There’s not enough filth on Facebook these days.

I mean, there are plenty of scumbags on the social media platform, that’s not in question. But I’m beginning to question the algorithm that’s making the Zuckerberg family so rich. Because the suggested content the bastard keeps chucking my way isn’t doing me any favours.

Now, I try not to direct my writing at a particular gender but, let’s face it, I know my audience. Other than being related to me or in my inner friendship circle (I like to think of it as a cone of cool, or a cylinder of sassy) my readers largely have one thing in common – the sinful void between their legs that means they’ll get paid 20 per cent less than male colleagues and makes older creepy customers feel they have a right to ask you’re married while you’re trying to work.

I don’t want to get up on my high horse, because riding a beast is dangerous enough without getting illicit substances involved, but I’m getting annoyed with the shit Facebook keeps suggesting I read because I have the ability to make my own milk (which I can imagine would be super handy if the shops were closed and I wanted to make a batch of porridge).

For some reason, Facebook seems to think I like reading articles about pubic hair. I know they serve a purpose; generating conversation about the mindless habits we engage in because of deeply engrained cultural beliefs about gender is important. It really is.

And I’m not dissing it. I love reading too much into things. My hobby is overthinking something simple until it becomes a CIA conspiracy. I’m like a bloodhound: I can sniff out underlying reasons and motivations you never knew existed. But every time I read something about a well-informed, fantastic woman deciding not to purge the pubes I get super angry.

Sure they give you all these pro-woman reasons not for landscaping the lower region, like the fact that the groin hair is like a first line of defence for grit and grime getting up in your ‘gine. They say that it reinforces the dated ideal that women need to be perfect for men. They graphically detail how painful yanking those dark, curly suckers can be. These are all good reasons and they often are put forward in funny, informative ways.

But sometimes theoretical arguments don’t come into play at all. Sometimes, despite all the complex layers of socialisation and normalisation of particular perspectives on gender roles and discrimination awareness, things are simpler. Sometimes you can’t read into someone else’s decision any deeper than the stubbly  surface.

I’m not saying we shouldn’t continue unpacking the bigger reasons behind the seemingly tiny things we do with our lives. What I’m saying is that we need to fully unpack that box (pun definitely intended). We have to get out the old tissues and the embarrassing love notes and that squashed banana slowly deteriorating under a sock. If bastards are going to keep coming out with “I’m calling it” or “let’s be honest” articles, we need to expose the gritty truth. Because every time I read a woman telling me to leave it to beaver I can’t help but think, “homegurl has clearly never had her discharge fuse the hairs together from both flaps and woke up in excruciating pain after trying to move her thighs apart in her sleep” or “sweetheart seems to forget about how rogue hairs sometimes grow upwards and inwards, irritating the fuck out of your vulva like you used a cactus as a tampon or something”. Because I like to think that I’m not alone in my agony. And sisterhood is about standing together, isn’t it?

An augmented version of column originally published in On Our Selection News August 17, 2016

My obsession for making lists and lining up my pens is going to kill me… and see me die alone.

As a 20-something who is nowhere near as wealthy and famous as I thought it’d be as a child, I’m trying to do a bit of soul searching. The time has come for me to start seriously mapping out my future. I’m trying to find out who I am and what my grand purpose is in life. I need some real answers. So of course I’ve turned to online quizzes.

I thought I’d start off with the Type A or Type B personality test. I answered the questions hoping for the former. I thought being a Type A was a good thing. From what I’d gleamed from magazines and Hollywood’s portrayal of successful people, I thought falling into this category meant you liked lists, colour coding and achievements. You got things done and you did it all in a power blazer. Your apartment is neat and you have a luxed out bloody diary/day planner. It all sounded so fun to me.

If you read my last post, you would know that I came to my own conclusion – that I’m neat, I rant and I’m fabulous (I didn’t need an online test to tell me that). But here are the actual results. And they are less humorous observations and more predictions of my doom. Because it turns out falling into this category means you’re falling into an early grave.

According to the computer-generated free analysis I was given, I should really be paying more attention to my cardiovascular health. The test was originally created not so people could justify their tense, busy lifestyle and jerkward behaviour while trying to get to the top. It was designed to see if you were more expected to experience heart problems, most likely caused by stress.

According my results, my daily existence is “heavily tinged with impatience and hostility”. If my test results are to be believed, I explode the jagged barbs of my concentrated anger at others like some kind of flame-throwing echidna.

And if I don’t burn whoever is within a five-metre radius of my verbal hatred, I end up stewing in anger and frustration. My fury simmers slowly in the crockpot of my soul for weeks on end and when the lid is finally lifted, you don’t end up with zingy pulled pork. You get dished up the tough, stringy corpse that is my rage. Everything is burnt to a crisp except the crackling, which is still chewy and limp.

Apparently my behaviour is both damaging to my health and “extremely harmful” to relationships – which perhaps explains why I spent the last Saturday night watching the ABC with my parents instead of having a laugh with friends. Family are like the friends you had in your country primary school with less than 30 kids – forced to like you because there is a lack of other options.

I turned to this test for answers, but all it gave me was a kick in the guts. Sure, I may well be a stain on humanity, but no one wants to hear that actually confirmed.

Butt he silver lining is that while my hostile personality means I may die alone, I won’t have to live too long in misery because my spiteful ways could cause early heart failure. So while I may be a Type A, it turns out I’m also an optimist.

Originally published in On Our Selection News, August 13, 2016

Sick days aren’t as fun as they used to be.

If you were like me as a child, you would have liked Maggi two-minute noodle sandwiches, had an unhealthy obsession with the Olsen twins and you would have tried to chuck a lot of sickies.

The idea of staying home while you’re supposed to be doing other things was so exciting. You could do anything you wanted. You could watch those educational entertainment programs on ABC and then play with Barbies and maybe even go grocery shopping with Mum.

And if you were actually sick, you got so much attention. In a family of three other girls, this was important. Because the limelight generally had to be shared, as did toys, bedrooms and, sometimes, seatbelts (but only for the skinnier of the siblings – so thankfully I was spared. Although I also like to reason that I was a much more valuable child, and therefore deserved the bare minimum of state road safety considerations, otherwise known as my own seatbelt). And as the third child out of four, I even had to share being the middle child. So any little morsel of extra attention tossed out by our parents like table scraps out the back door was snapped up quickly by the metaphorical stray dogs we were.

Once, both my eardrums burst simultaneously. Between doses of painkillers, my mother had to literally hold me down on to the bed while I flailed about, screaming in agony like a child possessed. I had quite meaty limbs and the diaphragm of an opera singer by that time, so this would have been quite an ordeal for my poor mother. But I was the focus of the household at the time, so it was worth it. Sure, I may never be allowed to scuba dive, but at least it got me a solid week’s worth of airtime.

Unfortunately, as an adult, sick days have lost their appeal. Because as a child all you had to worry about was the Friday spelling test. If you missed out, it wasn’t a big deal because you only needed to master the words that were in Harry Potter to get by. But now, you have things to do. Documents to type, forms to submit, etc.

I like to get things done. And by “get things done” I don’t mean, “spend five minutes coughing up a single clump of infection”. I spent the last three days napping. That may sounds delightful to some, but I’ve hated every minute of it. I planned on filing my tax return and then researching frivolous items I could spend said tax return on. I planned on making pumpkin pie. I had several unimportant magazines to buy. And I planned on writing this down in my diary and highlighting it in the appropriate colour. But was unable to do any of this because of a little case of bronchitis.

And let’s not forget about the #gainz that have been lost while I’ve been too tired to stand. I’ve missed numerous gym classes and therefore am going to have a sloppy rig to deal with.

But the worst part about adult sick days is fact that you have to fish for attention. Because we all assume adults can take care of themselves accordingly, or let hospital staff do it for them if it’s really serious. Now the attention from being sick doesn’t come easy. You have to ask for it. It’s the fourth day I’ve endured symptoms, and I’ve already sent out at least five snapchats, two texts, and had one phone call with Mum. Maybe I just need human contact, a hug. But I offered the dial-a-doctor a handshake and he, quite wisely, declined.

Update: two weeks later and I’m not only still trying to shake the snot, but I also have conjunctivitis.