Thursday, June 17, 2010

Homeless People.

I try to avoid 'The Big Issue' magazines that everyone tries to flog me; they see me a mile away and think that I'll be an easy target.
I mean, I signed up to Greenpeace at one stage, because the Italian guy shouted me down in the main road of Morwell and everybody looked at the "Hey, Pretty lady! Pretty Lady! Yes You!" that he was screaming at (me).

It was a very romantic proposal, and I hope that one day, a real man that knows what a shaver is and does not campaign against Shampoo, will propose to me as romantic and chivalrously as he did.
Hopefully, without asking for my permission to Direct Debit $30.00 every month into the Greenpeace bank account.
Needless to say, the wedding was off when I canceled my monthly payment two weeks later.
I'll save Baby Orangutans on my own, without Alejandro's help.

I like those homeless guys; never homeless women because they're always really obnoxious.
Homeless guys are usually really sweet, and kind of elderly and my natural womanly, nurturing instincts come fighting and I feel really horribly for these guys.

I've met two homeless guys that I really felt sorry for. But the first guy, he really did something to me, that made me think twice about homeless guys.
I met this guy, about a year ago in the City, and he was getting shouted down by some arsehole in a five-hundred-dollar, Italian-imported suit, with a quiff bigger than Amy Winehouse's beehive.
I came up to this ignorant prick, asked him where the fuck had he learned his manners. I gave the homeless guy the ten-dollar note in my wallet and offered him a couple of smokes. Suit-guy looked shocked and walked away with his proverbial fox-tail between his legs and Homeless Guy grinned a big, gummy grin and told me that it wasn't everyday that someone stopped, gave him ten-dollars and talked about the weather with him.
After I left, I realised I'd missed my train, because I'd stopped to help this guy out, have a chat, be a human being for a little while, and had another hour to kill.
So I walked back and went to smile at Homeless guy, when he pulled me up and said:
"After you left, three people stopped and talked to me. You did something!"

People had seen me stop, give a little bit to help out, strike up a conversation from thin air about how Melbourne weather could give you all four-seasons in one day and how uncomfortable the suburban train seats were - and those people followed my lead.

It really, honestly, left me utterly speechless.

Turns out the human race just needs to get real, stop sniffing their arseholes on a regular basis and living life by the title that is given on their degree.

There's hope for us yet.

Saturday, June 5, 2010

Blog-ginity and Infinite X's and Oh's.

I would like you all to welcome my esteemed and scrumptious friend, Miss Page, to the world of blogging and its tremendousness.
She's cute, she's tremendously smart and a former Literature kid (like myself, although she now has to suffer a year longer than I did, through the swamps of knowledge and most often mundane pieces of literature) and we, both, are here to emancipate you from the shackles of monotonous bullshit.

And now, a large round of applause, for the fabulous Miss Page!


Why hello there, dear reader. My, what a smashing blouse you’re wearing.

So, for my first foray into the delicious world of blogging, I had a multitude of topics to choose from: My recent traumatic breakup, my love for vodka, the unending tedium that is VCE, my theories on why people are shit, and suggestions on how they can become more awesome- you know, the usual fare.

But I thought I’d like to lose my blog-ginity in a truly epic fashion, by tackling one of society’s big issues, you know? Something that really affects us all.

People who post massively uninteresting status updates on Facebook.

Honestly people, do you think people actually care when you post something to the effect of "I'm about to eat dinner :D Yum!"

(Please notice I included correct spelling and punctuation here, something the majority of Facebook users don't seem to have heard of).

It is truly a blight on society. I get on Facebook to hear the interesting and hilarious details of my friends' lives. I don't care that you're having "chili con carne for tea mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm".

In fact, nobody does.

So why don't you just go gorge yourself on your precious chili con carne and leave me the hell alone.


Dear people who feel the need to tlk lyk dis nd say kwl sh!t- USE PROPER ENGLISH. PLEASE.

It physically pains me to read your status updates. Especially when you complain about how shit school is. It makes me wonder why you're actually attending school, since you're having such a shit time because elementary level spelling and mathematics is SOOOOOO difficult.

Personally, I think you should drop out- nobody's going to have any respect for you anyway, so you may as well save the teachers some of the hassle and let them teach people who have a future outside flipping burgers and driving a garbage truck (for the really talented among you).

(Amy in here, from T&B Headquarters: Did you know garbage trucks have dual-control steering mechanisms? It sometimes takes two to drive a garbage truck, you know. Difficulty level: Extreme.)

To all those who update their status to read "I'm bored" or "Facebook is boring," my advice to you is to get off your ass, get off Facebook and go DO SOMETHING! There's a whole wide world out there- go sit in front of the TV!

Look at a wall!

Go to sleep!

Do something other than telling me how boring Facebook is.

I don't care.

You're boring me. It's not my fault you're bored, why drag me down with you?

This directly links me to my next point: attention seeking statuses.

If you need to get gratification from the sympathy people give you from a status comment, you have a serious problem. I'd like to point out that these statuses take many forms, like the slutty, "Hot sex" status, which leads people to ask when and where you experienced such temperate lovemaking. So, you can either tell them all about your steamy encounter (probably either experienced in a closet or bathroom and lasting about 6 minutes, if not totally imaginary) in graphic detail, or you can coyly refuse to answer their questions, leading them to demand answers, thus gratifying your need to feel interesting.

You sick attention whore.

Then you have your emo, "I'm so depressed/ world is falling apart/ please don't leave me/ my soul is a black abyss" type, when everyone who truly cares about you (or simply has nothing better to do and wants you to shut the fuck up) will try to cheer you up. Then!

You have your "rate me from 1-10/ I will be TOTALLY honest for 1 hour, ask me anything/ which word best describes me/ like this status if you want to hug me" which, if acknowledged, lull the poster into the delusion that they are desirable and not just a little bit sad. I purposely try to ignore these statusus, as should you, because nobody loves an attention whore.

Another thing that grinds my gears is those individuals who feel the need to profess their love for their significant other at the end of every status update. If it’s their birthday/your birthday/your anniversary/they've done something really sweet, this is understandable. But not when you go, for example, "miss u so much babe, i love you you're my world <3>!"

Then it's just ridiculous and you look needy and insane.

You make me super uncomfortable.

And if I was your boyfriend, I would be extremely uncomfortable, and look for somebody who wasn't so desperately clingy. Yes, it is cute to exchange sweet nothings with your partner. No, nobody else wants to experience it in any way.

That's like making out vigorously on a register belt at a supermarket. And having an announcement put over that there are two people making out vigorously on a register belt.

Now, I like to think I'm a pretty tolerant person...

No, scratch that. I hate everyone for something. I'm sure a lot of people think that the message in this rant does not apply to them. It really, really does. I urge everyone who has taken the time to read this to make their status updates as interesting as possible, with correct grammar, spelling and punctuation. And no mushy-gushy, lovey-dovey, bouncy-bouncy yum-yum time messages.

Save it for the bedroom, sweetie.

Now, if you will all excuse me, I'm bored, but dinner's ready, chili con carne, yummmmm, nd i h8 skwl cuz teh tchrz iz gay nd sh!t nd cnt w8 2 c my boi 2nite, luv u sfm babe foreva, happy 2-day anniversary! <3>

You see what I did there? That was sarcasm. If I see a status like that on your facebook page, I will remove you from my friends list.

Okay. That's a lie. But only because I don't know how to delete a person from my friends list.

But if I ever find out how, so help me God... *shakes fist*

That will be all.

Was it as good for you as it was for me?

- Miss Page.

(Oh, it was, Miss Page, it was.

You may all remove hands from pants...

Thursday, April 8, 2010

Bang, Bang - You're Dead.


I haven't slept in two days and too many fucking hours and minutes and I've lost count of the seconds ticking by because I have no true sense of time and its importance at all.
I've sat in bed and I've closed my fucking eyes, but nothing.
And by 7.30am this morning, I had come to the conclusion that today, was single-handedly, the absolute worst day I'd ever had.

Sleep and Food are right up there with sex, cigarettes and Jameson's Irish Whiskey on my prioty list.
I can sleep for days when the whim takes me - I could sleep through a nuclear war -but when it doesn't, its like being gnawed at my some fucking harpy, for anywhere up to four or more days, where if I'm lucky, I'll hit up one, maybe two hours of a nap until the slightest fucking thing sets off that nasty, teeth-gnashing inner bitch and I'll tear your fucking head off because of it.

So let me tell you all about my fucker of 48 hours.

Last night, Dad stayed around and he brought The Pup, a sweet faced, bright blue eyed little thing who doesn't have an off-button, which was really cute until 3something a.m this morning, when he was still trying to eat my toes, and I had a cat in one ear, trying to fucking eat him and then he'd squeal and eat my toes some more.
So I stayed awake, listened to The Libertines and Dad took me for a McDonalds breakfast, at 4.30, because I was really fucking hungry and akin to a fucking grizzly bear or something, and I just wanted to eat bacon.

So we ate McDonalds and that was fine, until ten minuets later when the grease and fake egg or whatever that shit is inside those Bacon and Egg fucking McMuffins, curdled in my guts and I hit the Ladies Room with a spewy, bilious vengence.

In the new car, and we're driving and I'm pretty sure I want to die, and by the time we get to the knackery, its a bit past 5am and, yeah, a coma might be nice right about now.
As i'm getting out, dad tells me that Fat Lola's getting friendly with cows in a twenty acre paddock and it's pissing down with icy fucking needles and I really don't want to go catch this fucking horse, knowing full well she'll be a complete bitch about leaving her new found brainless friends.
So off I go, down this fucking hilly bitch of a mudhole, in the pissing rain, with a raw gut and my cigarette, is needless to say, completely fucked.
And the horse gives me the fucking run around for twenty minutes, and the cows got their good morning fucking giggles, those fat hairy bastards.
So the horse is off the handle because me, cold-heartless me, has taken her away from her big fat dumb friends (Remember when having a fat friend was trendy? Everyone had one) and I"m soaked to the bone, hoping I'll slip in the mud and drown and end up in a coma, just so I can have a really good sleep without some fucking thing waking me up.

So I'm in the office, ready to scan 30something cattle eartags for Dad, and the magic NLIS wand that's about the same length as one of my legs, doesn't want to work, so I go about doing it all manually, which is fine until I work out that I've fucked myself in the arse with the books and I'll have to spend the day re-doing the books from the middle of March.
In order to do that, I have to go to the bucket and chronologically re-order all of march's eartags - which are all fucked up in a bucket with tags back from middle-January or something - and write down twelve digit fucking numbers and annoying, tedious bullshit like that.
So I did that, and Dad made me a coffee, which was hugely appreciated, but a stiff drink might have gone down pretty sweet at the time, too.
by now, it was well into 6something-or-other, and I was still cold and wet and had no spare clothes to change into, and all of dad's were dirty, so I took on a whole new meaning to "chilling out" - I was chilling inside and fucking out.

Dad starts shouting and having a great old laugh, and i go out to check it out, as I always fucking do because I"m a nosey little fucker.
Pup's going to fucking down in the blood drain and oozey fucking green carcass juice that's come off the rotten-black cattle that dad picked up... whenever, I didn't care, he fucking stank.
My cute little pup looked like a fucking zombie, and I tell you, I was ready to put him in the Pet fucking Cemetary for it.
Into the shower room and soaped him up and he smelt like strawberries or some other fucking lame fruit, I don't know, i didn't care, it smelt better than fucking offal.
So I got through bathing a dog and sorting March eartags and I'd started on April when Dad had left to go kill some stuff and I wanted to go and kill some stuff too, to be honest.
We're looking at somewhere closer to 7something, now.

Anyway, so I'm there alone and I just want to relax and he's left the keys in the ignition to the new car, and as every teenage daughter does, I took the new car for a joy ride, of which I planned to get really joyous doing so, hence the name from whence it came.

So I've packed Pup in the Passenger side with his new flash lead I got him the other day (it matches his totally pimpin' collar that one of the Chris's got him) and I've even got my thermos full of coffee, because I plan to be a while. Push in my favourite Queen mixed tape, because I love driving with Feddie Mercury or David Bowie on a rainy day.
I've got a cig and coffee, a cute pup seeing as I don't have a cute boyfriend (My dad thinks its a great alternative), a Queen mixed cassette and a new station wagon which isn't the trust red PanelVan that Dad wrecked, but thats ok, it runs sweet on gas and it has roof racks and foldable seats, so I'm set for this adeventure with my dog, even thoguht it'll probably fucking rain on me again, but honestly, I'm fucking cold and wet anyway so what's the fucking diff?

So Pup and I hit the road, for all of about fifteen minutes.
I wasn't even speeding - I think I managed 60 on a relitively straight spot, because I shit my pants whenever it's rainy, and on Dad's roads, with loose gravel (now sloppy mud that looks like it was a fuckign swamp) and curves like my fucking hips, pushing anywhere past 60 is dangerous fucking business.
I hit the corner a little faster than what I should have and the wheels slipped and I ran over soemthing fluffy and then something black smasked into my side window and whatever I ran over was big and it stank and I knew it was stuck to my car or something, so I hit the brakes and everything was fine, but Pup was going apeshit.
So I get out, and find i've got bits and pieces of a roadkill Wombat and Pup wants to fucking eat it; and I've got this disgusting flapping squarking crow.
I mean, crows NEVER get hit, but I - me - managed to fucking hit one.
Nevertheless, ruthless little old me, in my ruthless little old mood, kind of felt sorry for this stupid fucking crow, because I'm pretty sure he was hurt, and Pup just wanted to fucking eat it.
It was a smorgasboard for Pup - smelly dead roadkill (it might have well have been double-crumbed gormet snitzel, if you were to ask his opinion) and a blubbering black bird (of the variety that like to fight Pup for the scraps at the knackery door).
So I'm trying to help this bird and Pup comes over and the bird goes apeshit and the dog goes apeshit and I've well and truely cracked the shits with this bird.
I'm glad no one was around; I was off my chops at this blundering fucking bird and at the dog, in fucking gumboots twenty-sizes too big and ripped up jeans and a soppy fucking bum-jumper but I had bigger problems - I had half a wombat stuck to my new tyres.
So I'm pulled off to the side, hoping a truck isn't going to do what i did and hit the corner and clean me, my apeshit fucking puppy and my new wheels, right up and turn us into the Double-Crumbed decomposing Wombat Snitzel stuck to my tyres like putrid fucking bubblegum.
So here I am, scraping Wombat off my tyres with a stick, cursing that stinky bastard right to hell.
"You stupid fucking Wombat. You deserved to be fucking snitzel. Who the fuck do you think you are, sticking to my fucking BRAND NEW TYRES, YOU MANGY LITTLE MOTHERFUCKER!"

Back in the car and we're off again, this time, really fucking pissed off - I should have performed a perfect three-point turn, right over that motherfucking crow - but I'm jamming out to Bohemian Raphsody and a volley of other stuff, and its raining even more and I think, "Look, stop the car, turn around and go home before you drive off a bank or get stuck in a tar bog like those Mammoths on the discovery channel or something fucking horrific, because if you fuck this car, Dad will lynch you from the fucking closeline."
Yeah, Ok, Sweet Deal; I turn around and life's sweet, I'm out of coffee by now anyway.

My casette player goes into full-frontal cardiac fucking arrest and Freddie's getting gutted by the cassette player and Pup's apeshit again and oh my fucking god, I want to beat my head against the steering wheel until I hemorage and a whacko fucking dairy farmer will find me three days later, looking worse than what he does.
Anway, in the chaos of Freddie getting mauled by this pig of a fucking ancient cassette player and Pup doing his fucking narna about it all, having a swell old time, I've smacked the brakes on, the wheels went fucking sideways and I actually thought I was going to die, so I over-corrected and we skidded about on the grass and I gassed it too hard.
And by some fucking means, I'm fucking sideways, Pup's hit the fucking deck and I'm staring out the windscreen on a weird fucking angle that I've never seen before - not even when I've been booze-blasted into fucing oblivion - and I've been in some weird angles when I've rocketed into booze oblivion.
I'm fucking ropable by now, and I try to get out of the car and I'm fucking jammed in, I can't even get it open because, guess what, we're in a dirty old fucking ditch.
And get this: we're in a dirty fucking ditch, five fucking meters from my front gate.

So what does any woman, deprived of food or sleep or any general comforts such as warmth and dry clothes do?
She lights a cigarette.
And she goes.

I'm cussing this ditch to the shit, Pup's dazed and confused, probably concussed but he's a dog, it's not like I can ask him if he has an aneurysm or something and I kill the engine, just incase we fucking blow up or something like that, because it'd be my luck and Dad would not be very fucking impressed.
So here's me, in all my ingenuity, beating the steering wheel, sideways, and them I'm jumping - more like beaching - myself against the passenger side seat, trying to knock the car back down onto the gravel, because the wheels aren't actually touching the road - I thought one was, but no, not my fucking luck today.
So then, i freak out that if i keep beaching myself on the passenger side, I'm going to break the car in half or bend an axle or fuckign something like that that sounds expensive to fix, so I end up climbing over the backseat and bailing out through the hatch, which as far as style cred goes, it was the lowest move ever, whilst logically in my mind, it was the least dangerous and damaging thing to my life, but if I had fucked the car, I might have well scratched out my last will and testament in the paint job.
And I cut loose, unleashed fucking hell, on the front grid of the car. Kicking and fucking screaming, "FUCK THIS! FUCK YOU! FUCK THAT! HE'S GOING TO KILL ME! I'VE FUCKED HIS CAR! I'M SO FUCKED! FUCK!"
In the tantrum, I've thrown my gumboots at the windscreen and I've ripped Pup out of the car and I'm storming up my fucking driveway, in the motherfucking rain and slushy mud, barefoot and wailing like some pent up three year old, "HE'S GOING TO FUCKING KILL ME! FUCK!"

So I rang my mum.
Having a complete, fully-fledged panic attack complete with self-asphyxiation and bawling fucking tears, wailing down the line at my poor mother telling her the whole story from start to finish, from the fucking foul McDonalds breakfast, right through to the Wombat lodged in my tyre tread, to Pup's possible fucking brain aneurysm and that my feet were all fucking cold and that, fuck me, I'd trompsed fucking mud right through his house because I'd thrown a whole-hearted tantrum at the car (including Gary's gumboots), and if he didn't kill me for putting the car in a ditch, he was going to really go fucking mad about having slooshy fucking gravelly mud through his fucking house.
My mum laughed so fucking hard.
And when Dad came home, he basically pissed his pants, he giggled so fucking hard.
And so did Lefty and Gary, and they all fucking leered about my complete over-fucking-reaction to a little ditch, and that all we'd have to do was bump it out with the truck.
And fuck me, I was so confused.
i was completely off my tits on confusion.

Thankfully, the car made it from the ditch, sans fiery inferno or broken whatsits that sound really fucking expensive to get repaired, with little more than a broken side-mirror.
Apparently, they cost around $20 to get replaced at SuperCheap Auto or some amazing bargain place like that.
And Pup doesn't have an aneurysm.
And I still havent slept, but I'm sitting in bed, retelling you this story, kind of dazed and spaced out of life completely; but Ive got a coffee and a cigarette and Carl Barat singing at me, so I can't be that dazed and spaced out.

...what the fuck happened today?

Tuesday, April 6, 2010


She's coming to fucking eat you.

Monday, April 5, 2010

dream a little dream, of me.

I'm going to write a book.
Don't ask me what about, just yet, because I honestly have no-fucking-idea. I'm thinking of being a witty author and being completely contempary, like all the trendy kids these days, and making it semi-autobiographical; just going to have some situations, loosely based upon real-life events strewn in there like a dogs breakfast, but fuck me, it'll be a good fucking book and you're all going to run out and buy it when and if I ever publish, let alone finish, that bastard.
So far, I'm ten pages down.

I want my characters to swear, a lot, and write it how a character might see it.
For Example, I made up a character today. I sat down, on my bed, and I wrote about my character, and how fucking awesome he's going to be.
Then, I hit delete and just started writing shit the way he sees it:

Women loved Joe.

All fucking women loved Joe.

Fat ones, skinny ones, shy or ballsy ones, dykes and princesses and the Miley fucking Cyrus's of the universe, fitness fucking yoga-freaks, pre-pubescent groupies in miniskirts and their gravity-skewed mothers, alcoholic drug-addled Debbie Harry fucking look-a-likes - you fucking name it – they all loved him.

They loved everything about Joe, right down to the stray hairs on his stubby, daylight-deprived toes.

To say the least, I'm completely in love with Joe.
He's my kind of man.
Personally, I'd marry Joe.
If he were real.
In my mind, He's some drop-dead fucking gorgeous alcoholic who talks a mile a minute with an accent, which is precisely why there's nearly fuck-all grammar whenever he's around.
I'd love to throw in some semi-fucking-colons in there, but it's Joe. He's got no fucking time for semi-fucking-colons and all that bullshit that goes with semi-fucking-colons and commas and full stops. Fuck that, he might say, if he could be fucked saying it.

And that's about as far as I've got.

In other news, I drank a bottle of Jameson for Kaisha's 18th and fucked myself up hardcore with bananas.
My fucking Jesus, Joeseph and doggy style mary - I was messy - and really fucking hungry.
I had booze and protein all in my grill, and neither of them wanted to be friends.
My sister drank a bottle of Johnny Walker this week and up-chucked for the following day. I was pretty proud when she kept the McDonalds down for most of the day, though.

We were laying in bed, as all sisters love to do in a compeltely non-incestrious manner, and we came to realise that she'd actually been locked inside a Mongolian prision or detention camp or something, for eight years, and just telling everyone she was in Queensland because at the time, Queensland was trendy and no one had any idea how to convert our currency to whatever the Mongolian fucking currency is, let alone know what it's value is or was, or whatever.

I'm reading Nick Cave's new book finally, (I'm a terrible worshiper, really) and my god, am I in fucking love?!
I've got recordings of him on my iFail, doing readings and my heart goes insane.
Everytime I read about Bunny Munro, I can't help but just imagine a somewhat younger Nick Cave, sans moustache and with thicker hair, as he is getting a little bald up-top nowadays, and it really does make me sad.

Come to think of it, my fangirl life is practically complete all but for a few things.
I have Nick Cave in my ear, reading me to sleep, the Libertines are reuinting for Leeds festival, in the year that i started planning for England - bastards.
It made me think, however, that when I planned to go to England, they re-unite. Coincidence?
So if, maybe, I plan to get completely off-my-tits-shit-faced with Carl Barat in a bar in London, I'm going to get a job in said bar, serve Carl barat drink all evening and then get completely off-my-tits-shit-faced with Carl Barat?
Oh, it better fucking be.

Friday, March 12, 2010

hey stranger;

Recently, I realised my life is flowing along at a steady, yet pretty fabulous pace.
Ten joints of pathetic, terrible leaf, a couple of glasses of warm Jameson and turning noises made by general household kitchen appliances into sexual groans, can really wake someone's mind.
A spray-painted pink cardboard aeroplane, reminiscent of lessons taught by Playschool was mashed in there somewhere, too.

I've started playing guitar again.
I was ready to give in to the idea of never being that great of a gutiarist, and like everything else, bully myself out of ever doing anything about it. But I put my game face on, struck up some bar-chords and realised that I just needed to buy some new strings.

I've remedied my whining with two new bank accounts; an England Fund and a Slush Fund.
Ironically, the slush fund is dry.

I'm going to England.
Everything happens in England; wars, fame, stabbings - you now, the usual.
And I'm a total sucker for a pompous bastard with a cockney accent and a bottle of Jammers.
My real reason is just to go there and hang out at the Boogaloo, in vain hope I might meet someone famous (see Carl Barat) and get laid.
Or try and find some incredible magneti cforce that will fuck with Big Ben and I'll cause some controversy.
Hijack one of those red buses, ride in a black, funny-doored taxi, blah blah blah.

I am the kind of person that does make things happen, I suppose.

Monday, January 18, 2010


I got so excited about moving; I've lived in 18 different houses since my birth. By now, it should be second nature. Or so one would suppose.

I spent so much time hating Geelong, that I forgot about how much I loved the People I'd come to call my friends.
I made life friends there; in a hellhole that loved nothing more than to hurl the odd nervous breakdown, fight, or narcissistic excuses for men in my general direction.
I made friends that I want to have for years to come; people who I can laugh and cry with - girls I can gossip and indulge with; boys I can talk about poo and disgusting things, and rock out with our cocks out.

I used to get kicks out of uprooting myself to see what unruly adventure would come about. The difference now, is that I made bonds with people in Geelong; and I'm sitting here, pushing them away.
Because I made myslef lonely - I could go to Geelong, I could be there every weekend if I didn't spend my money, or didn't go and try to save for a zillion things all a once; try to keep mum well and dad under control. Suddenly, i'm living in the longterm. I've never lived in the longterm.

I'm scared to go back to Geelong. I've left my visits I so soundly promised everyone, I've lost a lot of contact, because I've been too chickenshit to admit I might miss the place and the endeavours.
I'm scared that my friends might not want me, or welcome me with open arms like I would welcome them.

I treated people without the slightest care in the world; namely those I loved the most - the ones who were always there to pick up the slack and help me out.

I miss the girls - Jo, Chan, Sarah; I miss equine and making funny quips about Longer's sarcasm. I miss hanging out at Ward Manor, or riding on the beach or on the fat ponies with Jo.

I miss Kay, my little fish. I miss our crushes on Hearnalicious and the Walshingmachine. I miss eating vegan food and watching boosh and bating over Dita; I miss Shazcookie and her chic-chip cookies and awesome bod.

I miss Anishka, smoking joints with her in her bathroom and eating copious amounts of junk food; I miss that girls golden smile.

I miss Baby and his hair, his rank farts, ridiculous jokes and similar complaints about people.
I miss Andy, and how he just put up with whatever missile - verbal or otherwise - I had to throw at him.
I miss James and Sophia. I miss mothering the shit out of James and bringing him left-overs so he had lunch, or listening to his latest self-dare he'd made up whilst tripping on wicked acid. I miss soph, and having someone who wanted Nick Cave as much as I did.

I miss Buttons. There's some nights where I sort of hope he just might show up here and we'll go for coffee or we'll smoke too many cigarettes, and I'll nod off whilst he reads me stuff from metal magazines of bands I know nothing about. He always made such an effort to keep me happy or be there in those dire moments when I was totally neurotic or stranded somewhere. But he never let me cook for him. Never stayed for dinner. He never asked a single thing of me; not once.
I always took him for granted.

Come to think of it, I took everyone for granted. I taught myself my own lesson; turns out all those exboyfriends were 100% correct when they told me I was a self-consumed cunt.

I lost too much in 2009.

I miss my friends; the life and times.

Sunday, January 17, 2010

Cry Junkie

Call the chivalry, I feel another self-hating, hormone-fuelled blog coming on.

Fucking yeeha, hold on to your hats, guys and dolls, for another thrilling drawl about...

Absolutely nothing important at all.

I finally realized how much of a terrible person I am. Hooray for self insight; thanks a lot, reality!

I much prefered being oblivious.

Time to practice what I preach with all this deep, heavy "You make the choices!" and "learn your life lessons" bullshit I've been ramming at people like an angry erection.
I am not Dr Phil; I am not a middle aged, balding Texan. Half the time, I don't even know what I'm on about.

I'm the one to blame; I made myself lonely.

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.