Put gerbils in your pockets (Jennifer)

My first week of classes ended rather unceremoniously with me skipping Thursday’s psychology lecture.  Quelle rebel. 
It’s okay; I wasn’t dropping out of Uni, or dropping acid, or sleeping in a gutter like a low-end whore.   On Thursday afternoon I went to a seminar on shaken baby syndrome at the Royal Children’s hospital with my mother.  (Uplifting, obviously.  Our other mother-daughter bonding activities include shopping, pillow talk, and excursions to the Port Philip Correctional Centre to visit convicted paedophiles.  Note: I kid.)  

 I thought the seminar might be useful / interesting in terms of later applications and blah blah blah.  It was, and the people running the show were very knowledgeable and pragmatic.  It finished at four p.m., and I had a whole hour to get back to the Carrillo-Gantner theatre in time for a Behavioural Neuroscience lecture.  

In the car park, wrapping scarves around necks on the fifteen-degree afternoon, the following conversation ensued:

My mother (standing in front of car): “Well, I guess I’ll see you when you get home.”
Me: “Okey-dokey.  Drive safe.”
My mother: “Hey, do you want some chips?”
Me: “Yeah, let’s go.” 

 What can I say.  The promise of food; the comfort of a car (in which your head isn’t jammed in somebody else’s sweaty armpit, like on the train): I’m easily satisfied.  And hence I missed the lecture.    But I was too orgiastically caffeinated, satiated and happy to care. 

 What else?  Blogging is an odd concept, based on the assumption that readers, should they exist, actually give two mouldy figs about what you’re saying (unlikely).  But for the purpose of this exercise, I’ll proceed nonetheless. 

 My weekend now consists of three days, as I have no classes on Fridays, making it smashing by default.  On Sundays, my dear friend (who informs me she wishes to be known as ‘Scarlett’ for the duration of this blog) and I have a semi-hemi-regular open-mic slot at a local music café, and I spent much of Saturday afternoon at her house as we practiced. 

After pushing several platefuls of luscious gnocchi down our faces, we walked over to a friend’s house for a small get-together.  Generally such gatherings involve alcohol, interpretive dancing, and possibly Guitar Hero.  However, on Saturday night everyone was surprisingly exhausted after our first week as pseudo-grown-ups, and so the evening culminated in everybody lying on the floor at about ten-thirty. 
What crazy kids.  

Scarlett and I walked home again and practiced until midnight, at which point we crashed.  I believe the turning point was when she accidentally (and with much sincerity) sang ‘Put gerbils in your pockets…’, instead of ‘Put dirtballs in your pockets’. 

…and then on Sunday afternoon, we performed to a small (but loyal) crowd, and kicked some arse.  It was a real humdinger. 

 Back to uni today for my first psychology tute, second French tute, and my eighty-sixth coffee, before meeting la familia in Lygon Street for some serious chow.  And right now it’s so gloriously sunny I might just go down to the beach. 
This is so vapidly cheerful I’m making myself nauseous.  Good times.