Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Viagra for the mind

So I blog to you, the reader, from my comfy bed via my latest piece of undamaged technology, also known as the iFail/iPhone.
I'm at a loss as to how it's survived more than a month with me as it is.

Recently, I blew a stack of cash on a camera that I'll probably take medicore photographs with, lose the filters to, and eventually casually break it into a million pieces one night. The following morning, I'll have no recollection, and blame it on whoever is in close radius of me. It'll be just my luck.

Thanks to said camera, of which cost so much, I still have another $200 to pay on it, I am destitute, broke, living in poverty and about to be the only under 21 person in the entire universe spending new years eve stone cold sober, thanks to dad declaring that he's no longer going to be a bludging alcoholic with minimal liver function - now, he's turning into a camp, orange juice addict. Today, i went with him do his shopping hoping to scab food. We entered supermarket sans shopping trolley. He got to carry his bread, and i had to carry fifteen litres of breakfast juice. Just my fucking luck, thank you, dad.

To add insult to injury, I've put on a kilo after shedding 5 and no longer can squeeze my bloated, sore tits into my favourite dress because birth control likes to fuck with my hormones, and juice litres of blood out of me for anywhere up to three weeks at two or three month intervals. All this - the inability to wear nice clothes, bloating body parts, temporary spasms of bipolar - so I don't have to take a ridiculous pill I know I'll forget, and end up eight and a half months up the duff, the size of an orca whale, dressed in a fucking floral MuMu, wondering why the fuck did I complain in the first place?

Anyone got a Valium?

Tuesday, December 8, 2009

Puppy Breath.

I'm addicted to gross things. Avid readers and good friends should know this.
Straight teeth are a turn on, but they sure don't match up to something like Spina Bifida, gigantic crooked noses, bleeding wounds afflicted for obscure reasons, dinky eyes or legs - the list goes on.
The addiction spawns from a love of doing gross things.
And I wonder why I'm still single?

I love the smell of puppy breath. When I'm around puppies, I'm the biggest sucker for the puppy with the worst puppy breath. Forget the cute ears and wet noses, its the puppy breath. I used to be for the ugliest puppy there.
When I was a kid, my dad brought me to look at these cute little jack russell pups. I was so excited.
He wanted me to get the pup that looked like Wishbone - and if you dont know who Wishbone is, Google it right now - but there was this disgusting, dirty looking little throwback pup. He was all wiry and poo-coloured brown, and definately didn't look like a jack russell.
I picked him, and we named him Fugly. Because thats exactly what he was.
He was a total gun of a dog; he played soccer with me when I was a kid, when I thought I was going to be Australia's Next Big Thing. I got so good at playing soccer with Fug, that I joined my primary school Girls Team. I was thrown off because I was such a shit player; the principal was the coach, and he alikened me to an eager puppy that just got in the way.
Thank you, Fugly.
In the end, we had to move to a house that didn't allow dogs, so we gave him to my uncle.
Two years later, he got hit by a car, chasing a bird.

I was reviewing pick up lines with Cody today. I think we discovered why my pick up skills have completely diminished. The conversation began when I complained (as per fucking usual) that everyone has more sex than me.
According to Deez Nuts' "Sex Sells", the ideal woman measures 36", 24", 36".
I measure 46", 28", 47".
Fuck you, Deez Nuts.
Don't be hatin' on my ghetto booty and tits.

Sunday, November 15, 2009

Life Lessons.

Do you know why babies cry the moment they're born?
I don't know the specific scientific reasonings behind it all, but my theory is this:
You've just been ripped from a nice, floaty warm place with no lights, because some fucker issued you an eviction notice you didn't know about. You're being kicked out, dude. What a blowout; your life is over. Where will you live?
So you're being removed by this place, shoved town some tight space that logically, you shouldn't fit through. And then, fucking bam.
Lights in your eyes, and your lungs are fucking stinging.
Because you've never fucking breathed this toxic fucking shit that dudes are polluting with germs and fumes and other acidic shit that you didn't know about.
Fuck me, Jesus, this must fucking suck.

And that, is your first life lesson. What a shit start to learning and life. Not only were you gargling and thinking you're about to die, you're covered in blood and uterine excrements and other disgusting muck. And to make things worse, you come from your mothers vagina. You'll come to learn, that your parents had to get naked to make you. How fucking gross.

Throughout your, on average, 70-80something years, you go on learning silly, stupid things, important, life-or-death things, and most importantly, learning from your mistakes.
A lot of people I know take this "learn from your mistakes" mantra either too seriously, or totally for granted.
What people need to realise, is that this knowledge and ability is not a gift from the moment you're born. A toddler, for instance, will take off his nappy and shit all over the floor. Quite fucking happily, as well. He'll be told off, he'll cry and scream and kick and fucking wail, say "Sawwreee Muuummmeee", and everyone's happy.
Sometime later, he's pissing and/or shitting near the couch.
And the vicious cycle begins all over again.
Don't laugh; we all pissed on mum's floor at one time or another, and blamed it on the dog.

This is where you need to recognise whether or not you, the reader, possess this quality.
After Mum told you off for eating out of the dog bowl, the kitty litter, pulling your siblings hair or pulling off Barbie's head, or as before mentioned, pissing/shitting on the floor, did you defy Mum and waited until she or the dog wasn't looking, and went off and did it again?
If you did, you do not possess this quality and/or fault, and I feel happy, yet pity for you.
Happy, because you're obviously oblivious to the things you're doing wrong, hence you're living a fabulous life without regrets and doubts because you don't know any better. Good on you, you lucky, dumb bastard.
Pity, because everyone else thinks you're a dumb bastard.

Somehow, by some messed up, disgusting stroke of a Supreme Being/He Who Must Not Be Named (God, Voldemort, whoever was in fashion and most trendy on that day), I, your author, got caught in some parallel dimension, in between not knowing and knowing how to "learn
from mistakes".
It didn't take me long to figure out that my mum was going to lose her shit when I didn't pick up my toys, or ate cat crunchies, or broke other kids toys because they broke mine.
So I didn't do that.
Instead, I just kept finding new ways to push the boundaries between "Amy is such a good girl, I wish my kid was just like her" and "Get that fucking thing out of my house before I kill it."
When I hit puberty, with hormones fueling destruction everywhere I went, I totally threw the "learn from mistakes" theory right out the window for a while.
After I regained consciousness to reality, I gathered some helpful information through life evaluation.
A normal Plain Jane or Average Joe would only need to evaluate his or her life a few times in their entire existance, or at least, check in with themselves once a year to see how things went.
I do it monthly.
"Ok, Amy-Jean, what fuck ups did you create this month?"
I make a list.
I never used to write it down, until recently. Sometimes, I'll skimp through with one or two, and others the list will be as long as my forearm.

I've found, by writing down my mistakes, I have the supreme talent of aknowledging them, analysing them, breaking them down and devising information and developing research on them. Whilst this might seem entirely anal-rententive to most, I don't really care.
I can tally the mistakes up: 2 x Farting on an Innocent Bystander, 5 x using the word "Cunter" without good reason, ect.
I'm seeing that I'm making bigger mistakes more often.
And they're generally things that have to do with emotional bullshit such as feelings, boys, how boys feelings are affected, blah blah blah.
Example; My friend Daniel just got a haircut. As he was describing it to me, I wet my pants laughing. Later in the conversation, he was praising me on how straight forward I am, and how guys should dig that. I further went on to cut him off, saying how his new haircut will make him look like Shrek if he were annorexic.
I think he regrets having me in his life sometimes.
He also come to say that I "harbour too much hate" towards men, specifically those who have scorned me.
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

In which, we come to a totally different tangent, as I am quite famous for chopping-and-changing.
Relationships and Me.
Think Marley and Me, but with bombs, guns and lots of ammo. And no fucking children.
For those who aren't familiar, let me give you a run through on the story:
Starts off cute and cuddly. Is commonly reffered to "Yard Sale Puppy" until name is actually recognised. Eats everything. Shits a lot. Eats some more. Brings in chicks. Eats chicks food. Realises that bringing in chicks is causing unwanted attention from Owner-man. Offends chicks and everyone else. Gets angry at owner-man and wrecks his stuff. Eats some more. Loses a few friends. Bombs go off. Some dude loses his shit and goes all Collumbine on everyone. The earth implodes. Yard Sale Puppy has a cry, floating around in space because there isn't any eath anymore. Feels good because no fucker can annoy Yard Sale Puppy. Feels lonely. Wants to find another earth with possibilities of another owner-man. Eats some more. The end.

I suggest you get the book or get the dvd or something. Its actually nothing like that.

Basically, I'm one of those girls who is all happy and dandy, eating herself stupid on doritos and chicken, masturbating to the Oozevoodoo album and occasionally getting face-blindingly drunk on IGA's entire supply of liqour. Until something goes awry.
You can either catch the icy cold, green eyed, vulnerable bitch, or the "next time your dick finds itself in another girl, please call me. I'd like to watch" side. I haven't really had a chance to bust out the "i'd like to watch" line yet. It's in its final stages of preparation, kind of like Windows Vista - I've got to iron out some glitches and aim it at a particular market.

Anyway. Punch line is, I suck at boyfriends. I wish there was a tutorial or something.

I might just stick to imagining I'm being serenaded every evening over copious amounts of alcohol and cigarettes and having wild sex with Kiss Reid.

Oh, Kissy.

Monday, November 9, 2009


Snowball and I discussing the workings and malfunctionings of our toilet device,
in 30-something degree heat. We also hate the heat and want to move to the snow.

Over the last three years, Mum and I have lived in four difference houses, and four different toilets have died on us.
In the first house, we lived in Cabbage tree Creek, our tiny little paradise in the mountains. Due to living so far away from the the nearest town, our sewerage ran into a septic tank.
For three weeks, I walked around with my head in the clouds, complaining that something had crawled beneath our house and died.
For a following two weeks, Mum insisted that someone had died in the house at some point, and the smell must have gone through the floorboards.
A week later, our landlords nextdoor smelt it, and decided it's a serious problem. When seeking deeper information, Mr. Landlord found that treeroots had penetrated our septic tank and had caused a leak, along with a back-up. It was seriously gross.
When we moved, we managed not to break my Aunty's toilet. When we finally got our own place in Port, we had two toilets - "Number One" and "Number Two's".
I broke the glass seat on Number One, coming home from a drunk expedition to release the alcohol consumed; I cut my arsecheek on the glass stuff, and still have a scar today. All I remember, was running out to Mum squealing, "MY ARSE! MY ARSE IS BLEEEEEDING!"
Not long after, the pipes on both Number One AND Number Two started to leak. We didn't think much of it until it started to smell bad. We called the plumber, and the day that he was mean to arrive, the Number Two toilet backed up completely. I woke up, went into brush my teeth and was standing in ankle deep toilet water. I freaked; I lost my shit, no pun intended.
After the plumber fixed those problems, we never had another issue. Until we shifted again.
The first two weeks of living here, in our cosy new house, our toilet won't flush. At all. There's a blockage, and we can't fix it. We called our Landlord, we called our plumber, and no one wants to fix our toilet. I mean, I have to walk across to the KFC to go take a dump. It's terrible. I'm at the point of being so lazy, I'm thinking of just digging a hole in my backyard. Forget fittness from walking the kilometer it is to the street, I don't care about fitness; fitness doesn't make me feel good and it certainly doesn't give you the magical feeling of "just going".
The toilets been like this for nearly two weeks. I am getting weird looks from the people in KFC, who see me walk past almost everyday to use their toilet. I'm pretty sure they think I'm a home-toilet-aphobe; some kind of freak that hates using her own toilet or something.
In actual fact, I love my toilet.
When you're on the toilet, its basically the only time that no one can bother you. You can sit down, read a book, chill out, have a cry - whatever.

Please, Mr. Plumber-man, I miss my toilet-time.

Thursday, October 22, 2009


I've been planning a "Ten Things" Blog for a while, since I haven't made something akin to it for fucking ages. Get yourselves a coffee and a crumpet, and sit back to read!



i buy all of my make-up on sale. I very rarely spend any more than $10-$15 on something, even if it does go on my face. Inside my adorable vintage case (purchased from an opshop) you can find:
  • Tampons - an absolute necessary
  • Liquid eyeliner, two different (cheapo) brands
  • Black, brown and white eyeliner - black for the top lids, brown for the eyebrows and white to go underneath silver glitter, nude toned eyeshadows or on the bottom lids for a little boom.
  • Scissors, for little hair or costume emergencies
  • A lighter
  • Various eyeshadows, ranging from glitters and bright colours, to classy nude tones that suit my skin
  • RED. LIPSTICK. 2 shades.
  • 3 different mascaras of differnt impacts, and various false eyelashes.
  • A deoderant that is subtle, spells "I wash daily" and doesn't reak of scent-a'la-slut. I go for Dove. You can put it on straight after a wax or shave without that horrible stinging feeling, it doesn't leave any white marks AND its relitively cheap!
  • A loose powder and pale foundation - I went for $2 Shop powder, and $10.99 Australis powder creme.
  • A creme blush. Creme blushers give you uber control of where you want your cheekbones
  • A good quality moisturiser. Moisturise BEFORE foundation and your skin will love you for life. I personally choose Olay - I love how it makes me feel clean, it smells nice and its good for sensitive AND combination skin.

Since the international boom of New Media devices, music is everywhere. Even starving african kids have iPods and Mobile phones now. Get yourself a good pair of those little pluggy earphones and jam out. best for long bus trips, giving people the hint that you don't want to talk to them, waiting for appointments or moody days. Also fantastic for getting a lovely boy to sit closer to you.
"Hey, you with the hair, come here. I've got a tune for you!"
After all, earphones only stretch so far.


Girls need these. Put up with the huge phonebills, constant chatting and sneaky photos when you're not looking your best. eHarmony estimates that 2% of all americans met on eHarmony; myspace and facebook estimates that 72% of all teenagers met through their social networks that are now accessible on telephonic devices.

I can't stand these new "flat" wallets that are metal and snap together. They're not a wallet. A nice wallet is made of leather or high-quality cloth, often has lovely embossing and lots of pockets for cards, photos, tickets ect. I got mine from a melbourne opshop for 50cents.


keep track of dates and numbers. Also gives you somethign to write in when you're bored or catch the number of that lovely boy on the train. seeing as my love life is currently null and void, my 200 different journals are reserved for drawing and scratching down reasons why I hate things.

For me, I take my crochet hook and wool everywhere. I'm not greatly skilled at it, and can only master a scarf, but it takes away the boredom and keeps my hands busy when i'm on a train. If you're craft orientated, take along your scrapbook or notepad or knitting, and look super cute and craft all at the same time.

I know the phone covers it, but a camera is great for parties or coffeedates with friends.



I wake up every morning, asking myself why Kiss Reid and i aren't sharing the same life or bed together.

The starving malnourished look does it for me. And, he likes dogs. He has a french bulldog; I want to hug it.

Can you look me in the eyes, and tell me this man doesn't ooze suave? My goodness. Swoon.

Facial hair, tight jeans and tattoos. he can serenade me anyday.

And we come back to how much I love the "I'm-addicted-to-hard-drugs-and-not-eating-enough" look. Nick only started to lose points for me when the hair started to go. You could find me crying lots because of such events.

Come to think of it, the age doesn't freak me out with Tom. Fuck it. Tom Waits is still sexy as hell. He scares and grooves the panties off me.

When I was thirteen, I was so in love with The bad Boy of GlamRock, I scratched "TOMMY LEE" with a love heart next to it with a penknife, because I was so bored. Such things can be found on my hand, just below my thumb. The heart faded, but the Tommy didn't.
Do I regret it?
Fuck No.

1) Other girls.
2) Wear the same underwear or not shower, for more than two days in a row
After the second day, you stink.
You better have a good excuse to have only one pair of underwear.

3) Wear socks during sex
It's gross and really weird.
4) Scratch your balls, turn up on drugs, turn up hung over or beat up, with her parents around
She wants her parents to like you.
Parent's don't like these things. They think they're bad, gross and don't want their babygirl involved with such people.

5) Speeding
she doesn't want to be in a car accident and have horrible life-shanging, face-distorting scars, and she probably really likes having mobility and legs. She really doesn't give a flying fuck if you're a good driver or not. Good drivers crash too.

6) Liken her to one of your exgirlfriends / talk about your exgirlfriend post-sex 7) Make fun of her in front of her friends.
1) Changes
About a year or so ago, I was an over-possivile, clingly, relationship-obsessed freakgirl. In recent times, I've come to realise that I've gone from that, to being a total commitmentphobe. I don't know why; it sucks.
2) Unladylike
I fart, I pick my nose, I pick wedgies in public, do gross things to people. I talk about poo with Andy, and how much periods and constipation suck. I swear like a trooper in public, and can be often found wearing boys clothes or pajamas, because I can't be faggoted looking good that day.
3) Debatable
I"ll argue a point, even if I know I'm wrong. I'll fight for something that I believe in, and eventually try to convince you that I'm right. I think there is maybe two people who have caught me out on this; Cody can still shut me down. Bastard.
4) Complaining
If the opportunity arises, I'll complain. if I'm not complaining about something that I'm doing, I'm complaining about what others are doing. "What is your fucking problem? Why can't you work properly? Shut up, and do your shit."
You can find me complaining most in the car. "What the fuck? Why can't his guy drive? Where the fuck did he get his license? I drive better than him!"
I don't have my license.
5) Vain
I'm a self-confessessed self-aholic. I think about myself a lot, how I look, how I feel. I spend a lot of time in the mirror, being vain and complaining that I don't look good enough. Apparently, boys don't like girls that are both vain and unladylike.
6) Food
I love food. Don't come between me and chicken kiev, unless you don't value your life. I eat often, and I eat alot. Someone once told me, "Everytime I look at you, you're eating."
Eating is right up there with coffee, bourbon and cigarettes.
7) Intimidating.
A few of my friends have said that I can intimidate the shit out of people. I'm incredibly blunt, and the majority of my friends are boys that are rude, crude and just like me. If I don't like you for whatever reason I have, you'll definately know. I pass on the "Wow, you are sooo pretty! I'm going to kiss your arse and suck your toes until you like me!" bullshit; In my eyes, I'm really quite a nice person.

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

when it rains, it pours...

new house.

In latest news, I have finally escaped the primordial wastelands of the Greater Geelong region. And I'm blissful. My Lola is roaming around at Dad's, fashionably owning the place and intimidating Dad's co-worker, Lefty, out of going near her without a peaceoffering such as apples, carrots or a feedbucket.
I'm wandering around Churchill and surrounding areas, taking daytrips into the city and back. However, still jobless, single and did I mention jobless?
I got a little down on myself recently, because I'd left so many fabulous people behind. As much as I hated that place, I think I miss a select few who resided in it.

I trained it back thereyesterday, and caught up with my friend Baby, who has recently discovered he's going to be a babydaddy - for real, this time. His girlfriend wants to keep the baby, he doesn't. It's horrible for me to see, because I love the boy dearly. He's a seriously drop-dead-insane drummer, had plans of an Audio Engineering course at University in the coming future; he even has a tour lined up with his band in the coming months - my baby was going places. As he says, he "can basically kiss this all goodbye".
My baby's off to join the high-ranks of Teenage Fatherdom.

My dear friend Cody came back into my life recently. Its pretty good. We had a huge bust up ages ago, because I did some pretty terrible things that warranted him to probably hate me forever, or burn my house down whilst I slept.
It just shows how incredible my friends are. We're planning coffee sometime in the near future, and rocking out awesome hair and fabulous shoes.

I feel kind of lonely at the moment. Whilst I have my friends, they all live in other towns that aren't 10 minutes away. I've moved to another town where I don't know anyone. I feel really hermitty. All I do all day is dream about Kiss Reid, sew and draw. I eat, and then I go to sleep spooning my cat.
I can't wait until I get a job. I'm so fucking sick of being broke. I'm seeing this job service guy tomorrow for the second time, he's pretty rad. He swears at me, and makes me feel good about myself by calling me intelligent. He's going to help me put a plan together to help me stick to shit, because he already worked out that I'm the worst at sticking to things.
"Amy, do you have a planner?"
"Can I see it?"
"... this is all just drawing."
"Isn't that what they're for?"
"Do you have a calendar?"
I opened my mouth to say, "I posed for one recently!", but decided not to.
The conversation didn't actually play out like that, but this guys basically going to get me set up with a short-term job, whilst helping me work towards a long-term thing. I've come to realise that I might be pretty good at managing bands, because I don't stop pissing people off until I get what I want. If all else fails, I'll stick with my cushy office job and try and start a studio of some kind. It would be totally rad; Kay and I would be able to be in love with each other, work together, and have sneaky lesbian sex when no one is looking.
My life would be set.

I really don't know how to stay on a subject any more. I'm pretty sure I have a mental illness.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

A Mess.

my house is in complete turmoil right now.
boxes fucking everywhere; i found a pair of underwear hanging from the back of the couch this afternoon.

i went to the dentist today; K.Rudd sent me a free dentist appointment.
K.Rudd is a girls best friend - he's Centerlink's SugarDaddy.
A lovely little indian dentist was there today. Whilst not George Costanza, my dreamboat dentist, he was really quite funny, however I doubt he would have understood nor appreciated any of my distasteful jokest. He poked about my mouth, and in the first two minutes, diagnosed me with a terrible condition.

I can't be a grinder!
Do you knwo what that does to people's teeth?!
It wears them down, cracks them - I'll be a gummy! My world is coming to afucking end! My vanity might as well up and leave now - I'll have no straight teeth to pride myself on. Who cares if they're a little coloured from coffee and cigarettes, that won't matter any fucking more BECAUSE I WONT HAVE ANY TEETH!
I might as well get myself a greying mullet, change my name to Sherryl or Therese. Because I'll be the most rank and vile thing on this planet.

Of course, poor Indian-Dentist-Not-George-Costanza copped my slight erratic episode in the dentist chair, about how my sex life will now be COMPLETELY redundant, my good looks null-and-void and that I'll be forced indoors and develop agoraphobia due to this condition.
Apparently, whilst it isn't preventable let alone completely curable, I can get this hideous contraption known as a "Night Guard."
basically, they radiate the shit out of my face with an x-ray, put some clay in my mouth, send it off to some labs to be analysed and make me up a night grill.
I asked the dentist if I could get the "night grillz" customised; pimp-my-grillz.
He blinked at me.
"They're made JUST for your mouth!" He grinned, giggling.

The man just doesn't understand.

Saturday, September 12, 2009

In Transit.

Photo from my Backyard @ Dad's.

Free from it all Im not gonna change till I want to And Im free from it all Im not gonna change till I want to By the way she looked, I shouldve calmed down I went too far Oh, thats all Ive got to say

- In Transit
Albert Hammond Jr.

Albert speaks the truth, you know.

My life is changing; I'm changing.
I've gone from trying to keep myself far away from any kind of love or relationship, or my classic "I'm not looking for anything tomorrow. But right now is perfectly fine" - to wanting someone to just be around, spend time with and do idealistic, romance-in-the-coffee-shop, soppy couples shit with.

I used to be a boys wet-dream fantasy, and I feel like I've exhausted that. Of course, changing from my golden classics -whatever they are - that can hardly be labelled a 'routine', risks me becoming common "girlfriend material".
I'm hardly girlfriend material at the moment: I'm not preened and proper, I'm far too black and white for most people, I smoke like a train, make distasteful dead baby jokes, drink with the boys, smoke weed on the occasional weekend with one of my best friends who's a lesbian with huge tits; I want tattoos, I want granduer and adventure, red hot passion and fun.

Then again, what is "girlfriend material"?
You tell me; I have no fucking clue.

All I know, is that I'm pretty sure I would make a fuck-off great girlfriend. I mean, I'm a fantastic cook, I occasionally clean, I wear nice clothes and when I'm not making horrible dead baby jokes, I'm deadpanning one liners that stick with you.
What's worse, is that I haven't been in an "official" relationship for more than 2 years; I've just had "yes, we're fucking. But nothing else" kind of agreements with people.
And to be frank, they absolutely were the worst ideas I've ever had.
The guys were fantastic people to hang out with - well, one is, the other one is a fucking bipolar headcase that needs to be assessed - but they didn't want the same things as I did.
I wanted a little more than "just fucking" or the girl that is "just there".
I downright sick of being the spare vagina when stocks run low.

Also on the "Trash" list, along with the worn out jokes, is my incessant need to smoke (cigarettes). However, I may or may not continue to smoke until I move and/or meet a boy who doesn't. In the meantime, I'll retain the saying, "Smoking does what to my health?"

I don't really want to change who I am underneath the hair and fabulous good looks, but there are definately a few bad habits I've picked up over the last few years from having absolutely no stability and constantly chasing after various equally unstable men, countless pipe-dreams and drunken rendezvous.
I'm quite happy having the attitude to life that I do; I suppose I'm just sick of the kind of people this attitude attracts.
I need someone who shares the same passions as me; the same need to see things and be places, or relax with a nice coffee in bed for a day of snooze and soppy cuddly couples bullshit; who can sweep me off my feet in a spontaneous act of kindness or passion.
Or is that just a shitty pipe-dream?

i forgot to add my broken riding jeans that no longer have a functioning fly or button, that are tied up with hayband.

Thursday, September 10, 2009

Update, Update!

click thumbnail for larger photo.
1) Anishka and I Are in Love
2) See Above
3) "This Straw Is Not Recommended for Hot Drinks"
4) Jo & Jacko
5) Jo & I (soberface)
6) Baby and I (tiredsoberface)
7) So, I Dyed my hair dark again.
8) Hard @ Work, Trash and Blow HQ (The couch)
9)Moe and I in Bed, sometime in the afternoon.

Trash and Blow has been left dateless.
It seems since my previous whiney post, when I felt as if I was the most repulsive creature God ever shovelled guts into, my life has neither taken a turn for absolute better or for diabolical worst.

See you IRL!

Sunday, August 9, 2009

Good Woman.

I'll stand in front of the mirror again.
My eyes are red and small; puffy and bloodshot.
Maybe my eyebrows could be different; maybe my eyes are set too close together?
There's swollen bags under my eyes from lack of sleep; the dye is starting to fade and regrowth is coming through. The knots in the brassy, disgusting faded red strands hurt when I tug at them.
My skin's sallow and dry, and my lungs are heavy.
Smoked too many cigarettes; drawn too many joints; pulled too many cones; drank too many spirits.
My lips are cracking and dry and my nose is too big for my face.
My teeth are yellowing from too much coffee; coffee doesn't even give me energy anymore - it does nothing, but warm my throat.
My body is broken from too many falls, lack of balance.
Talent's draining fast; the drought is far from breaking.
Where is the rain?

"Why are you always in a constant state of crisis, Amy?"
"Your voice annoys me."
"Do you even think before you speak?"
"Is your ego big enough?"
"Why are you such a cunt?"
"You care too much."
"I liked you better when you were neurotic."
"You freak me out when you're normal."
"I don't think your jokes are that funny."
"Your laugh is so fucking obnoxious."
"You vomited on your shoes last night; you partied way hard."

Why are you always in a constant state of crisis, Amy?

Saturday, July 11, 2009

If you know me, you'd be all-too-aware of my itchy-feet-syndrome. And I'm not talking about tinea.

Recently, I jetsetted off to Sydney, and re-evaluated my life and current decisions, for what could possibly be the threehundred and fifth time. I lived on my sisters couch, adventured, drank some bourbon and visited an old friend.
I went to Paddy's Market, and handfed birds at Central Station, whilst innocent bistander's sent disapproving glares my way. They just don't understand the bond I have with hungry animals, especially rabid, fat city pigeons.
Whilst it wasn't the Sex, Booze and Rock 'n Roll holiday I had first envisioned, I came home with two suitcases, a bruised ego and a pocketful of brand-new-secondhand revelations.

Upon returning to the wet hole that is commonly known as the Bellarine Peninsula and the Greater Geelong Area (what exactly makes it "Greater Geelong"?), complete with its fair-share of Private-Vs.-Public-school-girl-on-school-girl bashings, gang rivalry, sexually transmitted infections, teenage pregnancy, drug addictions, animal slaughter and other crimes against society and such, I was confronted with the ever pending question: do I really want to be here?

Originally, I had plans of granduer, that generally involved completion of my Victorian Certificate of Education, certifying that I had, in fact, gleefully (painstakingly endured) twelve years of my family threatening me with a full-time job, in which the uniform consists of either gumboots, blood-stained trackpants and a full-set of glittering, sharp knives, or a t-shirt with McDONALDS TRAINEE emblazened on a name-tag above the words AMY-JEAN.
As if my name needs to be dragged through the mud even more; No, thank you, McDonalds, I'll save my hamburger skills and general dislike for customers, for the time when I have to cook and clean for my so-called-husband, my children and my in-laws - if that day actually arises.

However, as with all plans of granduer, some hiccups arose. For instance, my writer's block.
If you aren't a writer, or aren't gifted with some form of vocabulary, opinion and a need to express said opinions and use your vocabulary, you probably won't understand just how debilitating it is to stare at a piece of paper for an hour, and the only thing to come out of the end of your pen is "...fuck."
Because "fuck" is one of the few words that come to mind when writer's block sets in. Other words that come to mind are as follows:
- Suicide
- Coffee
- Fuck
- Coffee
- Sex?
- Fuck
- Cigarette. Now.
- Who farted?*
- Fuck.
- Fuuuuuuuck.
- Suicide.
- Fuck.
* "who farted?" can sometimes change to "I wonder what sex would feel like if I were a boy?", "I wonder if I'd make a good stripper?" and/or "fuck".

You get the picture. Doing this in an outcome, and then realising you only have approximately ten minutes to think of something that sounds intelligent, but is complete bullshit, and you know its complete bullshit, but you also know the examiner will look at language such as "disposition" and anything else in between, that somehow either challenges the prompt, novel ect, and generally makes you sound like you've read the text at least four times and have a clear understanding and background on the author, characters, ect.
You can bullshit all about the character, the authors symbolisation and often, how authors recount things through their protagonist, and the examiners will just lap that shit up.
But, for fucks sake, if you're going to bullshit, back that shit with evidence. Even if its bullshitted evidence. Example:
"Such-and-such displayed discontent and outrage towards women. It is clear that such-and-such has issues towards women, as shown in Chapter 12, where such-and-such verbally abuses a helpless waitress. Such discontent clinically begins with the parent(s), in this case The Mother. I believe that the author used his chauvinistic disposition to symbolise abuse suffered."

Not even I had a fucking clue what I'm talking about, but it makes sense, and sounds like I know the character.
They like that.

back on track...

So I had a serious case of writer's block, and had absolutely no fucking direction, let alone idea, on where I was going, what I was doing and so on and so forth.
I'd gone from coming to this god foresaken hell-hole, with a whole volley of plans and aspirations, and general belief that I'd be able to set myself up for a fantastic career in... whatever I wanted to be at that time.
At that time, I also believed that my then-boyfriend and I were going to live happily ever-after, buy an awesome dog, eventually move out to an awesome unit and buy an awesome new car, work awesome jobs and have constant, all-the-time awesome sex.
Oh, in an ideal, awesome world.

The truth is, and I'm putting my integrity and dignity at risk by saying this, I wake up some mornings before school, and I burst into tears. Those mornings, Mum knows how ashamed I'll be if I go to school with a red, puffy face from previously blubbering and wailing like a two-year old, about how I just dread going and doing something that I absolutely loathe.
I hate on myself for the rest of the day, for blubbering over such a ridiculous thing.
By then, Bold and the Beautiful is on and suddenly, I'm at ease.

So, Mum and I had one of those "conversations" this afternoon, in which we would consume over twenty cups of coffee and just as many cigarettes. Dad has recently become a partner in a knackery, which for some obscure reason is just his absolute, all-time dream. After-all, the man has owned two which functioned quite well until they ran out of dead livestock to turn into
25kg bags of dogfood.
And of course, this knackery has a house.
And what is it?
basically, my dream house.
It's built onto the side of a hill, with a back verandah that overlooks valleys and rolling hills, and mountains.
I miss mountains.
There's endless green grass, and no fucking neighbours or relatives that feel the need to "just drop in for a coffee" and proceed to bitch for a following two hours, about some other relative that recently upset them.

Mum basically packed my bags for me, until I told her that there was absolutely no way that I was shifting myself off to my little dream this side of Christmas. Afterall, I've endured the longer part of eleven years of schooling, countless bastards and ridiculing (and ridiculous) teachers. Why would I back out with only four months to go?
At least if I finish year 11, and being dad's On-Call Secretary, Worker, Interior Designer and Designated Driver doesn't end up working out, I have three options:
1 - Go back to a school or tafe, and finish that final year.
2 - Work my arse off, travel, have my break and get back into the mindset, do all the precursor courses for whatever career I might want then, and apply to be a Mature Age Student at university or Tafe ect when I'm over 21.
My sister left at the end of year ten, and worked until she turned twenty-something, in which she applied to be a mature age student. She is now driving a brand new VW Polo, living in a flashy, fully renovated, $300 per week apartment in sydney with her graphic designer boyfriend, earning stacks of cash, writing up safety audits, risk managements, and everything of the like for OH&S.
She came from Wagga Wagga, where your choices after year 10 are Teenage Alcoholism, Teenage Pregnancy or to leave. She tried Alcoholism for a little while, but eventually grew tired of being so broke.

And my third choice?

Well, I can always get knocked up and live off of centerlink in a commission house, contemplating suicide until my child turns 18. **
** obvious sarcasm.

So, I'm leaving. Finally.
In saying that, I'm petrified of what might happen, what could happen, what should happen and what I want to happen.
When I left to come here, I left my best friend, Jess, behind. I almost left our friendship behind too. The hilarity in this situation, is that Jess and I have moved away from each other on a number of occaisions, but always seem to end up, eventually, living within half an hour from each other.
She lives, basically, on the other side of the hills in which i would wake up to every morning.

We already have plans.

"I'm going to build roundyards, and a stable, and an arena, and I'm goign to buy some cows. And I'm going to buy a motorbike, or a fourwheeler! My god, Jess, can you imagine it?! Us, on a fourwheeler! Dangerous!"

"Yeah, man. Like that time at Cabbage Tree, when you were doing 70 around those gravel bends in your dad's old car, and I was crying and screaming at you, and you thought it was fucking hilarious!"

"Oh, man, it's gonna be like the oldtimes!"

"Before we build the roundyard for the horses, we're making a firepit. We can't have the old times without an old car, firepits and boys."

"Who supplies the boys, Jess?"

"Me. Like the old days."

"Fuckin' Rad."

Friday, June 12, 2009

The Strength (in Afghanistan)

you heard the vag.

When your ex tells you, ten minutes before arriving at their house, that the clean place you once knew, currently looks like a bombsite, you just naturally assume he's being a boy, and whinging that their estrogen levels have lowered and those womanly hormones that guys have, just didn't kick in.
Oh, how I was wrong.

They'd made peyote, and the cactus shit was fucking everywhere. There were even leaves from the fucking cactus, left on the bench. The filthy fucking catus pot was crusty, and burnt.
Burnt mescaline.
Dishes were basically piled on top of each other, with Matt's demon fucking wheatbix lodged on the inside bowls, cigarette butts on top, and some fucking red drink that Rory handed me that had mould growing on it. ("It's a dissolved redskin!")
I threw out enough goon boxes to build an entire homeless shelter with. Cleaned up a whole heap of bottles and other grot, those went out too. I nearly caused domestic outrage, when I went to throw out, what I thought was a Passion Pop bottle, than contained 6-hours of peyote brewing.
Ash and i had to fish through even more rubbish bags to find it, whilst I explained that I'd given up actually looking at what was inside bottles, at risk of some kind of mutant jumping out and disembowling me or something.
Into Ash's room, and popcorn, clothes and goon was everywhere.
So basically, i swept the floors, folded the clean shit in Ash's room and hung up his hoodies (because, you know, boys don't know what clothes hangers are), scrubbed the dishes clean so they had thigns to, you know, eat off of and drank five million coffees.
That's some vagina power. I actually kind of enjoyed cleaning; the guys got a good laugh at my general womanly outrage at how yuck the house was.

Only, the mess got worse.

The guys went to Ash's room, and I observed the giggly downhill decline of basically everyone in there. Ash busted out some chocolate ripple cake, after he'd tried to make whipped cream by adding milk to cream.
("Is this how I do it?"

Whilst the Riplle cake was lovely, and largely enjoyed, when you put a large quantity of Goon, Weed, Sausage Rolls and a whole lot of rich cream and chocolate, all in the same stomach - there's bound to be some kind of nuclear explosion.
The munt itself, was absolutely spec-fucking-tacular.
"Ugh... I'm going to munt..."
"That's great, Rory."
Literally ten seconds later, after no-one took him seriously, the poor guy tips his head back and fucking wills himself in that position to not munt all over my nice, clean, vagina-powered floor.
He even got up, wretching, with his head back on a 90degree angle; i was completely fuckign amazed, even as it dribbled out of the sides of his mouth and down his shirt.
Well, amazed until he couldn't hold it any longer, and wretched his insides all over the floor.

In this sort of scenario, isn't it meant to be the girls who run out of the room, squealing and wailing that vomit is the most disgusting thing in the world, and that there is just absolutely no fucking way they're going to be the ones to clean it up.
"Nah, its cool," they guys say, "he'll mop it up."

Yep. Because when I green out, and I think that, you know, I'm going to end up in intensive care if I wretch one more time, the first thing I think about is cleaning up my own vom.

So, four vommy towels, a bucket filled with hot water and detergent later, Rory's vom was gone.
I needed to sleep in that room, as if I was going to leave that shit on the floor for him to wake up to, only to continue to munt his guts up at the general scent of it.
Tucked him into bed on the couch; Rory's night was over.
Chilled on the futon, got my feet rubbed, watched get Smart and critisised it the entire time, drank another five billion coffees and smoked my last cigarette.

The only good thing about cleaning peyote out of pots, cups, funnels and chopping boards - is the fact that your hands go fantastically soft. If the general texture of it was so disgusting and the scent of it even worse, I might even consider rubbing it into my face.

...only a suggestion.

Sunday, May 24, 2009


Never smoke a cigarette, and drink milk in the same minute. It's a terrible taste. Come to think of it, I'm frankly amazed I still have tastebuds.

So, I tried to quit smoking, but that didn't really work for me.
I tried the patches, right, and went horse-riding. I got a headache half way through so I ditched that idea. I guessed exercise and a little piece of plastic laced with nicotine, just didn't mix.
I tried the gum, and that was like chewing on a dirty cigarette filter. If i bit down too hard on the gum, this horrid taste come onto my tongue and, to be frank, I'd much rather suck on a rancid dick than chew that gum again.
My doctor won't give me Champix, this rad little tablet that comes in a cute little pill-packet for "Day & Night", because they're giving my mum bad dreams and turning her a little physcotic. My Doctor's awesome though. She called me "Brave and Smart", and not a hypochondriac, because after every boyfriend I have unprotected sex with, I piss in a jar to make sure they haven't passed any unwanted baggage onto me, you know, like The Clap or Chlamydia or something. Because, STI's are about as common as the flu these fucking days.

First of all -
What happened to the old days, when STI's were STD's?
STD doesn't sound as nice as STI. You hear Ess-Tee-Eye and you think "Oh, that's cool, it's only an infection. I can get some antibiotics for that, yeah?"
No, Honey, you can't get antibiotics for AIDS.
And, sure, you can burn warts off your hands, but do you fancy having them burnt off your box?
I certainly don't, hence why I'll happily trot off to let doctors peer into the depths of my meat-hangar, send off little ear-buds with my excraments on them, and come back in three days for them to tell me that no-one and nothing can stop my vagina, let alone my sex life.
Not that that's a raging club these days.


I remembered today, that I'm basically destined for greatness. Or set up for massive failure. Either way, people will remember me.
I'm going to be that girl, who sexed up that guy, and turned his life around when he least expected it.
I'm going to be that girl, who did amazing things for people's reputations.
I'm going to be that girl, that you met one night and forgot to get her number, because you were too busy lost in the fact she's a stage-production on legs.

Already, I am that girl, complete with the stubborn attitude; who's a walking circus, a little bit of a trouble-magnet, and toys with the romantic ideals of... whatever takes her fancy on that day.

I don't want to be defined by my career. I talk to people everyday, in all different age groups, who all seem to be ranked by what job they work, or the score they achieved on their exams.
See, even if I only amount to a simple veterinary nurse, working in the 'burbs to pay for some horrendously shit little flat and some sardines for my already overweight cat, I'm cool with that.

If I only amount to being a musician's girlfriend, and spend the rest of my life - or at least, until he finds another woman who'll cop as much - drinking him under the table, wandering to obscure little places to watch him play to a crowd of fifteen, fifty or five hundred people, and turn a blind eye when he "accidentally" sticks his dick into other girls, I'll be cool with that too.

Or if I end up being a mundane housewife, living the white-pickett-fence fantasy, with my wailing but handsome child or children, I might kick and scream a little, but I'll get used to it.
Because I'll be that mother that drives her wonderkins to school in her pajama's, whilst the other mothers stare on enviously, because my breasts have always been bigger and perkier than theirs.

The world just needs to face the facts here, I'm never going to be repressed.

Tuesday, May 19, 2009


Wordpress eventually bored me to tears. I was tired of being serious; my life took a turn for the worst when Wordpress was involved. Suddenly, I threw myself into a whirlwind of maturity and seriousness, and my brain just couldn't cope with that. I decided, it is best to leave my seriousness behind closed doors and reserved for those moments when I'm crying, bitching to various friends and men, or partaking in some serious pillow talk.
And blogger shits all over wordpress, simply because I can get awesome templates to change it, and make it fucking awesome.

I'm renovating Trash and Blow, in lieu of recent changes I've made to myself. Basically, I learnt how to do some victory rolls, colour in my eyebrows properly and kind-of-quit-smoking. I'm down to two/three a day - my lungs feel less-polluted already!
So, expect a new banner, and maybe - even a logo.

Keep a look out; and expect updates here.
Right here.

Friday, March 27, 2009

City Lights.

I used to be intimidated by cities; the size of them, my ability to get lost and confused so easily, along with the sheer mass of people, all combined, was just a recipe for disaster. Today was different. Armed with a camera, things aren't so scary. When you stare down a viewfinder at someone you've just asked permission to take a photo of, they're vulnerable; they're one-hundred per cent at risk of being portrayed in any way, shape or light you want them to be in. You can make someone look ugly, beautiful, in love, hateful - all just by the way you shoot them. Having this power is, in general, fantastic.


Walshy thought it would be a great experience to pile us onto a bus for Top Designs, a show case of the best 2008 VCE technology and design classes (media, graphic design, visual communications, textiles etc) of the state. The idea sounded good; All i wanted was an excuse to cruise around Federation Square, Flinder's and Swanston Street, find a good coffee shop and talk shit with Kaisha and Jo.
The actual showcase made me want to tear up my folio into a million little pieces, and start all over again. They showcased the folios and the works, to give students a super good inspiration boost; I took loads of mental notes.

There were a few generic pieces - the runner-up was a photography piece about Phobias. Kaisha, Walshy and I guessed it must have been a technologically retarded old person who had chosen it, as the piece was so fucking generic - you see the same kinds of photographs plastered across the internet, all over Scene Girl's myspace profiles. I was just sick of seeing those kinds of unoriginal photos - "Watch me spew up black shit. This represents and symbolises my fear of colours!"
I won't deny the fact that the composition of the photo's was pretty spot on - the colours and everything were great, but they'd stuck little sticker's on the work, explaining what the work was about.
In my mind, if you need to put a sticker on your piece, to tell your audience what its about, you're not confident enough that your photograph isn't getting its message across. If you're not confident that it's message isn't getting across, don't fucking pick it.
Do the job properly, and get the message across. Reshoot the entire thing if you have to; I'm tired of people who do things half-arsed.

We left the museam and bussed it back to Federation Square, where Walshy assigned us a little point-and-shoot task, which involved giving 60-something teenagers free range of the area with our piece of shit camera's that we'd brought along. No good ones were allowed, because you know, we'd probably leave them in a toilet or with a homeless guy or something...

I'll leave you with some pictures from today; the ones that I liked, anyway.

This guy's shirt was angry.

Street Charlie, the performer I could watch all day.

Ten minutes after this shot, this guy got up and put an echidna puppet on his hand.

This guy was more than happy to let me take his picture.

Me hand-feeding greedy gulls.


Kaisha @ graffiti lane.

Me @ Graffiti Lane.

Me Above Flinder's St Train yards
(i love how my school jumper turns me into a shapeless maroon blimp)

"fuck balloons."

Sunday, March 15, 2009

What Guys Thing Chicks Dig pt 2: Genital Mutilation & Tricks.

My friend Tami brought this point to my attention, as she is one of my avid readers and, well, loves me.
I'm sitting down, having a strong coffee and a cigarette, just relaxing and chilling down, as I do. Tami signs on, and gives me the link to this video, and I'm expecting it to be some crazy porn movie where the guy takes a dump in his girlfriend's mum's mouth and then eats it for her, or some elderly fat guy with a massive penis, dancing around to a BeeGee's song.
Much to my disgust, I found the video in said link, and found myself almost vomming my insides all over my floor - and I'd only watched the first thirteen seconds.

Ok guys, awesome, so you can hack a diamond pattern into your foreskin, piss rainbows, put a safety pin through your gouche with a smile - great.
But, unless you like FreakGirls, you can kiss your sex life goodbye - completely.
Just imagine this situation, you as Mary.

Mary meets a lovely man in a bar, late on a Thursday night. They talk until the Publican tells them that its time to leave because she really wants to get the fuck out of there, take off her heels, wipe off the booze and slobber from the drunks all night long.
mary, not having a good lay from any other boozed-and-confused (and little does she know, this guy is very confused - especially about his genetalia and the thigns he can do with it), decides it will be a spledid idea to agree to Brian paying for a taxi and taking her back to his house for a night of randy fun.
Things are looking up for Mary and Brian in the taxi.
upon entery to Brian's hosue, Mary looks for ther sure-fire reasons to bail: there's no racing car bed, she thinks, no porno posters, or dirty kitchen. Wow, i might come back here again.
Brian cracks some jokes, Mary giggles, makes herself comfortable on his couch. Brian tells her to wait a moment, and disappears into the bathroom. She guesses he's finding condoms or something.
Brian comes out, stark naked and fully erect, and stands in front of her, with a handful of razor blades and a knitting needle.
Mary freaks.
Brian then preceeds to slice his foreskin into several differnt pieces, and gives Mary a play-by-play on how to insert a knitting needle from his gouche, through his scrotum and under one of the several holes he just hacked into his foreskin, to further make his dick harder.

Mary bails like a motherfucker, Brian is left sexless and bleeding near his couch, wondering why she just ran out of his house, screaming and crying.

People who do such things, obviously have a blind and ludacris wife, or no sex at all, let alone feeling in their penis.

And then, we come to dick tricks.

I have first hand witness dick tricks, and yes, they're funny ... for the first five minutes.
Then, you start to feel guilty about looking at your boyfriend's best friend's cock, whilst he bends it into the shape of a fucking pretzel, is pressing it up against a window, or brandashing his scrote around in the wind like it was some kind of toy.
Cool, most guys can make their dicks twitch, thats nothing new.
I had one guy, post-coital, roll onto his back and turn around to me and say "Hey, Amy, I'm waving."
No "jesus, that was great!"
No, no, it was "that was awesome, my dicks waving to you to show your vag how awesome that was!"
Superwickedawesomecool, your dick can dance.

Girls don't think dick tricks are cool, they think theyre kinda funny for the first twenty seconds, then we all sit down and think "I wonder if that's why his dick bends to the left?" or "That completely explains his odd love for karma sutra."
He just loves dick acrobatics! Awesome!

See guys, girls can do vagina tricks too. but when we say that, you guys get your jocks all in a knot, and get all grossed out, because we can queef on command, shoot pingpong balls from our vaginas, fake an orgasm by tightening our muscles in our pelvis, and stash things up there.
And lets face it, clit piercings just aren't that cute. They make a box look like it was part of a thigh once, and God got angry and took to it with an axe, then felt guilty about doing that, and gave it a ring to try and say sorry.

Can we just stop the genital mutilation, please?
Can't we just be awesome with what we've got downstairs and live without the checkerboard foreskins and diamonte vaginas?

Please, and Thank You.

Friday, March 6, 2009

Vietnam Ate My Sewing Machine.

Its a friday.
I'm a teenager.
I've got cigarettes and a whole $39.45 in my wallet.

Someone please tell me why I'm not out and about, hitting the town somewhere, doing something wild and insane, having some crazy sex romp, shooting up in a dark and manky alleyway, snorting cocaine off of a hooker's arse or shaving someone's eyebrows and cutting half of their face away?
Someone please tell me why this is so?

instead, I'm at my laptop after exhausting all my efforts at tryign to find
1) my favourite My Little Pony tshirt.
2) my favourite high-waist skirt.
3) condoms.
4) my heater.
5) parts of my sewing machine.

As for my sewing machine, I've found one half of it. It was stashed under a gigantic crate of pigstye mess junk that mum and I have been hoarding since the turn of the century.
Only, it's missing the pedal.
I can't sew a damn thing without the pedal.
I started handsewing stuff last night, and I got half way through and then realised it's just not going to look as professional handstitched as what it would if I had the godforesaken motherfucking pedal.

In other news, My mum and her cousin (more commonly known to all of my drop-ins as Uncle) are turning into health freaks. Today, I caught them burning their cigarettes.
Not smoking, burning.
I watched in cold horror as they poured petrol over their cigarettes (just to really make sure they couldn't salvage a fucking thing) and put a match to them. In the process, they just about burnt down my backyard. The tree caught fire; I thought that it would be another Black Saturday repeat in my very own backyard.
Don't be fooled; Their tyrade does not end there.
A week ago, Uncle disposed of our chocolate stash, reserved only for when the 3-am-munchies attack with vengance. He threw out the ice creams, the ice magic, the blocks of homebrand cooking chocolate and left only the milo.
What the fuck am I meant to do with Milo?@!
"Oh, shit - I'm so down for chocolate. Gee, none of that in the cupboards. I think I might just go and eat some milo. Mmmm delicious Milo, wow my mouth feels really dry, better wash it down with some milk!"

Mum's stocked my fridge - yes my fridge (we have two) - full of fruits.
Fruits are not, in any way, shape or form, going to help my munchies in the middle of the night. One minute, I'm going to be chowing down on a pear. The next, wake up glued to my pillow by fruit juices, with brown pear smooshed on the side of my face and the core lodged in my ear.
Awesome fun.
Can't wait for that, because I just love having pear all over me. I love it so much, when I bathe, I bathe in fruits. I put them in a big, huge blender and munch that shit up until its watery like, well, water, and then wash myself down in it.

She tried to buy some ultra-expensive cholesterol-free yellow shit in a tub, claiming to be some kind of substance akin to butter.
If its not from a cow, its not butter.
If its not in a blue container, with a cartoon cow on the front frollicking freely in a field of daisies, it's DEFINATELY not butter, let alone Devondale.
Devondale might as well be my God. It goes on everything; in my potatoes, with my toast, with my saladas, with my chicken - even when I cook something, I use butter instead of oil.
Unless cooking for Kaisha, because she's vegan.

Friday, February 6, 2009

Get Naked! (Suburban Dreams)

My mum has recently become my Sex Bestfriend. We have fantastic conversations, whilst in my paddling pool, drinking Iced Coffees, about guys, sex, parties and other things like that.
Excusing the fact my mum hasn't had sex in over ten years, she fills me in on all her wild sex romps before her last Husband, before my Dad.
My mums had 3 (Dad, being the last failed relationship.)
I'm blaming my terrible relationship skills on my Mum, and that our number of failed relationships are simply, her fault.
Its heriditary, ok?

My aunty has also gotten in on our little Women's Club, and joins us in the pool. Its great to know that my mum, her cousin and myself are both failures of women kind.
The fact that my mum has had three marriages, all resulting in divorce, and that Jan, after two, is undeniably the cause to my constant relationship fails.

Let me just say, to begin with, I have a family of former 24 Hour Party People. They have reformed, and are living the suburban dream.
back in the day, Mum and Jan would party their little hearts out, fucked up on a lot of things, have two horus sleep and work the following morning.
At least I know where I get my party endurance from.

Jan joins Mum and I in the pool, midconversation, about how girls these days are so conscious of getting their kit off.
Jan and I, self-confessed nude sunbathers, endure lots of lols at these kinds of girls.
Whilst every person has issues with their body in some shaape or form, I try to ignore them to the best of my ability. I know I have jiggly bits, but I can't exactly get rid of them unless I want to pay something like $15,000 to rid myself of them.
In my own company, getting naked is hilarious fun.
I can wiggle my boobs around without anyone going "Oh gee, I never knew Amy had wobbly bits there."

The conversation continues.
"I enjoy being naked," I say casually, handing Jan my cigarette. "but somtimes during sex, I just get lazy. I'm just like, Totz cannot be fagged taking off my clothes right now."
Jan agrees with me, slightly distracted by the diminishing of my vocabulary. "I just don't know why girls dont want to get naked more often."
"I know," I reply. "As if a guy doesn't love some girl, sprawled on her bed, arse naked."
Jan stares at me.
"I wish I was still having sex."
Her husband and Her are going through a heavy time.
Shit hit the fan about three, maybe four months ago. They're seeing a marriage councellor: Mum and I are hoping they'll come out of it ok.

The point of this blog, is basically how much I enjoy getting naked, especially around certain people. Whilst I'm still protective of my body, as enough to cover it up sometimes, I still like to praise myself on my skinny waist, and rounded arse.
I love knowing that I didn't inherit my mother's flat behind.

Love your bodys.
If you hate them now, just keep in mind:

That shit sags within the next twenty years.
Live it up.

Sunday, February 1, 2009

Rebirth of Vicious Girl.

Vicious Girl: Able to rip your head off everytime she opens her mouth!

I took myself shopping today, in hope it may make me feel a little better.
Oh, what a misconception that was.

I got stuck in a mash of people - why was a Sunday so fucking busy?! - who were all little pre-pubescent tweens, congesting up the footpath for what seemed like a fucking lifetime: I approximate something closer to ten minutes, which is a lifetime caught between four hundred girls who think the world is going to end when their first pubic hair appears.
I walked behind them, secretly wanted to smack each one of them over the back of the head, or give them a sharp kick in the back of the knees, in hope they'd clear a path for the people who actually had to do shit.
In the end, I shouted at them to "GET OUT OF MY FUCKING WAY!" and bulldozed through them. I furthermore recieved juvenile abuse from them:
"Shut up, you skank!"
"What a fucking whore!"
All of these girls had been beat with the ugly stick far too many times. And god had not gifted them with the ability to think of better comebacks. Ergo, I laughed.

My tirade continued quietly, first with snapping at some poor, unexpecting salesman trying to sell me some kind of nail treatment, everytime I walked past.
"I told you no, like, ten minutes ago! FUCK OFF!"
And I would storm away.
And then!
We come to the escalators....

The Westfield escalators, whilst conveniant for some, they're a waste of time, effort, space and money. I love escalators, when used for their purpose of getting you somewhere faster.
That's the point: you walk up them like stairs, to save time.
Not to stand around, talking to your equally morbid obese boyfriend and blockign the fucking way, while the thinner, hungry, angry people behind you want to slice you up into hamburgers.
At least old people have the sense to stand aside, so AngryGirl can get the fuck through. No fucking chance, when there's five gigantic, thunder-thighed, apparently "Starved" fat people standing in a little Krew, talking about the delicious fatty-foods they can order.
Go buy a sandwich, you fat motherfuckers.
Listen to Jarrod from Subway - He lost 150 pounds eating sandwiches.
I wonder why he lost so much eating salads.

We're living in a time where super-thin models are helping our kids stay thin, instead of self-loathing, obese, pre-pubescent, acne-infested Twi-hards. (twilight groupies).
And Geelong Westfield puts in two escalators, direct to the Take-Out foodcourt.
Way to promote healthy living, Westfield, you incompetant morons.

There should be a rule that only Elderly, or people in a rush, should use escalators. Healthy people, obese people and young children can take the fuckign stairs.

Work off those burgers and fries, you lazy fuckers.

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

Rehab For The Soul.


This cartoon explains perfectly, how i've been recently.

Today, I saw my friend Sammy on the bus. We had a lengthy conversation about the guys that we're both fanging. And the excuses that they've given us to cover their own arses, ergo avoiding the whole bitch-romance agenda that every girl carries around with them like the latest fashionable handbag.
We discussed their various reasons for not growing a pair, or actually putting their minds to something that doesn't necissarily consist of booze, drugs, cigarettes, food, fapping or anything sexual on a daily basis.

We did not really get to the point of the conversation: are these guys genuinely into us?
Of course, Anxiety Girl has been allowed to run rampant the last few weeks. Drugs, Alcohol, Doctors Appointments and Arguements haven't really aided this.
It's hilarious how both of our situations have been equally the same in the events leading to our On-Bus-Relationship-Discussion.

These are the excuses we collaborated:
(in no particular order)

1) "I'm just not ready for a girlfriend."
Definition: He likes you, but fanging without strings is so much easier;
- you're cute, but you're not his "type";
- "...would I even want to put my dick in that?"

2) "Last time I was in a relationship, I got really hurt."
Definition: See Above;
- Tell him to harden the fuck up and ask at what point will his testes decend?
- He thinks fanging is still good, but just can't be fagged with relationship bullshit
(girls in the room scream: all you have to do is let me call you my boyfriend to put my head at ease, introduce me as "girlfriend" to people, and pleasure me when I ask for it . Also, if you fuck up, we have someone to blame...)*cue pulling hair out*

3) I'm going through serious emotional shit right now.
Definition: Too lazy;
- He's having reservations about you;
- See above;
- He genuinely does have serious emotional shit. This however, must be proven to be believed.

4) I'm still hung up on my exgirlfriend...
Definition: Bail, Bail, Bail.
- See above;
- Bail faster;

5) "I'm just giving you the warning now...
(that I)..."
- Do Drugs;
- Do Drink;
- Do Have Lots of Sex;
- Do Want Lots of Sex;

- Do Not want a girlfriend.

These excuses make me want to do drugs and die in my bathtub whilst listening to Melissa Etheridge on repeat.

Which therefore, brings me to the point of this blog: Rehab for the Soul.

In order to banish Anxiety Girl, back to the deepest circle of Hell, I have decided to take myself on a journey of life rerevalutation (yes, two re's) back to where I used to live, Cabbage Tree Creek.
Do not be fooled by its middle-of-bumfuck-nowhere title, its a delightful town that boasts a music studio/gallery and a general store that's heritage listed.
After all, they do say that Home is Where the Heart is.
And my heart is forever in Cabbage Tree, hidden somewhere amongst its rolling hills and towering gumtrees, frolicking with fauna and picking the flora to put in its hair...

When I was first kicked out of home by my Mum at the tender age of Thirteen, I was shipped off to my Dad's, nestled just off the highway in Cabbage Tree.
In the beginning, Cabbage Tree, to me, was Hell frozen over with some trees and grass.
But when you're at a point in your life (yes, at Thirteen, I was already experiencing a midlife crisis) where nothing is beautiful anymore except when you're so boozed-up on Passion-Pop you think everything is beautiful, Cabbage Tree saves you from your impending doom of early alcoholism.

I spent most afternoons, scouring Kangaroo hop-paths on horseback, trying to find Scrub Cattle, lounging around in ever-green paddocks beneath shady trees, feeding our local goanna's, possums, bats and other critters, or down by the creek, paddling about near the sandbar and boulders - and warning my friends about the resident tiger snakes.

Cabbage Tree is one of those places where its so remote, no fucker will bother you. You're forty-five minutes from the nearest supermarket, fifteen minutes from the nearest surf beach, and completely surrounded by the Snowy Mountains.

I met a woman named Wendy, within the first two weeks of moving to Cabbage Tree Creek. At the time, I had - in no incertain terms - disowned my own mother, and was forced to live with a father who left the hosue at 3.30am and returned home around 8.00pm, expecting his dinner cooked and his house spotless.
Wendy and I hit it off straight away: she owned Scotch Collies.
In the beginning, we started going for walks together. With the dogs.
And our friendship blossomed from then on.
It didn't take long for me to realise that Wendy and I were peas-in-a-pod, although we were an odd match. In my opinion, She was, and always has been, a teenager caught in an adults body.

Would I have survived my time with Dad, before Mum and I patched things up, without Wendy and Kev?
Maybe, but I wouldn't have done such a good job at mending myself without them there to turn a bad day into a brilliant one.

So, I'm off to spend two days at Wendy and Kevin's house, basking in the sun, laying about on her back porch and drinking iced coffees all afternoon, walking our usual paths to shed our iced coffees, and doing some mosaics.
Its an odd way to re-revaluate your life, and rehab the soul, but it works for me.

Just being home.