Let me just preface this with the fact that I’m running on about four hours of sleep.

I’m feeling tired, lazy and just shithouse in general after last evening’s outing. I met a friend for a beer and ended up having essentially three dinners, which was fantastic but I am paying for it now (being able to get a ripping bloody massuman curry at 2am if the first big tick I’ve allocated to the Sydney lifestyle. As much as I love filling the empty void inside me with gravy-soaked hot chips from Charcoal Chicken on a cold Toowoomba night, I have to say that a flavoursome curry pips it at the post).

I honestly haven’t the energy to be entertaining in written from this evening – I was barely able to make myself a piece of toast just now.

But I like to be regular with my posts. I do try to uphold some standards of professionalism and despite wearing pony shirts and second-hand jazz shoes to work on the reg, I think I should at least be able to keep to a schedule.

So I’ve gone through the few rogue Word docs on my desktops which contain half-arsed attempts at writing columns. These generally are made up of a few spur of the moment rants I’ve farted out when the muse consumed me, but gave up on because they were either too shit or I thought up something better. These abandoned attempts at cohesive humour litter my desktop, sadly taking up space as they wait to be given attention. They are the equivalent of those people you know you could at least get a spirited fingerbang out of, but you’re kind of too good for them. However, you keep them around because you know one day you might just get desperate.

So here is my equivalent of swigging some room-temperature goon punch, assuming the starfish position and saying “yeah righto mate, you’ll do”.

It was a piece I wrote after going to the shops for just one item: a squeezey bottle of honey. I used honey quite a bit you see, as it’s a substitute for honey in my tea. I don’t think it’s any better for me than sugar, but I started off using it for that reason – something about it being a bit more natch and some bullshit about kick-starting the metabolism. Now I just like the taste.

Anyway, I ran out and was needing a cuppa like a junkie fangin’ for their next hit, so I trotted off to the supermarket. Afterwards, I thought I could turn that into a column. It turned into basically being a “here are funny names for vaginas” joke. And I canned the column because I thought I was above listing humorous euphemisms for female genitalia. I thought I was better than the cheap laugh for vag names. I thought I was a writer of great intellect who did not need to stoop down to such levels. Turns out I’m not. So here, enjoy this long-winded, unpolished build-up to a vag joke:

I just went to the shops and bought some honey.

That was the only thing I needed. Just a singular malleable plastic container of honey. So obviously I didn’t need a plastic shopping bag for it.

But I had to get it from the grocery shop through the shopping centre, up the street and into my house. I wasn’t going to hang on to it in my hands while I walked and I couldn’t fit it in my tiny, tiny handbag.

So I shoved it in the front pocket of my shorts (high-waisted because I’m a little bit indie and the rigidity of the denim around my middle feels like the appropriate coverage of my sloppy, sloppy rig).

As I walked out, I realised it looked like I was making a statement.

What this statement was, I’m not sure.

It might have been a statement about how I like my tea. Strong. Hot. Nothing fancy. Milk. Honey. Bam. Perhaps this could also be interpreted as a description of myself. Perhaps, that was me thinking a little too metaphorically for 9.26pm on a Monday.

Maybe it was proudly proclaiming that I’m a strong advocate for not pissing all over the earth (figuratively. I mean, literally is fine too but do try to do it somewhere thoughtful – like don’t do it by someone’s window, go by a excluded bush so no one has to drink in your wee stench through their nose holes). It could be a stance against the evils of plastic bags and a show of solidarity with turtles who I have never seen, but I have probably saved countless times from suffocation due to my noble refusal of the heinous sacks of capitalism.

Maybe, people would think I had stolen the honey, in a brazen attempt to save money and stick it to The Man. Because honey belongs to the bees, not major corporations and consumerism is a boil in the armpit of humanity.

But really, the only thing I could think about was that I now had a new euphemism for my vagina: the honey pocket.

I mean, Cave of Wonders is my favourite by far, but the honey pocket could just be a close second.

Aaaaand then I was going to steer it into a tasteful list of other vagina names, but it’s very hard to make “meat curtains” palatable. I’m sure there is a way to do it, but I honestly don’t have the mental capacity to do so right now.

So I might just leave it there, inviting you to leave your names for your own love tunnel in the comments section if you’re that way inclined.