On my desktop have several – SEVERAL! – Word documents with half-baked column ideas I’ve abandoned but pledged to return to. One day, they’ll come in handy, I tell myself. One day, when I’m really stuck, I’ll use them.

Well, today I was really stuck.

I was supposed to post something yesterday, but I went home from work sick. I’d been so productive the last few days that I think I just conked out. I felt like an over-steamed stalk of broccolini – limp, soggy and probably not who you’d want to see behind the wheel of heavy machinery.

I managed to walk gentle slope home, where I sluggishly peeled off my street clothes and cocooned myself in the comfort of my musky pyjamas. I tried to muster the willpower to post something on this blog, but I just couldn’t. After catching up on The Handmaid’s Tale and two episodes of The Chilling Adventures of Sabrina, I couldn’t even handle that. I  started watching TV. Oh yeah, like actual television, as in the ridge-didge, free to air TV, not a streaming service. I yearned for something comfortable and familiar and with less definition. Thankfully, The Nanny came on.

While today I perked back up again in the morning, I felt as though I hit a wall this evening. I wouldn’t say full over-steamed brocc, but at least one that’s been sitting out a little too long. I’m no good. But I wanted to post something. And not just a reheated column, but something new. Some fresh content.

But you wouldn’t trust a wilting vegetable to have much personality, even if it is a trendy hybrid that Paris beautifully with salmon. I couldn’t exactly go composing something searing or sassy in that state.

So I decided to try to pilfer my desktop for some half-baked ideas that could quickly churn into something passable as a post. Not only would I have content but I would be clearing my desktop of clutter – and a to-do list double whammy like that might just be the spark I need to get me through the next few days.

What I found was a document titled “goals I have for myself”. I remember thinking I would continue to add to this list, but I never got around to it. That seems to be a theme going on here.

See a koala: There’s a nature reserve near my place which is apparently crawling with koalas. A bloke I spoke to once told me he’d seen them like 60 times over the space of a few years. I decided that I wanted to see a koala and aimed to go bush walkin’ like once a week until I achieve my dream. I haven’t been in months. I’ve been busy?

Get my hat looking all scrubby for next year: The Clifton Show has an old hat section where people enter their character-stained hats. They all told stories of long days, lewse nights and a whole lot of adventure. I wanted to have a hat like that. I wanted to live a life where my headgear gets reflects my wild ways. However, in the months since I made this pledge, I haven’t worn my hat once. I haven’t filled it with biodegradable glitter for sparkle showers or used it as an ice bucket for tinnies or even worn it in a private chlorinated pool. I’m a disgrace.

Watch Lemonade: I mean, I know the general storyline – infidelity, anger, gold dresses, baseball bats, empowerment and all that. I know the songs. I know Beyonce and Jay Z are still together. But I wanted the full Lemonade experience. Meanwhile, Beyonce has released another album, birth two offspring, rented out the Louvre and voiced a cartoon character and I still haven’t caught up.

I usually like to rant about things I hate in my ramblings and if on the off chance I do wax on about anything in a positive light, those remarks are usually restricted to the subjects of cups of tea or carb-based food items.

When I think of columns I need to bash out quickly, it’s much, much easier to spew on about stuff that really gets up my proverbial goat than to say anything positive. So, staring down the barrel of an empty Word doc with the sunlight gently illuminating the leave outside my window, I decided to make a list of things that I think are nice. To make things even trickier, I banned myself from listing anything that is edible. This is what I came up with:

Having a shower after a night out: I love being clean. I love smelling like soap. I really enjoy not feeling as if I have the spores from someone’s bad breath and countless rank cigarettes lodged in my pores. It’s fantastic.

And I have this thing about not wanting to bring the filth of the outside world into my bedroom… well, at least not tracked in my dirty shoes.

I like my bed to feel as if it is crisp and clean, and that requires me to quarantine myself before entering. I remember reading something someone wrote in a magazine years ago about not wearing your street clothes – and I’m talking outdoor wear, so yes, your fluffy cardigan can be considered street clothes – on your clean bed. And good heavens did that throwaway anecdote stick.

Because, think about it, if you put your dirty, scum-caked body into a sheath of blankets and mattress, you’re trapping in all that yuck. The grottiness will have nowhere to go. And you’ll probably sweat a little bit because you’ve been overzealous with the blankets. So you’re essentially marinating yourself in your own filth.

No one, particularly me, wants that. So I hose myself off before I slide into bed, the only stank radiating off me being the smell of smugness.

Beating the system: Ok, so I’ve gone down into a spiral of thriftiness and, to be honest, it’s long over due. I was in the supermarket the other day and realised that the loose leaf spinach in a serve-yourself-container was like five bucks a kilo cheaper than the pre-bagged gear.

So I grabbed an empty veggie bag, got down on my knees and started scoopin’, chuckling to myself about how I was shrewd enough not to be swindled by the grocery fat cats who thinks people are too lazy to scoop their own spinach.

And look, I probably would never get a file kilo of spinach so the savings are probably in the order of a the cost of a Chomp bar, but it fills me with a deep satisfaction knowing that I’m no sucker.

Chats with strangers: Look, I’m going to be honest with you, I love me a good chat. Like, banter with the beb behind the counter at the supermarket or nice, safe remarks about the weather at bus stops. I love exchanging quips with Joe Blows and Old Mates. It always puts me in a great mood.

You see, I have a background in customer service, which means I spent years working at Hungry Jacks having to be pleasant to people. I was often super tired from starting at 5am or hungover and learned to operate on autopilot, having trained myself to have a pleasant default setting I could switch on when the light behind my eyes went dark. I also was reared as a girlfolk, which means I was conditioned to be polite and amiable to everyone even if I didn’t feel like it.

So when I talk to people I don’t know, I automatically switch into this affable persona and start chatting away. Even if I’m not in the mood. Even if I’m exhausted. Especially if I’m hungover.

But even though I may be howling and scowling on the inside, my institutionalised I’m-a-nice-girl mode gives off this appearance that I am, indeed, a nice girl.

And this makes me believe that, despite all the cursing and dank thoughts ricocheting abound my brain, I might actually be a nice girl. That’s pretty nice.

PS: there’s no illustrations yet because I decided to be a super Positive Polly and go for a gentle jog in the sunshine this morning and now I have Sunday errands (i.e. a family lunch) to get to. But, if you’re lucky, I might just smash some out later this arvo. Come back later, because the more visits you make, the more views I get in my WordPress bar graph and, to be honest, I could really do with the self-esteem boost that would provide. 

PPS: I guess you got lucky. 

Yesterday was Day One of my mid-week weekend.

I didn’t have much planned for the day, which is quite unlike me as I like to feel as if I’m utilising my time as efficiently and with as much purpose as I can jam into it. Notice, I said I like to FEEL as if I’m being efficient and purposeful. Feeling as if you’re going something like that is quite subjective, really. And when you have a mind that tips over to delusion as easy as mine does, it’s highly possible to think you’re being efficient and purposeful when you’re actually just, in the long scheme of things, dicking around and wasting time on meaningless pursuits.

Something I struggle with as a list maker and diary keeper, is living in the moment. I mean, I’m a Capricorn, and in magazines the archetype for someone with that star sign is a ball-busting career woman with a blazer, a Blackberry and briefcase full of broken hearts. And whether or not you believe in the precises science of astrology, I do really quite like that image of me. I like being the before woman in romantic comedies who is powerful, successful and gets shit done. I like her neuroses and her drive and her well-styled apartment. However, every Before Life-Changing Standard-Lowering Romance woman has her flaws and mine is being present. I find myself thinking about the next thing I have to do, or internally berating myself for not doing the things I should be doing.

Sometimes, I set there and just waste time scrolling through my phone, mindlessly switching between apps because I’m so stressed about wasting time, when a good use of my time would actually be to spend half an hour strolling outside or having a nap or literally anything that will calm me the fuck down.

I’m trying to work on relaxing myself just a wee bit, or at least reframing the way I think about the ways that I spend my time so don’t stress myself into a dramatic breakdown at work – although, that always seems to be a catalyst of hijinks and eventual success in the movies, so I tell myself it wouldn’t be the end of the world if I did have a very public meltdown. And part of this has a lot to do with doing a bit more nothing, but with purpose. It’s about attaching meaning to activities I used to consider pointless.

So, something like going for a walk, for example, seemed like an inefficient use of my time. I mean, I’d be better off jogging because I’d burn more calories and get to where I needed to go faster. But yesterday, when I found my morning schedule wide open, I went for a walk. I ended up finally having a chai at that cafe along the route in the park where active mums go to meet up with their active mum mates. And it was lovely. I got a bit of fresh air. I soaked up some sunshine. I didn’t have that feeling of a dozens of little anxiety bouncy balls jumping around in around in my guts.

I came back from my walk deciding to try spending the rest of the day without plans. I mean, I had plans that evening to meet up with a sister at the gym, but  about five hours of free time without a to-do list is pretty significant.

I miraculously found myself feeling like I had not wasted my day. I felt like I actually achieved something. And now that intro that was much, much lengthier and emotionally revealing as I thought  is out of the way, here are the three things that felt like accomplishments for me yesterday:

Trying a Tunnock Teacake:I saw these in my general news consumption over the weekend, because the bloke who invented them was given a Queen’s Birthday Honour. There was a lot of fanfare about it because these things are like the Scottish cultural equivalent to a Tim Tam or an Iced Vovo. They have a cult-like status among the Scots, I read, so I imagine they’re the things people put in care packages for Scots aboard, much like Australians would chuck in a packet of Tim Tams for homesick Aussies who, not like I’m trying to start something or anything, but probably wouldn’t eat them in their day-to-day life. They’re not actually teacakes, but marshmallows on biscuits covered in chocolate – here, the literal equivalent would be an Arnotts Royal, without the jam. I found myself on a deep, Tunnock Teacake dive and told myself that if I ever came face-to-face with one, I’d try it.

I thought this would take me to Scotland, however, I only had to go as far as my local supermarket, which stocks a handful of international products. I bought a box of the prized chockies while dashing out for some groceries yesterday as my chicken fingers cooked in the oven.

I ate two while watching Gavin and Stacey (yes, that’s an ode to Wales, not Scotland but I’ve kin fog gone off Outlander) and I bloody loved them.

Would recommend.

Watching two episodes of Big Little Lies: Now that Game of Thronesis officially done, I want to have another show to keep up with. One of those is The Handmaid’s Tale, but a lot of people in my office seem to be talking about Big Little Lies too. Plus, I bloody love me some Nicole Kidman. So I’ve decided to start watching it but I feel like binging TV shows isn’t great for you. You don’t have time to sit and ponder what’s going to happen next. There’s no time to process what happened before the credit rolled. And you generally tend to find yourself mildly dazed and disconnected when you’ve finally finished.

I feel like it’s eating a family-sized bag of chips to yourself; it sounds amazing, but in practice you find you don’t even really enjoy the chips at the end as you shovel them into your gob. You get the most delight out of them when you eat slowly, perhaps breaking them apart along the crinkles or pretending to be Mikko from Pocahontasin that scene where he eats John Smith’s biscuits. It’s just more enjoyable in the long run if you don’t watch all in one hit. So I try to keep myself to a double episodes limit, three episodes at the most.

Finished the jar of pickles that was in my fridge for aaaaaages:I’m not a fan of clutter, I hate waste and I’m moving out of my place in about six weeks. So I want to get through all the stuff I have stored in the fridge and pantry, but to actually use it instead of just throwing it out. So yesterday, when I chowed my way through a whole jar of mini pickles – partly as an accompaniment to my chicken fingers, partly as snack food while watching my stories – it felt like a real achievement. Not only is the jar empty and out of my fridge, but it is now freed up to hold other things – homemade stock, soil for a succulent, dreams, etc. Unfortunately, I discovered that hummus does go bad and I had to chuck out some chickpea slop that tasted like carpet underlay, which was disappointing, but at least there’s a bit more space in the fridge now. I’m suddenly inspired to get through the cranberry sauce that I bought at Christmas time. Perhaps some oaten cran-jam drops might be just the ticket. Watch this space.

Well, if you have been getting my Snapchats (and I’m going to assume that, if you’re reading this, you’re either an immediate family member or someone in my top tier of close friends and therefore am on my direct Snapchat mailing list) you’ll know that FebMas has been and gone.

FebMas as a concept will be explained in my following post, as I wrote a column in last Wednesday’s paper about it in the hope Cliftonites would wish us a merry FebMas and maybe inspire the firies to go around town with their captain dressed as Santa handing out lollies to the kids. My general rule is not post a paper-printed column until the following week and I’m not just going to go breaking that rule because I’m too full of ham to bash out an actual blog post. Although, I am very, very full of ham, so do bear that in mind as you read on. The levels of salt and brine in my blood may impact my ability to talk about anything other than dead pig.

Long story short, FebMas is our family’s sliiiiightly later celebration of Christmas.

And we’ve just had it.

Which means there are few things to look forward to. When real Christmas is over, there’s New Year and my birthday and Hottest 100 countdown parties dangling ahead of you like a carrot – they’re enough to drag your softer, pumper, hammier body though the stinkin’ hot days. They’re just ahead on the horizon, assuring you that there’s something to live for after the festive odyssey is stuffed into an over-filled wheelie bin.

But with Febmas long after all those occasions, there’s not as many things to immediately look forward to. And when all you have a head of you for the coming weeks is a heck of a lot of back sweat, it’s easy to get disheartened. So I’m choosing to do something I rarely do: be positive.

I’m going to concentrate on the good things that lay ahead of me rather than sitting in a porky funk.

So here are three things I’m excited about for this week:

Kerbside collection pick up: This weekend is the weekend people can put out all their bulky, unwanted crap on the street for free collection by the Brisbane City Council. And people start early. So for the next few days, piles of assorted goods are going to grow on the streets, just waiting to be picked at.

I love free healthcare and I reckon super’s a pretty good idea, but I think my favourite perk of my civil membership is the kerbside collection pick up.

Aside from FebMas, it’s the most wonderful time of the year. It’s excellent for residents without access to a ute or the motivation to go to the dump. But it’s also excellent for huge stickybeaks who like to rifle through other people’s discarded belongings and hoard them for themselves. People like me.

You find some really cool stuff at kerbside collection time. A few years ago, a friend and I drove around in my Camry picking up items to furnish her new share house and we found these odd geometric foam items we could only assume were from a sex therapist’s office. Of course we loaded them in my bulky sedan and put them under my mate’s new place, where they remained until her disgusted sister eventually got rid of them.

I love really cool stuff, especially when it’s free. And I’ve currently got a set of wheels that could transport some of the bulkier examples of really cool stuff.

But what I really love – maybe even more than really cool stuff – is going through other people’s  really cool stuff and try to work out what kind of life they lead. What kind of person they are, and what kind of person they want to become by throwing parts of themselves away. Just a quick glance at a pile of miscellaneous items can tell you so much.  But you have to look at the whole picture. A discarded ping pong table? That could be a miffed mother, clearing out all the crap her adult children left cluttering up what should be her craft room. A ping pong table and a collection of free merch from pubs? That’s a fellow who decided his frat boy days were behind him and it’s time to be a chino-wearing man.

Not only do you get to know intimate details about your neighbours, but you also score a free beer pong table out of their quarter-life crises.

Valentines Day: As someone whose only significant other is a piece of headgear made out of dead rabbit, you could assume that this day would be a sad time. But what it has essentially morphed into is an indulgent self-care day where you do nice things for yourself because you love yourself. We now live in an age where apparently telling yourself over and over that “you’re enough” is enough, and that means that you can reframe having no one to love as an empowering decision to commit to yourself.

As a millennial, Valentines Day means I get to spend the whole day thinking about myself (which is slightly different to every other day, when you think about the planet… but purely because you’re thinking of the way you’re going to be personally impacted by climate change and how much of a good person you look like by recycling).

I’m probably going to buy some indoor plants, light a scented candle and send uplifting, supportive text messages to my friends.

Junior cattle judging: So, The Clifton Show is on this weekend, but not only do I have to work both days, I also have a very important engagement party to attend (I mean, they’re top tier people, but the pig on the spit was what really sold it to me).

So, for another year in a row, I’m going to miss The Show.

However, I am lucky enough to have Friday off, meaning I have the morning to go down and watch the junior cattle judging at my leisure.

And this is a real treat. For those who have not witnessed this fantastic spectacle, it’s a competition where grown ups judge kids on their judging skills.

The contestants are faced with four potty calves and have to rank them from first to last, justifying their answers. It’s extremely entertaining.

I’m going to wear my hat. I’m going to stand around with my hands on my hips. I’m going to ask people how much rain they got the other day. It’s going to be brilliant.

Plus, the dagwood dog guy will have probably set up by that time, so I’ll be able to eat a deep fried hotdog for breakfast.

It’s Sunday evening, and I’ve already squeezed all the sassy juice from my brain by writing my newspaper column, but I love the tip-tappy sound of my fingers bashing the keyboard with purpose so I’m continuing to write.

Plus, I’ve just been watching You on Netflix, which glamourizes being a writer to the extent that I feel the urge to wring out my parched brain a little more to get that smug high.

I’ve set myself up with my laptop out on the deck, which has fairy lights (the straight-laced, no bullshit yellow kind, not their tacky, multi-coloured relatives) strung up around the railing. I’ve lit a citronella candle. And I’ve poured myself a stiff glass of milk over ice in one of my fancy crystal glasses.

I’ve just Snapchatted my setup, that’s how lush it looks.

It’s pretty fucking ideal.

The breeze is nice. The sunset is lovely. There are two possums hanging out in our front garden, nibbling native fruits that would probably give any human severe diarrhoea. I almost don’t want to leave this set up.

But then, I’m pretty tired, it smells like someone just lit up a cigarette on street below and there are mozzies stabbing my big toe, robbing me of my blood and essence. I want to write, sure, but I want to get this over with in a timely manner. I mean, I’ve got goujons in the oven.

And so, I’m leaning towards my Three Things genre, where I pull tiny titbits of scattered thoughts together rather than using my brain to actually fashion a single, coherent column.

But, because I’m an edgy, creative writer who appreciates soft lighting, I’ve added a twist to the basic Three Things formula.

Instead of listing three things within a single category, I’m using it as a countdown. A three-two-one kinda deal. The points are smaller, less challenging to flesh out and, despite appearing to be quite a lot of writing when they’re all grouped together, easy to digest. Pour yourself an ice cold glass of calcium and drink it in:

Three things I bought at the supermarket that weren’t on my list:

1. One kilo of chicken goujons: I already had half a packet in the freezer, but these bastards were on a half-price special and I wasn’t about to let an opportunity like that pass me by.
2. A ten-dollar tub of extremely low calorie coconut ice cream: I was feeling weary and gluttonous. I feel like this choice was a victory, given my condition.
3. A punnet of blackberries: These berries are often tossed into a frozen mixed berry mix and they’re pretty much trash after they’ve spent time in a freezer. But get them fresh and you’re in heaven. As far as berries go, these guys seem like the most unnecessary of them all. And you never really go into a shop with a hankerin’ for blackberries. But I recently bought a punnet on a whim when they were dirt cheap and, far out brussles sprout, I am hooked.

Two things I congratulated someone for today:

1. For not being pregnant:we may have entered the age when your first reaction to pregnancy isn’t to “accidentally” loose your footing down a flight of stairs. And we’re probably way better equipped to be bringing future people into the world than our parents. But no one wants to be kicked in the guts with an inconvenient pregnancy. I mean, what if you and your partner were planning to buy a speedboat? You don’t want to spend your speedboat dollars on nappies and nipple pads. I mean, the overwhelming, all-consuming rush of love would be great and all, but tubing is also really, really fun.
2. For sneaking vodka into a Craig David concert in a water bottle: This very intelligent woman had a mission and she executed it with skill and ingenuity.  And she doesn’t have to pay $17 for a watered down Pimms. God bless her.

One thing I apologised for today: 

1. “My inflections are all over the shop today”. I usually have a sarcastic sounding tone that makes it difficult to extract the true meaning from my words, but today it wasn’t clear whether I was asking a question or making a statement. It was a weird day for me.

I’ve been super productive today and feel like bragging about it. So, instead of simply reposting the column from last week’s paper, I wrote up a triple-whammy Three Things post about how busy I’ve been. Technically, this post is a Nine Things, but there’s no way I’m making that a genre because there’s no way I’d be able to sustain it.

Three things I’ve done today that has been on my to-do list for a while:

Went grocery shopping: I’d gotten down to just eggs, bread and my emergency cheese platter supplies. For the past few days I’ve eaten nothing but eggs on toast, pancetta straight out of the packet and goat’s cheese sandwiches. And, look, it was pretty divine. But I’d eaten basically no vegetables in that time and the only fruit I had consumed was quince paste.

I had to act.

Posted a photo of some forgotten chicken sandwiches on Instagram: I saw this terribly sad sight while I was out walking last week. Two lovingly-prepared sandwiches laying in the gutter, spoiled by the hot Brisbane sun. It was pretty hard to see. I could guess from the coating of the chicken strips that these weren’t just any chicken strips, they were salt and vinegar chicken strips. From the way they were positioned, I could tell they had fallen out of someone’s vehicle before the unwitting worker headed off for the day. To add insult to injury, the sandwiches were made using soft bread rolls.

There was nothing I could do – it was after 5pm and they’d clearly been there all day. There was no point knocking on the nearest homeowner’s door, the sandwiches would have to be discarded, but there were no bins in sight. I took a photo of them then decided that, as a sensitive street photographer, I should leave the subject where it lay, knowing the unfortunate worker would return home to see their abandoned lunch (and, probably, fall to their knees and sob on the lawn).

I had planned to post the photo on Instagram, cashing in on the misery of another person to boost my social capital, but I’d forgotten all about it by the end of my walk.

When I saw the photo while scrolling through my camera roll a few days later, I was reminded of my missed opportunity to show everyone on social media how funny I was, so I made a mental note to post it when I needed a little self esteem booster.

Got rid of my dying birthday flowers: I bloody love bunches of flowers, but there are few things that remind of your ever-aging mortal vessel and the never ending march of time quite like the sight of decaying flowers that were fresh not a week ago.

I ended up buying a tiny cheap bunch from the supermarket and blended them with the filler flowers from the old bunch that still looked  quite alright dried and crispy. I figure that buys me at least of week of being able to marvel at how pretty the flowers are, thus distracting me from my inevitable decline.

Things I’ve done today that weren’t on my to-do list:

Washed my sheets: These bastards definitely needed washing – there were breadcrumbs and twig fragments and unidentified granules in there. And I’ve been sleeping on them for about a fortnight in the muggy Brisbane heat. My whole body skin becomes like armpit skin in this weather, which means these sheets cocooned a human sack of stink for many nights. And, yet, washing my sheets wasn’t on my to-do list? I’m disgusted in myself.

Bought one kilo of goji berries: Why would this ever be on someone’s to-do list? I’m really not sure what happened when I was at the supermarket, I just saw this bulk package of dried berries for what I deemed a reasonable price and was like “I’m getting paid tomorrow, I can treat myself”. Umm, excuse me, but who the shit treats themselves to one kilo of goji? Who needs that? I’ve already invited my housemates to go to town on them, but I can tell that I’m going to be lugging them around to each new place I move to, slowly trying to use them up as the years go by.  I’m probably going to start handing them out to house guests as wellness-inspired party bags. Thankfully, I still have the paper nugget packets I was given that time I won 18 kilos of dino nuggs, so I’ll hand them out in those.

Put out my fancy decanter glasses in the glassware cabinet: Yep, we have a glassware cabinet. It’s built into the kitchen, which already has a surplus of storage, so my housemates decided to display their wine glasses. I have a few nice glasses I was given by my sisters for my 21^st birthday, which have been sitting in a box for years. But today I decided to live for the now, carpe-ing the diem by making fancy glasses easily accessible. I believe they’re meant for whiskey and what have you, but I can see myself fixing a stiff glass of milk on the rocks in them after a tough day at the office.

Things that are still on my to-do list:

Finish the vodka that comes in a skull-shaped bottle: I really want to use it as vase, but I rarely drink at home. Perhaps I should start.

Complete my birthday crossword scratchies: I’m just waiting for the right moment, when I truly feel like scratching a scratchie. I don’t know when that feeling will hit me, but I’m going to be ready for it.

Christmas shopping: My family is doing FebMas (also known at PretendMas and FakeMas) this year, meaning we’re having Christmas in February because it was the only time we could get everyone together. I’ve got a lot to buy.

* but, when you think about it a little more, it becomes decidedly less impressive

I made pesto kale

And when I say “I made pesto kale”, what I really mean is “I added pesto to some pre-chopped frozen kale”.

I have been buying the frozen cubes of this stuff for some time now in a bid to up my veggie intake of a morning. If I eat them with eggs for breakfast, I’ve got a running start. And while I love fresh kale fried in olive oil, I don’t really rate the chopped, frozen stuff. Sure, it’s convenient, but it tastes like sad, yucky grass.

I persevere with it, hoping to one day consume enough so that I look like the kind of girl who could easily flog teeth whitening treatments as an Instagram influencer but chose to take the high road by having a full-time job.

Into my mouth I would begrudgingly shovel the stuff, telling myself it wasn’t the worst thing I’ve ever had in there.

But those days are now behind me. The other day I was hit by inspiration like a non-stick frypan to the face.

I’d bought some basil pesto in a jar for an eye-rollingly healthy zoodle dinner and was apparently still buzzed from it. Wanting to get a hit elsewhere, it became apparent that I could peso-late my breakfast while loading up on them antioxidants (I think that’s what’s good about kale? I don’t really know).

I microwaved a few of the grassy ice clumps in the microwave, stirred in a teaspoon of pesto and mixed the two together. I even made my curly-haired friend (and current landlord) taste it, like I was a goddamned Michelin chef.

“Try it!” I said, as if it was the first person on earth to discover pesto.

I tipped it out into a little mound, eating it with boiled eggs on toast, pleased I had found yet another way to trick myself, a grown up, into eating vegetables.

I took myself to the dentist and was able to pay my own bill without borrowing money or putting it on my credit card

Now, this does sound rather good on my part, but there are a few facts to consider:

• First of all, it was the first time I’d been to the dentist in five years.
• Secondly, I don’t currently earn enough to warrant private health insurance a necessity to avoid paying the Medicare levy.
• Thirdly, I have been couch surfing for weeks, paying next to no rent.
• Fourthly, I am nearly 27-years-old and have been working fulltime since I was 19.

Add all these things up together and it becomes less of a celebration and more of a wakeup call.

The questions these facts raise are confronting, but valid: How did you let yourself get this bad? How come you can’t budget? Why did you chose such an unstable, financially volatile career path? Should the court appoint you with a power of attorney to keep your affairs in order?

However , leaving worrying life choices to one side, when I was able to tell the delightful receptionist/dental nurse that I was putting it on “savings, please”, I felt like a financial success.

I went on the stair master

A stair master is those sets of automated stairs you see at gyms that look like mini escalators. And while the thought of climbing up an endless circle of meaningless steps while getting nowhere sounds as if it would send you into a sweaty, nihilistic spiral of depression, it seemed kind of fun to me (read into that what you will).

I thought I cold handle it. I mean, I’ve been going to the gym for ages. I’m young. My skin is still supple. My age means my body is at its peak performance.

I managed for all of five minutes.

I’ve been back in the Sunshine State for a little while now, so the dazzling I’m-finally-home glow has turned into sunburn, flaked and peeled off in tiny figurative flecks of skin. With a dermis layer shed, I can now view the reality with clarity.

And, shockingly, there are some things I look back upon with fondness.

Obviously I miss the friends I left behind and drunkenly try to coerce into starting a new, more affordable, life the Great Southeast, but that’s not the point of this list.

No, this list is about the small things I grew accustomed to in the old Steak and Kidney which, without me realising, apparently burrowed its way into my heart like a parasite.

Brown rice sushi: I mean, look at the name of this list. Of course things were going to get all first-world-problems-y.

I understand that, traditionally, sushi is made with white rice. And I get that people like white rice.

But I like to pretend I’m healthy, so I like to make sure most of the carbs I ingest are brown and have words such as “whole” or “grain” thrown in somewhere.

Aside from the occasional luxurious lump of coconut rice, eat only ever brown rice. And after a few years of eating it, I have grown to love it. That nutty, chewiness is so bloody satisfying to me. It’s the kind of rice that has a bit of go about it; you have to really give it a good grinding with your teeth. So when I have white rice, I feel like I am stuffing my mouth with tiny clouds of diabetes that disappear on my tongue but spend eternity attacking the innards of the temple that is my body.

In Sydney, there are so many wankers like myself that there’s a viable market for brown rice sushi. There were a whole bunch of varieties at the fancy, fancy food court that was below the white-collar cesspool that was my old office building. But even the cheap, basic sushi joints had brown rice options.

I never knew I had it so good, until I was walking around South Bank trying to find a salmon and avo roll that I could feel smug about.

Alas, there were none.

It turns out that brown rice sushi isn’t really a thing here, and it’s devastating.

Getting praise for just turning up at stuff: When you travel interstate for an event, you’re pretty much the guest of honour wherever you’re going. You get a special mention in speeches for having travelled so far. People are bloody thrilled to see you. You automatically take out the most-committed friend award.

In this day and age, where I like to wear pyjamas for most of the day and am past the age when my achievements are classed as “impressive for such a young person”, being lauded for just turning up is the self-esteem boost I needed to stop me from being aware of my own meritocracy.

People treat you like you came all the way from the wilderness of Alaska just to drink wine on a Sunday morning. It’s almost as if you had to scale a mountain, take shelter in a hollowed-out bear carcass and cross an icy rapid to be there. In reality, I got to feel like a boss by going to the Qantas terminal, stare blankly out at the sky and eat luxurious cookies (yes, cookie – I’m not a fan of the very American word replacing the superior Australian term “biscuit”, however, those baked treats fell under the definition of “cookie” due to their size and decadent properties. I only use the word “cookie” in certain contexts. Subway cookies are cookies, but you would never call, say, shortbread or an Anzac bickie a cookie.)

Yes, travelling interstate costs waaaaay more than a trip up the range and it can be quite disruptive to your weekend, but I did enjoy the acclaim for my mere attendance.

Now when I turn up to things, I’m just a regular old guest. I’m no longer the special crockery, but just one of the mismatched dinner plates with a chip in the edge.

It’s not that I’m complaining, but I also kind of am.

The proximity to emotionally-indulgent rocky coastal walks: Sydney has some cracking coastal cliffs you can use as a backdrop if you’re ever in the mood to be moody. If you want to look off into the distance and think deeply about something, a coastal rock face is the place to do it.

You can look out to sea and watch storms brewing, not unlike the dark clouds gathering in your heart. The wild, crashing ocean mirrors the unsettled feeling deep in your soul. The endless horizon is in your sights but beyond your reach, like the love you yearn for.

I mean, looking out at the mud flats of Nudgee is probably a more fitting metaphor for your stanky, stagnant and underwhelming love life. But when you’re searching your soul for answers, you want the possibility of interpreting a breeching whale or a leaping dolphin as a sign to go for it; that everything’s going to be ok.

No matter how you try to spin it, a muddied empty bait bag blowing across the silty sand just doesn’t have the same uplifting qualities.