have noticed that the weather likes the fuck with me.
The other morning, I was heading into uni. I parked my car at the station, and walked down the road. Now... I live basically on the very edge of the outer suburbs, where the population of hippies starts to grow, and also, unfortunately, the population of indie-folk-upper-middle-class-teens who decide to play the banjo and start shit bands who play music with too much glockenspiel because they're like, totally alternative, and life is so hard for upper middle class teens, there's so little to do, they can barely pay for the damage they did to their car when they drove home drunk on a bottle of $80 scotch, didn't you know?
OH HELLO TANGENT, WHERE WAS I??? Anyway, so living where I live, there are a bunch of whimsical gum trees and blossoming wildflowers, and shit like that that fills the world with radiance and gets rid of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere or something.
So I walk towards the station. And I notice that the lawn around the station (yes - there is lawn) has been recently cut. The sun is out. There are bees buzzing around the weeping willows and cherry blossoms that have recently burst into flower, and a gentle breeze is making the freesias dip and sway delicately.
It is a brief moment of weather-related bliss. IT FILLED ME WITH AN INTENSE RAGE YOU CANNOT IMAGINE.
For one thing, what was I in, a fucking Beatrix Potter novel? Should I have been carrying an easel, being followed by an array of wild-but-friendly animals with a parasol over my lightly powdered face??
NO. NO I SHOULD NOT HAVE. THE WEATHER WAS MOCKING ME WITH ITS SUDDEN AND UNUSUAL NICENESS. Perhaps it sensed my rage, because several minutes later it began to bucket rain with the passion and intensity of a jilted ex-wife and a ridiculous wind started blowing at all of the lovely trees and flowers and bees and everything, which made me MORE BITTER THAN BEFORE because it was cold again and---
ANYWAY. THE MORAL OF THE STORY IS THAT THE WEATHER ONLY EXISTS TO CAUSE US MENTAL, PHYSICAL AND EMOTIONAL ANGUISH AT THE MOST INOPPORTUNE MOMENTS, AND LAUGH IN OUR FACES.
And you thought it was a "natural occurrence". Shame on you, naive and foolish reader.

2. Pretentious Musicians who have Mapped Out their Future Careers in All Their Glory.
- I'll let you in on a secret, merry D.I.D. a Mess readers: musicians don't make any money. As a general rule.
Musicians don't take music courses or start playing or making or writing music because they think that they'll have the opportunity to buy a solid gold house and paper the walls with $100 bills.
Unless they are exceptionally deluded.
Another fact you may or may not be aware of is that many musicians are exceptionally deluded.
In fact, it turns out that how deluded you are about being a brilliant musician who makes a lot of money is directly proportionate to how much of a pretentious twat you are. I know, I made a graph to document this once, and everyone thought it was really great and applauded me for my artistic and mathematical skill:



Creative AND accurate.

Anyway, I have met a great deal of musicians recently who have absolute certainty about the fact that their musical careers will be fruitful and rich and they will become concert performers who constantly book out large performance halls.
THESE PEOPLE MAKE ME WANT TO DIE IN A WELL. They often say things like:
"I only got this piece TWO DAYS AGO and NOW IT IS PERFECT even though it's at L-MUS LEVEL."
Or, "I MUST PRACTISE CONSTANTLY so I can play more gigs I AM IN HIGH DEMAND."
Or also, "I HAVE A PASSION FOR MUSIC. MY LIFE IS MUSIC. I AM A MUSICIAN. I PLAY AT ABOVE POSTGRADUATE LEVEL EVEN THOUGH I AM ONLY FIRST YEAR."
Which is all well and good, but when reality comes crashing down around your head in a year or so, and you realise you'll be a penniless busker until you die in the streets of hypothermia playing a patched-up piano accordion in the snow in 19th century Dickensian England, you still won't have gotten laid, will you?

I think something might have gone astray there.
Hm.
OH WELL.
It's late. I've been writing this all night.
Anyway, FEEL FREE TO WRITE SELF-INDULGENTLY ABOUT THE THINGS YOU HATE. I need sleep.
BAIIII GUYS.
xx