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.