The other day I sat at a café in my active wear while working on my laptop.

It sounds pretty glamorous, and that’s because it was. There’s nothing more #lifegoals about smashing out some work after dropping some mean squats at the gym while refuelling The Truth (my body).

Except my work was a yarn about how I bought a hat.

And my version of active wear is oversized free t-shirts I’ve obtained over the years, three-year-old sneakers what have holes where my buggy little toes stick out and these snot green leggings my friend was going to throw away when she moved overseas. My gym bag is this bucket drawstring number that has one strap tied to the other strap because it broke off one day. It’s merch from a regional footy team, so it looks like I have some mildly-talented footy boyfriend who is letting me borrow his gear after I “spent the night” (i.e. we totally banged after a big night at da clubz) at his place last night. But in reality I once went to a party in Warwick and when I woke up I found it on the boot of my Camry so I snagged it – it seemed like the right thing to do.

And coffee makes me kind of sick in the tummy so I had tea. Coffee isn’t really as great as Gilmore Girls made me believe, which breaks my heart a little. But apparently Alexis Bledel, who plays Rory, hated the stuff too, so they filled her cup with a dark soda when filming. And that girl was in TWO films about magical jeans and female friendship, so she knows what she’s doing.

And my work briefcase was actually a carpet tote bag with several-dozen cat faces embroidered into it that I bought from my local op shop.

But otherwise I was so totally a freelancing babe nourishing my mind and body. Like a modern-day Carrie Bradshaw without literally any of her fancy things. I felt like I was one of those Instagram accounts run by a childless successwoman who isn’t afraid to take care of herself. In fact, I could have taken a pretty decent #workwork table top flat lay had my phone camera not been smashed a year ago (the lack of lenses makes for a blurry picture and while the front-facing camera still works, it means I have to put the phone into selfie mode and then point the screen at the subject of the photo – this method does not often bode winning results).

But nonetheless, it made me feel like some kind of powerful businesswoman. Which I guess I am.

Powerful: in my own mind. Businesswoman: technically.

Because while I may wear jazz-ballet shoes in the workplace I’ve got an Australian Business Number. I’ve written an invoice. I went on the Australian Taxation Office website and watched several short instructional videos.

I have to make big decisions for my business. For example, I have to decide if I want to continue keeping my business supplies in the catbag, or if I should switch locations to the dinosaur tote bag I bought from a recent trip to the museum. The catbag has a thick, protective fabric, but the tote bag has a T-Rex on the front and says “totes”. You can see my dilemma here.

And sure, my business supplies may very well be four highlighters and a free pen I was given by a member of my former trivia team, but that doesn’t mean I’m not legit.

I trade my words for dollars. Someone actually exchanged legal Australian currency to print details about my vomit spraying all over my steering wheel. I don’t know exactly how that happened, but it did. I have the invoice as proof. I’m not saying that this lifestyle is particularly sustainable (it’s really not) but it’s nice to know I live in a world where that it’s a reality.

Sure, I may make waaaay less than the GST threshold (there literally aren’t enough As in the universe to emphasis how far away I am from making any real money with my enterprise). But at least if someone asks for my occupation, I’m able to say that I’m a freelance writer.

And, more importantly, my ABN means I can now go to a wholesale distributer and purchase bulk quantities of clouds and strawberry ears.

As you know, my life isn’t exactly in order.

This may be evidenced by the fact that yesterday I was eating hot chips from the chicken shop while sitting in the burrito store while I waited for my Mexican food (that’s the long story short – the short story long will be served hot and coated in chicken salt for you in the coming weeks).

So I’m taking a few online quizzes to get things back on track So know what exactly I’m dealing with here (underwhelming spoiler alert: it’s me). I’ve done the Type A or Type B, which I feel was far too black and white for me. It was either one category or the other. So I decided to go for the Allen’s Party Mix equivalent of indulgent online quizardry: the Jung and Briggs Meyers test. That baby has 16 different categories you could fall into. Sure, this particular free online test may not be exactly accurate, reliable or ethical (the career section of the answers had links to colleges which offered courses you should totally take) but I was willing to give it a crack.

It had 64 questions for me to answer, which sounds like an odd number (odd as in “unusual” or “weird” not “uneven” – I may have forgotten all about derivatives but dammit I still retained something from my Catholic school education that wasn’t about the big man; I didn’t wear those shitty bottle green culottes for nothing!) but it was manageable. It sounds like a fair few questions, but there was minimal work involved really. It was a simple matter of picking one of five options for how you felt about a statement. Too easy campeasy.

But the problem was that it was too easy. I mean I had to give one word answers to strong statements without getting a chance to clarify my answer, or give it any context. I like explaining things, you know? I like giving long, unnecessary backstories when a simple answer would suffice – it’s kinda my thang (and yes, I did mean to write “thang” because there is nothing more badarse than owning your infuriating characteristics).

I mean, how am I supposed to get a free accurate representation of myself if I can’t give full and in-depth reasons for my answers? In maths you would get a few points for showing your working out on the test even if you got the answer wrong. Why should this be any difference?!

So here are my responses:

Sure, this may make me sound like a party pooper but you want to know what is a real party pooper? Death. Because when you die you lose control of all organs and you shit yourself. And you want to know what can lead to death? Not following the safety rules. Sure, it might very well be a thrill to lean over the balcony, but you want to know what is even more of a thrill? Leading a full and long life because you didn’t nose dive over a balcony on to several pointy rocks.

I’m just going to say it: safety is the biggest thrill.

Ok, I get how this looks. But I had a distinct memory of my preschool teacher trying to get me to dance to the Wiggles’ masterpiece The Wiggly Woo in preschool and me not having a bar of it. She tried to get me to dance along with the other lobotomy patients that were my “classmates” at the time, but I didn’t want to participate in their juvenile display of pointless physical movement.

As you might have guessed, I was a chubby and sarcastic child. Think Daria but with more chins.

Try as she might, Ms Julie could not get my limbs to “wiggle” like they belonged to some kind of brain dead rag doll. I pinned my arms to my side with such defiance that she abandoned the cause. She could not force me to feel.

That was a pivotal time in my life, when I decided that I was the master of my own movements. I decide when I’m excited about something. Mostly all my excitement was linked to food in those days, and I’d have to say that I haven’t changed much.

Well clearly. Sure, this may make me sound non-committal. And maybe I am non-committal, but I don’t think so. I mean, I hated the thought of a lock-in phone contract, I’ve only ever dyed my hair with wash-out colouring and I’ve purposefully fizzled out my relationships without a confrontation or a concrete break-up in case I decide to go in for round two (or five), but I wouldn’t say that commitment is my problem. I’m just saying that it’s comforting to know that I can exchange my order within 30 days , alright?

This makes me sound like the kind of woman who wears a bluetooth speaker on her ear all day long and pears a high ponytail with banging pencil skirts, but I am not Angelica from The Rugrats‘ mum (although she seems fabulous and probably was getting a little action from that Jonathan fellow, let’s just say it – because a man named Drew could never satisfy a goddess like her). I just don’t like to waste time. Some people don’t think that scrolling through the last several years of Paris Hilton’s Instagram feed is a good use of time, but I beg to differ.

The more people you talk to, the more people who know what a whackjob you are. It’s best to keep the true workings of you mind to a select few who you have so much dirt on they would never dare betray you. I recommend keeping a box of incriminating photographs of them in a secret location.

Not true, but this was as close as I could get. EVERYTHING can be analysed. We humans are judgemental beings and with those five fabulous senses of ours (six if you consider the ability to wake up a minute before  your alarms goes off a sense) we can’t help but process stimuli. Everything a person does, intentional or not, tells us something about them if we’re only noisy enough to peel away the layers.

People say that everything happens for a reason, and it’s true. Except I’m not talking about your boyfriend cheating on you or your shattered shinbone; I’m talking a much less grander scheme of things. Sometimes there are many levels, other times there are few. Like sometimes when you leave the dirty dishes in the sink it’s because you had to leave them there because you had to rush out straight after breakfast because you woke up late because you went to bed late because you weren’t tired because you napped the day before because stayed up late the night before that because you had to hang out with your roommate because you felt they were sad because you’re a really intuitive, caring person who goes out of their way to understand and comfort people. Sometimes when your housemate leaves dirty dishes in the sink it’s because they’re an areshole because they have no soul.

I love putting things into order – highlighters, pens, leaflets in public tourism stands – except my own life.

I found this one tough to answer. Because I manage to stop myself from pelting a gym ball at full speed at the heads of people minding their own business when I get the urge, but I also ate four slices of bread today.

Nah, they’re both equally as worrying.

***

I think I’m going to leave this here for now, as I’m tired and dragging this test out over two posts will mean I’ll have to think up one less topic next week. And I really shouldn’t be wasting my brainpower right now – I used the word “motorbikling” instead of “motorcycling” the other day.

There’s not enough filth on Facebook these days.

I mean, there are plenty of scumbags on the social media platform, that’s not in question. But I’m beginning to question the algorithm that’s making the Zuckerberg family so rich. Because the suggested content the bastard keeps chucking my way isn’t doing me any favours.

Now, I try not to direct my writing at a particular gender but, let’s face it, I know my audience. Other than being related to me or in my inner friendship circle (I like to think of it as a cone of cool, or a cylinder of sassy) my readers largely have one thing in common – the sinful void between their legs that means they’ll get paid 20 per cent less than male colleagues and makes older creepy customers feel they have a right to ask you’re married while you’re trying to work.

I don’t want to get up on my high horse, because riding a beast is dangerous enough without getting illicit substances involved, but I’m getting annoyed with the shit Facebook keeps suggesting I read because I have the ability to make my own milk (which I can imagine would be super handy if the shops were closed and I wanted to make a batch of porridge).

For some reason, Facebook seems to think I like reading articles about pubic hair. I know they serve a purpose; generating conversation about the mindless habits we engage in because of deeply engrained cultural beliefs about gender is important. It really is.

And I’m not dissing it. I love reading too much into things. My hobby is overthinking something simple until it becomes a CIA conspiracy. I’m like a bloodhound: I can sniff out underlying reasons and motivations you never knew existed. But every time I read something about a well-informed, fantastic woman deciding not to purge the pubes I get super angry.

Sure they give you all these pro-woman reasons not for landscaping the lower region, like the fact that the groin hair is like a first line of defence for grit and grime getting up in your ‘gine. They say that it reinforces the dated ideal that women need to be perfect for men. They graphically detail how painful yanking those dark, curly suckers can be. These are all good reasons and they often are put forward in funny, informative ways.

But sometimes theoretical arguments don’t come into play at all. Sometimes, despite all the complex layers of socialisation and normalisation of particular perspectives on gender roles and discrimination awareness, things are simpler. Sometimes you can’t read into someone else’s decision any deeper than the stubbly  surface.

I’m not saying we shouldn’t continue unpacking the bigger reasons behind the seemingly tiny things we do with our lives. What I’m saying is that we need to fully unpack that box (pun definitely intended). We have to get out the old tissues and the embarrassing love notes and that squashed banana slowly deteriorating under a sock. If bastards are going to keep coming out with “I’m calling it” or “let’s be honest” articles, we need to expose the gritty truth. Because every time I read a woman telling me to leave it to beaver I can’t help but think, “homegurl has clearly never had her discharge fuse the hairs together from both flaps and woke up in excruciating pain after trying to move her thighs apart in her sleep” or “sweetheart seems to forget about how rogue hairs sometimes grow upwards and inwards, irritating the fuck out of your vulva like you used a cactus as a tampon or something”. Because I like to think that I’m not alone in my agony. And sisterhood is about standing together, isn’t it?