Everbody is excited about the inauguration.

On my way home from work today, I stopped to look at a window display and happened to ovehear a conversation two homeless men were having. As I looked over, I noticed one of the men had what can only be described as a giant cardboard "help me I'm homeless" rolodex of signs. He was trying to choose which one fit his mood for the evening when he said to his friend,"Do you think I should make a special inauguration themed one?" Freaking. Awesome.

Why I will not be humming the Folger's Coffee theme song "The best part of waking up..."

...is not Folger's in my cup. To begin with, I've accidentally given up coffee. I don't have a coffee maker at home, and I found that I developed an unhealthy penchant for Starbucks. I know. I'm ashamed too. However, after running late to work for about four days in a row, I didn't have time to run into Starbucks on my way into the office, so I sort of broke the habit. But I still like saying Starbucks. Starbucks.

Starbucks.

My dwindling coffee habit aside, I am now confronted with two distinct smells in the morning. And they sure as hell ain't coffee aroma.

The first usually hits my nostrils around 8:15 a.m. while I'm walking through Hyde Park. It's a fine blend of homeless man's urine and cow poop. I'm guessing the cow poop can be attributed to the fertilizer they are using in the flower beds of the park, but the homeless man urine smell most definitely belongs to a homeless man who I see every morning asleep on a park bench. I've nicknamed him Hobo Joe, the Pee Pee Man. Even when there is no wind to speak of, Hobo Joe's body odor miraculously makes it the good ten feet between me and his spot on the bench. Let me tell you - that smell will wake you up a hell of a lot faster than coffee as the speed you begin to walk to get away from the stench causes you to walk faster, faster heart rate, etc.

The second smell comes about five minutes after I get off the train in North Sydney. Right outside the train station is a fish market. Well, it's not so much a market as it is one seafood joint selling the raw goods. About half way into the shopping center where this fish stall resides, the smell of various different raw fish attacks my senses like a group of ants at a picnic. I can't run away as I'm surrounded by dozens of other train passengers. And inevitably, I get behind either a handicapped old lady who looks like each step she takes is bringing her closer to death (and at a snail's pace, mind you) or a group of teenagers/youths who are too busy gabbing and yakking to walk faster. I'd push either out of the way if wasn't for the divine fear of either being struck down by the hand of a supreme power because I mowed over a grandma or the fear of getting my ass kicked by a group of teenage girls. I think when it comes to the teenagers, I could probably take at least one of them. But if you've got a group of three or more, I imagine it would be like fighting a group of hyenas. I'm not willing to take the risk.

This story has a happy ending though. I discovered that if I overcompensate on perfume in the mornings and wear my black scarf, I can tuck my face down into said scarf (imagine a turtle retracting into its shell if you can't get a good mental picture of what this might look like) and just breathe in my delicious own scent instead of the invading odors I have been faced with the past few weeks. Because let me tell you something - I smell DAMN good. The baby Jesus is envious of my smell. True story. Starbucks.

"Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!"

First off, I by no means think my plight of trying to find a home in the bullshit Sydney rental market is anywhere near as important as equal rights for African-Americans (if you didn't recognize the quote I used in the title of this post, go back to elementary school and read up on your history). But on that same note, you don't know shit about how difficult it was to find an apartment in a decent part of Sydney, so you can go to hell. I'll be judged by no one!

As of February 21st, I will be the newest resident of Paddington. Yes, Paddington. Just like the bear. I think that automatically makes my new neighborhood bad ass. Also, it's pretty much the gayest place in the world, and I mean that literally. Picture this: liquor stores naming themselves Lick Her, shop after shop of leather gear and as many rainbow flags as your little heart desires. I'm not gay myself, but I can appreciate what I've now deemed "Homo-Villle Ground Zero".

As soon as I move in, I will post photos of me moving furniture and finally unpacking my suitcases. The entire inside of the flat is painted a salmon color, so I'll probably be making lots of fish-themed jokes in the future. Expect the word "tuna" to play pretty heavily into my vernacular.

So, when you go to bed this evening say a little prayer that something doesn't fall through and I end up homeless!

The most rejection I've faced since high school...

About thirty seconds ago, I just received my sixth formal rejection from potential roommates. There have been numerous people who just didn't call me back so we'll leave those ones out of the final count.

Seriously. I've never had this hard of a time making friends/finding roommates in my entire life. I'm not going to be nice anymore. Faking enthusiasm just got tired and boring. If these people want to stereotype me, oh, you better believe I'll give them a stereotype to work with. Everyone can go fuck themselves (that last sentence was the beginning of the transformation, in case you were wondering...).

And to anyone that I've ever met that claims that Americans are judgemental of other cultures, it's amazing when the shoe is on the other foot people. For Christ Sake, I'm not a bad person just because I come from a super power country.

Sheesh.

McDonald's Corporation, please forgive me.

As I now see myself in the middle of housing/financial crisis, I must issue an apology to the McDonald's Corporation. I realize this blog is a piss poor apology, so I will craft a suitable letter to mail (and I will also post it here). To sum it up, you might not have a place to live, you might be contemplating kayaking across half the globe, but you can always count on McDonald's to offer up cheap food. It might kill me in the long run, but nothing says "feel better lil' Mary" like McDonald's french fries and soft serve ice cream cone. Bring on the elastic waist pants!