She Bought…Lollies.

This chapter really was quite inevitable, as this particular person I frequently use to prove/bring about a point or introduce a subject, purely because: I will never get tired of dwelling in her weirdity.

My Ma.

She isn't the most exciting person to have challenged the earth; she is a seperatee (I figure if there can be a word such as 'divorcee' then surely those holy abiders of separation should not be left, high and quite dry, without their own), she runs her own business with Orchids and animals of the mooing variety, she trundles along to church every Sunday dragging along her 2 minutes out of bed daughter to pose as her minion (which, her daughter would like to point quite strongly out, she absolutely is not), and does her shopping on Fridays coming home with the wrong sort of pads (her daughter refuses to use the wingless which, at the best of times, are dangerously unstable) and certainly not lollies. Which brings me to my perception shattering question: who let the good mood out?

My sisters and I have all agreed at one point or another that our Ma is indeed crazy (will be deleting this document as soon as I have it uploaded to FP. – for obvious reasons involving irony and expectation of the unexpected). I'm not saying this mental state is bad, or even undesirable. I'm just saying that someone should have long ago invented pills, legal pills acquired by prescription only, which can be slipped into the unsuspecting cup of tea to sedate irate mothers/ parental figures. Who would do the cooking you ask? Good question, I'm not all too sure. My presumption would be that the children would contemplate eating each other until the time the parental figure awoke, chirpy and ready to go, hence keeping them busy until tea preparation proceeds. Although, if one was able to put up with the pus inducing parental figure until after tea, their patience would be well rewarded with a satisfied tummy and a good as dead, though still alive if not insane, parental figure. Elaborating on that thought into territory unhealthily terrifying, what would happen if you woke one day to find your parental figure, not only sane, but bearable and dare I say it…nice?

-Ann, having woken up from an incredible sleep at 12:11pm after a late night war with a certain history assignment, took a wee walk around the house to discover elatedly that she was, indeed, alone. Having confirmed her freedom to wreck general havoc with inanimate objects but to lazy to do so, she groggily entered the kitchen, hearing to her extreme disappointment the sound of a car. Going outside after the fridge was revealed to hold nothing of the instantly ingestible sort, she initiated a conversation with her mother who was in the process of unpacking the shopping from the car…

Ann: Maaaaaaaaa!
Ma: Hello!
Ann…Hi.
Ma: You want your Mummy?
Ann: :: Thinking that she hadn't wanted her "mummy" since ma had disallowed her to act as a parasite, she was struck slightly horrified for a moment:: Uh…I want food.

-Later on in the kitchen after Ann spotted Ma with a bag of lollies…

Ann: Are they lollies?
Ma: Yes they are.
Ann: You never buy lollies.
Ma: Well I have today.
Ann: What's the occasion?
Ma: Nothing.
Ann: Huh.
Ma: Do you want me to cook you something for lunch? Here have some lollies! The banana chips are over there, and would you like some potato chips?
Ann: :: Dies at the shock of having the option of consuming junk food, let alone junk food for lunch. Dies again in realisation her mother was actually displaying a certain degree of nice-ness. Dies again when she realises her mother is spoiling her. Dies completely.::

Seeming as you aren't a part of my family, you will have no idea how absolutely bizarre my morning/extremely early afternoon experience with my ma was. It was awful. She had somehow acquired a mood which ultimately qualified her for good-natured and motherly, she had somehow become 'Ma – The Next Generation'. I was tempted to tell her something naughty I had recently done in order to get 'Ma – The Previous Generation' back, but then I decided to take advantage of the situation worthy of the X-Files theme song and tell her that, "yes, yes I believe I would like you to cook me lunch."

My ma and my dad are like chalk and cheese. This cliché is quite relevant to my parents and I shall, therefore, elaborate. My ma is lactose intolerant, my dad would renounce Catholicism for a religion whose deity was made of cheese. Ma wanted to be a teacher, my dad hates dust. Therefore, my ma is allergic to my dad, and my dad hates the fact ma doesn't mind dust (for of course, a teacher's best friend is chalk (producer of a substance resembling dust): nemesis of the world of Eardrum). My dad is the cheese and my ma is the chalk. Naturally, these combinations (in their context) are quite explosive and the difference quite amazing. So let's move on to my dad, shall we?

My dad is cool. Sure he's going through a mid-life crisis and has a phobia of me dropping a florescent coloured drink on his carpet, but other than that it's smooth sailing. I recently spent a few days at his place, of which I spent making lame jokes, watching his many channels, putting out his neck with my attempts at driving a gear shift and speeding around the car park exclaiming, "my foot is twitching, MY FOOT IS TWITICHING!". I received bizarre requests such as:

Dad: Ann, could you please half flush the toilet when uh…
Ann: I can?
Dad: Yes.
Ann: Ok. But I can't promise anything…

Dad: Ann, when you leave the toilet, can you please leave the door either fully closed or fully open. If you leave it any other way, it bangs with the drafts, it's very annoying.
Ann: …Uh, sure.
Dad: Good.

After his spout of complaints concerning my dealings with the toilet (I'm quite sure that toilet is the cause of all his suffrage) I felt the need to ask him to put the seat down after he used it, afterall it is common courtesy. I denied myself the privilege, despite that the fact that even my brother manages to always put the seat down (and he is the embodiment of lazy), I held my tongue. Why? Because it's gross. My brain tends to intentionally malfunction when it comes to the male anatomy (slightly so concerning the female anatomy), especially when it is the male anatomy of a family member. I blame ma for never saying 'penis' around me.

Speaking of penis', there is this guy, or should I say a prominent part of the male anatomy disguised as a guy, who scares the living shiznas out of me. "How could you, Ann, possibly be afraid of such a "person"?" you inquire, quite mystified. Well, it's quite easy my sweet, I had a stalker in primary school. Yes, that's right, when I was just a little 7 year old, oblivious to the fact that there was, indeed, a word more severe than "bitch", I had someone constantly following me and freaking me out. I had conveniently blocked out Stalker after the ordeal with him ended, that is until I begun working at Vogel Street Dairy (quite a few years later), and he quite horribly re-entered my life in order to buy Coke after Coke after Coke along with his creepy, dirty handed posse. Their hands are so dirty in fact, I feel like getting a gun at times and loading it with hand wash bullets. I like to think of this particular day dream as: well intentioned hints gone wrong. I'm quite positive that Stalker is mentally unstable, or at least has something wrong with him sanity wise, which further disturbs me. He isn't the only freaky guy I get at work, oh no, there was the one who I was forced to resort to hiding window wipers under the counter in case of violence. For afterall, being alone with a convicted rapist who likes to talk to you for unreasonable amounts of time isn't exactly an experience I would dub Fluffy Bunny With Cheese. Oh, and then of course there was the freaky diabetic Asian lady who was constantly trying to rip the business off. Let's just say I opened a can of Nark Whoop Ass on her evil shenanigans of exploitation.

And on the note of evil shenanigans, I shall conclude chapter 7 of "Quasi Essays of the Mad and Unhealthy" (yes, I am mourning its former name; the new one just doesn't have that ring…). It has been a fairly random instalment, but I'm in a random mood, therefore the randomity is, as always, expected. I just realised there is nothing, in all actuality, to conclude or to say. Apart from that I am amazed that there is such a word as 'actuality' - no doubt I'm going to develop a cruel obsession with it – I think you have read enough of my ness for you to come to your own conclusions. I'm so proud of you! You're growing up so fast! ::insert Ann spitting on a tissue and wiping a, nonexistent, marmite smudge off your cheek in front of all your classmates, and of course your crush:: - yet another reason to hate marmite ;).

Issues Ann would like to be addressed; courtesy of Multiple Personality No.23:

It has recently come to Ann's attention that the footpath, haven to pedestrians and the gutter banished, is now just as dangerous as Britney Spears with a microphone and nothing to lip sync to. She requests that you look both ways before entering and exiting a footpath. This request became necessary after Ann was almost run over by, and I quote from a comment made by Ann herself, "one of those old man scooter thingies which are perpetually stuck on the lethal speed of 30kmh." This was her first experience of being "nearly" run over. It was not as exciting as she thought it should have been, especially so since the driver was reportedly not, and I quote again, "desirable."

Ann will be returning to school in a few days and would like to let you know that, if in any case she does not update within a few months of this posting, she is in jail as a consequence of killing her history teacher with a yellow, I repeat, yellow, portfolio.

Of late, Ann has discovered everyone (read: her piano teacher and herself) goes to Australia in order to get the forbidden tattoo. Ann would like to take this opportunity to again inform you that Australia was once a prison. Ann would now like me to emphasise her disgust concerning the word "once" in that particular context.

Ann would like me to say all were wrong in their "completely selfless" comments. Except maybe Glitterjewele for pointing out that someone giving out directions, but in too much of a, and again I'll quote Ann to display how linguistically challenged she is, "dumbass state" to actually get anything out of it. Don't worry, Ann couldn't think of anything either. She likes to think she's so smart, but she really isn't, she's fu- ::insert Ann interrupting MP23 and successively ruining his chances of ever being able to touch his toes again here:: Ehem, I apologise, Ann rocks…uh…the…shiz-nak? ::insert cue card here:: …shizna. Although she did come up with one where the fate of the world lay in one's hands, but in order to save the world they would have to kill themself. They couldn't do this so in order to pretend they were killing themself they intentionally tripped over which, ironically, results in them dying after being distracted by a flying banana, and forgetting to catch themself before their head hit the up-turned dagger on the ground.

Ann would like to point out that the lead singer she was referring to in the previous chapter was the one from the Rasmus, and agree that the lead singer of Placebo is indeed worthy of her drool.

Ann would like me to thank all reviewers and readers. You all rock her shizna.

Once again, goodnight, other worldly being bless, and remember…
I am no one's minion.

Disclaimer: absolutely no semblance of research was done for this essay. I had no intention of tainting the reputation of yellow portfolios. They are great ::insert ridiculous wink here::