This is not a diet blog part two: How I cried in the kitchen and lived to tell the tale

I have an awful habit of comparing myself to other people.  I do it with near obsessive constancy. I compare my writing ability to anyone who as much as composes a sentence on Facebook about their baby’s hair, I compare how I look in a t-shirt, I compare funniness, ease of conversation, walking ability, nonchalance, taste in literature, I’m not really picky. You do something that I also might want to maybe do, and chances are I’ve wondered if you do it better.  I have another awful habit, that of being so obscured in my vision by others achievements (or indeed, basic daily functions) that I become convinced incrementally, every time someone does something* that I am the most stupidly average person in the world. That by comparison everything I do must be fairly shit. I have a third awful habit. This one I think I’m only just learning I do (my friends will be face-palming in their lack of surprise but I’m pretty slow, alright) as I watch myself tell me I’m probably naff anyway, all the time. Here’s how it goes:

  1. I do something/think about doing something.
  2. I assume it is/will be shit.
  3. I make verbal pronouncements to that affect.
  4. I hereby save anyone who would have been disappointed/angry/embarrassed at my efforts  the bother of saying so, having cleverly circumvented their criticisms with my own.

Hahahaha. I am the most nefarious mastermind of all time.

It’s not like I spend my time crying about my lack of philosophy skills or not-quite-right skinny legs or am completely unaware of any mote of skill I might possess (my playlists, I kid you not, are award-winning**), I just am super good at pre-empting the sad faces I feel I’m sure to receive by trying my bestest at some stuff and very aware of people that are good at stuff that I dig. Which is normal. Maybe.

To whit:

I read Marieke Hardy’s book You’ll Be Sorry When I’m Dead (several months ago now, I’ve been brewing this for a little while) and I dug the shit out of it.

I had assumed the book would be funny and shoot-from-the-hip-honest, but to find it soft and elegant in parts and so bleedingly straightforward you wanted to call her up and say “thanks for being so sweet I’m also a right spaz” was a little unexpected. I found it totally mesmerizing and obviously hilarious.

After I read it I was a little desolate. She is just… so… good. AND she’s only a few years older than me AND she’s been writing columns for everyone for ever AND she’s written a TV show AND started the successful and entirely whimsical and lovely “Women of Letters” thing AND NOW A BOOK.

I began to resent my life. How have I ended up this bland and irritatingly unprovocative woman, at only five years Ms Hardy’s junior? How am I not writing columns for some such over a glass of wine or laughing loudly in public places with my roughly-the-same-amount- of-famous artist/writer/musician chums? I blame my friends. Why, as a middle class Australian attending a private Christian school I could not have had the decency to fall in with a crowd of no good, up all night, lets do whatever the hell we want, everything was beautiful and nothing hurt types is beyond me. How’s a girl supposed to accumulate ex’s like empties and anecdotes that would make your nostrils sting when the gang she hangs out with is PG at the most?

I at several points during and after reading thought “OK. We’ll just have to drink a shit load more. It’s not too late for that at least”.

I was also at several points during and after reading, when my disgust at my stubborn refusal to be anything but a regular, non-alcoholic person had stepped out to have a smoke, convinced that Marieke and I would be magical and life-long friends, should we ever meet (you see, in a secret cavern in my mind lurks the stupidly confident Carlynne, the one who still believes she will one day appear as a telepath with mad fighting skills in an indie superhero flick and who fortunately (or not, depending on viewpoint) takes over when I’m on the dance floor. Now, having read Marieke Hardy’s wonderful book, the weeny, inner, vim filled Carlynne cheerily tells me that one day, Marieke will stumble across this blog, be both stunned and chuffed by my skillful wordplay and humble affectations of hero worship and ring her publisher to tell them they’ve got another hit on their hands. She (inner sociopath Carlynne), was responsible for my 11 year old “Mark Gosseler’s limo breaking down out the front of my house and he has to wait for a tow but I’m not phased by his celebrity or blindingly white smile and he’s really impressed by that so we fall in love” fantasy and I suspect this one will be as unrealized) but mostly it was “aaaiii- my blinding lack of publishable material! Woe” and the gnashing of metaphorical teeth etc.

Now you see I write a little bit, but my only semi regular outlet (what you’re viewing. Gorgeous isn’t it) is a blog dedicated to how undeniably pedestrian my efforts are. Also note that I was here comparing myself to a woman who has actually attempted to do things that I’ve never tried. So of course I haven’t had the same level of success, publishers outside of my brain don’t ring unknown bloggers and ask permission to publish them. But by reading and bemoaning how much better she is, I got to remind myself that I’d probably never have her level of success anyway just to keep drilling the point home. You dig?

This is obviously all very amusing and Carlynne-like, but actually the last couple of months of the year, despite my powerhouse 30-is-still-alright-with-me performance got a little shit. I was both busy and exhausted, I was in the throes of a bout of loneliness to rival any I’d had for a few years that was kicked off, unfortunately, by a really lovely wedding and only exacerbated by the hideous timing of my first viewing of Jane Eyre, I had thrown a sort of unsuccessful weekend party a couple of weeks ago, I had put on weight and felt fat and inelegant most of the time, I doubted myself in social situations; I was for once, almost convinced that what I say about myself a lot is true.

It all culminated one night when faced with icing a mountain of gingerbread that I’d rather ambitiously constructed the night before and that refused to be iced either well or expediently in my bursting into tears over biscuits cut into the shapes of trees, bells and ninjas. Not a high point.

I went home to Adelaide shortly after and got a lot of rest, which was what was dearly needed, and also a lot of thinking time. I began to breathe again and found myself at the beginning of a new year, rather hopefully musing on the changes I wished I could make.

Wrapped in the protective cocoon of my mum’s house, far away from most responsibilities and the pressures I’d placed on myself, I decided that as no one else could claim to be in charge of making my life more palletable to me other than… me, that I would seize the dubious power of the Yule-Tide and make the new year an opportunity to be better. And not in a “you’re shit- be less shit” way.

Firstly I realised that being so thoroughly convinced of my shittitude was very, very unhealthy. I would need to work on that. Secondly, if I want to be healthier, in a physical sense, then I can choose to do that! I am a capable, mobile woman! If I want to eat better and exercise more, than by jove what’s stopping me? Huzzah! And finally, if I want to be a writer, then I probably need to fucking write! There’s no conceivable point lying around moaning about how successful someone else is when you don’t even update your blog regularly. Being good at something has to be worked on. Surely. So I resolved to be better, and while I was at it, better at being me.

And so, 2012 began, and with it a slightly more updated version of Carlynne.

More on that later…

Ps. I was planning on writing this closer to the start of the new year, but luckily enough, I’m hideously disorganized and have therefore had time to heal even more thoroughly than I did in my post-horrid-times time.

Pps. I honestly don’t write this stuff in the hope that people will read and feel sorry for “poor badly self-esteemed me”. I really do find this the best way of processing my thoughts, need the drive of a published medium to push me to write and also figure if someone else who thinks they’re naff reads it then maybe they’ll find something better to do with their time than think they’re naff.

*It has to be something I enjoy/feel is important. I am in no way envious of any athletes, sports players or producers of dub-step, reggae or trance music.

**Of course I’m kidding. There are no awards for playlists. Or are there?! Oh my gosh. If there are, that’s weird but please nominate me. I’ll enjoy another chance to be self depreciating.

The Sound of My Gentle Failure or The Art of My Gentle Revolution part 2: the reckoning

I posted a list a little over a year ago, of things I would attempt to do before I turned the “give up on your teen whims” age of 30. Below are the results. Forgive me.


1. Start dancing lessons– nope. Thought about it a lot, even googled things, but not one. Sigh.

2. Practice self control (particularly as regards eating, spending, wasting and watching)- look. I lost this one for a while. Nearly a year, actually. But, in the last couple of weeks, I’ve been controlling my appetite for the junk food, walking to work and walking other places too. This counts. Money I’m still bad at. Sigh.

3. Bake a Pie– HA! Hahahahaha! I baked TWO! In your face 30!!

Pie the first- pear tart; lumpy yet satisfying
Pie the second- Pecan; possibly ill-advised yet flavoursome

4. Start learning French– je ne comprends pas? Je suis fatigue. Yes these are phrases from a learn French iPhone app. But, if someone French was to ask me- in English- if I would like more food or the cheque, I could respond with l’addition s’il vous plait. Counts.

5. Save money-…. cough. Oh GOD why am I so crap? In my defense, a lot of stuff came up this year that was somewhat unexpected and further to this, I am really really shit with money. I did buy plane tickets to a whole other country for next year, so I’d better figure it out soon.

6. Read at least half of the books currently unread on my shelf and do not purchase new ones until that has happened Secure second bookshelf and make every effort to purchase every book I like, love and think possibly looks interesting or pretty to fill said bookshelf (important caveat, books can be purhased for me)– Doneski.

7. Watch less TV –hmmm. Tricky. I did watch less TV shows actually on the TV set. And I was a whole hell of a lot busier than I have ever been before so I’m going to assume this means I had less time to watch stuff and call this a check.

8. Take more chances – why do I do this? Stupid vague and inspirational goals. How is this quantifiable? Well, I talked to boys I liked, I got my hair cut very short on one side, I submitted pieces of writing to the uni mag Farrago, I wrote honestly and sometimes embarrassingly on my blog, overtook large trucks on a highway and allowed myself to be awkwardly auctioned off for charity. Done? Sure.

9. Give one night a week to writing– straight up, didn’t happen. I did write more… This is something I need to get amongst. Onto it, accountability matrix.

10. Walk daily– Yes! …iiin the last two or three weeks. But I did it before I turned so, counts. Ha.

11. Talk less and listen more– I sort of have this covered on account of my job, although it can be startlingly easy to get through a day at the drop in without having a decent convo. I try to make listening a priority (but could still do with some more work on the “I have the attention span of a spaniel and am frequently caught out not actually listening to my friends” front), and I am finding I’m enjoying it more. I still talk a lot, though. A lot, a lot.

12. Be increasingly comfortable around new people– I think that it’s easier to feel other people will think you’re a freak, if you think you’re a freak. And so conversely, if you git on down with your own unparalleled you-ness and how good that is, then you don’t mind other people copping a load of you. You dig? I’m so at the top of my game (still a ways to go before I’m channeling Beyonce style diva confidence (frankly, I think it would make people uncomfortable (just cos, they’re not used to me being a douche(in that way) and it would definitely come out like that))) in terms of liking Carlynne, which is nice. A few things have fallen into place mentally and that’s really helped, and so I think whilst I can still be intimidated when I meet new people, particularly those of the good looking persuasion, mostly I’m of the opinion that if you’re going to assume someone will think something about you, you may as well assume they’ll think you’re a fucking rad-ball. Or something.

13. Sing frequently– oh man. All the time (In my house, obviously (Possibly to the irritation of my housemates (although my latest, Joe (so excellent) sings actually, ALL THE TIME, ALL THE TIME, which is great and means he can’t be angry about mine, which happens significantly less than his))). I also tried to be put on the singy roster at church, which happened once, and was fun. How good are multi brackets.

14. Take more photos– I took so many photos. Ludicrous, annoying amounts. And I stopped doing my photo a day business, but then I missed it so I started again. More on this later.

15. Catch a barramundi– Alas. I caught no fish this year. I did, however, catch several colds, at least one flu, gastro, and several people’s drifts.

16. Do not use cynicism as a crutch– I feel the annoyingly positive side of me has grown in power and fluffiness this year. Perhaps my cynicism was in my hair, and the shorter it gets, the brighter the bright side. Or, I’ve just been a little happier. –side note, Carlynne, the dark side of the split personality that inhabits my frame, wishes you to know that I am still in the possession of a very healthy portion of cynicism. I just don’t choose to assume the worst when I can about things like religion, other people, and where possible, myself. Still working on assumptions about the state of the government, the state of the environment, certain activists I know, and one of my parents. We’re only human.

17. Throw out one thing a month– yes! (does this count if it was done like, in several big piles scattered throughout the year that surely added up to more than 12 things) (I think it does)

18. Buy clothing and footwear only from vintage/recycled shops where possible– eep. Mostly, yes. Totally beautiful dresses, MIND BLOWING jumpers, even perfect jeans (op-shop holy grail). So much purchased from oppies that I had to impose trade embargoes on myself and Savers. There were exceptions, though, which I feel I was mostly driven to by fat days and wedding attendances. I’m sorry. Honestly.

19. Understand what it means to grow up – I believe I covered this in one of a series of self indulgent word vomits.

20. Eat at this allegedly fantastic Japanese place my mate Brad went mental over– Bam. With two days to go- locked down.

21. Make my blog look a bit nicer- woo hoo! I think it does. I don’t know about the blog fanciness, alright? It’s not my bag. But I gave it a red hot go.

22. Judge less– again. Judge less? Less what? Judge who less? It’s such a subjective, cloudy thing. Look, I generally think that if one of us is shit, then we’re all shit. Because you know and I know, all the shitty things we’ve done and are capable of doing, deep down. So, if I get to walk around and not be kicked in the face or spat on or sneered at or sent to prison or whatever, then I don’t think that I want to do those things to other people. I think I put this in because sometimes I can get all neggo about Christians and socialists, and ladies who wear leggings as pants. And I still do, way more often than I should. But I’m trying not to, and I’m thankfully arriving more often at the conclusion that maybe everyone is at least a little broken, and that compassion doesn’t actually cost me anything, and that everyone can do what the hell they like and it’s not up to me to make decisions about their pants (but seriously, leggings are essentially an undergarment, I’m telling you this for your own good).

23. Send more postcards, inc’ to people I don’t know

I violated several postcards with several cheerful and possibly inane messages several times, then left them to be taken by other folk. Counts.

24. Talk to people I recognise instead of acting like I don’t see them– this has also become easier because of my work, and the fact that I spend a lot of time near where I work. If I see Mr Talks to Himself in the street, or Mrs Smells of Pee, it’s flat out not nice if I pretend I don’t. Plus they’re fun to talk to. And even when they’re not, when I’m tired and I don’t want to “work” it’s easier. I don’t every time, for every person I know, but mostly, and with peeps from other scenes, I say hi.

25. Spend more time chatting with my Grandma– this one is a little rough. She died last month and one of the reasons that is shit for me is because of this list and the fact that I obviously registered a need to do this because maybe she wouldn’t be around forever, and then I didn’t do it. The most I learnt about my Grandma, I think ever, I learnt in the week following her death from talking to my family and watching them bury their mother.

26. Buy film for my polaroid and use it – I tried. It’s sooooo expensive, I just could not justify $40 for like, 8 photos. But, I did buy one of those cool oldie looking plastic cameras and some film to get developed and I will be doing that a lot from now on. Sah Indie.

27. Go out dancing at least once a month– Probs not once a month, but, I have shook what my mama gave me on the dance floor well over 12 times this year at least three different clubs (six or seven times), three houses (three or four times), three different weddings and once, three times in the same weekend.

28. Develop less irritating and useless crushes – don’t even get me started.

29. Attempt to make dolma – just.. just move on.

30. Learn to play that Turin Brakes song/ any song on guitar– what? What do you want from me?! Guh.

31. Figure out how to get around hating on church in general – Bam-a-lam. Covered a little in this entry, and only progressing really. Still a lot about traditional church that doesn’t gel with me, a lot I find extraneous and irrational, but I like mine. Despite the fact that it sort of doesn’t suit me at all. They’re good people, my church.

32. Get to know family I don’t keep in touch with– please to refer to overly long blog post here.

33. Jump out of a plane bed– done! I’m sometimes a lot better at mornings now. Sort of.

34. Take an interest in the world both around me and across oceans and not hide from the truth of it – this actually really happened. This was the year I took larger interest. Fortunately I know a lot of passionate, intelligent and interested people who help me learn and stay involved. My interest has only so far extended to some ABC watching, some reading of news articles and some protest attending, and what I don’t know about could still fill a lot of scarily large books, but I’m not content to not think about thing any more, despite the fact that it’s a giant cesspool of awfulness and mean people and oil-spills and greed out there (I don’t really believe that. Now more than ever I think, I KNOW there is the capacity for GREAT LOVE within people. Yes).

35. Talk to strangers– like a dinner, baby. Plane guy, Irish guy, old lady on tram 1, Irish guy 2, drunk people on street, drunk guy at pub, guy on tram who looked like a bearded Dylan Moran (Oh Lord), old lady on tram 2, drunk Canadians x 2, tram driver, several ladies in ladies bathrooms (you know how that goes), girls on dance floor, dude on tram 2, many café staff and I’m assuming several retail assistants in several workplaces of theirs.

36. Knit things– two parts of scarvey things later, I’m a knitter again. Getting better too. I want to branch into crocheting now. But I won’t like, make a dramatic list about it or nothing.

37. Be kind – who knows. God I hope so. I feel like I like people a lot, and am fortunate enough to keep on meeting them. It’s often hardest to be kind to yourself and those close to you though, and I’m still working on that.

And this of course is the end. I could ad several things to the list that I did do this year, but it’s late and I have even bored myself.

So the tally stands at:

Carlynne- 27 or 25 or 26.5 or something;

Doing Things-10 or so.

Victory is MIIIIINE.


thanks for listening. I promise I’ll never do this again.

Slightly below slightly above average

Oh Internet. Let me tell you a little something.

Turns out me making a list of things to do before I’m 30 was a great idea in theory, but a really poorly thought out one in the staggeringly disorganized reality of my day to day existence.

Hahahahaaaa uugh.

I will not, you can be sure, get all of the list done. I can say this with some certainty as my birthday is less than 3 weeks off and I am yet to even conceive of how to fish, let alone catch a barrumundi, and of course have not leapt from a plane. I have no plans to do either of these mid-assignment time and can also not go back in time to stop myself buying new books, bully myself into walking daily and take up both French classes and dancing lessons. Le sigh.

I do however have a couple of important updates along the “perhaps I’m not completely useless” line. Squee!

No. 36. Knit things. I, have been knitting up a sort of casual and spaced out storm.. or more accurately two flattish pieces of knitted wool that could become scarves for either people or, I’m hoping, bike racks. I have to tell you- it’s all about knit one purl one. Who knew.

28. Develop less irritating and useless crushes. Ha! hahahahaHAHA! I’ve done it! I don’t even really know how, but


It’s amazing. When I see a dude on the tram and he’s all sporting a beard and wearing an excellent shirt or reading a good novel instead of staring at him at intervals, inner voice manically repeating “lookatmelookatmelookatme” while trying to simultaneously sit up straighter, suck in gut and turn face ninety degrees so he sees my hair properly OR  even more embarrassingly, trying to casually reveal one of my tattoos (shame spiral); I now don’t give a crap. Ha!


See I’ve realized something very important. Not every guy I see on the tram/the street/at uni/at a café is going to fall madly in love with me. Say, whaaa? I know.

Most aren’t even going to notice me and this is ok. Mathematically speaking (can I do that? Do I need a licence? Don’t tell anyone), all of these dudes I notice around the joint, and even the ones that I more than notice, that I meet and am friends with, aren’t going to be someone that I will wind up biking cutely down Bruswick street with. And, even if they are someone that that is going to happen with, chances are they’ll work it out when we’re hanging out and I’m being normal, rather than when I’m swishing my hair slightly and hoping they can hear Cold War Kids coming from my iPod speakers.

I cannot will these connections and I no longer want to, especially when willing them leaves me feeling stupidly shitty and hurt for the twenty-seventh time because I’ve decided from a series of secret and hidden clues that boy x is in love with me but has not told me yet because he needs me to be more available and less intimidating.

If boy x is indeed in love with me, or as is more likely, wants to grab a beer, then he can ask me, and we can hang out, and I can not be a giant overthinking spaz ball who ends up analyzing every word he utters, comparing herself to every girl he talks to and crying because the mean man didn’t have the decency to like her back.

You see this way, and here’s the best part, I get to enjoy myself, something that was largely shat on by my citizenship in the land of liking.

So catchya round, Crushton, hopefully not for a long long while though.

32. Get to know family I don’t keep in touch with. Whole other entry just posted.

And most importantly I think- 19. Understand what it means to grow up.

I never wanted to be one of those people who every birthday shrieks and covers their faces screaming “no oh god why me why is it always me” or, as is more realistic, complains a little about getting older every year. It didn’t make sense to me. Birthdays come whether you complain or not, and it seemed to me, you don’t want to complain away the one day a year you get presents for essentially not dying, you want to eat all the cake.

Despite this, a few years ago, I came perilously close to being that person.

I turned 26 and the knowledge that this would keep on happening, that though I still felt 19 and was for all intents and purposes, homeless and unemployed, I was no longer in my early twenties, and that there was every chance I would grow old and die dawned on me with a horrific thud that resounded deep in my viscera. No one told me it would be utterly terrifying.

Mild break down later, I went on to be a 27 year old, with a similar but less intense freak out about officially moving in to my late twenties, then, surprisingly, I turned 28. It was here that myself and a similarly aged friend did the maths and realized we were 12 years off of 40.

We very nearly lost our minds.

Since then I have been dreading 30. Not because I won’t party any more, not because of my skin sagging and the jokes from friends, but because I am most definitely not a 30 year old.

I believe I’ve made no secret of the fact that I feel my moving into adulthood has been some sort of embarrassing paperwork error on someone else’s part. I am stupid, laugh loudly, still enjoy slurpees and cartoons etc etc.

Though I joke about it, there has been many a moment of real fear in there as I contemplate my life after 30 watching people wear beige and be convincing about things they understand as I tie up my cons and move on to another in a series of casual jobs.

When I was newly 26, and lying on the floor in a morass of undignified horror, I paused in my wailing to ask my good friend Caryn, if she ever freaked out about getting older. “do you ever feel like you’re not the right age?” I whispered down the phone.

Caryn, a beacon of hope in a stupid, probably sugar induced frenzy, sagely replied “actually, I feel more like myself every year.”

At the time I was stumped but had the good sense to hope that one day I would understand how or what she meant.

And now that day has arrived. Somehow, slowly and insidiously, without really noticing it happening, I’ve arrived somewhere calm. Somewhere I’m happy to be, where 30 is actually something I’m really excited about. It snuck up on me like a sneaky little maturity ninja or responsibility ghost and now I feel like 30 is something I want to put on with my favourite shoes and go dancing in.

It’s a whole mess of things that have not all come together at once, but have rather been growing in me and around me, some for nearly 30 years. It’s about how I have a job now that I love, and that helps me to feel like I can do things for the first time ever. I am excited by the new things I can learn and encouraged by creativity rather than intimidated by it. I am comfortable but still challenged by my faith and though I’ve had times this year when I thought it was all a bunch of shit, I am happily trapped here once again. I live in a fabulous area of Melbourne that helps me feel alive and connected. I write more than I did before and I feel like I do an ok job sometimes. I am the happiest and most satisfied with who I am, how I look and how I spend my time that I’ve ever been- in short, I feel more like myself than I ever have.

I am still a huge spaz of course, but I’ve learnt that everyone does everything differently and the way I do 29- 30 doesn’t have to be the way that others have. I completely dug my 20’s and it will still be surreal when I meet various 23 year olds and I tell them I’m a whole different survey box, but if 30 means more of this learning how to be myself bidness, then bring that shit on.

So that is all the things I’m writing about for now because my internet was weird and i’ve been busy and tired (and at the microbrew showcase) and I will do more writing later. Like you even care. Shut up.

…Love you. x

Things I’m Average at No. 7: Being in any real way a “grown up”.

I am ageing.

I know this comes as a shock, but that doesn’t change the fact that I am awkwardly side stepping out of my twenties now, something I’d so infrequently thought about when reading the Babysitters Club or fatting my way through high school. I’m courting age, something that is outside of my control, moving stubbornly alongside me (or standing stock still as I run in stupid meaningless circles around it, depending on your perspective) stuck to my skin like a fungus (ew?). It’s a hand perpetually on my arm, blah blah blah, ooh inevitability, blah blah, happening to us all blah bliddy blah.

It’s the circle of life blah.

But- despite the continuous and unpermissioned propelling toward my grave, my adult self has, in an alarming display of self sabotage, largely refused to play and is sullenly sitting in a tree house, batting half dressed barbie’s heads together and muttering about how “it’s a dumb game anyway”.

I grow older, but not up. While I inhabit the body of a 29 year old, my old skool, puerile habits rear their heads with shocking frequency. Honestly if they continue to just let people grow older without any sort of standardised testing, there’s really no one to blame but the system.

Here’s what I mean.

I will continue to like boys

Boys, though. Like, why, when all other women over 25 started dating bankers and marrying and having children I completely missed the memo and thus am still mooning about, glaring at my phone, whining to my friends about how I just don’t knoooow and giggling over text messages, is of course beyond me. And, how many 21-23 year olds can I possibly meet, you know? A constant parade of kontiki aged males who go to uni and maybe shave a bit does not a mature, Austin-esque heroine make.

I will continue to giggle inappropriately

This guy in one of my classes last semester would insist on pointing out the surname of another girl in the class which was, unfortunately, Wang. I wanted to tell him to stop and that it was not cool, man, but I had to wait till I stopped snickering like a child first.

I will continue to be stunned that I have a job that carries any sort of actual responsiblity

Seriously. Who’s idea was this? I’m not like, endangering anyone, and some days I actually feel like I’m doing it well, but just the whole “do the things when they need to be done”, “best attend to those emails now”, “Oh I’ve got another meeting that night” thing is something that’s taking a lot of getting used to. It’s odd for a girl who’s used to filling her hours with a variety of dalliances with a variety of characters from a variety of fictional media and the assembling of an occasional sandwich. Very odd.

I will continue to throw my money away

I just love to spend money! Or more accurately, I just don’t care. I’ll just spend it. I shouldn’t go to brunch again, but I will, because I don’t care. I shouldn’t buy another stack of paperbacks from the second hand book store but I will, because I don’t care. I shouldn’t use my phone as a modem without pausing to think about the cost and then end up paying a $1300 bill. Whoops. Other people I’ve heard of or read about, they keep some of their money all together in a pile of some sort and sort of, save it, if you will. From the spending. Heroes.

I will continue to like candy

I gave up sugar for about two months. Then I started eating it again because my life is infinitely better when I can have the odd chocolate bar, gob stopper and bowl of vaguely sweetened breakfast cereal. I don’t know if I’m supposed to stop liking junk food at some point and move on to just nibbling daintily on olives and pesto or whatever but I just can’t see how that will happen without some sort of combined tongue/brain transplant. Presumably when I’m 40 I’ll get the package containing my new tastes in fashion, television and food along with my Opinions and Responsibility that got sent to the wrong address about five years ago. Then I’ll eat it.

And I will continue to HATE homework

Because it suuuuuucks sooo harrrd. I don’t WANT to research. And everyone knows it’s lame and whose idea was this anyway and no one ever says to smart people “prove you’re good by making a totally sweet sandwich or playlist” so how is it faaaair? Huff.

So… Done now.

Just wanted to get this all registered (you know, on the internet) before I’m actually a 30 year old. Ludicrous.




Things I’m average at no. 24: Talking to strangers.

I’m on the nine pm tiger flight to Adelaide. My tray table is upright, my knees unbearably close to the seat in front, my lower back humming with the beginnings of the almighty ache I will have when I disembark in an hour and a half. I have the aisle seat, we’ve just begun to taxi.

Seated to my left is young man, probably 24 or so wearing thick framed glasses, a white tee and dark skinny legs. He is fiddling with his phone. I have buried myself in my Stephen Fry bio immediately after boarding but as I read a part of me remembers something.

No. 35: Talk to Strangers.

Dang it.

I’ve noticed he has begun to use his phone as a mini skateboard and is doing little flips and stuff off his lap. I should talk to him. I will talk to him. I will put down my book under the pretence of having a drink from my water bottle, and then I will say “So what brings you to Adelaide?”. Aw yeah.

The plane has come to a bit of a stand still when I finish my chapter and serenely close the book, wondering if there’s any way the hipster next door could anticipate the verbal fireworks that are about to explode right in his face. I reach down, clasp my water bottle, unscrew the lid and take a drink. I put it back in my bag. I gently nudge the bag a little bit more under the seat. Now nothing stands in the way. I look at the pouch in the seat in front of me. Now it’s just me and you, little man.

We idle lazily on the runway.

I stare at the back of the seat.

I look slightly to my left, then to my right. I look down at the book closed on my lap.

talk talk talk talk talk you can do it what brings you to Adelaide what brings you to Adelaide whatbringzzyuutoadelaaaide

I study my fingernails for a bit.

The guy’s phone does another trick, a spectacular mini spin in the air over his right thigh.

I clear my throat slightly, then move my head to my right.

We move forward slightly, then come to another halt.

I pretend to be interested in the cement I can see out of the window, as though I need to visually verify that no, we haven’t taken off yet.

He looks downward, at his flipping mobile, adjusts his position slightly.

talk talk talk what brings you to adelaide what brings you to adelaide say it say it what are you waiting for? what is he going to do? rip your face off? plunge his phone into your eye socket?

I summon my courage and open my mouth. I close it again and look out the window opposite.

We are still on the ground.

The guy is reading the inflight menu. For the second time.

I feel physically ill.

I have now thought the words “what brings you to Adelaide” so many times they have lost all meaning.

Stephen Fry is smirking consolingly at me from his book jacket. Yes you can smirk consolingly. You have to know him.

The guy is looking out the window as well. Probably confirming we’re still on the ground.

I look back at Stephen. My heart pounds in my ears.


Dude pulls out the in-flight emergency instructions.

He begins to read them.

He needs me.

The plane is still not moving but is now making a loud buzzing noise from the rear.

A sweat breaks out on my forhead and I turn jerkily to my left. In a voice that is aimed at casual but probably hitting strangled and teary I say


He looks at me and shoots back in a low and slightly awkward voice “Yeah, pretty sure it is”. He is attempting to be reassuring.

“right right,” I say “it’s pretty weird though..”

He again assures me in his short, deep voice that all is well, clearly thinking that I’m on the verge of hysteria.

Loud buzz continues, sounding like an elephantine mosquito has landed on rear of plane.

Anxious, now that we’re off to this magical start, to make sure he knows my intent was relaxed convo not mindless panic I spout brightly that I’ve never heard that particular noise before at which point he looks at me sharply and asks if I fly a lot.

“Oh yeah, loads!”

Dude now looks as concerned as he thought I was.

Smiling manically, as though alarming young men on stalled flights is something I’m quite cheerful about I happily trill “Oh but, like, I’m sure it’s not a problem. hahaha!”

We are still on the ground.

I shouldn’t talk to strangers.

have you ever wanted to start a zine and call it auld lang zine? No? Me neither.

Knowledge dropped by the dearly departed 2010

Shimmery shiny vintage skirts are fun but not so much when you’re trying to hobble down a street or over a bridge whilst plastering said skirt to your legs in gale force winds so as to not expose granny knickers to passers by

Breaking up is hard to do

Definitely is spelt definitely not definately

Eating without thought for the future results in a fatty fat fat of catastrophic proportions

Steve Jobs started as a game designer for Atari

I can be a selfish A-hole

Apparently accidental plagiarism counts as plagerism

Apparently plagiarism is a big deal. Who knew.

The internet is a harsh mistress… Bitch.

There are SO MANY BANDS that are amazing

I can get good jobs

People are capable of committing acts of both astonishing horror and grace

Taking a picture a day can be frustrating when one is forgetful

Wonderful people can do shitty things

The negligible amount of alcohol it takes to make me a little floppy has actually decreased, making me the cheapest drunk of all time

Taking a picture a day helps render one more easily distracted by trees, flowers, colours, bricks and the like

I think about my hair a lot

The mexican burrito from Vegiebar is not an endeavour to be undertaken lightly. No sir.

I am capable of internal histrionics that would make Oscar Wilde blush

My friends are wholly marvellous

How I Met Your Mother = Excellence

Cardboard will get you. It will GET you.

One cannot stop getting crushes on boys by simply deciding to no longer get crushes on boys

Cynicism is the easy way out

Life is worth the living

Happy 2011 dudes.

how i suck at the sleeping, or things I’m average at no.87

Sleeping seems to be a sort of straight forward, normal person thing to do, along with breathing in and out, not falling off the earth and eating through your face. Generally at the end of the day people lay on a sort of comfortable soft version of the ground, with a squooshy softer thing under their heads and fall asleep, adding or subtracting ingredients like foot out of blanket, cuddable bear/unicorn/Jesus/partner.

The following is an account of how I do things.

V1. Scene: I am in bed, having felt very tired. I read till I can’t keep my eyes open any more.

Enter brain:

Brain: You are tired.

Me: Yup.

Brain: You should sleep now.

Me: Well, yes. Ha ha. That’s the idea. So…uh… G’night!

Brain: Night! … … Doo doo doo..

Me: Um. Is there something wrong?

Brain: Oh, heavens no. Just thinking. You sleep. Go on!

Me: O… k, night..

Brain: Oooh. What are you doing tomorrow again?

Me: University. I have TV and Popular Culture.

Brain: Oh Yeeeah! You didn’t do the readings for that did you?

Me: … no.

Brain: oooh. Hope that’s not a problem.. no, you know what? It won’t even matter. You’ll hear the lecture, so.. yeah. You’ll be fine.

Me:… ok.

Brain: So, what are you going to wear tomorrow?

Me: Oh my Lord.

Brain: I think it’s going to be warmish, so maybe a dress? Your red dress? Although.. it’s tight across your boobs. So maybe your black one? Although.. that is very short. So maybe your green one? That is so cute. Although.. you should probably shave your legs first. So you need to make sure you get up in time to do that. Ok?

Me: Sure. Whatever.

Brain (presumably lying on its stomach, twisting its hair around its finger with one leg kicking back and forth by now): You know, tomorrow, you should really hit the library and get some books. Really get going on those assignments. You always leave them till the last minute.

Me (glaring at pitch black ceiling): yeah. I know. I will. Just shut up.

Brain: Ok, ok! Don’t need to tell me twice… Do do doooo… hmmm…

Me (I utter a sigh of frustration that comes from my very soul): What. Do you. Want now.

Brain: Hhmmm? Me? Oh nothing. Just thinking about how much time you wasted today. You wasted a lot of time. A lot. A lot lot lot lot lot. Yeeeerp. A lot.

Me: Dude. I know. I’m sorry. I’ll do stuff tomorrow.

Brain (sounding considerably brighter): yeah! Cos tomorrow is a new day! Yay! Although, to be fair, you said that yesterday as well.

Me (sounding like I’ve ground my teeth into oblivion): Yeah, but tomorrow will be different, ok?

Brain: Wait a minute. Oh man. You’re not going to be able to get up are you? You’re going to sleep through uni again aren’t you?!

Me: What? No! Of course I’m going, if I can ever get to fucking-SLEEP!!

Brain: Oh, right. Ok. Say no more. I’ll be quiet as a mouse. Ssshhh. You sleep now.

Me: Ok! Good night!!

Brain: …


Brain: Dude. Do you remember when you had that dream about the whirlwind of leaves that morphed into a faun and the faun had the upper torso of Ryan from the OC?! That shit was AWESOME!!

Me: … It was pretty cool.


V2. Scene: My bed, around four in the morning. I am suddenly Awake. I am more Awake than I’ve ever been ever before in my life. I am aware of all things and a part of all things.

Me: what.. the hell..

Brain: MORNING!!

Me: oh.. dude.. What time is it?

Brain: I don’t know, but hey, you’re up! Ready to go?!

Me: .. I.. I just.. (checks time)

Brain: That was a weird party you were at in your dream. There’s not usually rollercoasters at parties, right?


Brain: Hmm? Oh I don’t know. Maybe the rooster next door or something. Anyway, about that dream, who was that guy? He was nice. Did you make him up?

Me: … I hate that effing rooster.

Brain: Maybe you should just get up, yeah? Make use of the early morning? You could write! Or go for a run!

Me: Are you high? If I get up now in fifteen minutes I’ll feel like I’ve died and I’ll sleep all day and I’ll never wake up again. And run?! Who did you think you’re talking to?

Brain: Fine, we don’t have to run, you could just-


Brain: Ok, ok, geez. Calm down. No wonder you can never sleep properly. So uptight. … Hmmm… Do de doo…

Me: WHAT?!

Brain: Do you think it’s one rooster, or many roosters? What is a bunch of roosters called anyway? You should definately google that.

Me: I just.. I just hate you so much..


V3. Scene: My bed, I have just awoken, having presumably been in a sleep coma for several hundred years.

Me: buuugghhwwhh…


Me (attempting any sort of body movement at all): Ugh. Uuuuugh.

Brain (speaking through several dozen cotten balls): Mangh.. Muungh.. jjyyoush..

Me: I.. eeeiiuu.. I yaamm uppp …

Brain: Duuuude. What time. Is things. Oh DUUUDE.

Me: that air is loud and stingy.

Brain: I are too not sleep now.

Me: I am too not sleep now also.

Brain: I. I think we sleep through clesses.

Me: Shit.

Things I’m average at no. 398: Not being a sook- an addendum.

So I got word earlier that I didn’t get this job that I really really really wanted. It was a Good Job. It was a Grown Up Job. I wanted this job a lot. When I didn’t get it, I cried and made for myself a small cave within my bedding and lay there and cried some more.

I was full of woe because this shit brings to mind many other things I’m average at like, having a real job, being employable, being an adult etc. And though usually I enjoy the charm of being completely average, embrace it and nuzzle its neck even, sometimes I want to just like, be good at something. I feel this is normal.

And so I got super excited about this job, and imagined myself doing it, and loving it and thought about changing my study to fit around it, and then they said they didn’t want me and the world once again looked at me and shook its head “no, you aren’t good enough”. Damn, man! That shit is cold!*

Any hoo, the part of the story I didn’t mention (along with any details at all) in my previous post was that I was offered a job the other day, just not this one. This was my bestest, I Can Do This Job job, shining like the light of the sun, and the other job says “hey!” and I was like “Oh…I guess..” *hair toss*.

So here’s me, in my bed, not doing assignments or like, washing myself, reminding myself of my shittiness while wailing into my pillow because one place found someone better qualified while another said they would love to have me. SOOK MUCH?


So I’m in the Cave of Sadness, and I look at my wall through the Slits of Misery (my eyes) and I see all the crap I’ve stuck up there. Crap that I dig, to remind me of things that are diggable. And I realise my life is pretty effing sweet. You can read about it here, on my other blog (ohmygoshpleasedon’ttellwordpresshe’llkillme) where I post photos of things I’m glad about.

I think it’s ok to feel sad, obviously. Sometimes I think it’s really helpful. Personally I love to crank the Damien Rice and bemoan my existence. I certainly don’t want to imply that I think it’s wrong to grieve or to mourn, even things like not getting the job you thought would be so right for you.

It’s just that I’m self aware enough to know that this job wasn’t just a job. It was me saying to me, “this is your chance to get something on your own, something hard and good and worthwhile”. And I was saying back to me “dude does that mean if I don’t get it..” and then I would reply “Yep. It means you’re shit. Officially.” And then I blew it, and that means every crappy thing I’ve ever thought about myself came true in that moment.

But the thing is, I know other stuff about me, and I know I got one job, and I know I have a wall full up of pictures of travel and friends and love and light so maybe just maybe I was wrong about me, maybe I should suck it the hell up and maybe it’s not worth staying in the cave tomorrow.


*Apologies. I watched some Dave Chappelle earlier, it gets under my skin man.