Got in an argument with Warfey about Reagan tonight. Dont know how i've managed not to strangle him so far. I was delighted to hear of his passing (i realise how uncool that is) but Warfey was saddened and thought he was a "great man". Fuck off. Evilness.

What happens when Phe drinks too much red bull:

- She talks to possums and has in-depth discussions about the quality of KFC chips
- She talks to pumpkins with faces carved in them. I named him piere. "Piere, piere pumpkin eater"
- She forgets what day it is
- She comes up with ingenous (yes...right..) ideas about world domination/conspiracies/band names/and what possibile illness is causing these strange pains in her arm.

I'm so fuckin tired i could sleep for a thousand life times. I am taking these precious seconds off from studying to write this blog. Head is spinning.

We're in the process of looking for new housemates. These are the people who have applied so far:

Person number 1: A flight controller!! Cool eh? Pros: Funny, switched on. TV Cons: Old. Far too excited about the possibility of seeing me in my underwear.

Person number 2: A session guitarist, disturbingly 'at peace'. When i say 'at peace' i'm not being euphemistic about drug taking or anything, he was just so chilled out it was scary. He had the word ROCK tatooed on one hand and ROLL on the other, accompanied by big fuck off burn marks up his arms. Pros: 17 guitars, random space-cadet insight. Cons: Hygiene? Strangeness.

Thats all so far, but i'm sure there will be some interesting ones to come. If you for some reason read this and want to live in the greatest house in the history of...melbourne party houses - email me fliss_19@hotmail.com.

Back to it.