Nah yeah: Waking up at 7.30pm, giving me so many hours of potential productivity on a Sunday.

Yeah nah: Spending most of that potential productivity time watching old Britney Spears video clips on YouTube, and feeling incredibly inadequate. Britney had become an international superstar by 17, while I the only thing I had achieved by that age was the knowledge that extreme side fringes aren’t a great idea. At 23, instead of being a multi Grammy winner, I have become the person who dedicates a whole day to a former child star. Because this has transcended idle watching, now I’ve hit the obsessive researching phase. So far I’ve Googled:

“Does Melissa Joan Hart have a lazy eye?”

“Britney Spears wedding tracksuit”

and

“How old was Britney Spears when she shaved her head?”

Apparently she shaved her head at 26, which means that if I’m charting my life using the Britney Spears Life Events Scale (which everyone should be), I have three years to to go through a downward spiral and then a few more after that to put myself spectacularly back together and buy a mansion with a golf course. I’m also supposed to have killer abs right now and have frenched Madonna. Hmm.

Life lesson number 347: just because its still daylight and you haven’t taken off your shoes/thrown up on yourself/interpretive danced in public, it doesn’t mean your level of drunkenness is isn’t something to ignore when messaging contacts.

Yesterday I put on a goddamned wide-brimmed, floppy hat and took myself to the races. Now, for someone who has as much horse paraphernalia in her room as I do (I have two trophies with a galloping pony on them, an ice bucket with a horse head, a brown toy horse that looks like it comes alive at night and tries to smother me, a golden cup from the 1957 Queensland Polo Association Championship and in my wardrobe I have hung up a square of wrapping paper with a pattern of frolicking horses with a Post-It note stuck to it telling me “you don’t want to root some grot”) I don’t know the first thing about horse racing.

I am aware that there are horses who run around in a circle and people called bookies, but that’s about the extent of it. For me, horse racing has always been merely an opportunity to stick flowers in my head and get day drunk.

Yesterday’s big-hatted outing was an impulsive decision made after I realised my big Friday night plans involved me scrolling through my colleagues’ life history in Facebook pictures while waiting for my clothes to wash at the laundromat. Me and my Blonde Sidekick were offered a ride to the races earlier that day and I decided that, to prevent my Saturday night being on par with my wild Friday, we should take up that offer. That decision was only further cemented when our Kind-Hearted Noble Steed informed me she was planning on cooking up a lasagne as a post-races feed.

So I found myself sitting on a freshly-painted grandstand watching horses running around a circle in the dying hours of the afternoon hurling abuse at the one person I knew who I assumed should have the knowledge I needed to win money by correctly identifying which of the horses would run around the circle the fastest. My Blonde Sidekick and I started a group chat expecting the tips to come rolling in, but were bitterly disappointed. Looking back at the exchange, perhaps the conversation could have been a bit more cordial:

1.50pm

Useless Acquaintance: I don’t have any tips.

Me: That’s pathetic. I can’t believe you.

4.10pm

Useless Acquaintance: Apologies.

It is here when I realised I had to come up with an eloquent way of expressing my disappointment over the lack of insight about which horse would run around the circle the fastest. I was prepared to take a bit of extra time to formulate a response, as I wanted it to be fair, but also representative of my dissatisfaction. I had to express my feelings without being offensive, and that could take time and, quite possibly, a few paragraphs explaining my thoughts in great depth. After a brief pause, I was able to compose something that was worthy of the situation.

4.49pm

Me: eat a dick [strong cuss word].

Useless Acquaintance: A couple of beers deep?

I think it’s about here where I need to provide a bit of context to this the back and forth. I was, in fact, a few beverages deep. I had struck up a friendship with a delightful lass at the members’ bar (our Kind-Hearted Noble Steed had connections), which can only be described as profoundly in-depth. Yes, it was built on her pouring pink alcoholic liquid into a plastic champagne flute while I scrounged around my clutch for money, but it was deeper than that. She knew me down to my core and was there for me in my time of need. It was basically what I imagine Ronhan Keating was describing when he penned his smash hit When You Say Nothing At All. This girl knew what I needed just by looking at me, and I didn’t have to say a thing: I simply smacked my clutch on the beer-soaked bar mat, our eyes met and she fetched more fancy pink races juice. It was a beautiful connection. So this, along with the few ciders I’d polished off in during the ride to the circle the horses ran around, meant I was in a somewhat-fragile state. I had emotions.

I wanted to say something rude back, but my Also Somewhat-Fragile Blonde Sidekick told me not to be mean. So I responded accordingly.

Me: [Also Somewhat-Fragile Blonde Sidekick] won’t let me be myself (say something mean).

She’s a [strong cuss word] too.

A shit-stained [strong suss word].

After a few jibes at my autocorrect fails from said Also Somewhat-Fragile Blonde Sidekick, our Useless Acquaintance wasn’t impressed.

Useless Acquaintance: For fuck sake.

Me: Well that’s rude.

*sends unexplained close ups of Also Somewhat-Fragile Blonde Sidekick’s face with no context.

Useless Acquaintance: From the girl that said “shit-stained [strong cuss word]”.

Me: I am a woman.

(Because I was wearing a skirt that covered my knees and sensible fucking shoes, thank you very much!)

Useless Acquaintance: are you sure?

It was clear at this point that the conversation was only going to disintegrate. I had had far too much sun already and I was mildly depressed by the line up of fashions on the field so it could have only gone one way. I also wanted to end the conversation and dedicate myself to the tray of free deep-fried, pastry-wrapped parcels of questionable meat that had been going around the members’ bar. But obviously I had to respond because Useless Acquaintance had asked a question and I have a compulsion to fill empty silences, even when those silences are digital. But I just didn’t have the words. Thankfully Britney Spears did.

So I decided to respond not through my own words, but by the vision of a contemplative, yet empowered Britney Spears sitting on a rock with big sleeves and flared jeans. At the time, I thought the YouTube clip to I’m not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman said it all.

And that’s how the conversation came to a meaningful end.

Life lesson number 348: When you can’t speak, let Britney be your voice.

The other week we bought ear candles to celebrate the end of the working week, because that’s apparently how we celebrate Fridays in our office.

Some workplaces go out for beers, others shoot hoops, while apparently we’re the people who take an excursion en masse to a crystal shop and buy so many earwax products the staff feel inclined to give a group discount. I’m not entirely sure how it started, but one flippant comment about someone wanting to try to clear their ear holes of apparently useful orange gunk sent me off into a spin.

I’ve written about ear candles before. I can’t be bothered trying to find the link containing that poetic prose, but suffice to say that my enthusiasm for ear candling is perhaps on par with Pauline Hanson’s passion for hating on Muslim immigrants: it’s kind of irrational, clearly repulsive and something you should be embarrassed about posting about on social media. I know that earwax is helpful, contributes to positive functioning of the body as a whole and any harm it is causing me is purely a work of fiction flamed by an overactive imagination, but, just like Pauline Hanson and Pauline Pantdown, I don’t like it (I think I just used earwax as a metaphor for Muslim immigrants, but I’d like to point out that I didn’t exactly plan this to be a political comment; it just sort of happened that way).

I also really enjoy looking at gross things. Those videos where people pop monstrosities of pimples are my pornography. That video were a family digs out a decades-old blackhead was almost (ALMOST) a turn on for me. My brother in law has a nose that excretes gunk from the pores just by a little pressure and it’s enthralling; I’m almost certain that was one of the key reasons my sister married him in the first place.

So of course ear candling is right up there in my list of favourite pastimes, along with “being fantastic” and “having skin”.

Because ear candles bring together a great many of my interests like laying down, burning things, seeing how much wax can be packed into an ear canal at any one time and grand reveals. Seriously, the last episode of The Biggest Loser in which the contestants are all glammed up and show off their miraculous bods has nothing on what happened when you unwrap that wax cone and see the orange delights inside. I’ve never been a mother, but I imagine finding those irregularly-shaped nuggets of wax is not unlike that feeling I assume all women get when they have their by-product of their bodies thrust into their arms for the first time: sheer amazement at what you’ve created.

Then you look around and, like I also imagine all mothers do, compare your creation to what your friends have had ripped out of an orifice. That’s when things get really juicy, because expectations are always high going into a candle sesh, particularly for those who haven’t done it before. The people you expect to have wax sausages have a mere smear, while those dainty fucks in your friendship circle produce enough of the stuff to make a crayon. It can be a very revealing activity.

So I was incredibly disappointed when only myself and one other brave soul candled that afternoon. The person who suggested the idea backed out, and said they’d do it at home. Which obviously is not the point.

The point is to do it as a group. I mean, we bought the shit from a store that sold rocks for calming purposes and had oils for the soul; clearly this was supposed to be a ritualistic fucking experience. This was supposed to be circle of truth. Because we all know there are few things more spiritual than becoming one with a group by comparing how much gunk was shoved in your ears. On my sister’s hen’s weekend we set aside an hour to light up our canals and I’d have to say it really cemented the bonds of friendship. We laughed, we gasped, we dry retched, we poked excrement with cotton buds. It was a beautiful thing to watch and be a part of.

But, alas, we would have no such encounter with corporate candling. The whole thing kind of fizzled. Perhaps I’d revealed too much too soon. Perhaps I was too eager. Perhaps that kind of intimacy is something that just can’t be rushed.

Maybe I simply should rethink my friendship-building methods. Coincidentally, I’m going to take a dark orange-coloured sweet potato pie to work tomorrow.

It’s 2.49am and I can’t sleep.

I went to bed at roughly 11pm and had a dream that violated almost all the copyrights of the movie Jawbreaker even down to the Verruca Salt song that’s playing in my head, and apparently that’s enough for my body. Apparently I don’t need anymore sleep tonight.

But the thing is that I am bloody exhausted. Tired as a Beau Repairs shop. Weary as a Dunlop. Worn out as a … thing that is worn a lot. My eyes are actually sore and I am 103.4 per cent sure that I am squinting like I am starting into the sun. I need to go back to sleep and it needs to happen in the next four minutes because it’s 2.56am and I can’t handle staying awake past 3am on a Sunday without having worn something shiny while drinking the weight of a medium-sized dog in pre-mixed alcohol and cheap sparkling wine.

So naturally I decided the only thing to help me out was to switch on my laptop and stare at a glowing screen. I read somewhere that if you’re struggling to sleep you should do something other than try to sleep for 20 minutes and I don’t really feel like mopping right now so this is my alternative.

The rationale behind starting up my computer and opening a blank Word Document was that I am obviously awake for some grand reason; like I’ll have a sudden realisation of truth and purpose at the keyboard which will change my life. In reality, I’ve already logged on to Facebook and flicked through one of those questions web stories about the top discontinued Macca’s foods (I’m sorry, but what the fuck ever happened to Fruit Fizz? Whoever made the suggestion to pull that one from the menu and out of our hearts deserves to have every seventh apple they bite into be mushy and floury) and a gallery of proud dog parents. I’ve also turned on my Facebook chat – something I rarely do because I can’t take the pressure of having to engage thanks to that “seen” notification – in the hope a drunken acquaintance decides to dabble in a bit of early morning banter after their normal, fun Saturday night.

I don’t think I’m alone in turning to social media for some form of life-changing experience, or at least something to prompt a real-life occurrence of interest. But tonight the only realisation I’ve had is that I’m a bit of a twit and that the reason I happen to only watch reality television or talk shows these days is because I have the tendency to think in episodes and exposing myself to that sort of shit is damaging to my mental health. Watching scripted television is fantastic but it’s given me the false impression that life is an interesting set of experiences all neatly wrapped up around one theme.

In the back of my mind I am always thinking about how what I am doing would tie into an episode and what the voiceover would be saying. I’m trying to pinpoint which people in my life would be major characters and where certain events would fall in terms of the narrative arc of each hour-long primetime slot (because obviously a show about me would be put on at the same time to take on My Kitchen Rules and by god it would wipe that grin of Paleo Pete’s gaunt face). It’s actually becoming a bit of a problem for me in that I look for patterns and themes in my day-to-day life to try to suss out the topic of whatever completely fictional and delusional episode I happen to be in. Is it a sad one? Is it upbeat? Does it have a takeaway message that will empower young professional women? This all sounds very Abed from Community, except instead of being cleverly meta, I’m just a pathetic deludednoid. I am constantly trying to link small occurrences into a overarching concept through semi-original storylines. My head is one big sheet of butcher’s paper with a whole heap of lazily-drawn storyboards linked frantically to vague plotlines by a confusing spider’s web of red texta arrows. I suppose it doesn’t help that I actually try to turn my life into some form of entertaining series through this indulgent online format.

In the past few minutes a notification has popped up on my Facebook feed, which has reinforced the whole “my life is an episode of a witty, underrated show with an incredibly articulate and well-dressed lead character who is likeably flawed” idea. This just might be the adventure I am looking for:

A person I don’t know liked a photo I posted featuring two of my friends and not me.

In my head I can warp this into a couple of plotlines, but the consistent predominant theme is that sitting on Facebook in the early hours of the morning hoping for something meaningful is all kinds of pathetic.

But that’s not the message I want to wrap up on before the credits roll, so I decided to have another spin in this game of life and scroll through Facebook for one last punch to the guts. And boy did it deliver.

One of my bucket-hatted, moustache-rocking friends had his mate film him talking about fishing on a jetty at Fraser Island like he was in his own fucking television show. There his is, rig fully out, talking to an imaginary audience. And while it’s all filmed on a slightly shaky iPhone, there are two episodes and the promise of more. You can’t make this stuff up.

Here’s episode one:

And here’s the second glorious installment:

So clearly I’m not alone in my episodic thinking. Obviously I am friends with the next big thing to hit television like the Scotty Cam, Big Marn and Karl Stefonovic hybrid the world has been fanging for since the dawning of time. Obviously, my delusions are anything but.

I now feel wildly optimistic, because not only did I just watch roughly one minute of open Hawiian-shirted gold, but I also have a conclusion after my intro, build-up and climax which all fits nicely into one little theme. I even have a take home message for your guys sitting in the lounge room of my imagination. But you have to work that one out yourself, because we can’t always write the script in the episodes of our lives but we sure as shit can overthink ourselves to some kind of bulshit resolution that fulfils a need to legitimise our irrational behaviour.

Now I can go back to bed.

Yeah nah: Waking up inside a hot tent and feeling like I had slept with my head in someone’s trousers after a day on the tinnies at some form of grand final. 

Nah yeah: Witnessing the sheer grace and selflessness of man when the guy behind the counter at the bottle-o had a bleeding nose but innovated so he wasn’t out of action for the big half-time beer run: the cluey bastard shoved some tissue up his nose and just kept on fucking going. 

Humans are awesome.