Originally published in The Clifton Courier, April 11, 2018

I find it quite difficult to answer when people ask me about my ultimate career goal.

Essentially, my aim is to remain employed for as long as possible in a world that is becoming more and more automated by the day. It’s depressing, but it’s true. I yearn to remain a cog in the corporate, capitalist machine that is slowly crushing us all.

But, ignoring our dystopian future for a second, I guess I do have a vision for what I want my life to be. It is, however, difficult to sum up in a single job title and requires a lot of adjectives.

The real dream is to one day be an author, working from home on my little hobby farm.

I’ll flounce around in my breezy white kaftan (that somehow has zero gravy stains), starting the day off with a cup of tea with the cockatoos on the veranda of my lovingly-restored Queenslander, smashing out a few chapters in my light-filled home office at a large desk made from reclaimed wood before hosting a relaxed but extremely sloshy dinner party for my marvellous friends.

Obviously, it would be nice to have a man and/or children around, because I’d need someone to collect the eggs from the chickens, as I refuse to go near those scratchy, spiteful bastards… but love the yellow of a good farm-fresh yolk. But I’d insist on having my own suite in the house, because creativity needs space to flourish/I don’t want anyone skewing my artfully-arranged knick knacks.

And I’d have to make regular trips to “the city” to attend fabulous book parties and buy expensive candles. Sometimes I’d have to “go off on business” to Italy. But, for the most part, my well-styled dreamhouse would be my workplace and my sanctuary, all paid for by my ability to put one word after another.

The problem is, however, that I don’t really have much of a personal story. To write a memoir often requires something extraordinary to happen in one’s life. I haven’t smashed glass ceilings in the entertainment industry, I’ve next to no juicy dirt on famous people, I didn’t build a business empire based on mops and I didn’t come to this country in the belly of a convict ship before pioneering wool production or something.

My story is comfortably unremarkable.

And, at this point in my life, I’ve not got the attention span, the stamina nor the imagination to produce The Great Australian Novel. I couldn’t even knock together an Australian rip off of Harry Potter built on replacing English elements with their bogan equivalents (the flying car would be an old Holden ute with a Ned Kelly quote on the back windshield; the invisibility cloak would be a beer-soaked Australian flag, tied like a cape around Potto’s neck, etc.)

So I feel like Memoirs of a Self-Obsessed Middle Class White Girl Who Wants to Be an Author but is Too Lazy to Write a Novel wouldn’t get published, let alone produce enough profit to sustain the lifestyle I hope will fill the black, gaping void inside me.

As such, I’m going to have to rely on gimmicks to get published, and I’ve come up with something that might, possibly, maybe on-a-slow-day, work.

A while ago, I thought about making the family a cook booklet for Christmas, which would have been stapled print-outs of my iconic recipes adapted from the back of ingredient packets. But I’d never be able to just write, “mix butter with flour”. No, I’d need to also add a dash of why-margarine-is-congealed-saddness and a dollop of over-sharing about that one time I ate chalk.

Eventually, the idea evolved into something I would describe as an autobiographical cookbook. It would be accompanied by underwhelming, deadpan photos of me stiffly posing with various cooking utensils and feature a half-baked recommendation from my friend Christina, who I would credit on the cover as “a lawyer who bakes real good”.

And because I want to bash out a month’s worth of columns so I don’t have to form and submit coherent sentences while I’m on holiday, I’ve decided to test out a few of these ideas on you, my poor unfortunate readers.

So, please, enjoy this next month of unnecessarily wordy recipes sprinkled with insights into my life. Maybe, if it’s raining out and the internet’s down, you could even try them out. Please send your comments /cutting critiques on my culinary abilities in the comments section or write them using cut-out magazine letters – ransom note style – and slide them into the Clifton Courier mail slot.

See you on the other side!

Yeah, I don’t have much for you today.

Its not because I’m out camping or commemorating the resurrection of Jesus.

Apparently, I’m just feeling a bit off today.

Look, I’m aware that does sound like a lame excuse for “I watched Escape to the Country for too long and now I’m too tired to bash out even a sub-par blog post”.

Yeah, so maybe my enthusiasm for watching retired British couples view rural properties may have had something to do with the very short length of this post. And perhaps my tired state contributed to this blog being slugged with the imaginative and extremely descriptive title of “Oi”. But this is not entirely the whole story.

Something’s just not right. I may need to see a shaman or something.

Think I’m being dramatic?

Consider these three facts:

• It was Easter Sunday and the only chocolate I ate was vegan, gluten free and was in no way novelty-shaped
• I made roast potatoes and opted not to have them with gravy – even though I had ample Gravox in the pantry
• Daylight Saving time ended without me wanting to dance naked around a bonfire in mystic jubilation like one of those women in the opening credits of Outlander

See what I mean?

I love dairy, gluten and adore novelty-shaped food items. I worship gravy. And my burning hatred for the concept of Daylight Saving time is encoded in the nucleus of every one of the cells making up the freckly slop that is my body.

For me to act like this, in such contrast to my most sacred values, is extremely out of character.

I’m now extremely concerned I could wake up tomorrow as a completely different person.  Maybe I’ll suddenly start calling togs “cozzies” or wake up inside the body of a middle-aged Rob Schneider.

Or maybe I just need to go to bed.

I guess I’ll find out in the morning.

No offence to Rob, but I’ve been focusing on sculpting my butt lately, so I’m really hoping I wake up inside my own body.

On Thursday, I lost my phone.

It wasn’t just in the back of my car (which I no longer have) or left it somewhere at work. I lost it on public transport. In Sydney. Unlocked.

Yes. It sounds pretty bad.

Thankfully, my phone/electronic record of all the quirks of my wretched personality was returned to me.

I wasn’t even 24 hours without it.

I’d like to tell you that in the 20-hour-period I was without my phone I was calm, relaxed and finally free from the technological oppressor enslaving me with its drip feed of dopamine hits to sustain my addiction.

Buuuut I still checked Facebook and Instagram that night… on my laptop.

It would be powerful to explain how my muted senses came back to me with startling vivacity – that I could suddenly could know where I’m going after one glance of a map and that my sluggish memory whirred back into life again. But they didn’t.

I took a taxi to the place I was to meet the woman who had my phone so I wouldn’t be late trying to work out where I was going, and I had to refer to the Post-It note I’d jotted the address on in order to instruct the cabbie.

It would delightful to say that it woke me up to the world. That I suddenly saw natural beauty, that I marvelled at the way the light hits the leaves and illuminates their edges, as if they were painted by an optimistic impressionist who’d just made love in a meadow of daffodils.

But my eyes are still fucked from a career of staring at computer screens.

And of course it would be a nice narrative to describe how being without my phone on my journey home led me to really seeing people and, eventually, meeting my soul mate.

Instead, I saw a guy who kiiind of looked like a kid I used to catch the bus with who had grown himself a moustache. He didn’t seem to recognise me.

There was nothing whimsical about losing my means of communicating with and staying connected to the people I love.

Sorry.

But it did teach me the importance of having a passcode.

I’ve always hated passcodes. They were wanky and cumbersome and extremely annoying.

But now I’m a convert.

Because the thought of some stranger going through your phone/the window to your soul is quite uncomfortable.

Just going through my camera roll alone was disconcerting enough.

Here is a small glimpse at the kind of humiliating revelations that could have been made public about me had my telephone ended in the wrong hands. This, of course, is a non-exhaustive list. There are many, many skeletons in my digital closet. Please, enjoy my inventory of embarrassment:

• Two photos of my big toe bundled up in toilet paper, bound with an overstretched hair tie because I didn’t have access to a Band-Aid at the time of injury
• A screen grab of a birthday snap for a mate who shares a nickname with one of the major search engines on the internet. I’d copied their funky logo idea and used my glasses to make up the two Os in the name and was pulling a suitably moronic expression
• Four pictures of an acai bowl, close up – as if I’m some kind of buddying *takes a deep breath*…wellness influencer
• No less than 16 photos I’d taken of a stubby and a bucket of hummus to make one of my “I’m so effortlessly funny” Instagram posts
• Eight photos of a single egg and lettuce sandwich
• Six photos of the egg salad being made – it’s not even egg salad, it’s just boiled egg mixed with some store-bought mayonnaise
• Graphic video evidence of some severe chaffing I’d sustained from wearing a pair of sentimental (i.e. extremely worn-out and entirely impractical) shorts while jogging
• Aaaand of course, my photographic study of the toenail that was badly bruised at a Christmas party and its revolting progression.

The worst part about this is that I didn’t even have and nudey pictures or sex tapes on there, so they couldn’t have even been leaked, giving me an opportunity to convert my youthful sexual exploits into forging a multi-million dollar empire for my sisters.

What a bloody waste.

In a few hours I might finally have a place to store my clothes and I think I may wee myself.

When most people say they’re been “living out of a suitcase” it means they’ve been leading a nomadic life, traipsing around to the most beautiful places on the planet while they find themselves.

For me it literally translates to “I’m too poor to buy furniture and I don’t have a car so I can’t even go around and pick up other people’s discarded drawers left on the street for a council kerbside collection”.

I haven’t been to any Instagramable locations and I haven’t found myself; instead I’ve been in a cesspit of a city, in a funk that only cemented how much of a grump I already knew that I was.

My clothes are in suitcases and washing baskets, pushed under my bed in a sad, sad bid to replicate the storage drawers one of my fancier, home-owner friends has in her deluxe bed. And it’s entirely as disheartening as it sounds.

So, after cutting back on my trips home, I’ve get a few dollars I’ve decided to “just bloody well spend” on basic furniture.

But because I’m still a Stinge-eralla, I’m going to the second-hand route. Sure, it also means there’s a few environmental perks because I’m reusing instead of buying brand new, and I like that. I like to try to reduce my carbon footprint as much as possible, in a bid to make up for my lack of any other redeemable attributes. But let’s be honest, it’s about saving dem dollars.

So I’ve been a Gumtree fiend these past few days. This morning, I had refreshed my search for something with drawers to find a 13-minute-old entry. Not fearing appearing as a supper keen desperado, I pounced.

After a few back-and-forth messages, I’ve been told my drawers will be here at some time around 8pm.

And holy guacamole, am I keen.

I’m like a child losing their shit about Christmas morning, only I’m an adult with the same enthusiasm I once had for a Barbie picnic van as I do for a piece of furniture.

This is what my life has been reduced to: scouring the trading post and weeing my pants with excitement over a basic clothing storage unit. And if I leave aside the sobering fact that my happiness is hinged on something so boring, there remains the truly depressing realisation that I’ve lived here for nearly five months without having anywhere to keep my clothes.

Good.

Now to go to my local corner store/alterations shop to get the hem fixed on the skirt I bought for $3 that I’d been holding together with blu tack.

Onwards and upwards!

Sorry, but this isn’t going to be a ripsnorter of a post.

This is more a long, sad status update.

I’m currently unable to put together anything that could be described as a coherent piece because I’ve just come back from a weekend in Toowoomba for my sister’s engagement party.

Aaaaaand I have no voice.

I usually enjoy a bit of husk, as it makes my renditions of Total Eclipse of the Heart much, much sultrier. But this is a bit much.

It actually hurts to project my voice. Even when I get some thing resembling word out, it sounds like someone has stood on a cat who gave up on life.

My current condition could have been caused by a bunch of factors. Perhaps I picked up a virus from some sicko on the plane ride. Perhaps the difference in temperatures messed with my regulatory system. Maybe I’ve been cursed by God.

Or perhaps it had something to do with the fact that I was dancing barefoot in puddle of beer/obscenely strong mojito mix/bacterial soup for hours combined with the fact I was screaming the lyrics to The Outback Club until 2am.

Who can really say?

I’m just about to tuck into dinner, which WAS going to be a decadent Thai dish, but this afternoon’s events meant I needed a change of plans.

First off, I came literally within minutes of missing my plane. I thought it left at 4pm, but it turns out it was 3pm. So I rocked up at the airport 26 minutes after boarding commenced and had to sprint to the gate. I nearly vomited.

I couldn’t bear the thought of having to book and pay for a last-minute ticket back to Sydney. That would have sucked. I mean, the only thing worse than buying one plane ticket back to Sydney would be buying two.

Buuuut I made it on the plane.

When I got to the airport, I was drained, hungover and sleepy. So I decided to treat myself to a cab ride home instead of a train/bus combo. And it turns out Hungover Dannielle is no genius. You shouldn’t trust her with transportation logistics, financial strategy or life advice in general.

Because, thanks to an extremely unlucky run of road works, my cab ride cost $86.63

I was extremely unpleasant for the poor cabby, who had to try to understand what I was saying with 27% voice capacity. I was trying to find out how much the tariff was from the airport and how they worked out the fares, but sounded like demon’s voice being run through a squeaky toy filter. And because I was quite cheesed off at spending a decadent steak dinner with garlic bread and a chocolate-based dessert for transportation to get from the stinkin’ airport to my home in stinkin Sydney through all the stinkin’ Sydney traffic, I was quite short with him.

Now that I’ve had a shower, I feel awful. I hope karma sorts him out. Like, he at least deserves a family-sized pie that meets his exact dietary requirements and taste preferences. I don’t know how to make that happen, but hopefully one will just drop out of the sky and into his hands – like that scene from Matilda.

So now, instead of shovelling luxe Asian cuisine into my mouth from a takeaway container, I’m having honey on toast with a cup of tea while watching Grand Designs.

And even though I’d love to have spend that $85 on overpriced food, I have to look at the positives.

I didn’t miss my flight. I had a lovely weekend. And I have personal supply of butter that far exceeds the amount recommended by dietary professionals. It’s going to be ok.

Instagram is never effortless.

A lot goes into my Insta posts. And you might not think it because I’m not a former television star in between gigs or flogging activewear in sponsored posts, but there’s quite a bit of thought that goes into each one.

It may seem as though I don’t care about what other people think of me because my last selfie was an unflattering picture which was essentially photographic proof that I managed to accidentally get a tea bag stuck in my glasses. But that’s the thing. Projecting that you don’t care about what others think is more about impressing people than a humble brag about someone telling you that you looked hot even though you had a huuuuuge pimple.

As someone who is lacking in each of the pert butt, tight abs and fabulously pouty lip departments I use what I have to win the admiration of and validation from my peers: my stinkin’ personality.

And just like you wouldn’t post a bloated, hairy belly to a fitspo account, I don’t put sloppy posts up. I only post the wit equivalent of the perfectly-angled- tummy-sucked-in selfie to my account… which is perhaps why my posts come in drips and drabs.

For example, I’m still tossing up whether to post a photo of a dropped pizza I walked past earlier today.

I was in a bit of a rush when I walked past it the first time, but instead of catching the bus home to put my frozen groceries straight into the freezer, I walked back along the same footpath to take the photo. And I didn’t just take one. I took several.

I had a full on photo shoot in the street, much like a foodie papping their panna cotta at a café. There was a guy spraying weeds just metres away and I didn’t care.

I was hungover, laden with bags and nearly sharted poo water all over the floor at the supermarket some 15 minutes before, but I even got down low to make sure I had plenty of angles to choose from.

But when I got home, I couldn’t think of the right caption. I’m not really an emoji person because, as someone who is a totes wordy intellectual, they’re not really part of my personal brand. I couldn’t just post the photo willy nilly, because people would think it was my pizza that I dropped. I needed the caption to imply that I’m relatable and approachable while suggesting this post was something I just did without a thought – I’m not a try hard like that! I also wanted to make it clear that I was doing some hilarious street photography parody, to project that I like junk food and, most importantly, reinforce the fact that I am an observant, witty person.

And that’s quite a few objectives to cram into one or two lines of text – especially when you feel like you could vomit at any minute.

So I left it for a while.

I came back to it a few hours ago, but decided it was too hard and had a lay down instead.

Now, generally I like to follow one of the golden rules of journalism*: when in doubt, leave it out. If I’m not totally sold on a post, I abandon it.

I also ask myself the question: is this something I should just send as a Snap? Snapchats are great because they allow you to share your wit, but it doesn’t stay on the public record. So if you’ve only got a C-grade chime you know is pretty average but don’t want to waste, you can whack it on Snapchat and know that it will not destroy your social credit rating as it’s very unlikely to come up on your permanent record.

I have standards; you’ll be surprised to know. And I don’t want to drag myself down with sub-par posts. If I wouldn’t double tap it, how could I expect someone else to?

I may post embarrassing revelations, but I don’t want to humiliate myself.

But then sometimes the desire for likes overturns this. Because as someone who doesn’t do – and certainly can’t afford – drugs, getting Insta likes are the only real highs I get.

I mean, aside from crossing off an item on my to do list, I don’t have many alternative sources of euphoric rushes to sustain me through this grey mediocrity of life. Every now and then, I need that hit.

And today, as I wallow in my hungover state, I need a kick. So I’m probably going to post that pizza one anyway.

If I told you that I think that room-temperature chunk of lamb I ate off a table in a stranger’s backyard last night miiiiiight have been half-chewed by someone else, would you chuck me a pity like?

* Another golden rule? Never underestimate the disarming power of a friendly but firm “mate”.

There’s a reason I’m always scrolling mindlessly though my phone.

Sure, some would say it’s an addiction I use to distract myself from the depressing realities of existence. They’d tell me that I need to put down my phone and start actually living life. That I should start walking barefoot on the grass and gazing at sunsets and carpe-ing the fuck out of those diems. They’d tell me to be mindful of the present and to take time to just be.

And that sounds like lovely advice. However, I’ve discovered that when I’m alone with my own thoughts, I’m made aware of just how much of a mess I really am. And that’s not great.

This realisation happened as I was having my hair washed by the hairdresser. I had to take my glasses off. I couldn’t move. And I was unable to read any of the delightfully out of date trashy magazines tempting me back at the hair cutting station. All I could do was think.

And I thought this would be a good thing. “Use this time to be present,” I thought. I told myself that I should take this opportunity to be mindful and that it’s here in these quiet moments when the big ideas come. Maybe I’d have a epiphany. Perhaps I’d suddenly decide what direction I want my life to go in because I finally took the time to slow down and just be still with my thoughts.

But the only realisation I had as a result of this was that I overthink. And I already knew this. Heck, even Joe Blow from downtown Clifton already knew this.

The whole time I was thinking about how I should be thinking deeply and let my mind wander, given I had all this time to to think. It was similar to when you’re trying to go to sleep, but can’t because you’re focusing on falling asleep –  like I wanted it too much. The whole time I was telling myself to enjoy the nothingness instead of actually enjoying the nothingness. It was ridiculous. I was stressing that I had to be relaxed.

Sure, maybe being alone with your thoughts is good for some people. But after collecting some of the thoughts I’ve had this weekend, I can’t say with confidence that this is the case for me. To demonstrate my point, I’ve collated a number of thought progressions, recalled as best as I can remember. Judge them for yourself.

Thoughts I’ve had this weekend 

While my scalp was being rubbed by a hairdresser:

1. Good gravy that feels like heaven.
2. I’m essentially paying someone for human contact, and I’m ok with that.
3. It’s not seedy or pathetic to pay someone to rub your head, that’s just responsible hair maintenance.
4. Next time I feel desperately lonely, I should just do this.
5. Holy potatoes, that might be the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.

While chewing on a very tough crust of bread:

1. I think I just cut my lip.
2. Dang, the blood will mask the taste of the butter
3. Actually, I don’t mind the taste of blood.
4. It would actually pair with butter quite well.
5. I wonder if there’s a blood butter combo out there and if there’s any money to be made in that.

After dropping a perfume bottle from the top shelf above my bathroom sink:

1. Did that land on my big toe?
2. It felt like it landed on my big toe.
3. But I’m not crying.
4. Am I suddenly extremely tough?
5. No, that crack you heard first was the sound of the bottle hitting the tile, the bottle must have bounced on to your toe.
6. I hope this isn’t broken.
7. But then I wouldn’t mind if it were broken, because then I’d have an excuse to work from home in my pyjama pants.
8. No, that toe is flexing and you’re going to have to wear business casual attire (heavy on a caszh)
9. I shouldn’t be disappointed my body is fully functional and predominately healthy.
10. Buuuuut I kinda am.
11. I hope this bruises.
12. If I don’t get a sweet bruise, I’ll be furious.
13. I want to impress people with the discoloration caused by blood cells pooled under the surface of my skin.*

While reading The Barefoot Investor:

1. Right, so old mate expects me to find $2000 to put in an emergency crisis account.
2. My whole pay cheque goes to an emergency crisis situation – my damn steamin’ mess of a life.
3. Where the shit am I supposed to find $2000?!
4. Ah, he reckons I can sell my stuff on Gumtree.
5. Makes sense.
6. HAHAHAHAH I have nothing of value.
7. How much would someone pay for the ceramic log with bunnies on it that I keep my toothbrush in?
8. Would anyone want my sweat-stained Bridge to Brisbane shirt from 2013?
9. I have an old iPhone, but the camera is broken and the lens is smashed.
10. Everything I own is worthless junk.
11. My room is essentially Fagin’s boat hideout on Oliver and Company, except without all the dogs and happiness.
12. Should I sell my used undies?
13. Ah, he’s suggested I start driving Uber.
14. My car wouldn’t be safe enough to meet the Uber requirements.
15. Oh yeah, I don’t even have a car anymore because I sold it back to my parents because I couldn’t afford to register it in New South Wales.
16. I hate my life

* Yeah, I did have to do a cheeky bit of Google referencing for that one to make sure it was correct. I of course consulted a website directed to children, partly because of the simple-to-understand language, partly because of the bright colours.

Eftpos minimums make for traumatic shopping experiences.

I just went to my local corner store for a bottle of milk (I go with Dairy Farmers because no bastard has Norco in Sydney. Yes, I buy brand name milk, as well as brand name butter and yoghurt. Obviously this is not because I’m a fancy person – I’m currently having “things I don’t need cutlery for dipped into my one kilo bucket of hummus” for dinner on my bed with no pants on – but because I care about our dairy farmers. I mean, that’s very on-brand for me as a paradoxical Akubra-owner inner city leftie from the country) and didn’t have any cash. So I went to purchase my essential dairy using my debit card.

As it turns out, this joint has a $10 Eftpos minimum.

A bit steep, I reckon.

But it’s not so much the money that gets up my proverbial goat, it’s the pressure this puts on you to make a decision.

You’ve got an extra $7.50 to spend and only a few moments to do so. So do you go with a practical route or do you skip merrily down Treat Yo Self Lane? Do you go with your old favourites or use this unusual free pass to buy $7.50 worth of unnecessary items as a sign you should try something new? Or should you just say “the heck with this”, go home empty handed and start your week off with an empty, milk-less tea?

These are the questions you have to ask yourself under pressure. You have to think about moderately priced grocery items fast. It’s like an extremely underwhelming appearance on The Price Is Right, except you don’t get the consolation prize of having met Larry Emdur and a slick Parker pen to take home. The only person you meet is a surly shopkeeper and the only thing you take home is what’s left of your pride in a moist, dripping clump stinking up your pocket like an old fish wrapped in newspaper.

The worst part about this all is that the whole time, you’re being watched by the shopkeeper, who always seems to have something better to do than to keep their shop. They’re impatient, unimpressed and just want you to pay your money and get the heck out of there.

And look, I get that. I’d want me to get the heck out of my personal space too.

But I couldn’t go until I’d purchased something more than $10.

I panicked.

The first product I went for was a Bundaberg ginger beer.

I never usually buy soft drink, however I did yesterday because I was left in an extremely fragile state after hitting the beers with Dad (I haven’t decided if that will be a column or not yet, but expect more details at some point) and needed a little ginger fizz to settle my tummy.

I’m heading to Europe soon and my goal is to be “hot as fuck” for it, so I’m trying to watch what I put in my mouth. And I’m well aware that ginger beer is one of the worst soft drinks out there, but by golly are they tasty. And I guess after having one yesterday, my resolve was weakened. So with the building pressure to purchase something while under the influence of the beverage still being metabolised in my body, I caved and bought the sugary death syrup.

The second item I bought was a tin of tomatoes. In a vain attempt to make up for my sugary purchase, I decided I would someday make a rich, hearty pasta sauce and only use it on the low GI barley I am always banging on about. It could be a healthy triumph and turn everything around… but it will probably sit on my pantry shelf for seven months until I tell my housemate to use it.

I thought that, being in a corner store, this would put me well over $10. You usually pay through the nose for everyday groceries in places like this. And this was the one time I was hoping to be overcharged for a simple can of vegetables.

But no. I was still $1 short.

At this point the shopkeeper started throwing out suggestions, like bread or toilet paper. And it was most uncomfortable.

This guy doesn’t know me. He has no idea what I’ve been through. There’s no way he could understand my needs.

I mean, I already have plenty of much better bread at home and my housemates subscribe to the Who Gives a Crap toilet paper service, meaning I have an almost endless supply of loo paper.

I wanted to shout “you don’t know me, don’t tell me how to live my life” and “yeah, you’d like me to have more carbs in my house, wouldn’t you?!”, but I decided that berating a complete stranger for trying to help me make logical decisions at a corner store checkout probably wasn’t the best way to start the third week of FABuary.

So I meekly picked up a Whittaker’s Coconut Slab, paid for my groceries and got out of there.

And while I could use this opportunity to deeply examine how truly inept I am at making decisions under pressure, unpack what this means for my self esteem and determine ways I could address my issues, I’ve decided that avoidance is the moral of the story.

There’s no need to work on your issues if you can put it off, right?

So the conclusion I leave you with at the end of this rant is this: always carry cash.

Happy Valentines Day, one and all.

I hope you’ve been kind to someone, and that someone has been kind to you. But, more importantly, I hope you were kind to yourself today.

Because while love between two people is great and all, in the end, it’s going to come down to just you and yourself. Which is good, because you’ll probably shit yourself.

I know this is Classic Dannielle to turn something wholesome and harmless into a reminder that death is coming for you, but it’s not like that. It’s just about looking after Number One and treating your main girl (or boy, but honestly I don’t know a single gentlemen who reads this smut – even though I try to be as genderless as possible, sometimes it’s hard not to throw in a reference to pulling a tamp). Because it’s nice to be nice to yourself. You get to personally reap all the benefits of your benevolence, instead of paying 60 bucks for flowers for some other schmuck.

This is about is loving yourself, as the female magazines would say, and doing nice things for yourself.

You might not even realise you’ve treated yourself, but it’s good to take a look back at your day and think about the kind things you’ve done to Numero Uno (also known as commander Cool). It’s amazing how you can turn seemingly simple tasks into indulgent expressions of self-love.

Cleaning the toilet? You did it because you deserve a white, shiny bowl. Eating your vegetables? You’re giving yourself the gift of nourishment. Chopping your toenails? Saving yourself from cutting the back of your ankle with your other foot and having to explain to people who ask about the bandage that your big toenail grew so long that it actually injured you. That’s love!

Of course, you could tell this was going to turn into a listicle – partly because you could see the format of the post before reading, partly because I was obviously ramping up to it and partly because this appears to be an original post and it’s quite late – meaning I’m looking to half-arsedly cut some corners.

So here are a few things I did today that turned out to be things that I did for myself today. Enjoy:

Bought myself a one kilo tub of hummus: Because I love myself.

Bought myself two king-size, chunky bars of this vegan hazelnut chocolate I love that you can only get from health food stores: Because I love myself. And because they were on special. Not because I am vegan. This will be made very clear later in this listicle.

Listened to Beyoncé’s Formation three times: Because I love myself. Also, because I saw a really, really bad wax figure of Beyoncé today and needed to be reminded of how fabulous she really is. And maybe she reminded me of how fabulous I was, just maybe.

Awkwardly pulled down the inbuilt slip that was riding up under my skirt on the bus today in a fashion that made it look like I was hunting for loose change up there: Because I love myself. There was no way I was going to sit uncomfortably on that bus just for politeness sake.

Changed my razor head: Because I love myself. Because I’m too poor to afford fancy spa treatments so this is the only luxury I can get (and even that is rare, because those five-blade razors aren’t cheap, amiright?). Aaaaand because I went to the beach after work and the salty water my razor burn stung like the anger of 87 bees who’ve been on hold with Centrelink for more than two hours. I never actually got the whole “stinging legs after shaving” thing until today. And I never want to feel that way again.

Put moisturiser on my armpits: Because I had red-raw pits and didn’t thought cocoa butter would soothe it. It didn’t. It was like that infamous scene in Home Alone where Kevin uses aftershave – except I was an (apparently) fully-grown woman, not a prepubescent boy and instead of holding my face, I was clutching my armpits.

Had eggs on toast for dinner: Because I love myself and I love eggs. But mostly because I had nothing else in the fridge.

Listened to Norah Jones while I ate dinner: Because I love myself. And because I am a woman over 25 all alone on Valentines Day.

Considered giving up butter for Lent, but didn’t: Because I love myself. Sorry Jesus, I mean, I know that whole full-day-of-torture-and-humiliation-and-being-nailed-to-a-cross thing would have been rough, but butter is one of the only good things in my life right now.

Ate two reserve-grade-prop-in-a-country-footy-team-sized squares of the vegan chocolate after 7pm: Because I love myself. But mostly because I have poor self-control and bad decision-making skills.

Finishing this blog post abruptly and without ceremony: Because I’m tired as fuck.

Today’s post is a food diary.

It turns out that a diary about food can be just as personally revealing as a normal diary. Perhaps even more so, because most of the time your mature women’s thoughts don’t reveal that you ate a whole box of crumbed chicken about 24 hours or that you ate practically no vegetables over a two-day period.

I started keeping it, not for dietary reasons, but more because I bloody love reading detailed lists about what people eat in magazines. I like to think that someone out there is as obsessed with my as I am and therefore is interested in what I eat. And since no publisher is silly enough to put what I eat in a magazine, I decided the overcrowded cesspit that is the Internet was the place for it to be.

So here it is, my weekend in food.

Bone apple tea.

I’ll start at Friday afternoon, when my pants were removed and my feet were no longer imprisoned by the constraints of footwear – because that’s when the weekend really begins.

Friday 

6pm – a cup of tea. I’d just been for a run and even went as far as taking out the rubbish and putting my dried clothes away, so I deserved a little treat. Some people would opt for a wine or a beer, but I feel as if I’m sad enough without being someone who drinks alone on a Friday night.

7.30pm – put a tray of 10 chicken goujons into the oven. Technically they’re called “chicken fingers” on the box, but the term “goujon” seems a little fancier. Plus, it’s really fun to say in an accentuated bogan accent. It was perhaps one of the best running jokes at the Clifton Courier when I worked there.

7.35pm – ate a pickle from a jar in the fridge and a slice of the free loaf of bread one of my housemates scored. I may have been waiting for my chicken nuggets to cook, but I drizzled the sourdough in olive oil because I’m a classy adult… who loves oil. I also had about 7mls of hummus (not sure how you measure hummus, because it’s not a liquid but that gooey gift from the gods is no solid either – perhaps weight is best?). I only had a tiny bit because it turns out this hummus was the kind of hummus that works best on a sandwich and not licked off a finger. Again, I’m totes a stable grown up.

7.45pm – had another pickle and a second wedge of bread because I was bloody starving and was trying to be sociable with the people my housemate had over for wines. Made a point of telling them that I was wearing pants under the oversized men’s shirt I was wearing – but my slutty boxers were actually shorter than the overhang of the shirt, so perhaps this did little to esteem me as someone who dresses respectfully. There’s something about saying “I’m wearing pants, but they’re just too short for you to see them” that just doesn’t sound overly decorous, hey?

8pm – put a bra on under my shirt and went back out to the kitchen to collect my goujons. Cut up two tomatoes to eat with them because I recall seeing diet advice from Snookie (yes, that tiny quaffed woman from Jersey Shore) telling me to “eat salad with every meal”. And look, who am I to dispute the advice of Snookie?

Saturday

9am – a cup of tea, drawn out for as long as possible before I went to put my sports bra and sneakers on

1pm – soft boiled eggs on toast with a cup of tea. I’d been to a gym class at 10am but after a particularly slow walk back up the hill following said class, returned home at about 11.45am. Of course when I returned, I flopped on my bed, scrolled through my phone and then forced myself to shower. This then resulted in at least 40 minutes of post-shower lazing/psyching myself up to put on clothes. Hence why breakfast was so late.

2.30pm – a chunk of this fantastic vegan hazelnut chocolate that cost me eight bucks but don’t regret at all. It’s called Vego and you get it at healthfood stores, so you feel really smug eating it. I needed a treat to dangle in front of my like the proverbial carrot before the donkey cart to motivate me to finish writing my column for the paper next week, but I ended up just eating it before I finished.

3.30pm – a nectarine bought from this weird fancy grocery store I just discovered was just up the road from my place. All the hummus in there was more than four bucks, except for some gear that was on special for $2.99. If you read my 7.35pm entry from Friday night, you’ll understand why. It needed more garlic or something, it just wasn’t right.

5pm – a piece of bread with a whoooole lot of olive oil, because I love myself. I’d just had a nap after burning one of the candles my dedicated sponsor sent me (thanks sweetheart). Life was good.

5.30pm – the bread was good, but not enough. I checked the ingredients of that hummus I talked about earlier – no mention of garlic. There’s your problem. I stirred in olive oil and heated up a tortilla in a sandwich press for dunking. Again, because I love myself.

8pm – lost track of time because Daylight Savings messes with everything. Put on more goujons, partly because I love myself, partly because I have barely anything else in the fridge. I mean, I have two eggs, but that’s for breakfast tomorrow. And I have Corn Flakes, but I can’t let my Saturday night treat be cereal again, I have standards. I mean, the bar is set extremely low (I’m saving a $4.50 bottle of sparkling wine in my fridge for the next big celebration in my life), but I’ve got to have more pride than that. Sooooo Saturday night goujons it is.

8.30pm – whatever spinach was leftover in the bottom of the crisper. I was again reminded of the wisdom of Snookie and forced myself to eat the saddest salad I’ve had in a while. It was just undressed, slightly wilty spinach that I shoved into my mouth in huge clumps to eat it as quickly as possible and get it out of the way. It took me back to my childhood days, when I would swallow my beans with a glass of milk as if they were Herron headache capsules. “I love myself”, I whispered to myself , but I didn’t believe it at this point.

8.35pm – Now that the salad component of my meal was done away with, I was free to enjoy the 10 chicken goujons and two pickles like the piece of shit I am.

Sunday

9.30am – one cup of tea, consumed while I caught up on my food diary. It makes me look much more profesh to have a laptop out with my cup of tea, so this is a bit of a luxury. It makes me feel like some kind of Insta entrepreneur who lives a well-dressed, glamorous but busy life but prioritises self care. I long for that kind of atheistic lifestyle.

10am – another cuppa and two soft-boiled eggs on toast. I tried to eat this in a way that would look as if I were a social media influencer, but I really don’t have the table manners or the self-restraint for that. I used the last of my butter on that piece of toast, there was no way I was letting it get cold.

2.15pm – a falafel plate at a trendy Redfern café, washed down with 1.2 pomegranate mojitos. I was supposed to meet my friend for a classic hot-chook-and-bread-rolls lunch, but I’m not complaining about the change of plans. I thoroughly recommend a pommmojito, which is a name the café didn’t use, for the record.

4.30pm – a cup of tea and two spoonfuls of Greek yogurt. I was going to have a bigger serve of yog, but as you may have read in the earlier post, I got far too deep to go another.

8pm – a bowl of yoghurt with chopped walnuts and a drizzle of honey. Because enough time had passed for me to recognise that I was empty in two ways now, not just one.