I just wheeled home a filing cabinet I found on the street.

I had just come from the grocery store, and so had a few bags of foodstuffs with me. But rather than taking the groceries home, unloading them into the fridge and returning for the discarded office furniture I had to pounce. Because I’d had a few beers this afternoon I was thinking pretty clearly, you see. And obviously someone else was going to pounce on this truly fantastic deal in the time it took to go around the corner (I seriously live around the corner from this now-closed tax agent office, so we’re talking a commute of four minutes) and back. I’d return to the spot I’d left the filing cabinet and find only emptiness, carrying home only a feeling of regret so heavy I would have had to use both hands and lift at the knees.

So I decided the only thing to do was grab life by the balls and take the filing cabinet then and there.

I’m going to give you a little bit of background now: I’ve recently moved to Sydney and have very little furniture. In fact, the only furniture I brought with me was a rustic wooden ladder I use as a bedside table because I’m actually quite alternative and creative in my approach to decorating. The place I moved into had a bed and the rest of the place is furnished so I didn’t think about bringing anything else.

“I’m living lightly,” I told myself, even though that statement will never apply to me. Apart from my translucent skin, there is nothing “light” about me. I’m a chronic hoarder, I eat far too many carbs than my sedentary lifestyle allows for and I get worried about not being dressed appropriately so I always over pack. I’m a very heavy person. I have feelings with the density of dark matter. I have at least eleven boxes of unnecessary glassware at my parents’ house. I can turn almost every conversation into a statement about the frivolity of man which will eventually lead to our destruction.

Anyway, after two days of trying to convince myself that I didn’t need “my things” around me, I finally snapped. I like things. Inanimate objects give my life meaning. I need to have items to arrange carefully.

So yesterday when I happened upon a tax office shutting down, I was intrigued. I went in for a “sticky beak” and ended up walking out with a very basic desk for FIVE DOLLARS. That’s five cents more than the price of a bacon and egg muffin meal from a reputable fast food outlet that isn’t McDonalds. I mean, breakfast is great and all, but you can’t artfully arrange mismatched photo frames on breakfast.

I was on cloud nine. But as I started to put my few possessions on the scratched and dented surface, I was stuck by how many things I wanted to hide. My highlighters. My matches. My ointment for that icky rash that sometimes appears on my left hand that I scratch in my sleep when I’m drunk.

I didn’t want to get rid of these things, but I didn’t want to display them. Because they didn’t look good, but they also revealed too much about me. The highlighters were a nod to my neurotic need for order and anal attitude towards work. The ointment declared that I was disease-ridden. My matches hinted at an overwhelming desire to start fires and watch things burn to cinders. All these things are true, but you don’t need to put them on display. It’s like starting a date by telling them that you’re emotionally distant but also incredibly needy and hate being told how good you are but crave attention before the bread comes out. You want that kind of stuff stashed out of sight; you have to open my drawers if you want the dirt.

So when I stumbled upon a dirty old filing cabinet on the street just now, I knew it was fate. Fate was in the form of a scuffed hip-high set of drawers with a note that read “don’t put anything in the top drawer” taped inside. And you don’t ignore a sign like that. When fate comes for you, you can’t turn your back on it.

So I opened one of the drawers, chucked my groceries inside and wheeled it around the block to my building. It was actually very convenient in the end, because it meant it didn’t have to carry my grocery bags and I essentially filed broccoli, which felt good.

I made eye contact with a few people while pushing my new supreme piece of office equipment home, with a “just snagged this little beauty for free” glint in my eye – something I thought with my five-beer buzz would get me a few thumbs ups or at least a cheeky wink. I imagined people would look at me like some kind of legend, like thriftiness and scumminess were virtues. I thought I would be applauded for seizing an opportunity before me and preventing useful materials from going into landfill. Instead all I got were glares. Apparently the sound of a heaving filing cabinet being wheeled over gravel isn’t the most soothing accompaniment for an evening walk.

But that’s ok, because I now have a vessel in which to store my unsavoury qualities. I have a stash for my shame. I have a filing cabinet of secrets.

And you bet your bottom dollar I’m going to write a musical called The Filing Cabinet of Secrets.

My new neighbourhood is too fancy for the bottle-os to stock the wine I like.

I like to pretend to be a woman. And not just a woman in the anatomical sense, but in the sophisticated sense. The kind of woman who knows who to wear a turtle neck without looking like a drama student. The kind of woman who has a passport holder instead of shoving it in an ironic fanny pack. The kind of woman who drinks red wine after a long week at the office.

Or, at the very least, the kind of woman who is in Jules Cobb’s circle of friends without being Tom (seriously, just watch Cougar Town already. You don’t have to tell anyone about it).

I know I’ve spoken about this before, but I love the idea of being a wine drinker. And while I do love a good champagne/ Trevi mixed with juice, I feel like it’s not the same as drinking a still, thick fermented grape.

Sparkling wine is my friend – it encourages me to dance and doesn’t shudder when I drop a c-bomb into casual conversation. It holds my hand through in a room of people I don’t know and whispers into my ear how much more fabulous I am than them. She’s the kind of girl who tells me that the sequinned H&M top designed for 17-year-olds is totally appropriate for whatever occasion I try to pull it off at, but somehow she also guides me through swanky affairs, gently coaxing me to be a lady. Sparkling wine is basically my friend Christina, except for the c-bomb appreciation – in college we actually drafted a semi-legal document detailing the situations in which such a swear was appropriate. My only free pass to say it whenever I wanted was if I were bald, which was a very shrewd way of playing it because my hair is all I have so I would never get rid of it. In hindsight, her switch from science to law comes as no surprise.

Anyway, as much as I love sparkling wine, it sometimes doesn’t fit my mood (another way you can tell my friend apart from carbonated alcohol, in case you needed one). Sometimes you need something a little less sparkly. And this is where red wine comes in.

My wine is basically alcoholic red cordial. And apparently red cordial isn’t very fancy. I don’t know who has the authority to make the decisions about what is fancy and what is not, but there it is.

My wine is so lowbrow that the two bottle shops in my neighbourhood don’t stock it. I didn’t realise I was moving somewhere like this when I wheeled my suitcases through the front door: I saw my flatmate had nice homeowners on Gumtree and could tell she wasn’t interested in harvesting my organs for the black market when I inspected the place, so that was good enough for me.

But now I’m getting a little concerned that perhaps I’m not the right person for the area. The people I see at my local supermarket all look like they’ve walked off the set of a Women’s Health photo shoot – snazzy activewear, shaped eyebrows and post-workout bronzer. I however, am usually wearing one of the four pairs of trackpants I bought from Cotton On body in different colours and the baggy jumper I got as a hand-me-down from a friend moving overseas. Hummus still feels like an exotic treat for me. And the sandals I wear to work smell like salty feet and have vomit stains on them.

I feel like everyone else is an aged-merlot and I am my $8 sugar syrup.

But that’s ok, because no matter how well one might go with a prime cut of steak, mine would make a great sangria, and you wouldn’t even need to water it down with lemonade so you can get good and drunk off a single pitcher.

So whether I do finally find a bottle shop within walking distance that stocks my fermented shame juice or I have to pick up a case of it from a sketchy place in the city after work and balance six plus bottles of wine on my lap during peak hour on the train, I’m going to carry my wine to my door with my head held high.

Because I don’t have to be everyone’s glass of wine. As long as I can stomach myself, that’s all that matters.

I often find myself wondering what the hell I’m doing.

Sometimes it’s when I’ve slipped over on a beer-soaked dance floor and am not immediately slid under someone’s legs and lifted up like an extra on Grease. Sometimes it’s when I catch myself unknowingly whistling Waltzing Matilda while wearing an R M Williams long-sleeved, button-up shirt in a shopping centre after seeing a picture of cotton saying, “but we don’t grow cotton out here” to myself. And sometimes it’s when I’m sitting in a hotel room plagued with mosquitos re-watching the first season of Cougar Town.

Those moments are all pretty recent, but the last one is so recent it’s current.

Yep, I’m in one of the top two cities in Australia (judging by other people’s standards, not by my own. Because we all know the top two Australian cities in my eyes are: the city that contains the three only Super Roosters in existence; and the city that grows the Milton mangoes. Apparently I’m not in a position to host a tourism show just yet, but once I get clearance you can bet the sunshine state is going to be put on the map) and I’m sitting in a hotel room watching reruns of something I’ve seen at least ten times.

I’m sitting in this hotel because I’ve moved interstate yet again, and the guy whose room I’m taking needed a bit of extra time to move out and I start at a new job tomorrow so I’m crashing in a hotel. To some people it might sound adventurous or even glamorous that I’m living in a hotel for a few days, but when the name of the place you’re staying at features the word “budget” and “ibis”, one of the scummiest birds on earth, it takes the shine out of it just a little. There’s something about the word “budget” that makes me sad.  It’s bad enough when people use it as a noun, but when someone uses the word “budget” as an adjective, you know you’re going to have to wear thongs in the shower.

Not that I’m complaining: I have aircon, a big television and a tea-making station I don’t even have to get out of bed to use. I even got a free paper in the lobby today. But after living with my sister and brother in-law for the past few months, it still feels a little empty in this room.

I know I shouldn’t be complaining. I had a great send off.

A friend’s birthday coinciding with Oktoberfest meant I got to have at least 12 hours of beer guzzling and table dancing with some fantastic friends, all while we were in ridiculous costumes. One of my sisters and I had three different types of cake for breakfast the other day. My godmother made me a quiche. Friends have sent me long messages telling me how proud they are of me. Our family goodbye included a roast lamb, a hot chook and a rarely-seen homemade cheesecake by Mum. I had a few stubbies with Dad. I was dared to, and did, eat a whole spoonful of Vegemite. The Beaches soundtrack played in the background. It was a lovely last hurrah.

Then last night Mum, my little sister and I watched Little Women (while hoping it wasn’t a premonition for our lives because there are four girls in our family and no one wants to be Beth. And because Sydney is Australia’s version of New York and I’m probably the closest to Jo, the Beth in our family might get sick again while I’m away having “sensational experiences before succumbing to matrimony”. My greatest comfort is knowing my little sister has never tried to reshape her nose). Today Dad drove me to the airport, actually paid for parking and waited with me in the terminal until I was one of the last ones to board the plane. I still had tears in my eyes as I handed the cabin crew my boarding pass and turned back to wave at Dad, who was still watching as I walked towards the tarmac. Hell, someone even bought my microwave off Gumtree today for fifty big ones! I’m very lucky.

But I can’t say I’m not a little bit sad.

Thankfully, there’s nothing that will turn your frown upside quite like Courtney Cox eating a honkin’ sticky bun off the bottom of a fry pan.

Abridged versions originally published in On Our Selection News October 6, 2016

Never have I felt such an affinity for the sands in the hourglass in that iconic graphic at the start of The Days of Our Lives.

Lately I’ve been using weekly planners that encourage me to identify three life priorities at the start of  the week and structure the next seven days around those grand ideas.

Unfortunately I was far too busy for this on Sunday (my sister and I were planning a “health weekend” but instead we ate a litre of ice cream each and watched the same Cameron Diaz movie two-and-a-half times – I just didn’t have the time to devote to organising my life).

So I’ve decided to go the blank planner at the end of the week and work backwards, deducing what my three priorities were based on what I did in the past seven days.

Seven days was enough for the girl who lived down a well to stalk, traumatise and eventually kill people for watching her video in The Ring, but apparently for me it’s not enough to do anything noteworthy. Sure, this demon was probably on student welfare payments (I assume she’s studying filmmaking in uni) and didn’t have to work, but I am technically on holidays. Aside from this column, I have nothing to do.

Holidays in warm weather are supposed to be times when you find yourself, go on an adventure with your friends and possibly find a dead body in the woods. You’re supposed to look back on your time and feel like you’ve done something memoir-worthy with it.

But I haven’t. This became clear when I was asked about my favourite thing I had done this week. My answer as was, “…yesterday I ate a burrito?”. Mexican food is delicious, but the highlight of your week shouldn’t be something that will eventually be splattered over the toilet bowl, you know?

Based on how I frittered away my days, I could say my first priority was “unleashing my creativity”. I “achieved” this by making my friend a birthday card with a hand-painted chicken schnitzel on it, accompanied with a schnitzel-related verse. I also photographed local parkland – and but that I mean, I took 25 pictures of flowers which were such a deep purple that their petals were essentially black. They looked like something out a film clip for Blink 182 during that period when somehow Tom Delonge was allowed to steer the once cheerful and cheeky soft rock band into a commercial emo direction. I took these photos to create the perfect Instagram post with the perfect caption: “I finally found a flower as dark as my soul”. Or at least that’s what I would have had more if my phone hadn’t have conked out of battery, so I didn’t post it and therefore didn’t get the likes I so desperately crave. Deep and artistic side nurtured? Check.

My second priority could be “nourish the bod”, because I spent a good whack of my Tuesday turning bran and pumpkin into pie. I also thought about eating as many vegetables as possible, and it’s the thought that counts so I’m going to count it. Body as a temple? Check.

My final priority was “boost online presence”. I added my friends’ aunty on Facebook, mentioned vanilla slice on my blog and tweeted about the Game of Thrones finale, which came out months ago but I only just got around to watching. Building an army of online followers by creating compelling, relevant content? Check and check.

Now that I’ve checked off my priorities list, I am free to waste the remainder of my week without guilt*.

*Side note: I spent that Sunday dedicating a whole day to breakfast and a viewing of The Mindy Project with my sister. We had pancakes, bacon, turkey bacon, blueberry bagel and TWO kinds of waffles – because some genius was put on this earth to invent potato waffles and in recent years I suppose the great potato prophet delivered a miracle for humanity. It was a great Sunday. 

Sometimes it can be really hard to not come off as a creep.

As someone who has no problem holding eye contact longer than necessary and a tendency to switch between varying forms of the English accent, this has been one lifelong uphill battle for me.

But hey, as far as people go, I like to think I’m not the worst example of humanity currently living.

If there was a continuum ranging from “normal” to “criminally insane” I like to think I’d fall on the point of “endearingly unhinged” or “harmless, but don’t pick her as a role model” or “I’d feel safe leaving my kids with her, but am not going to because I don’t have time to deal with the questions my children would inevitably come back with after being exposed to this person for more than fifteen minutes”. I’ve got enough quirk to me to make me an interesting character in a Wes Anderson movie but not enough to make me a villain. I’m probably not relatable enough to be a main character, however, I could be the eccentric but likeable sidekick – like Joan Cusack in Runaway Bride or Mindy Kahling in No Strings Attached.

You know? Like, I’m not normal but I wouldn’t say I was abnormal. Odd, but not threatening.

However the problem with being the zany best friend who provides the comic relief is that sometimes you end up doing things that aren’t particularly successful for you, but they get the laughs. These are the people who are funny in movies but they’re never the people Dolly magazine turns into posters. Because as likeable as they are, you’re still going to pick Ashton Kutcher if you have the choice. I mean even if he didn’t have that face, he gave the world the most stunning example of cinematic gold: Dude, Where’s My Car? (there are very few scenarios that cannot be punctuated with a quote from that movie. If I had a dollar for every time an “I know your body” applied to my situation, I could afford to train a dolphin to deliver pizza).

In a movie, telling someone you’re hooking up with that you should put on a swimming cap because your hair keeps getting in the way would go down well with the audience. But for a real life audience of one, not so much (I imagine…).

Anyway, back to the perils of not coming off as a creep.

Facebook is the real driver of this. Because it’s nearly impossible to be introduced to a friend of a friend without already knowing of them anymore. Back in the days when online activity was restricted to email pen pals or that dancing baby sensation from Ally McBeal, people’s lives were relatively private. You only saw photos if someone picked up their prints from the chemist before work. You only knew about engagements from your grandmother’s/hairdresser’s/overly affectionate neighbour’s gossip. The links of friendship were friendship bracelet chain links – not hyperlinks to their username in the comment section of memes.

So when you were introduced to a friend of a friend, the chances were that you had never seen this person before and knew very little about them.

But these days, you know people before you get to know them. Through group photos and tagged posts and check-ins, the friend of a friend is already in your newsfeed and therefore a bleep – however small – on your radar. Whether you want to be or not, you’re already aware that this person exists, and you’ve already got an inkling of who they are.

I’d like to point out now that, thanks to the highly-developed algorithms of social media, you see stuff you don’t intend to see. You don’t seek out the people who are friends with your friends, but you still get this information regardless. The idea, I suppose, is to expand friendship networks. But Facebook generates your newsfeed with a complete disregard for how much of a stalker you’re going to look like for knowing details about these people. I mean if you come across a friend of your friend in real life, you are probably reasonably likely to become acquaintances, if not friends in your own right. But when you translate that idea to the online world, it isn’t so peachy. Because you come across this other person without them necessarily coming across you. You don’t know them, but you’ve bumped into them online so much that you kind of feel like you do.

You have already sussed out via tagged photos whether they’re a top bloke or shitcunt based on their poses and hand gestures (or, hopefully, a lack thereof).

If you’re anything like me, you’ve already subconsciously worked out in your mind whether or not this person is a good friend match for you. Maybe you’ve seen them in a photo with their sunglasses on the back of their neck. Maybe you saw their comment on your friend’s status featuring an obscure yet fitting Billy Madison quote. Perhaps they tagged your friend in a Janoskians video or checked in at a little-known music festival. There are little breadcrumbs they leave online that leak into your newsfeed which are either dropkick red flags or threads from special edition friendship material.

And sometimes this prior knowledge spills out into the public sphere when you eventually do cross physical paths.

Particularly if you’re drunk.

Especially when you’re drunk and they’re not.

And no matter how you frame it, you always sound a little bit like a stalker.

Because instead of just opening with, “hello, nice to meet you” like a sensible person would, you find yourself saying, “yeah, I know who you are” or don’t even wait to be introduced – you just declare, “you’re *INSERT FULL NAME” and then rattle off several facts about them.

The worst part is when they don’t seem to have the same encyclopaedic knowledge of you as you do of them. And they should. Because they use the same social media platforms. They know the same people as you do. Heck, you might have been tagged in the same party photo album as them. But for some reason, they wouldn’t know you from a bar of soap.

Have they no capacity to retain information? Are they blind to facial features? Are they possibly even more self-centred than you?

Maybe people have less spare time than I do. Maybe people are less pathetic than me and spend less time scrolling mindlessly through Facebook. Or maybe people have shitty, shitty memories and don’t recall obscure details about a stranger’s life like I do.

Or maybe I really am just a little bit of a creep. But I promise I’m not a fulltime stalker – I lack the amount of energy and commitment.

I just drove home from a party with TWO bonfires and assorted fudge, even though I had my swag, 10 tinnies of cider and backup vodka.  

I don’t know who I am anymore. 

I feel like there is plenty to unpack about the shocking turn of events but for now I don’t think I have the strength to face myself.