Tag Archives: cute men

Cropdusting Hipsters

31 Oct

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It all started when I farted in yoga.

It happened once, twice, three times a lady flatulist.

Not many girls own up to a fart, so at first I pretended that the pop was simply a wayward hip joint being wrenched from its socket like a newly-weaned, puppy farm kelpie. It kept happening though: every class I’d cropdust inner-west hipsters like a leaky Vietnam war jet, blithely turning the yoga studio into a miasma of my own special brand of Agent Orange. And sure, those bastards were breaking wind in uttanasana waaaaaay before it was cool, but some poor fucker was going to get their improved flexibility with a side of asbestosis. Seriously, I was about to be swapped out of the class on an emissions trading scheme for a sacred cow. I had to do something. So I tried a champagne cork. My li’l butt-plug became a rogue missile that rebounded off the wall and wedged in my instructor’s man-bun. It nearly took his eye out, actually. Thank god he had those vintage horn-rimmed Ray-Bans on.

Blaming it all on poor digestion, I briefly turned vegan. That was an experience. A windy one: I didn’t realise that eating legumes would cause me to fart more. Why did nobody tell me that? I dropped my guts so often that I’m probably due for a stoma. And it’s fucking hard to be a vegan. Not because of what you can’t eat; but because you have to master a brand-new tone of voice. The most important part of being a vegan is telling everyone that you’re a vegan. And you have to learn to say this correctly. You want only a modicum of snarkiness. You should imply superiority without sounding grandiose. Do this wrong and you’ll get punched in the face. And you absolutely cannot get punched. Trust me. A physical blow is devastating to a vegan- they’re all dangerously low on iron because vegan food tastes like unwaxed cardboard, elder abuse and broken dreams.

Next I tried The Paleo Diet: one of the most baffling marketing gimmicks this side of a Toohey’s commercial. Paleo is astoundingly popular in Australia- Woolworths are in the process of creating a mastodon section in the frozen food aisle as you read this very paragraph, so it’s not likely to become extinct anytime soon. In my brief stint as a cavewoman, I discovered that you can eat a large variety of foods. Such as bacon and olive Paleo bread served with thick, creamy clarified butter.

I wasn’t aware that Cro-Magnon man cured meat. Or baked, actually. Is Betty Crocker that fucking old? And what cavewoman churned butter? Was that while getting Bubba Yum Yum to stop scrawling on the walls of the cave and consume their autism-averting bone broth? And I have a math problem for you: how much kombucha do I have to drink over what period of time before I get the ‘Pete Evans manic gleam’ in my eye?

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That man is the Charles Manson of the food industry. Have you seen his Instagram page? It’s just drenched in clarified smug. I’m fairly certain that if you scroll backwards through it at a high velocity you’ll generate enough Newtownian energy to play Helter Skelter.

Another weird Paleo thing? Activated almonds. Yep, just because Pete Evans is a dick, it doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy his nuts. How do you activate nuts? Well, first you soak them in salt water- so the special, miracle Paleo enzymes are released- then you bake them over a low heat. And yes, cavemen totally did this. It’s how we evolved evolutionarily- activated almonds gave us the energy burst needed to outrun the sabre-tooth tiger. Everyone knows that. God, read a book. Activated nuts are easier on your colon, too. So not only will your anus love Pete Evans’ nuts, your shit won’t stink, either. I have to admit that my nuts felt awesome after they were activated. They were so salty and warm! I couldn’t stop playing with them. And I don’t know why Pete Evans doesn’t say to women, “Hey baby, do you want to come over to my place tonight and help me activate my nuts?”

There are people in this world who spend their time thinking about the dichotomy of capitalism and world peace. Me? Paleo pick-up lines.

Anyway, when my Paleolithic era died out, I latched onto the I Quit Sugar bandwagon and rode it to glory.

I Quit Sugar isn’t a diet. Sure, it involves drastically reducing your calorie intake and cutting out entire food groups- just like a diet- but it’s more than that. I Quit Sugar is a cult way of life. That will make you healthier. Glowier. Better at calculus. See, your body metabolises fructose differently to other sources of fuel. For example, when you drink Coca-Cola, your pancreas release insulin. You knew that, right? Well what you may not know- and I didn’t until I started reading Sarah Wilson’s blog- is that insulin then reacts with the soda, causing the glucose molecules to bind together to form a miniscule troll that will then take refuge in a pocket of your liver. Consume enough, and the pocket will begin to harden, calcify, and resemble a cave (this is why I Quit Sugar is so similar to the Paleo diet). If you keep consuming sugar, your body becomes acidic, and the troll will magically procure a pitchfork. The pitchfork then permeates the cells of your mitochondria to give you diabetes, adult acne, unfuckability, and high-magnitude emotional instability. Before you know it, you’re spinning off into a banshee’s orbit, screeching at people, dousing the world in vitriol because some lazy motherfucker forgot to refill the photocopier’s paper tray. Again. Bastard. This causes a chain reaction: the other person gets angry, stews on it, goes home, kicks the dog, slams the fridge door, and crushes their son’s 5th birthday cake- the Power Ranger one that the nice old lady down the street baked for him. The son will then grow up with soul-crushing feelings of inadequacy, which leads him to externalise, shag your only daughter, and dump her in front of the entire school, breaking her heart.

All because you drank a fucking Coke. Shame on you.

So, in summation: Sugar is evil. And, like Buffy, we must roundhouse kick it in the temple.

Odd things happened when I quit. My shopping trolley, for instance, was suddenly stuffed with kale, maca powder and coconut water.

Coconut water. Something that I once proclaimed to be “the only substance in the world less palatable than jizz.”

As the month wore on, my blood sugar levels stabilised, my stomach flattened, and my energy levels increased in direct correlation to my sense of puffed-up superiority. Before I knew it, I was becoming one of those horrible people that post their dinner to social media. Although, I must have retained some modicum of CC-ness because I added the hashtag ‘peteevansisadick’ to everything.

By day 35 I was running at 88% macrobiotic: almost at full Gwyneth. I felt amazing. I was a better person. Better than you. Better than Jesus. So I decided to bake brownies for everyone, which is what Jesus used to do for his disciples.

Don’t believe me? It’s true. Jesus used to bake all the fucking time. He wasn’t a Palestinian. He was a Paleotarian. It’s just a mistranslation. Pete Evans is writing a book about it. It’s self-published. Due out later this year. I believe it’s called, You have to eat Paleo to get into heaven. Apparently Bubba Yum Yum got smart from being fed bone broth instead of breast milk and wrote delicious recipes on the cave walls, which Jesus then found when he spent three days in there over Easter. He was resurrected to bring Paleo to the world. Where do you think the “loaves and the fishes” thing came from? It was smoked mackeral on gluten-free Paleo bread.

Anyway, since I’d been so healthy for so long, I decided to eat some batter. I dipped my finger in the mixing bowl, scooped out a large chunk of sugary happiness, and-

It all unravelled quite quickly.

I came to three hours later, snapping back into reality like a KGB sleeper agent who’d just heard their trigger phrase. I was on my kitchen floor, foetal, with a mixing bowl on my head. Around me, a nest of sugar packets, brownie batter, a mangled rubber chicken, clotted cream, and pinking shears. I have no recollection of what happened and my thongs are still missing. It’s possible that I traded them for some sugar. Or a rubber chicken. And I spent the next seven days consuming more chocolate than Honey Boo Boo’s entire family- including the inbred, extended brother-cousins. I was more saccharine than Delta’s post-leukemia album.

Banning sugar had given me a total ‘don’t push the red button moment’, and when I allowed myself to linger within the vicinity of the button again I not only touched it, but licked it, fondled it, and spanked it with synthetic poultry. I needed a detox day, I told myself. 24 hours where I consumed nothing but vegetables and green tea. That’d pull me out of Willy Wonka’s rabbit hole. I’d reset everything and I’d be okay.

I made it to 5pm before driving to the shops and purchasing a large jar of Nutella, which I then consumed for dinner.

That’s not true.

The double bacon cheeseburger with extra avocado (that’s a vegetable…right?!) was my dinner. The Nutella became dessert. A dessert that I ate directly from the jar with a tablespoon while wearing little more than shame, a basketball jersey and a pair of Batman knickers. Well, I could only bring myself to eat ¾ of it before coming to my senses and throwing it in the bin.

Okay, that isn’t true either.

I consumed roughly ⅞ of the jar before digging the remaining slivers out with my fingers, smearing them across my cheeks like war-paint, and watching Gonzo: The Life and Work of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson on Netflix, because when I cross that sticky brown line into debauchery, my instinct is always to round it like a marathon runner and sprint into the forest faster than a Delorian trying to travel through time.

At 32 years old I should know what I can and can’t do in relation to dieting. Unfortunately, I’m not the kind of person that can airily attend a few extra spin classes and skip dessert in order to fit into last summer’s bikini. When I diet, it starts as, “I’m only allowed to eat broccoli and cottage cheese, upside-down in a darkened room, while an organic lemon myrtle candle burns,” before eventually degenerating to, “So, I’ve spent the morning burning myself and smearing Ben & Jerry’s ice-cream into the wounds while crying and listening to The Smiths.”

So I quit quitting sugar because I didn’t want to be a quitter anymore. I had to. I Quit Sugar nearly turned me into Sally Struthers. So I threw the whole thing away and decided to face reality, to be a grown-up and be honest about where my digestive issues stem from.

Blocked chakras. Obviously. Specifically the sacral one.

So I’ve just booked the Flowering Lotus Spiritual Retreat. It promises to be a “magical journey through Mother India” which includes meditation, reiki, introspective rituals of the sacred goddess and, for some lucky participants, a Delhi Belly purifying cleanse. Inner Peace is guaranteed in the fine print and since I’ve booked before December 1st, I receive a free colonic irrigation upon arrival. Woo!

Stranger than truth

4 Sep

I’ve swore off internet dating.

For the thirteenth time.

I wasn’t ecstatic at the thought of returning to Plenty of Fish, but a dry fortnight turned into a dry month that turned into dirty dreams about the cute butcher with shoulders like a Frigidaire and, since I was coming dangerously close to dry humping a random stranger, I sighed and dusted off my profile.

I started chatting to a guitarist in a punk band- continuing my almost comical weakness for creative types, something I blame entirely on my ex-boyfriend. He was a bass player. Who wrote poetry about me. I’d watch his fingers glide nimbly over the frets at his gigs and swoon like some puffed up, rubenesque Edie Sedgwick. It was heady. He ruined me.

Anyway, The Musician seemed nice at first. Funny, clever, bearded. We organised a date and worked on bonding through unbearably witty text exchanges. However, as is so often the case with men on dating sites, it got weird.

If I didn’t immediately reply to a text, he would message me again.

And again.

And again.

I’d reply. We’d chat. I’d stop.

My phone would chirp.

Again.

And

Again.

There are several things that you don’t want to find yourself doing before a first date. Flinging outfits around the room in a clichéd Hollywood montage is one, and saying “Oh, for fuck sake” in a slightly resigned tone when your phone beeps is another. One morning I woke up to this:

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He was into fish, alright? He worked in an aquarium store. No, I’m not making that up. Yes, it is ironic given that he was on Plenty of Fish and…whatever. Truth is sometimes stranger than…whatever. Let’s move forward.

We’d been chatting until late the night before and I needed a lame manatee meme at 8a.m. as much as I needed one at any time of the day, which is: not at all. I deleted the text and rolled over.

8:30 a.m. – Not a fan of manatee humor, huh?

8:40 a.m. – More of an Emperor Penguin girl?

10:03 a.m. – How’s your day?

11:15 a.m. – 

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11:17 a.m.

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12:45 p.m – You sleep late, Cinderella

3:32 p.m. – How do you feel about anal bleaching?

Anal bleaching finally garnered a response, though perhaps not the one he was after. I told him that he’d manatee’d me to death. Oh, the hu-manatee. The date was cancelled and my Plenty of Fish account ignored for a few months.

A few weeks ago, I logged in to delete the account once and for all. My brief presence on the site was time enough for a Beneficial Friend from earlier to jump back on the hook. (Ha! See what I did there?) Long story short, I had an uncategorizable tryst with this fellow late last year. He cancelled a few dates and gave me a case of the crankies- which sounds suspiciously like an STD, but is actually the by-product of standing me up to do cocaine with a club-footed flight attendant, or stewardess, or whatever the politically correct term for those overly-coiffed sky whores is.

That part isn’t even true. Just funny.

The truth is that he jerked me around and I abruptly terminated our beneficial agreement, ignoring his subsequent text messages. After seeing me pop up on Plenty of Fish his beseeching texts resumed, escalated to a spot of friendly social media stalking, and, well, since a dry month had turned into a dry…um…anyway, let’s just say he wore me down to a nub and I agreed to see him again.

It wasn’t a date. It was an unclassifiable evening. I was simply a selfish girl using an equally selfish man for a mutually beneficial transaction. You might think that makes me a tramp. I wish I could care. I don’t indulge in casual sex nearly as often as this blog suggests. Too much of it can make you feel empty. It’s refilling a glass with fluid that slowly evaporates as a dry week turns into a dry month, but topping the glass up too often sends spidery cracks splintering down the sides. No amount of casual sex is worth the amazing feeling of waking up next to someone who gives you a look that says, ‘Golly, I’m glad that you exist and that you happen to be naked beside me at this point in time’. No amount of emotionless physicality is a trade for real chemistry with another person, and I would never relinquish that. My x-rated business transaction was little more than scratching an itch. I reasoned that instead of slowly fucking my way through the men of Sydney, I was recycling. It was ingenious. I was cutting the sleeves off an old shirt and pinning a gaudy brooch to it in the hopes that I could flog one more wear out of it.

At the beginning of the evening, I was waiting at the bar while he went to the bathroom. Upon returning, he slipped a hand in the back pocket of my jeans. “I saw this chick with a fantastic ass standing at the bar,” he murmured in my ear, “and I got a little buzz when I realised she was with me.” Ugh. Player. Still, it was nice that the squats I had been steadily doing at the gym were acknowledged, even though he was admitting to checking out other women on our unclassifiable-evening without expressly admitting it. Which is poor form. It’s the almost-dating equivalent of looking over the shoulder of the person that you are talking to at a party in case someone better is behind them. But, this wasn’t a date, so I let it slide. I made a flippant comment about how all men should worship my perfect derrière. Then I had to explain what a derrière was. Then I had to assure him that I wasn’t French. I think he was disappointed. Our drinks arrived, I took a swig and the evening whirled from Coogee to The Retro to, bafflingly, The Marble Bar where we drank overpriced vodkas and mocked the rich people around us.

The following morning his hand woke me up, and I can say with total certainty that a cold digit fumbling your private parts is a subpar alarm clock. I rolled over, giving a half-asleep snuffle that was hopefully adorable- but probably closer to the noise that a suckling piglet makes- and politely explained that, at 6.30 in the morning, the only horizontal action I’d engage in consensually was sleep. At daybreak, I usually wanted nothing stiffer than a double espresso inside me. I wasn’t actually human until the sun was up for a few hours. In fact, he wasn’t speaking to CC at the moment, he was dealing with CC’s representative, and she can be crabby when groped in the bleak light of dawn. We kissed and I rolled over, letting out another snuffle and burying my face in a pillow that smelt strangely metallic.

Two minutes later, the sheet lifted, tickling my back. I figured he was going to the toilet. The sheet hung, suspended in the air like a half pitched tent. I frowned into the pillow. What on earth is going on? There was a small moan, a guttural noise of (hopefully) delight, and, finally, a rhythmic squelching.

He was jerking off.

With my face now arranged in utter mortification, and buried in sheets that had the unmistakable odour of the rejected early morning advances of women past, I began to wonder what the etiquette for such a situation was. Did I lie perfectly still? Lift my rear end slightly to pose? Pop on some porn? Roll over to offer a hand?

Fuck that, I thought. I don’t like anyone enough to give them a mildly hungover handjob at dawn.

As the squelching sped up, I figured that the best thing to do would be to feign sleep and hope that he didn’t finish on my leg. I lay still, indulging in the sort of self talk that comes when you find yourself having front row seats to- and seemingly being the star of- a male masturbation fantasy. I reasoned that this was simply a gentlemanly gesture. He was rocking me to sleep. Like a lewd lullaby. He was holding the sheet up in the air in case I was too warm. Maybe it was an obscure compliment- maybe he was suggesting that I’m hot. It was pornographic praise. I did tell him to worship my ass, I thought to myself. Maybe he took me literally. Eventually- finally?- he finished. There was a slapping sound that I imagined was him somehow high fiving himself. He wiped himself on the sheet, rolled over, nuzzled my hair, pinched the roll of flesh on my belly and asked if I felt like pizza for breakfast.

You probably think that I’m lying. That I’ve graduated from embellishment to balls-out making shit up. I wish I was. I wish I had a normal undefinable evening with a normal uncategorizable man who woke me up by spooning me, or making me coffee, or telling me that I had enough crust to crumb a flathead around my eyes, rather than a fiend that jerks off over me while I pretend to sleep.

I was biting the insides of my cheeks, biting my tongue, biting a knuckle. Doing anything that I could to keep in the giggles that were threatening to erupt. I was shaking with the effort of not laughing. My representative was shrieking at me to get dressed and get the fuck out of the house.

I gathered my clothes and dressed in the hallway. His flatmate chose that moment to pad to the bathroom, and was confronted by a dishevelled, half-naked, rubenesque deer in the headlights. I grabbed my shoes, opened the door, tripped over my feet, and nearly broke a hip falling down the stairs. I regained my balance and threw my head back, letting out great shrieking cackles of laughter.

On the train home I messaged my friend.

“It’s never easy with you, is it?” he replied.

No. It’s probably not. But at least it’s entertaining.

He’s cute like a frog.

4 Mar

I do a lot of stupid shit when I’m drunk.

A few months ago I placed a restriction on myself: it’s fine to get mildly tiddled with friends and make devastatingly clever and funny insights about human nature at achingly hip bars that none of us have any business being in, but it’s not okay to be alone and drunk, in ones tiny-inner-city-flat. I have learnt that the latter ultimately leads to me tearfully caterwauling from one ridiculous concern to the next with maudlin 80’s pop music playing in the background.

Yesterday though, I had a “fuck this, I’m sad and I’m going to get drunk” moment. It felt good to relinquish my vice like control freak grip for an evening. Getting drunk alone seems to hedge the sticky line between “social 30-something” and “burgeoning alcoholic” in my mind. Drinking alone makes me feel shameful, as if I am spending hours furiously masturbating to internet pornography: it’s certainly a way to pass the time but in the end you just wind up naked from the waist down with the distinct impression that you are wasting your life.

Marieke Hardy has pointed out, “Drinking alone can be infinitely preferable to drinking with other people. For one thing, you don’t have to tolerate the company of other drunks.” So with that endorsement I took a deep breath and prepared to be naughty for a night.

Two bottles of average red wine later, I had a headache, a tiny-inner-city-flat in various degrees of chaos, a troubling mobile phone call history, a pink bra hanging precariously from the television, several blank spots in my memory, a small jar of glucosamine powder for animals, and a large chunk of material for a self deprecating blog post.

And, I would like to apologise to Charlie, David, Leeroy, Duane, Ben, Andy, and the person whose name I cannot remember who is simply saved in my phone as “Mr Awesome.”

Drunk Dialling

Between the hours of one and two on a rainy Tuesday morning, I thought that prank calling people would be “hilarious” rather than “fucking irritating”. I’d been trawling through my phone when I discovered that I still had the telephone numbers of men collected during my time on an internet dating site. Most of these blokes I had never met, I usually offered my mobile phone number in an offhand manner when they were sufficiently intriguing in email form and I couldn’t be bothered continuously logging in to respond. These fellows were saved as some variation of “Ben – POF”, and with their dating profile picture added so I could keep tenuous track of them. I had not conversed with any of these lads in months, to be honest I have no idea why their numbers were still in my phone.

Unless it was to provide 67 minutes worth of entertainment to a lonely, intoxicated, thirty-something who exists in a worrying state of arrested development.

I have a Prank Call app on my phone, a relic from my relationship with my ex which would see us waste oceans of time harassing our friends and falling into fits of thigh-slapping glee when they eventually spewed strings of profane words uttered in the rabidly pressured speech of the truly pissed off.  We discovered that, much like the SpeakEasy Text-to-Speech! app, Pranksterz! provided 87 minutes worth of entertainment to two bored, intoxicated twenty-something’s who existed in a worrying state of arrested development.

My first victim was Andy, then Ben, Charlie, and I’m sure you can gather the rest. Some answered their phone, some of them will undoubtedly discover baffling voicemails where a robotic-sounding Chinaman informed them that their food was ready at 1am and would they please get out of bed and come to the store and pick it up?

When I got to David, all hell broke loose.

David was the only one on the list whom I had actually met. He was a fellow that I shagged from Plenty of Fish who became progressively nastier when I suggested that I didn’t want to take our union further, ultimately leading to a three day long text war of Dynasty proportions at which point I shrilly threatened to “ruin him”.

David was called at 1:13am, 1:21am, 1:22am, 1:22am, and at 1:23am. At 1:37am, when an intoxicated thirty-something in a worrying state of arrested development got bored of using her iPhone app, David had a three minute conversation with a human being. Named Mindy. Who explained in badly accented California-girl English that the middle of the night was her chosen time to ring past sexual partners and inform them that she had Chlamydia. And, ergo, there was a small chance that they had Chlamydia, too.

At 1:41am David was reminded that hanging up on Mindy wasn’t nice. Mindy was merely showing neighbourly concern about the sexual health of David and his future partners. Unfortunately, David did not show an appropriate level of appreciation.

At 1:50am, Mindy was briefly crushed when David called her a “crazy cunt” (which sounds like a chain of discount stores hawked in late night infomercials by a red-eyed John Singleton). David insisted that he had no idea who Mindy was and that he had “a very clean cock”. Recovering quickly, Mindy referenced the overweight Staffordshire terrier that David frequently locked in the laundry when entertaining his lady friends, proving that they had indeed shared a tawdry evening together.

Upon hearing this, David fell silent and uttered an audible gulp. His thoughts seemed to ring loudly through the crackling air: How did she know about my dog? Maybe I have fucked this bird. Oh god. Maybe I have Chlamydia. Shit. Shit. SHIT!

Unfortunately, this beautiful prank was ruined when Mindy gave a loud burp, collapsed into giggles and disappeared in a telephonic beep, never to be heard from again.

Denes Glucosamine

The white jar sat innocently on the couch. I had no idea where it came from. Upon inspection, I discovered that it was Denes Powder, a “green lipped mussel and glucosamine formula for cats and dogs”. Having no pets, I was mildly confused. There were two selfies in my phone- one of me holding a parcel, one of me holding the powder. Further investigation unearthed parcel wrapping in the bin, which suggested that at some point during the night I had decided to sneak down to the mailbox and steal my neighbours mail, ostensibly hoping that the small jar-like shape in the package was some exotic brand of cosmetic. I can only imagine that I had an inebriated internal conversation, where I managed to convince myself that if the package hadn’t been collected by 11.30pm, she obviously didn’t want it and by stealing it I was actually doing all of the other residents of the complex a service by ensuring that small packages were not left on top of the communal mailbox.

I left my keys hanging in the front door, too. A karmic invitation for burglars to let themselves into my house while I snored like a drooling pirate fuckwit with my inexpensive bounty scattered at my feet.

There is red lipstick…on everything

I woke up on the couch with red lipstick smeared on my arm, my face and my cushions, an empty wine glass sitting upturned at my feet, the crumbs of the midnight ham and cheese toastie spread over both my bosom and the kitchen floor. A small square of gluten-free bread sat forlornly on the bench, half-moon bite mark taken out of it, a determined trail of ants marching to and fro from a small crack above my kitchen cupboard. At some point in the evening, I had also made myself an espresso and managed to paint the kitchen cupboards with abstract art using only the finest organic Columbian coffee grounds.

I have no idea how or why there is now a harlot coloured lipstick print on the E key of my laptop. Perhaps I fell in love with an E, or an Edward, or Bob Ellis. The likely explanation is that I have ceased typing, mid sentence, after spontaneously collapsing, gracelessly faceplanting my laptop in the process.

To be honest I’m not even sure why I donned red lipstick to throw myself around my apartment, alone, on a Monday night.

The ever present iPhone

My Google history usually provides an interesting insight into the evening: “hybristophilia”, “Placebo Loud Like Love video clip”, “is Scarlett Johansson a whore”, “Denes glucosamine human consumption”, “is Denes only for animal consumption”, “can I give Denes to a human”, “will I die if I eat Denes powder”, and “how do you spell schaudenfreude”.

Earlier in the evening I had received a text from a fellow writer that I have been on a few dates with. I recall receiving the message at about 8.30pm but, with a flow of words pouring out of me like vomit and a bottle of red wine under my belt already, I had decided against replying, choosing instead to bash away at my laptop like a frustrated Mozart. However, at some point during the night I had picked up my phone and composed a verbose and mistyped SMS- involving entirely too many emoticons for anybody over the age of seventeen to use- which endeavoured to inform him that I found his thick framed hipster glasses “ironically dreamy” and that, despite the fact he is only my height and I would really prefer it if he could find a way to stretch his physique “only about half a foot or so, I’m not picky”, I would really enjoy another date with him if he would be “amenable to the idea” because he is “cute like a frog”.

Fuck. A. Duck.

Thankfully, I never sent it. And, thankfully, he doesn’t read my TMI blog, because I seriously doubt that I would receive much more than the awkward suggestion of alcoholics anonymous if I had not blacked out before hitting send.

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The ghost in the shell

13 Sep

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I had to write a post about this, to deal with it and to also demonstrate what a delightful comedy of errors my gigantic mess of an existence is.

So, I return home from work, put my bag down and go to the loo. I stop. In front of my toilet door is a copy of my roster, which was sitting in a tray on my desk, laying underneath a shell from my bathroom windowsill. I stop and do the obligatory freak out for 12.7 seconds. Then, I pull out my phone, snap a picture, and promptly post it to Facebook.

Absolutely true. Dear God, CC. You ridiculous, Generation Y, social media whore.

I reasoned at the time that I was beyond reasoning. It was actively, very odd. I supposed that the wind could have blown the roster off the tray from my desk, then blown a heavy shell from the windowsill. Perhaps the shell skipped over the toilet with the lid up, turned a corner, sailed through the door, and landed neatly on the corner of the roster.

Could totally happen.

I figured that if this was not a freak occurrence of Mother Nature, it could be a ghost with an odd sense of humour. My parents had smuggled that shell from Fiji on their honeymoon, maybe it was a South Pacific Ocean Demon, wreaking revenge three decades later.

I decide to check my spare key, which I had cunningly hidden downstairs after I locked myself out of the flat shortly after moving in.

The key is gone.

The freak out intensifies.

I sit, chew my nails, swear under my breath, and eventually lock the bottom lock on my door, which I never use.

After a beat, I decide that they key must be downstairs, I’m overreacting. I’m being melodramatic. Things like this don’t actually happen in real life. The world is not a scary place. Perhaps I just didn’t look hard enough. I grab my phone to use as a torch, and head back downstairs.

After ferreting around like a bag lady, I find the key. Yay. I head back upstairs to discover that I am locked out of the flat.

I locked the bottom lock on the door, see.

The one I never use.

Shit.

I am wearing only pyjama bottoms and a flimsy singlet. “Only” actually means, only. Only, as in no bra.

Fuck.

After trying to pick the lock with bobby pins, I decide that I am not Catwoman. I give up and call a locksmith.

The locksmith will be fifteen minutes. I wait outside. I am freezing and it’s painfully obvious. A cab pulls up, I look hopefully…like a meerkat with its arms over its chest…Not the locksmith.

On the plus side, there’s a cute guy who lives in my building. However, his first impression of me is dishevelled, mildly hysterical and pacing up and down the street clutching my phone.

The locksmith arrives. Another cute guy- where are these men hiding when I’m not a delicate mess? I try to conduct a reasonable conversation as he digs in my lock- not a euphemism- with my arms folded across my chest. My singlet is white. And threadbare. And he needed the hall light to conduct his work.

I’m a bit disappointed I didn’t get a discount.

I am obviously at home now, $220 poorer. The damage to my pride and dignity is yet to be valued.

I still have no idea what the fuck happened with the shell.

And, for the record, I totally would have given me a discount.