The journey back to Sydney had some very amusing highs and lows, but I know I wouldn't do the hilarity justice, so go read Shelley's diary when she updates on the chance it'll be mentioned... here's a keyword for you: SEXPO.

I'm such a tease.

I'm still trying to decide whether to talk myself up or down about the whole "i'm-kindof-a-slut" incident... down is as always appealing, but up has the bonus of being challenging.

There are these morals, virtues, honourable type respectable type things (No sex before marriage/no sex before the third date/no kissing strange english men vein of things) that I think everyone including me to a degree assumed I had .... and so I guess I never really thought about it, never noticed their absence.

I've been arguing me in my head and the general consensus is, I'm insecure and a hedonist which makes for a floozy combination.

Which isn't exactly a bad thing ... I mean, maybe the insecure part is, maybe that's what makes me so open to everything including the idea that I should take whatever I get. "Get" not "can get" ... I won't take things that aren't visibly in my reach.

And this isn't just the slut aspect with guys, it's my life... goals... relationships ... and to a lesser degree, chocolate. I mean I won't go for things I don't think I can get, but when I know I can I take all in my grasp, the way the ant stockpiled food for winter in the story with the cricket, only the things I'm stockpiling just make me feel sick.

But back to the kissing-strange-men, I don't regret it, I'm a little bit in disbelief with myself but am not playing the shame-game.

I mean...

Dark night lit up by stars and the odd streetlight, walking down a street you've come to think of as home, empty but for a few who make sounds of laughter and life. Arms laced around each other to the point where warmth abounds and feelings of safety and freedom make a happy collision.

And maybe I'm romanticising above and beyond the point of nausea, and easily it's the product of hormone implosion, but when you catch his whispered "Can I kiss you?" should I have replied "Hands off buddy, I'm not supposed to be that easy"?

Not that that can rationalise the later seriously less chaste kisses. But I'm going to face it, I am easy, in so much as, easy to please, and if you can make me happy I'll give you anything you want, because I've been busy these last few years devaluing myself to the point where it all means little-to-nothing to me.

You know, one day I'm sure the contents of that admission will lead to my supposed heart being ripped out and sold to gourmet kitchens, where it will be sliced and diced and sold raw for amounts so exorbitantly outrageous that I myself will never be able to afford to buy even one tiny piece of it back.

But that's not the kind of thing that needs to be worried about in advance. Destiny, journeys and chosen paths and all that. Who cries over milk because they might spill it?

Silver lining is at least this seems to indicate my getting over emotional involvements with losers that I feel no real attraction (physical or otherwise) towards, just attraction for it's own sake.

Now I may be onto man ho's who are only after that "one thing" my mother always warned me about ... but hell, at least they're charming and funny and good-looking.

I know, I know, I'm going to make myself a shirt with "floozy" or "hussy" written on it so the rest of the world can identify my ultimately branded status.

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