This weekend’s self interview is sourced from Toowoomba Style, a publication I happened upon while visiting the garden city for my high school reunion.

I found myself with a spot of down time before the big event on Saturday afternoon and decided to get a head start on my Sunday post. Indulging in my delusions of relevance seemed like a good way to pass the time, plus it meant I could sit under the air conditioner.

Tell us a little about yourself: I prefer Clix to Jatz. I am vitamin B12 deficient. I am inheriting a large photograph of galloping horses from my grandmother’s house when she moves into an aged care home. I’m two episodes into The Crown.

When did you start painting? I have a really strong memory of using a paintbrush attached to a small bucket of water as a youngster, I think in a playgroup I went to before preschool. It was supposed to make us think we were painting but it was just water in the bucket, so whatever we “painted” would dry up and disappear after about 30 seconds or so. It was a good introduction to the futility of trying at anything, in hindsight.

Describe your style: A cry for attention.

Influences and evolution of your art? Well, I find it very difficult to draw faces, so I avoid the whole thing and draw objects in the place of heads and hope it comes off as smart and surreal. I prefer to use a black biro for drawing my illustrations, which evolved from my using that brio for general writing purposes. I also use watercolour pencils because I have ended up with quite a few of them over the years and thought I should probably use them before they become a fire hazard. So I suppose my ineptitude and the proximity of art supplies are the major influences on my work.

Why do you enjoy painting? Because I like wearing berets and holding pallets.

Some highlights of your artistic life? Handling clay feels pretty good.

What do you like about Toowoomba? The chicken cooked the country way.

What is your dream goal? There’s a bus stop near me at the intersection of a Rose and Dawson street. The bus stop sign says “Rose Dawson”. I’d really like to get a photo of me standing near it with wet hair while wearing a long, black coat with some guy in an old timey sailor’s kit with an umbrella and a clipboard standing nearby to recreate that scene from Titanic. Ideally, I’d like to have Celine Dion on hand to hum so I could make it an Insta video, but I realise that would take a lot of coordination.

Today I am feeling pretty darn lazy.

I’m on a stint of early starts and, because I have terrible self control, I don’t put myself to bed early enough which means I don’t get enough sleep, which means my brain isn’t running all that crash hot at the end of the day, which means by afternoon tea time I may as well have a tub of lukewarm sour cream in my skull. A massive cup of proper strong tea and a rush of I’m-a-morning-person endorphins means I can make it through the early hours with sometimes almost unnerving pep but by the time the midday movie is wrapping up, I’ve begun to conk out.

As such, I’m not feeling all that inspired or intelligent this afternoon, but I find myself yearning to feel accomplished in some way. I suppose it’s nice to know that, even when your thinkbox is on the blink, that internal nag who pesters you about being a piece of shit still has some pluck about it.

I have decided to tackle my to-do list to appease this Badgering Beryl, but I’m going to be half-arsed about it.

That’s why I’m combining two jobs at once: prepping my breakfast for tomorrow and documenting the process in order to produce something that resembles a blog post. It’s part recipe, part diary, part evidence of my afternoon mental decline. Prepare to be whelmed*.

Step one: Sit up from the couch and feel a rush of blood to your brain, half closing your eyes like you’ve just eaten a really, really juicy mouthful of steak. Suddenly become aware of the faint pain in your tailbone, neck and lower back. Curse your poor commitment to good posture and the ever marching conga line of misery that is time. Note that you tried to write “neck” like “kneck”.

Step two: Take a clean glass from the kitchen cabinet, placing it safely on the bench.

Step three: Walk to the pantry, feeling a twinge of knee pain as you bring back oats, walnuts and shredded coconut. Again be reminded that your youth is fading.

Step four: Add a pinch of oats and coconut to the glass. Coconut adds an exciting texture to the yogurt, which mildly spices up an extremely early-morning breakfast. Acknowledge that the coconut might be the only thing you’re looking forward to at the moment and make peace with that.

Step five: Crush two walnut halves into the glass, deriving joy from the metaphor of crushing nuts with your bare hands.

Step six: Slop in a spoonful of Greek yoghurt. Feel pride in that you went full fat, because  you deserve full flavour and low fat is often full of sugar anyway.

Step seven: Drop exactly six blueberries on top, because seven would be too many.

Step eight: Drizzle a bit of honey on top, licking the spoon afterwards because you are fucking reckless.

Step nine: Add another pinch of oats and coconut. This repetition is symbolic of the repetitive motions of life that we are all doomed to endure.

Step ten: Crush in more walnuts.

Step eleven: Snack on tiny portions of what you just dealt out. Be mildly concerned that you just nibbled on raw oats, mostly by how much you enjoyed such an underwhelming morsel of food.

Step twelve: Dollop another large spoonful of yoghurt into the glass before quickly whisking the container back into the fridge before it melts in the Brisbane heat.

Step thirteen: Chuck nine blueberries in this time. Those oats clearly gave you a bit of spunk.

Step fourteen: Drizzle with more honey and, again, suck on the spoon. Thank the heavens for bees.

Step fifteen: Put glass in fridge, where the oats will hopefully soften to the point they are gooey and life-affirming.

Step sixteen: Put on the kettle, you’ve now officially accomplished something and are free to spend the rest of the afternoon being a complete piece of junk. Savour that feeling of knowing that, when you wake up at at bullhonkey-o’clock, you’re going to have a cup of yogurt waiting for you.

* I looked up the meaning of “whelmed” because I was led to be believe that it was the medium point between underwhelmed and overwhelmed and you can only be in such a state in Europe. But Merriam Webster defines it as to “cover or engulf completely with usually disastrous effect” or “to overcome in thought or feeling” or even to “to pass or go over something so as to bury or submerge it”. So that’s not entirely the right word choice, but I felt like leaving it in as both a learning opportunity and a chance to link out to a clip from 10 things I hate about you.

I love me a good makeover.

But not so much an aesthetic one, although mu ratty split ends suggest I’m overdue for a haircut. Nope, I like myself a good life makeover – sort of like Clueless. An overhaul of my pathetic existence to fashion myself into some kind of decent, upstanding citizen instead of the anxious self-obsessed frump stain I can sometimes turn into.

And rather than do this on my own, I’d like to have a team of experts around me to sculpt my life. Conversation on the weekend turned to Queer Eye for the Straight Guy – which one we were most like and what expert we’d need the most help from. But I don’t think I’d necessarily need the services of the experts assembled on the show as much as I’d need sassy, positive people with… different areas of expertise. I mean, I like my décor, my outfits could be more flattering but I like the colours and the other night I made a pumpkin and pine nut chicken salad for work the next day. I’m feeling ok in these areas – not great, obviously, but passable.

Here’s what I would need on my life makeover dream team:

A finance whiz: I would need a finance coach telling me what to do with my money. I want to be someone who uses phrases like “stock portfolio” and “interest rates” in contexts beyond me pretending to be a busy office worker with manila folders as props. I want to be able to think of other financial phrases than just “stock portfolio” and “interest rates” when I’m trying to talk about money (it actually took me the longest time to come up with those two phrases – I’m someone who generally worships at the altar of trios, but I couldn’t think up a third phrase so I just cut my loses and continued on). I mean, I’ve read Barefoot Investor and I’m listening to She’s On The Money, but I think I want something more personal. Someone who the smarts who also unpacks my deep-seated issues. What I’d really like is a financial advisor psychologist hybrid to be in my corner, cheering me on and guiding me to the point where I’m buying a yacht without needing a loan – even though I get very, very, seasick.

A digestive system crew: I know there’s the food guy who scopes out the contestant’s pantry and fridge on the show but I would want something much, much more invasive than that. I want these people to be analysing my poo for all kinds of information about my body and my diet. I want to know what’s happening with my little farm of gut bacteria. Then I’d like someone to tailor an eating plan for me, so I know the precise combination of foods to put into my body if I want to have a tight rig. I’m not really one who would want my DNA analysed because I don’t want The System to know what’s in my genes. I think a psychic reading would really mess with my head (there would be this whole tortuous back and forth about me believing them or not and that would eventually lead me down a dark spiral about whether or not everything is predetermined and see me thinking about thing I prefer to ignore by starting at cake decoration videos). I don’t want my tealeaves or my palm read, but by all means, read my poo.

A water-consumption convenor: I don’t drink nearly enough of the clear stuff. I mean, I drink plenty of tea and, even though I haven’t seen a study that clinically proves it to be so, it’s a known diuretic. Which means that the only liquid I’m ingesting is going straight through me without nourishing my parched body. So, it’s fair to say that I’m pretty dehydrated. I had to have a blood test the other day and even though I had a bottle of water right before, the last-minute effort did nothing to loosen up my thick, jammy blood. Two separate nurses had to dig around in my elbow veins and eventually had to get creative and took blood from my hand, after much squeezing. I could really do with someone fabulous making sure I drink enough water.

A Year 7 teacher: I have completely forgotten all the basic, useful things in life. The things I used to be insufferably smug about being good at in primary school. I want there to be someone who is stern and parental who will force me to learn new words and correct spelling each week, testing me on my comprehension every Friday. Of course, I would also want to make sure this teacher followed the strict Christmas crafts code for the end of the year, because that’s important for brain development.

Someone who would slap me each time I get lost in my own fiddling: I’ve seen enough of Fiddler on the Roofto know that it’s not about someone fidgeting uncontrollably while sitting on top of a house. But if you forget the storyline, musical score and, heck, everything about the production, that title describes me perfectly (I don’t get up on the roof as much as I used to, but I do enjoy the height and serenity a roof sit provides). I’ve got a habit of fiddling. Fidgeting. Tapping. Clicking. Most of the time, I’m smoothing my hair, which feels good to the fingers and lips when it’s freshly washed. I didn’t even realise I did it for a long time, until I saw a high school friend after years apart who made comment about my fidgeting. I thought it was just some kind of endearing quirk. People would occasionally ask me if I was worried or stressed when I’d do it, because the habit is typically portrayed as being a visible sign that someone is not at all calm in movies. But I just thought it was something I did absentmindedly, getting lost in the smoothness of my hair. Since seeing a psychologist who was like – and I’m a paraphrasing a little bit here – “geez mate, you’re fucking anxious aye” – it makes me think that perhaps my fiddling is perhaps, just a scoach bit, linked to my mental state. The trouble is that I can lose a lot of time to this hair smoothing, where I zone out and stare, losing all focus and enjoying a nice quiet break from reality. I need to snap out of it quickly or I can really derail my day. That’s when I need someone with a bit of a tender sass to slap my hand away from my hair.

I’m currently on holidays in New South Wales.

It’s very strange, a few days ago I found myself actually excited about the prospect of going to Sydney.

And, since arriving here, I’ve really quite enjoyed myself and this city. It’s amazing how different your outlook on a place can be when you’re no longer burdened with exorbitant rent and undiagnosed depression. Would heartily recommend not being depressed and locked into a ridiculous rental situation.

In light of my current situation, I thought it appropriate to interview myself as if I were a well-travelled gadabout – I mean, I DID have five cups of tea during the day – using fodder from the Qantas in-flight magazine. Another activity I would heartily recommend.

Where are you right now? I’m sitting on a large bed in a hotel room in Sydney. I was going to sleep on the couch at a dear friend’s place, but I tend to get excessively gassy when I’m shedding my uterine lining, so I decided to splash out and book myself a private room so I can maintain the aura of a classy lady (even though my friend has seen me wee in a paddock after a big night on the Passion Pop).

Where did you go on your last trip? I went to the Gold Coast to celebrate a friend’s birthday. It was a lovely time but good heavens I was rough on the Sunday. I had to break up the massive hour-long drive home with a coffee, and I don’t even drink coffee (unless its in espresso-martini-form, as it’s fabulous enough to counteract the caffeinated jitters coffee gives me). I stupidly pulled in to Yatala Pies at 12.30pm on a Sunday, and the place was absolutely off chops. Families everywhere. The line was like 15 minutes long. I ended up panicking and buying a pie so I didn’t look like the kind of dill who would pull off the motorway and stand in line for 15 minutes for a coffee. I put it in the fridge at home and have just realised that it’s probably still there, going bad and uneaten. I have some severe regrets.

What was your typical childhood holiday? My family would pile in the car and drive four hours to Hervey Bar to stay at my aunty’s house. She always had a pool and, at one point, had a probably-not-council-approved flying fox that went into said pool. It was the dream. Except the flying fox had a rope attached so you could pull it back into position without hoping out of the pool and one time I let go rather awkwardly and slid down the rope like it was a fireman’s pole, only with my thighs gripping the pole instead of my hands. I had stinging rope burn in places one should never get rope burn. Would not recommend.

Do you tend to wander or make a plan? I try to do both and then ending up doing a poor job at each of the ways to travel, thus stressing myself out to the point I need a lie down.

Is there a place you keep returning to? The darkest corners of my mind.

Which destination was a surprise to you? I’ve not been whisked off on any whimsical surprise getaways, but I once made an unexpected stop at Tingha to use the loo. There was something about the isolation and the ominous scattering of large rocks that seemed to be spying on me which gave me a creeps. I ran back to my trusty Camry and bolted out of there.

Have you ever taken a great road trip? I drove from Sydney to Clifton. It wasn’t particularly exciting but, given I was leaving Sydney for good, it was pretty great. I made a playlist called “So Long Stinktown”.

Do you have a particularly memorable dining experience from your travels? I smuggled a double cheeseburger from the Bangkok airport Burger King on to my plane back from Thailand. I waited until the cabin was dark and everyone was asleep to tuck into the sweet, sweet room-temperature meat treat. The crinkling of the paper was quite loud in the quiet cabin, but not enough to raise the alarm/prompt passengers to ask for a bite. Nevertheless, I made sure to eat with as much stealth as I could muster.

Do you prefer resort or rustic? Probably rustic, but a stylish rustic. With running water. And a kettle. And a bath tub. And bath robes. And someone else to foot the bill.

Have you ever been fleeced? My sister and I paid ten euros for two mini Heinekin stubbies at the foot of the Eifel Tower earlier this year. We learnt a valuable lesson about haggling that day.

What do you most like to find in your hotel minibar? Milk, for in-room tea parties.

Have you ever gone completely off-grid? Nope, but I did black out in Thailand a few times.  Would only recommend with extreme caution.

Have you ever been lost while travelling? Yes, while I was black-out in Thailand. Would not recommend.

Where’s your home away from home? Mum and Dad’s place. It’s a home I don’t have to pay rent for where there’s always enough milk for a cuppa. Would recommend.

I’ve lied about being a liar.

Recently I was telling someone I didn’t know all that well that I was a shocking liar; that I both can’t lie convincingly and that, most of the time, it’s physically impossible for me to lie, no matter how trivial the untruth. It’s like lies curdle in my mouth. And, even if I do get thee false statement out, I usually vomit up a fumbled clarification.

In the context of dating this is a real plus, because if you’re with someone who can’t stomach lying, honesty and trust are a given. You can safely assume they’re not living a double life as a 443-year-old witch in the freckly skin suit of a 27-year-old and their orgasms are real. As far as failings and flaws go, being a shithouse liar is a positive.

But, now that I think about it, I told a blatant lie less than an hour after I professed my great deceptive shortcomings. I had made multiple comments about how undercooked the rustic cut chippies were and, from memory, I may have described them as disappointing. But when the waiter asked how our meal was, I put on my best people-pleasing grin and lied through my teeth to tell him it was “great, thank you so much”.

So not only did I lie, I also lied about a being a liar, which is a more potent kind of lie. Like, the lie about the dinner was a shandy, but the lie about lying was a Smirnoff Double Black.

And now that I realise it, I actually lie fairly often. I tell people “no no, you’re right” when they apologise out of forced politeness for standing in my way in the supermarket aisle. A blatant lie; they’re wrong. You can take up the whole aisle and block people’s paths just because you can’t decide if you want apricot chicken or black bean stirfry sauce from a jar that night. People have places to go, ya drongo!

I think the more accurate statement about my lying behaviours is that I usually avoid lying because I can’t handle the overthinking spirals it sends me down. I either tell the truth, change the subject or say something that’s not technically a lie, but not the whole truth.

Like when someone asks how you’re doing of a morning and you’re so tired your eyes feel like your inner eyelids are made from sandpaper, you’re feeling like you’ve wasted your youth and you were secretly hoping someone shot you in the thigh on the way in so you wouldn’t have to go into work and pretend to be a functioning human being for a good week, saying “good thanks” is a downright lie. And you don’t want to say this to the person, because they’re not a trained psychologist and, let’s face it, they probably have their own stuff going on – they don’t have the time nor the abilities to fix my sitch. So I like to go with a “oh yeah, I’m here”, which is, in essence, very true. I am at the place my body is physically located. That’s correct. I’ve not lied to the person, but I’ve given them a response and, often, it elicits a knowing nod where you both can acknowledge your mundane, depressing existences without having to articulate it in a public setting. It’s nice. It does the job. it usually leads to lasting, no bullshit friendships.

It means that I’m not obsessing about the lie I told, unlike right now. You see, the other day I had a phone call from a wrong number – some girl was looking for a Rachel. “Yeah, sorry, you must have the wrong number, I don’t know a Rachel,” I told her. I felt like I had to say something other than “WRONGO” and I couldn’t very well say “nah, I’m a Dannielle ya silly sausage” because I answered the phone with a “hello, this is Dannielle” To say my name again would have been a bit of overkill. So the “I don’t know a Rachel” came out. And that was a huge lie. I know many Rachels. But I hung up before I could explain myself. And now I’m going through a list of all the Rachels I know, mentally apologising for not acknowledging their existence to a polite stranger in a 20-second phone conversation.

I’m sorry to the Rachel who was a big sister figure to me growing up and became a dear, kindred spirit as an adult.

I’m sorry to the British Rachel I used to work with in Sydney who made me a tray of Mars Bar slice one my last day and called it “fridge cake”.

I’m sorry to the sassy Rachel I used to complain about the shake machine with when I was working at Hungry Jacks.

I’m sorry to the loud, crass Rachel who used to sit up the back of my school bus and shout at the driver to turn up the air con and the radio on our behalf.

I’m sorry to the Rachel who I spent hours with arranging flowers before a wedding and getting totally crunkmaggot with as said wedding.

I’m sorry to the Rachel whose wellness Instagram account I follow because she went to my college.

I’m so fucking sorry.