Sometimes my mother’s voice just pops into my head unexpectedly.

Yesterday morning, as I forced an unholy amount of egg on toast into my mouth I heard my mother’s voice say, “you don’t need to eat it all at once – slow down and enjoy it”.

Instead of heading her advice, I instead heaped up my fork and crammed even more of that buttery goodness into the gaping hole that is my mouth.

My mother was in another state. I didn’t have to follow her advice. She’s not the boss of me.

“Well, maybe this is how I enjoy it,” I retorted back to my mother/myself, while sitting in an otherwise empty kitchen. “Maybe I enjoy eating everything at once because for a brief moment it feels like I really do have it all when in fact all I have is a growing HECS debt and a deep seeded fear of commitment.”

Of course I never say that to Mum, because my mouth is always too full of food to reply. It’s so full that a rogue moment could give me a jaw cramp. (Don’t laugh. It has happened before. If I had a dollar for every time I yawned so hard I pulled a muscle in my jaw, I would at least enough to buy an overpriced novelty doughnut. And they aren’t cheap guys.)

But after that first whopping mouthful, I started to slow down and take smaller bites. Even without being there, hassling me, she impacted my behaviour. And whether I liked it or not, I did enjoy that breakfast for longer.

Sometimes my mother’s words, though uttered years and even decades ago, can crop up in my thoughts and cloud the rest of my day.

Sometimes it’s lovely, like when I remember that time she told me she thought of me as Jo from Little Women (yuuuuuge compliment BTW – Jo is clearly the best sister because she doesn’t just get married to some peasant bore like Meg and she doesn’t just up and die like Beth. Granted, Amy does end up in a pretty sweet sitch in the movie, but all of Laurie’s money can’t change the fact that she married Jo’s sloppy second).

Sometimes it’s sad, like when I remember her reacting to me being a shit sandwich jerk of a teenager, because then I think about how many times I must have hurt her feelings.

As I was showering later that day, I had a thought about what my parents wanted me to be. I was thinking about John Barton, the perfect schoolboy from Looking for Alibrandi (I read an article about him recently because that book is now a quarter of a century old, in case you needed another reminder that time is slipping though our fingers, your youth has faded and you will soon be forgotten) and about what pressure he was under to be a great politician.

And I wondered what my parents expected of me. Like, after pumping so much food, parental effort and money into me, what were they expecting in return? The older I get, the more I realise how much bloody work it would take to bring another person into this world. Like, imagine how much water went into keeping me clean and fed for a second. To put that into perspective, apparently it takes nearly 2500 litres of water to produce one single hamburger. I’ve eaten countless burgers in my time. A lot of resources went into getting me to where I am today. Not to mention all the emotional energy I would have drained from both of my parents. I would have been a huge hassle.

I know if I munted up my cave of wonders (see previous works for a translation) and allowed someone else to live in my damn body, I’d want something to show for it. My mother had to get her spine fused after she gave birth to me for heaven’s sake, surely you’d want that investment to pay off eventually?

But then I remembered what Mum always said when me or my sisters asked her what she wanted for us: “I just want you to be happy” she would say, each time.

Be happy? Are you serious? That may sound simple, but it’s a very broad concept. The overall feeling of happiness is reliant on a number of things coming together.

That means I not only have to forge myself a stellar career, but I need to build and maintain fulfilling relationships, exercise regularly, be creative, have plenty of sleep, fill my body with plenty of nutrients, get plenty of vitamin D, connect with nature and have a bedroom with the optimal temperature for slumber. As I have impossibly high standards, I would also have add in other junk like brewing the perfect cup of tea and ensuring all of my magazines remained unbent. And let’s not forget all the novelty knick knacks I’d need to both collect – cheaply – then artfully arrange. Be happy? Good lord. That’s a lot of work.

Soz beb.

Wouldn’t you prefer me to be a cynical blogger who complains about everything even though they have it quite good? Because I can do that.

But, rather than retorting all this to my mother (because that would go beyond the realm normal talking to oneself and would absolutely alarm my housemate), I instead hopped out of the shower, put on my comf pants, ate some of my leftover Easter bunny and thought about how lucky I was to be born to a mother with such expectations for me.

And whether I liked it or not, I was happy.

I guess the stretch marks and school fees were worth it then?

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.

Originally published in The Clifton Courier, April 12, 2017

I’ve suddenly realised the reason I was put on this earth.

Some people are born to be doctors. Some dedicate their lives to launching humankind to new frontiers in outer space. Some people knit numbers out of their vaginas to make people feel more comfortable about vulvas (although I feel like storing wool up there would be anything but comfortable for the poor dear and the whole exercise would have resulted in the creation of the world’s first thrush scarf… so good on her?).*

* Obviously this part didn’t make it to the print version. I’ve sprinkled a cheeky pap smear reference in my column here and here, but even I admit that this line could have gone a little too far.

I’m making it my life’s mission to bring the word “drongo” back to regular use.

Scoff all you want, but this is important. Drongo is a delightful word that can used as both an insult and a term of endearment. It’s got that classic Aussie twang that I would like to preserve for future generations. But it seems to be dying out, like the name Daryl or Cheryl or Keith. Seriously, how many baby Daryls have you come across recently?* Australia’s bogan culture is at risk of being abolished and it’s up to each one of us to maintain it into the future.

* Two years ago I heard word of a baby Trevor, but that’s not the same as “Daryl”. Plus, since that Tame Impala dropped I feel there may be a few ironic Trevors dropping out of wombs.

And because I’m a long way off being in a position to name a baby Keith, I’m trying to keep “drongo” alive (perhaps it’s a good thing I’m a long way off parenthood, as bestowing a child with the name Keith purely for the LOLs doesn’t scream parental responsibility).*

* That being said, I would totally name my son Bruce if I was confronted by one at this point in my life, but I think I would do the same in the same circumstances five years from now.

I have very little influence, but prolonging the life of “drongo” is how I’m choosing it utilise it.

And I’m not the only one who tries to bring words back from the proverbial grave.

My friend, who has both a law degree and a science degree, wears sensible shoes, is always tastefully-dressed and is an all-round reasonable person, still uses the term “fergalicious”.

The word was bought into existence by RNB singer Fergie, who you might know as “that blonde girl from the Black Eyed Peas”, back in 2006. At that time, Fergie coined the term in a fit of self-reverence, defining it in her hit track Fergalicious as, “make them boys go loco”. As such, we can gather that this blend of this woman’s stage name and the word “delicious” means “physically appealing to heterosexual males”.

Admittedly, a few people did use the word conversationally, but this was 11 years ago. Now, the term is practically extinct. I don’t even think Fergie herself would use it. But my well educated, mostly-sound-minded friend does.

The other day she told me she was stepping up her diet and added, “I’m going to be next level fergalicious”.

And while I can’t see this word sticking, her commitment to bringing about its resurrection is admirable. I get it, because I too like the idea of trying to get words to spread. Tying to “make fetch happen”, so to speak.

My father has a bunch of words in his vernacular of colourful phrases that I grew up assuming everyone knew.

One such phrase was “cluedy poots”, which doesn’t so much have a definition as it does a contextual relevance. It’s something you say when you’ve done a half-arsed job at, say, putting a fence up and it manages to remain upright. “Bloody cluedy poots” you say in a sarcastic but cheerful tone before cracking open a XXXX Gold.*

*I mean, you can drink whatever you like, but you really need to make it a Gold if you’re going for authenticity here. In fact, if you really want to play it by the book, you should also be wearing dust covers over your boots and a sloppy Akubra that you’ve sewed together haphazardly with mismatched thread. 

Since discovering the term was something Dad made up with his mates and was not a widespread slang word, I’ve been trying to get it to catch on. I guess I like the idea of people following my example (to a certain extent, otherwise society would cease to function).

Another friend has started referring to garlic bread as GB.* It was a codename him and his family used for the delightful buttery treat when speaking around his garlic-bread fiend of a niece. But he now uses it in everyday conversation. I have followed suit.

* He says IC instead of ice cream too. This guy is a genius. 

When my brother in law goes out to buy Mexican food, he’ll say his going “burrito bashing”. And he’ll suck long and hard on a “thicko”, which obviously is slang for “thickshake”. Of course, I have already explained these terms to the poor fellow who sits at the computer next to mine at work and encouraged him to use them freely.

And now I am passing these words on to you, dear readers, in the hope that some of them will catch on and be passed on like burning torches to generations to come.

Except fergalicious, of course. That belongs in 2006.*

* Sorry, sweetheart. I mean, you keep using it because it is hilarious, but no one else can pull it off. And just because the word “Fergalicious” is dead, doesn’t mean you don’t embody the very essence of the word. 

I have a new hobby.

It’s not the kind of interest that I would openly put on my resume to make me appear like a well-rounded potential employee, but I have become very passionate about it. It appeals to a number of pre-existing interests I already have: food, eavesdropping and judging people. This new hobby is a wonderful combination of the three and, I’d wager, a very useful way to spend my time.

It’s analysing the supermarket receipts of strangers and determining what sort of person they are and whether I would be mates with them. It’s kind of like an extension of my childhood hobby of pouring over the fridge section of electrical store catalogues. I would study the contents of the display fridge to determine what kind of people that particular fridge would belong to. Yes, in case you were wondering I was a chubby, kind of weird kid. But boy did I know how to have fun.

Anyway, this new hobby came to life after I found a crumpled receipt in the hallway of my apartment building. I was going to throw it in my rubbish bin, but after smuggled it back into my room I realised I was on to something. Now I realise that going through someone’s rubbish denotes certain prowler qualities, but it’s much more academic than raiding someone’s garbage bin.

I like to think of myself as anthropologist, rather than a stalker.

But I guess there’s a fine line, and I’m happy to strut along it.

Anyway, here’s what they got:

Perino fresh tomatoes (a two for $6 deal) – I tend to judge people for buying their tomatoes in plastic containers, because it seems like an unnecessary use of plastic. Perhaps because I’m used to buying my tomatoes from a guy who has an honesty box outside of his house who packages them in recycled plastic bags and empty pot plants.

Fresh salmon with the skin on (half a kilo) ­– These people care about their bodies, but not so much their wallets. Which is good, in a way. Because when you live in a society with a public healthy system, it’s easier on all our wallets if people don’t eat like a chubby loner seven-year-old kid at the food table at a party… that brings back memories.

Anyway, this purchase alone leads me to assume that this person is of the female persuasion because bad bitches love salmon.

I should know, because I also love salmon and also consider myself a bad bitch.

Ice cream 1.8 litres – I did a bit of research and realised that this icy treat was A2 ice cream. At first I thought it was some wanky dairy alternative ice cream but upon further investigation – AKA a quick glance at their website – they pay farmers a premium for milk. So I support this mystery shopper for their choice. Sure, it was on special and maybe that’s what made them buy it, but there’s something about farmers getting paid a decent amount for their produce that really gets my non-existent dick hard.

Lamb rump – right, this person is simply bloody luxe about their meat. And this is important because bad bitches need their iron. Being fabulous takes energy, the kind of energy that you can only fuel by feasting on the flesh of inferior life forms. Sometimes, “inferior life forms” can be animals lower on the food chain, sometimes, it can be the haters. Of course I’m not suggesting cannibalism is the only way to get a little spring in your step but I will say that Hannibal Lector had a certain flair that was hard to match. But in the interests of avoiding prison/eternal damnation, I would suggest eating the metaphorical flesh of your foes by evoking a little imagination when roasting a leg of lamb. Kind of along the same lines of the Eucharist except with a heavy dollop of sacrilege.

Alas, I digress. Form this purchase I can tell this person loves a good roast and therefore has a deep appreciation of gravy. I can make this assumption despite the lack of Gravox powder on the list because all good gravy lovers have a stash in the pantry at all times. I know I do. gravy powder is perhaps the first thing I add to the pantry when I move into a new place. Because being without gravy is like being dropped into the wilderness with Bear Grylls – you’re surviving, but you’re not really living.

Chobani mango

Chobani raspberry

Chobani blueberry – I noted that each of these yoghurt tubs were on special. This is clearly someone who values their dairy products but likes to shop around. They are opportunistic and economically-minded, and therefore would be an excellent influence on me at the moment. I appreciate their commitment to calcium, because as women, we need to think about our bones.

Osteoporosis looms for us all, and while the source of our strength is primarily that burning fire in our gut driving us to crush the patriarchy, a bit of yog certainly helps.

Yellow nectarines – Another ringer. Yellow nectarines are miles better than the white ones. They have more colour, more flavour and generally fill your intestinal track with sunshine. This person is no fool.

Lindor bag, assorted – This is a person who knows how to treat themselves. But the fact that they’ve gone with an assortment rather than one singular type tells me they’re indecisive. They don’t know what they’re looking for in life. They still are making their way in the world. I can also tell that they didn’t want to limit themselves to just one type of chocolaty treat. They kept their options open. This may mean that they were wanting to mimic the post-breakup Elle Woods chocolate eating scene from Legally Blonde, but I think it’s deeper than that. I think it’s a fear of commitment.

And when you combine an in ability to make a single decision, a crippling fear of commitment and a desire for treating oneself, I think we have a person going through the mid-20s crisis.

Bosc pears – According to my extensive research, boscs are known as the “aristocrats among pears” and is apparently an excellent choice for pear-related deserts.

This person is obviously a foodie, and this leads me to hope that we may one day watch Ratatouille together while gorging on hearty, rustic treats. I assume that this sasspot also has some fabulous crockery in her kitchen cabinets

Rockmelon – Look, I really want to like this girl. But this changes everything. Because while the rest of her grocery list is something I would wave flags and throw glitter over, this truly disturbing addition rocks me to my core.

Because rockmelon says: this person is a monster who feeds on the flesh of the rankest melon known to man. They probably have no soul and an intricate web of investment properties on negative gearing. DO NOT TRUST HER.

Maybe this isn’t the best way to go about screening for friends.

I have an extra hour on my hands.

I mean, I don’t really, because you can’t just pull time out of thin air. I still have the same number of hours before my death. The minutes are still ticking. The countdown until my demise continues. But Daylight Savings has finally come to an end so I have the illusion of having a check extra hour in my back pocket. The clock in the kitchen is an hour ahead, and every time I look at it, it makes me think that I’ve been given the gift of an extra hour of time.

So far, I’ve not used it well.

I have been thinking that I would be really ahead of myself, getting all kinds of shit done with this check delusion of an extra 60 minutes. I thought I would be well into my relaxation phase after sending my column off and posting my blog and making some kind of delicious breakfast using the overripe bananas I hoarded at my desk all week after swiping them from the communal fruit bowl at work.

Well, I’m only just uploading this post, my column remains unwritten and the bananas are still attracting fruit flies on the bench.

So what have I done with this extra hour? I’ve had two extra cups of tea and checked the mail. That’s about the extent of my extra hour on the clock.

And sure, that’s been nice and all but I like to think I’d have something more to show for my extra time. I like to accomplish things. That’s why I wrote “check the mail” on my to do list today.

So I consulted an online listicle for better ways to spend the free 60 minutes I imagine I’ve been given today. I went with a men’s interest site by accident, but decided to stick with it even though the ads weren’t targeted towards me and the whole experience didn’t make me feel like I needed to lose weight.

So here’s how I could milk everything out of the udder of the illusionary hour, accordingly to The Internet:

Clear your email inbox: There’s no way I’d be able to completely do this in an hour. As someone who displays signs of early onset keeping stuff just in case disorder (my grandmother had it, so I assume it’s heredity), my hoarding isn’t restricted to the physical world. In fact you could argue that it is even more severe in the virtual world, as I have thousands of emails in my inbox I can’t being myself to delete in case I need them. I feel like tackling my inbox would include an emotional breakthrough, and I’m just not in the mood for turning a corner today.

Brainstorm: Well, that’s kind of what I’m doing now.

Keep a check on your competitors: Yep, they’re still better than me.

Google your name: I hate doing this. I’ve been working in the media for a few years now and still the first few articles that pop up are about Daniele McGuire, the girlfriend of alleged mobster Tony Mockbel. I don’t mind this too much, however, as she was played by Holly Valance in Underbelly. And while Holly’s singing career kind of died in the arse, she’s still a good looker.

Introspect: I spend my whole life doing this. No just a lousy 60 minutes.

Exercise: I’ve already done that, because I’m a responsible human being who cares about her health/bangability.

Make efforts to meet your role model: I’ve already met the guy behind the song that it is acceptable to drop your dacks to in a pub. I made him drink my shitty wine and sign my shoe.

I’ve already tried tweeting at Whoppie Goldberg to no avail.

So I guess I could go ahead and mail that letter I wrote to Mindy Kahling a year and a half ago – I still have it somewhere because I didn’t know where to send it. I wrote it during a time when I was leading a very solitary life (it was extremely solitary even by my standards, which is concerning) trying to start a thing about writing more letters saying nice things. Except looking back I was kind of going through a weird time so I don’t know if Mindy would be flattered or frightened by the letter.

Make a playlist: I don’t need any more playlists – I already have what I need. I have an ongoing one of my “starred” songs on Spotify, which includes all the fresh beats I come across to keep my up to speed with the trends. My others are categorised as “slightly depressing indie beatz” and “getting on the piss with dad”. They appeal to my “emotional but still better that you because I have exceptional taste in music you’ve never heard before” and “Queensland drunk” temperaments. I have no other moods to cater for.

Clean up your desktop: It’s always clean, because I’m not an animal. It has five folders: one for invoices (because I’m a side hustler who gets shit done); one called “necessary” for miscellaneous junk on my desktop that I feel the need to keep; one called “yeah, probs not” for miscellaneous junk on my desktop that I know I should delete but that I feel the need to keep; a folder called “alpacas” from the time I went to an alpaca farm and discovered it was also a meme farm; and a folder called “ducks” from the time I took pictures of a family of ducks crossing the road with the help of a delightful stop-go man.

I also have a few drafts neatly lined up to the right of my desktop, as well as four photos. One is of me and my two older sisters that is nostalgic enough for a throwback Thursday posts; one is my favourite picture of my little sister while clothed and therefore is the safe one to keep on my computer in case it is searched by the authorities; one is of my father’s father who we didn’t really know – it explains a lot about our family’s facial structure; and the other one is a picture someone took of me on someone’s shoulders at a Big Day Out concert to remind myself that I was once cool.

There is nothing that needs cleaning up on my desktop.

Catch up with old friends: Cougar Town reruns are for after I finish my blog posting.

Plan a vacation: Been there, done that, realised I was never going to afford happiness. A more productive use of my time would be uploading a profile on a sugar daddy website/scouting around on the deep, dark web for people who will pay top dollar for my used tissues for weird voodoo shit.

Read about successful people: I’ve already scrolled through Clive Palmer’s poetry this week. I’m going to go ahead and suggest you do the same – immediately.

Shop: This is only fun when you have legal tender to exchange for goods and/or services. I have a slab of slice I would be willing to trade for other items, but it seems most stores do not accept such currency.

Write about your journey so far: Does having three cups of tea and checking the mail count as a journey? If so, I’ve already done that.

Get to know your boss: I just realised that this was a listicle directed at killing an extra hour at work and therefore doesn’t apply to me. Thank heavens, because I am at home wearing pyjamas and no shoes and really didn’t feel like intruding on someone’s life today.

I am an accidental member of a Snapchat group and I feel like a creep.

I didn’t realise Snapchat groups were a thing, but apparently they are. It’s kind of like your standard group chat except with less memes and a slightly more narcissistic feel. It’s like adding things to your story that you only want a few people to see, so it would be perfect for virtual orgies. It’s actually not a bad idea. Snapchat groups, that is, not virtual orgies. Virtual orgies sound like a very sad way waste all your good olive oil.

I was added to one snap group, I’m quite sure, by mistake, and I don’t know how to opt out of it.

Yet I keep opening the snaps.

I can’t not. Partly because of my burning curiosity; partly because I can’t stand to have the unread notification on my Snapchat. I see the coloured box and it turns me into in irrational monster. There is some kind of primal urge inside me to uncheck the box, like there are tribal drums beating in the background of my own mind egging me on to do it (think of those scenes in the mysterious shop in The Hot Chick). I cannot rest until it has been unchecked; I cannot even breathe. My mind is in agony like it is being fried in a pot of oil; like someone is making crumbed brains out of the goo inside my head (which, with just the right amount of garlic, wouldn’t be too bad).

I know this is stupid. I know that the box being unchecked or not won’t change the course of my life. It will not strike me down with illness, nor bring me luck. It is inconsequential and pointless, yet I let it posses me.

It’s the proverbial chicken pock I just can’t ignore. It must be scratched. At all costs. Even if it means being a total creep and essentially cyber spying on people.

That notification will be my downfall.

It’s weird, because I’m totally fine with double-figure notifications on my emails, but my Snapchat is different. It’s kind of like how I was cruelly informed of the truth about Santa in Year 1 (I clock this up as one of the reasons I’ve become so cynical and sullen in my later years. This is somewhat true, but also because I needed something to blame my horrendous personality on and my childhood wasn’t traumatic enough to give me any interesting quirks. Like, have you ever considered the youths on Skins? Their lives were horrific, and they all turned out edgy and interesting). Even though I knew that Santa was just a lie parents fed their children (I blame capitalism for that one) I still believed in the Easter Bunny. Maybe I actually knew the truth but wanted to delude myself into having a normal childhood experience in a bid to turn out less like a real-life Daria. This is a possibility because I don’t remember a moment when I was informed the real truth about the Easter Bunny (or that rabbits were straight-up destroying our country and deserved a bullet between the eyes simply for having the audacity to exist). Another possibility was that I was profoundly stupid.

Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that I can’t not open the snaps because it grinds away at my very soul if I leave them unopened. And this feels a little wrong.

Not that there’s anything juicy on there. Just a bunch of jealous much? travel shots, girls drinking wine and a few bunny face filters.

I mean, I do hope that I will be on the receiving end of a scandalous few seconds of footage that will set off a chain of Gone Girl-esque events. However, it’s generally quite mundane, and always tame. Never incriminating, never something you wouldn’t expect to see on Instagram.

But still, these people don’t know me and I don’t know them.

And my social media following isn’t big enough for anyone to bother trying to impress me. My approval means nothing. Maybe if I posted a lot of tit shots or shitloads of clean eating photos, I would be worth impressing. I mean I have breasts and I did just make a batch of sweet potato brownies (using maple syrup as a sugar substitute, no less) but that’s not really my jam in the ‘gram. Instead I prefer to post photos of emotional, attention seeking microwaves and toe rings made out of hair. This is why my approval is worthless.

This makes it feel even more unethical for me to open these snaps. But I have one, sitting there in my list unopened, like a bulging white-headed pimple waiting to be popped all over the bathroom mirror. I know I should have the self control to leave it, but I must have missed the course on will power at uni – it was probably in a 7am slot on a Monday morning.

Even now, having dedicated a good 20 minutes to writing about how irrational my need to un-purple that purple box is, I still cannot ignore it. My attempt to reason with myself via blogpost to leave the damn thing alone has failed.

The drums are sounding.

I am envisioning my blood boiling and bubbling.

The ticker in my chest is pounding.

There are wooden battleships hurtling through my bloodstream, led by dragons and an entitled blonde.

Someone has a flamethrower.

Shit is getting out of hand.

I am not strong enough to resist.

Aaaand I’ve cracked.

It was an underwhelming shot of people on the beach. I need to figure out how to get out of this group. It’s destroying my damn life and the payoff isn’t even worth it.

I realise that my Wednesday posts are usually reposts of my Clifton Courier columns, but this week’s was really only relevant to the time it was published. It was about Fat Tuesday, which was weeks ago and honestly I didn’t feel it was appropriate. Although, posting a pre-written column does make things easier on a Wednesday afternoon, so this decision presented a problem for me. 

As such, here’s a rant I just fired off about the hysteria surrounding chicken nuggets like they’re the fucking Beatles of something. It might mean nothing to you, but to me, who is on Twitter it really is.

Plus, I haven’t done anything fun lately to write about. Enjoy!

I fucking love chicken nuggets.

Chicken nuggets have made society a better place. This is a universally true statement. But I am somewhat reluctant to profess my love for breaded and mysteriously minced poultry as publically as I used to.

Because there’s an oversaturation of chicken nugget love happening at the moment, and I find myself unsure of how I feel about it.

Chicken nuggets are trending, there’s no doubt about it. If you’re a female celebrity and you want to appear relatable all you need to do is mention nuggs and several clickbait-peddling viral news sites will fart out some heart-eyed emoji littered piece about how fucking likeable that person is. Mention chicken nuggets and all of a sudden you’re part of the girl tribe. Part of the squad. Farking one of us.

And this shits me to tears. Part of this is because nuggets are so good they are a universal food that transcends race, class, gender and all the non-vego religions out there. Saying you love nuggs is like saying you breathe. Everyone does. So why do people have to tell the world about how much they love nuggs when they eat them? Making a Nuggs Not Drugs shirt is just the same as mass-producing a shirt with a feminist slogan using underpaid Bangladeshi women to weave the fabric. This nugget tokenism is just plain wrong.

As glorious as nuggets are, they’re also very common. And because of that, they’re almost sacred. You can’t pervert them just for the purpose of gaining cultural capital; it’s immoral.

You’re not special for liking chicken nuggets, you’re just human.

I would never deny that a good nugget isn’t the solidification of all the good thoughts in the world deep fried in boiling happiness, posting about them as if they are all the time ad nauseam is, well, making me sick to my stomach.

But maybe this is about something more than that. Maybe it’s my own self-important superiority complex. Maybe it’s me being pissed that everyone else is on the nugget train, and that I am merely a fellow passenger rather than the person behind the controls. Maybe it’s not my disgust with the over punctuation of odes to nuggets with unnecessary emoticons, maybe it’s my fear of being basic. Maybe I am a basic bitch, and that scares me a little.

I may not still be rocking a mega side-fringe and spinning the shit out of Bob Dylan’s greatest hits CD anymore, but it seems my teenage irkiness towards all things mainstream hasn’t died along with my soul. It seems my judgemental tendencies have followed me through the technical adulthood. I didn’t think that at 25 I’d still be worried about being “mainstream” but it looks like I am.

Because while being judgmental and being articulate about it is my very livelihood, I like to pretend I’m only judgmental in a comical sense. I like to think I’m just judgemental enough to be sharp character on whatever show I happen to be featuring in (I’d like to think it’s my own, but could be the Miranda to someone else’s Carrie and I reckon I’d be ok with that – she did go to Harvard and is a kick-arse lawyer who owns property in New York). But at the same time I like to think I’d tolerant, open-minded and benevolent enough to still be a warm, likeable person.

And if I’m sitting up here on mu sassy horse over other people banging on about a food I also like, I’m going to really have to work on myself.

Maybe I’ll stay in with a bowl of nuggets and watch Sex and the City with some wine on the weekend like the basic bitch that I am. As long as I don’t tweet about it, I’ll be right.

I’ve existed for a quarter of a century and yet the greatest thing I’ve been able to achieve in this time is being supplied with 18 kilos of dinosaur shaped chicken nuggets.

It’s time to take control of my life. And I think the best way I can sum up my approach to this is with something I texted to a friend recently:

“I like my hangovers to have purpose.”

I sent it to a friend who had to put up with a whopper of a hangover at work. But I had unwittingly spurted magic out of my fingertips like I was bloody Sabrina, that teenage witch.

I never used to get too hungover. In college, I was irritatingly peppy the morning after a big night, and could back up like an absolute champion. I would bound around and get things done and generally piss off everyone with my general chipperness.

But I am no longer this person. I say this as someone who left the pub early the other night and woke up at 10.30am the next morning. I’d had plenty of sleep, I’d lined my stomach with a packet of chips (despite having given up potatoes for Lent, so there may have been a biblical element to my hangover) and even showered before bed. And yet I felt seedy in the morning and continued to regress as the afternoon dragged on.

Hangovers are suddenly not just a thing for me, they are an ordeal. And they really outstay their welcome, like those kids from school who aren’t really your friends but would always be over at your family’s house. That’s what my hangovers are like – the uninvited snot-nosed kid who takes up all your spare time and just won’t leave. It’s horrendous.

And so I’ve decided to take a stand. If I’m going to be dizzy and nauseous for an extended period of time, I want to have something to show for it.

Here are the things worth being hungover for:

Taking a drunken photo that pulls 40 plus likes on the gram

A dirty dance floor mack-on

The birth of a new personal joke

Making new friends

Being weird around a famous person

Dancing on a table

Yarning on with a golden oldie

D&M’s in a park somewhere

Getting kicked out of somewhere in spectacular fashion

Appearing in a dance circle

Having an emotional epiphany under the stars

Alcohol and night swimming (a winning combination)

Seeing an excellent band play

Being lifted on someone’s shoulders

Impressing someone with your ability to swallow liquids quickly

Frolicking in the rain

Campfire sing-alongs

Burning something in an impressive fashion

Showing off your thrust dancing

Screaming lyrics of John Farnham songs in the direction of unimpressed strangers

Nearly starting a fight over drop bears

Piercing someone’s anything

Lasting through to sunrise

Getting a tattoo

Anything to do with a camel

When you’re hungover and you didn’t tick anything off the above list, it’s hard to justify your slothiness and shame. Because at 25-years-old, I have to be able to justify my choices. I have bills to pay. Running is hard. My intelligence is already on the decline. If I’m going to spend my hard-earned dollars, pump extra kilojoules into my body and kill several dozen brain cells, I better get something out of it.

I guess the categories can be boiled down to gaining social capital and experiencing something meaningful. And meaningful doesn’t have to mean emotionally uplifting. It can be having a teary D&M but it can also refer to fire twirling. Basically, if I can tell a funny story about it, wasting your Saturday by being horizontal is kind of worth it. If I have made a new friend, dry retching over the toilet is a small price to pay. Waking up to fine you’ve managed to end up with a fabulous horse desk ornament is worth sacrificing your ability to sit upright for seven hours.

My only alcohol-related health rule used to be: only drink if you intend on getting drunk. It may sound terribly self-destructive, but the idea behind it is to avoid the unnecessary beer or two at a pub lunch when a nice soda water would have done the trick.I often found myself breaking this rule, but it is handy to keep reminding yourself of this principle.

But now I have an additional rule: you’re not a mess for getting drunk as long as you do something you can turn into a funny anecdote

I think I’m turning a corner.

I’m just going to say it: dogs aren’t that great.

Dogs have this god-like status largely due to people exaggeratedly fawning over them online (something I admittedly contribute to) and their tendency to attract bulk likes on Instagram. But they’re kind of like Jennifer Lawrence. There are a lot of great things about them, however, this “yaaass qween” bullshit hysteria idolises them to the point of abstraction. You focus on all their fantastic tendencies and forget the crappy things about them.

For J-Law it was that whole scratching her butt on the sacred Hawaiian rock formation thing. For dogs, it’s the poo situation, the smell and the fact that you have to think about someone other than yourself. They’re cute, but dogs aren’t as great as the internet would have you believe.

Now before you start writing me angry letters (please do write me a letter though – I’d love to show off to my flatmate about how popular I am with all my non-bill-related mail), I am a dog person.

At my parents’ place, I have a blue heeler, appropriately called Lady, who is just fabulous. She is emotionally distant, doesn’t need too much attention and her presence scares off potential bad guys. She’s pretty much everything I want in a life partner.

My cousins tried to get her to perform tricks when they visited recently, and she wasn’t having a bar of it. That’s just not what she’s about. She doesn’t care about impressing you, and she’s not about to go wasting her energy or looking like a twit by following your pointless commands when your affection is the only reward for such behaviour.

Instead of adhering to you silly expectations, she’ll look at you with a bored, judgemental expression conveying her distain for your lame enthusiasm. She is,in my opinion, the perfect dog.

Sure, she’ll wag her tail and go in for a cuddle when you first see her, but she isn’t demanding your affection all day long. You’ll give her a pat and hold her paw for a bit, but eventually she tires of all that emotional crap and will walk off, carrying on with her day like the independent woman that she is.

She has a sarcastic dignity about her, which I admire.

I’m writing about my dog because for my column in The Clifton Courier this week, I recounted a trial run with my flatmate’s dog living with us in our two-bedroom apartment.

You can imagine how it went. Don’t worry, you’ll read about it eventually.

But because there is a word limit I have to adhere to, there were a couple of thoughts about having an inside dog and general dog ownership that I couldn’t commit to print. So I’ve decided to air them here, because I feel they’re important – as are all of my thoughts, obviously.

I’m just going to come out with it: think there’s too much adoration that comes with having a dog around you all the time. You are heaped with all this love that you really don’t deserve and did nothing to earn. Surely that would give you an unbalanced opinion of yourself. And there’s already enough in this world that makes people think they are better than they actually are.

But it’s more than that. Like, when you’re living under the same roof as a dog their whole happiness is dependant on you. That is a lot of pressure. It’s hard enough to keep myself hovering a satisfactory level above crushing depression, and now I’m expected to make this dog’s life happy too?

That sounds exhausting. I can’t be that person. I’m only capable of producing so much pep, and I’m not going to waste it on some hairball who licks their own butt and can’t even buy me flowers as a thank you gift.

And they’re all wrapped up in you; it’s infuriating. I love being idolised, but I want my dog to have it’s own life going on, you know? Like, don’t you have your own dreams think about? Haven’t you got anything else going on in your pathetic life?! I mean, I want to be viewed as a god, but I don’t want to be pestered. Sometimes you just  want to be left to hate the world in peace, you know?

Having a creature follow you around all the time isn’t considered “company” to me. I didn’t find the constant “companionship” of the inside dog comforting. I found it to be a suffocating invasion of my space, my privacy and my precious, precious solitude.

Look, I’m not saying I’m a paranoid hermit who shuns the company of others and keeps the curtains drawn to avoid the gaze of humanity, but I need my time alone. It’s nice, even for a few minutes, to forget that there are other living creatures in the world.

And I don’t want to be made to feel guilty for that.

I feel guilty enough for practically every other aspect of my life (that pen I pocketed after finding it on the ground, buying my veggies at a major supermarket instead of an independent grocer and generally for just existing as a female person). But when you have some sad, cute little creature pawing at your door whose only wish is to bask in your presence, you feel like some kind of cruel monster for wanting to be alone. I don’t understand why anyone would willingly sign up for that.

And let’s not forget that dogs smell. I’m sorry, but they do. They stink. This makes them useful as someone to blame your farts on, but if you’re willing to put up with the stench and responsibility of having a dog in the house just to cover up for your farts you might need to see a doctor. Dogs also slobber on things – especially you. They just love licking you. Sure, that may be how they show love but it’s gross. Being loved is not worth being coated in a film of saliva (this is also applicable to bad kissers, might I add). Have some ducking self respect. 

Sure, dogs are cute. But don’t let those silly, happy faces blind you to the fact that they are clingy, codependent creatures who eat up all your attention, never pay rent and occasionally shit on your carpet.

This afternoon I decided I should write something pro woman and this is the best I could come up with.

I ended up calling in sick because I had a headache that made me feel like I slept with my head under an anvil and woke up with all the signs that my body needed to be horizontal for a few extra hours – sore throat, achey muscles and a general lethargy. So I stayed home, slept in and found myself on the couch watching Practical Magic.

I’d never seen the full movie before, and I of course loved it.

As a movie about strong, powerful women it was a fitting choice for the International Women’s Day. It had all the great things about the feminine state of being – strength in sisterhood, midnight margarita seshes, a general inclination towards chocolate, shitloads of candles, flowers and being fabulous in the face of not just haters, but she-man-woman-haters. It also had a few of the really shit things that come with being one of the womanfolk – slut shaming, domestic abuse and judgemental glares from a bullshit society.

Movies like this tend to give you a pretty empowering perspective on the condition of having a uterus, and that being able to produce life isn’t something to be ashamed about. After watching a movie like that, your head is clouded with the notion of how fierce and fabulous females can be, and the power that comes with not being laden with a dick and balls.

And yet still us magnetic forces of fantastic can still sometimes be made to feel like nothing but a walking sheath for the pork swords of the world. There are still times when we’re made to feel inferior – either consciously or subconsciously. Still, the simple notion that we’re just as good as the menfolk is distorted.

And that shits me to tears.

I’m reminded of the truthfulness of that advice urging us to carry ourselves with the confidence of a mediocre white dude. 

Maybe we (“we” being “women”, but I don’t mean to speak for all womankind – I’m writing from a first person perspective but using inclusive terms to give me the authority I like to delude myself that I have. However, if you do identify with my sentiments, by all means consider yourself as part of my “we”) find it difficult to think of ourselves as top shit. Maybe we tend to have a more realistic self esteem because there’s something about holding a urine-soaked tampon string in a particular way so you don’t accidentally  poo on it that makes you realise that you might not be the most important thing on the planet.

There’s something, shall I say, humbling about the female existence that gives us no illusions about the graphic, and at times revolting nature of the human experience. It’s easier for men to have idealised notions and consider themselves as gods, because they don’t personally encounter as many occurrences that remind them that humankind is just another filthy breed of animal.

Feminitiy is great and all – like don’t get me wrong, I do love the free and breezy skirt option on a hot day – but it is hard to boast romantic notions about the divinity of human life when you’re the wiping mucusy scraps of your uterine wall out of your arse crack. Those kinds of things remind you that life is messy. Life isn’t poetry. 

Life cannot be like Kerouac’s On The Road, nor can it be summed up in the egocentric ramblings of a rich, white Holden Caulfield. We can’t constantly maintain romantic fantasies about the despairing beauty or beautiful despair of life or whatever wankery you choose, because eventually you’re going to have to pull that tamp. And no matter how wide your vocabulary nor how deep of a thinker you may be, you can’t twist yanking a cotton wad soaked with meaty bodily fluids into that flowery fuckery of that kind of a narrative.

Peeing against a tree can be whimsical and can be done with whisky in hand – particularly if you’re a sensitive protagonist with a heart of gold. But squatting over the dirt with urine splashing back at your bottom and the warm puddle dangerously nearing your open-toed sandals is somewhat less romantic.

Hey, there’s nothing wrong with not thinking of yourself as a god. In fact, I reckon most psychologists would recommend it. It really can’t be too healthy for the old mind. But when a bunch of other bastards walk around with an inflated sense of entitlement, it makes things difficult.

And, look, I don’t have the answers here. But it is nice to feel powerful. And maybe I’m rambling because I’m feeling pretty lightheaded, but I think there’s something quietly powerful about not being repulsed by the flesh and blood of life. 

While there are a few filthy things about being a female, there’s a shitload of good things about it: that whole sisterhood thing, midnight margaritas, the chocolate, the candles, the flowers and being fabulous in the face of haters.

So I’m watching Practical Magic for the second time today. And making pancakes.

(But I’m making banana oat pancakes. Because while being female is fabulous, I imagine it would be slightly more fabulous if I looked like a young Sandra Bullock in those denim shorts.)