MELLIPOP AND THE ABYSS

Ok, so I have just one question for this rancid stinkhole of a city.

Who's dick do you have to suck to get a motherfucking job in this town?

So post-engagement euphoria has given way to more zany Mellipop poverty-line hijinks. Less than a week after popping the question, Anton got sacked from his job. Walked on the spot. Get your slimy Sydney arse out of here. Stick that up your "Sydney Fund".

My beloved has now sunk even lower on the evolutionary scale. Having been ousted from the penultimate rung on the ladder of human filth (otherwise known to man as the Genus "Car Salesman"), he has since interviewed for positions as a) a vacuum cleaner salesman (yes, they still have those apparently) and b) a waitress on $15 an hour, plus tips. Here's a tip for you son. GET THE FUCK OUT OF PERTH.

So in between standing on the breadline and prostrating ourselves before the callous lash of the unemployment whip, not much else has been going on. Except for a brief but terrifying unplanned pregnancy scare which saw me reduced to pissing on preg-test sticks, praying for my period and hoping to god that my burgeoning "baby bump" was little more than an acute case of water retention or a slight thickening around the middle due to the usual slight winter weight gain (goddamn supermarket tabloid mags and your fucking "baby bump" hysteria).

Thankfully, my period made a fashionably (two-week) late apppearance, for the first time ever in the history of my acquaintance with Aunty Flo. God's idea of a practical joke, I suppose. That fucker. Great timing, though. The true essence of a well-delivered joke.

Hence my absence from Mellipop of late. Not much humour value in any of that. That's all I've got.