Tag Archives: feminism

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Forehead

21 Dec

I’m getting dumber as I age, because in my 33rd year on this planet, I decided that it was time to inject poison into my head.

Botox.

God knows why. It was largely curiosity, which appears to be the driving force behind my every impetuous decision. And you should know that the word ‘largely’ is used rather ‘loosely’ there.

Ten days later I fucking hate it. Hate it. And there’s nothing I can do about it, either. I’ve got to marinate in my stupidity and wait for my vanity to wear off, which will take approximately three months. This is just long enough to come to terms with the fact that I’m ageing, and also dream up a bunch of Botox jokes that’ll never get old.

Ha!

So, it’s an ordinary morning in an unnamed laser clinic in Sydney’s inner-west. I’m in a plastic chair, fingers clutching the leather satchel in my lap, and I’m grinning like a fuckwit before a woman with an I’m-still-funky-in-my-fifties orange dye-job and freakishly smooth skin. She repeatedly calls me ‘Gorgeous’ in an attempt of camaraderie that’s about as natural as her hair; and she is hovering over the top of me: an odd, waxen Skeksis from a nebulous era.

I trace a finger lightly across my forehead, emphasising that my presence in her salon is only spurred on by the appearance of “some fine lines starting across here”. I’m not, you know, vapid or anything.

Her hazel eyes zero in on my face as her throaty voice corrects me. “No, Gorgeous. Those are deep lines. Quite deep for thirty two, actually.”

Great. Apparently I’m ageing in dog years.

“And you’ve got a frown line beginning here,” she continues. “That’s a fine line.” Pause. “There’s one here, too. And your crow’s feet could do with a little…” She puts down the marker that she’s been using to Crayola my face with and picks up a brochure. “There’s a package available for treating two areas or more. It’s discounted at the moment,” she makes a show of flipping pages even though I’m fairly certain she knows the price by heart. “$459,” she glances up, her emotionless face incongruent with her tone. “It’s our Christmas special!”

Now, to put the cost of these injections into another context, $459 is roughly equivalent to the GDP of Liberia.

*Pause for effect.*

And, if a woman were to get this package four times a year (once every three months) her budget for facial paralysis would be the annual income of a Vietnamese fisherman.

Or, in other words, it’s a Christmas special fit for Tiny Tim himself.

Essentially, this package would make everything from the cheekbones up immobile. And, while this did appeal to my narcissism on some primitive level, I declined. At least until I learn how to express myself like a chimpanzee.

F3.large

The side effects are listed as she preps the syringe. “…drooping eyelids, bruising, headache, a heavy forehead-”

“Wait, wait,” I stop her. “A heavy forehead?”

“It’s not a pleasant feeling, but you do get used to it. You might have to raise your chin to read anything above eye line.”

I stare up at her. Without lifting my head, incidentally.

“I’ve got a date tonight, I’ll be alright for it, won’t I?”

“Of course. Just remain upright for the evening. If you lay down there can be complications.”

“Complications?”

“It can spread and paralyse other areas of your face.”

Best birth control ever. Sorry cute musician boy, I can’t shag you- unless you keep me perfectly vertical during the entire event- because nice girls don’t let their face get fucked on the first date.

Three days later I can’t move my forehead. And I’ve tried. When I do, one eyebrow twitches and the other flattens- I’ve nicknamed them ‘Mr Abbott’ and ‘Mr Shorten’, respectively. Yuk. Yuk. Yuk. What’s more- or possibly, what’s worse– is that she put far too much in. My eyebrows, once as delicately arched as the Bridge of Sighs, are now two broken roller shutters hanging over my face. I’ve devolved into Cro-Magnon woman. The skin under one brow bags attractively- sort of like a prolapsed uterus. I look like a Fraggle with a busted facial stitch.

Marlon_Fraggle

And one could argue that I am a complete muppet for doing this to myself. I mean: I can’t express how I feel about the results. I’m absolutely horrified, by the way, but you’ll have to take my word for it because I’m currently unable to convey that emotion.

And there’s got to be a feminist rhetoric hiding in that statement. Botox caps our emotional range. It lobotomises us, turning us compliant, docile. The patriarchal hierarchy is dimming our fire, man! The bastards. In Renaissance Italy, women used to drop belladonna into their eyes to dilate their pupils, which was the socially agreed upon sign of beauty. The side effects? Blurred vision and eventual blindness. So they were pretty as, but, you know, utterly fucking helpless. This sounds insane, right? Well, I posit that cosmetic injectables are the belladonna of the 21st Century. Don’t believe me? Botox is a compound of botulism, a toxin that was manufactured for chemical warfare in the Gulf War (among other places). Not only do we now inject this shit into our faces, but we pay people for the privilege. If the ridiculousness of that isn’t smacking you in the face like an autistic toddler, let me throw some farce comedy in to drive the point home: shortly after my botulism injections, I went and got myself an anthrax exfoliating peel and an ISIS labioplasty.

So my skin is now smoother, but in being frozen from the eyebrows up, I’ve lost something of myself. Botox has literally and figuratively flattened me out. My face- once earnest, friendly and reactive- is now a mask. I have permanent Resting Bitch Face. I’ve become Kristen Stewart. I didn’t realise how much I used facial expressions to communicate: to convey interest, surprise, to build rapport. Without my eyebrows, I find myself nodding a lot, like a bobble-head dog in a Chinese lady’s Corolla. In my haste to preserve my skin I’ve incapacitated a chunk of it, turning it into a metaphorical comic book that sits on the shelf in a plastic sleeve- the one that you never read and therefore never enjoy because you’re worried about a crease diminishing its value.

And I don’t know if that’s an equal trade-off.

Because I earned those wrinkles.

Sure, through smoking, but also experience. The furrow of worry above my left eye is courtesy of being trapped in Cuba with no money, no escape and no passport. The one above my right? Nursing violent lunatics for four years. That one there? A university degree. This vertical line above my nose? A crazy ex-husband. They’re the physical manifestations of a life lived. They’re my fault lines, each forming from the minuscule internal shift that has occurred from being thrust under a pressure that has tested me, nearly broken me, but ultimately fortified me. Would I trade them for a boring life and a smooth forehead?

6fea2600ee48b7315640ed8fd708779953d34e434c04cc23e9313c0f5205bcf0

And, if you’re hurtling towards the bathroom mirror every morning to marvel at the way your face has subtly shifted in the past ten years, it means that you’re still alive with your motherfucking marbles intact, which means that you’re incredibly fucking lucky. And if, like many of us, you’ve been challenged in your life; and if, like many of us, your body is now a roadmap of your emotional scars, you should stand tall because it means that you’ve not squinted in the headlights of adversity (or, if you have crow’s feet, maybe you have) but bore a brunt instead. So be fucking proud of it. Don’t erase it.

Besides, as a smoker, I’ll probably have a few more wrinkles than the average girl, but that’s the price I pay for sucking nicotine through a little tube every few hours. Getting Botox to ward off the effects of that is like going to church for Sunday confession after you’ve spent the week beating the shit out of your wife.

Back in the clinic, when I decline her $459 package, the Skeksis warns me about the importance of injecting the rest of my face as a preventative measure.

“I never started getting it until late and now my frown line just won’t go away.” She points at her glossy forehead.

I squint. Nothing. There’s nothing fucking there. Michael Jackson’s sexuality was more pronounced than that wrinkle.

“Preserve your beauty now, Gorgeous. You don’t want to wind up looking like me.”

I blink, considering the sentence that’s running through my head, choosing to remain politely silent instead.

No. I certainly don’t want to wind up looking like you.

Image

Pompously Untitled in Oaxaca #3

29 Oct

IMG_0071.JPG

A post that is almost about blow-jobs

22 Jul

This. THIS is why I hate feminism.

Or feminists.

I’m not sure. Maybe both. Maybe I am a misogynist with a vagina. Who knows.

Okay, before I begin, I want you to embrace a hypothetical for me. Let’s pretend that this blog is read by more than just three Cambodian perverts and a semi-literate goat in Brazil. We need to pretend that this blog is huge, that it receives over 4 million page views per month.

…Sorry, I was side tracked in cleaning up the gigantic puddle of urine that erupted, mid-cackle, when I considered the complete unlikelihood of my inane ramblings ever going grand-scale.

Not that you would know that I paused to clean up urine. I mean, you would have finished one sentence and skipped straight to the next, not knowing that there was a break in typing as I mopped up wee.

I didn’t.

Mop up wee, that is.

Or, come to think of it, wet myself, either.

Actually, I’m not even sure why I included that wee lil’ urine joke, it’s not funny.

And it probably leaves you with a small question as to the state of my pelvic floor muscles.

Perfectly fine.

By the way.

I’m, uh, totally continent.

Yep.

Anyway, we need to pretend that I am a male writer with a strong pelvic floor and a stronger disdain for lady parts. We need to pretend that I am a man who hates eating pussy.

Stay with me- there is a point to this.

Pretend that I have written a blog post that talks about how gross it is to eat a girl out. This blog post is going to be sexist, NSFW, and offensive, so you are probably going to read things like:

“Vaginas, in general, are disgusting. And ugly. Below the waist, every woman looks like she has been flayed by an inept Hannibal Lecter with late stage Parkinson’s disease.”

“Even the word: vuh-gyna. It sounds like something that an AIDS-ridden Care Bear would say.”

“When girls get excited they leak manky, salty fluid that tastes like battery acid, Kraft Blue Cheese dressing, and sorrow. And, all girls smell like an old can of tuna.”

I want you to imagine the words “axe wound”, “meat curtains”, “hairy doughnut”, “sausage wallet”, “fish taco”, and “cum dumpster” are included in the article.

Picture a graphic description of sweaty thighs with no box-gap clamped over ears, followed by a bad joke about this pressure inducing an aneurysm. I would then talk about a hairy bush that has the unmistakable tang of urine.

Imagine, that as a man, I complain about what a horrible chore it is to eat pussy but I simply have to because if I don’t, all of the Machiavellian double-x chromosomes out there will cry and, since women look ugly when they cry, it’s easier to just suck it up and take one for the team…by “digging around that black-hole with an increasingly cramped tongue.”

It would be pretty offensive, no?

Now, if this article actually existed, it would be pulled apart and ovulated over by the radical fillies at Mamamia. For those that don’t know, Mamamia is a feminist blog run by Mia Freedman. I hate-read it on a regular basis.

Seriously, it’s dreadful.

On the blog, the writers frequently point out sexism in society. (“Gob-smackingly sexist media moment of the day“, “The man is repulsive. The end.“, “Female defense force cadets are ‘flabby and smell like fish’.“) They complain about things. (“It’s time for offensive and violent bumper stickers to be banned.”) A lot. (“What’s the difference between a men’s magazine and a rapist?“) They hate Seth MacFarlane. (“Today, the world got together and said ‘No’ to Hollywoood’s creepy, lazy misogyny.“) A lot. (“Oscars host Seth MacFarlane’s ‘We Saw Your Boobs’ song. Sexist, or just wrong?“) They don’t believe in objectification of men. (“Shameless objectification. Of men. Is this ad offensive to boys?“) They point out the sins of the patriarchy with smug, cats-cream smiles. (“Somebody actually wrote ‘5 reasons to date a girl with an eating disorder.’“) They frequently take things that are supposed to be a joke, put them into a gigantic vagina-grinder, and somehow turn it into the reason that men and women STILL DON’T GET EQUALITY IN THE WORKPLACE. (“The 2UE ‘Comedy’ sketch which left me cold.“) They skirt the sticky line between lipstick-feminism and “the female body should under no circumstances be shown in a mildly sexualised light or else our daughters, and daughters-daughters, are going to be chained to a kitchen sink and repeatedly gang-raped by a martini-wielding Don Draper-type while being forced to bake brownies from scratch” with hypocritical abandon. (“Embarassing and degrading for celebrities.“)

Occasionally, I leave comments. Often, they are deleted. My last opinion that was promptly erased from cyberspace like the memory of a bad date was: “It’s tripe like this that gives feminism a bad name.”

So, going back to my original point: if this anti-fanny blog post I hypothesised about earlier actually existed, it would have been shredded by Mamamia.

HOWEVER.

This piece of rancid afterbirth appeared on Mamamia a few weeks ago.

“Giving head is the worst”

It was written by this odious character.

rosie-having-a-panic-attack

Rosie Waterland.

Guys, if you ever see this woman in the street, I would suggest that you fucking run like you are being chased. By a woman. Who hates your sweaty penis.

Then dance like nobody’s watching. Laugh like there’s no tomorrow. Sing like nobody is listening and love like you’ve never been hurt.

You know, if you get motivated. By running. Maybe a spontaneous act of strenuous exercise will energise you? Maybe it will give you an endorphin rush of inspiration that suddenly turns you into a lame e-Card.

I’m not even making sense anymore.

Anyway, you can click the link to read the article or, since I know that reading on the internet breeds a special type of laziness, you can read it here, complete with her unfunny photo captions.

I’m just going to come right out and say it:

Giving head is the worst.

It’s okay – you’re reading this in your mind right now so nobody has to know that you agree.

I understand, as unjust as it is, that most ladies (and I suspect a lot of guys) feel like they can’t admit to having unpleasant feelings about sausage-shaped chunks of rigid flesh being shoved repeatedly into their mouths.

There seems to be a general feeling that one must pretend to enjoy performing oral sex or risk a life of loneliness, listening to Taylor Swift while getting into twitter fights with people about Jennifer Aniston’s love-life.

I get it. There’s pressure to conform. But this is a safe place, and I think we all just need to admit that eating penis isn’t enjoyable.

Don’t get me wrong – I totally accept that giving lady-head would be just as unpleasant an experience. I can’t imagine having to swim through my pube garden would be easy by any means. But it’s all about doing something nice for someone else and taking one for the team. So while I understand that enjoyment can come from doing something that your partner enjoys, that doesn’t mean you have to enjoy the sweaty balled, sperm-inducing act itself.

I mean, let’s break it down, shall we?

It usually begins with a make-out session that is rudely interrupted by the not-so-subtle pushing down of the head. That is the penis-owner’s code for: “I would like an orgasm that requires no physical exertion on my part. Thanks in advance.”

hotdogIf only.

If you accept your fate and agree to be a selfless blow-job hero, you then have to pull off the dude’s undies and untangle his sweaty bulge from his hairy balls (one of which always needs to be peeled off the inside of his leg) and unfurl them like one of those wrinkly puppies stretching out in the sun.

All the sweat that has been collecting in between his pubes from hours locked inside his penis-oven now glistens on your hands, which you try to politely wipe on the bed/carpet/your own pants without him seeing. Because romance/magic etc.

After some obligatory kissing of the general area, you eventually realise that you’ve put off the inevitable long enough – you must take the actual penis into your mouth. You can only cup sweaty balls and kiss the safe zone between the belly button and the pubes for so long. You must get down to business.

(Also, let’s take a brief moment here to acknowledge that just the concept of putting something in your mouth that was probably shooting out urine just minutes ago is straight up gross.)

It’s important you try to get comfortable now, as there will be some sustained physical effort on your part. The key word being ‘try’, as comfort for a person giving a head job is generally regarded as an urban myth. You’ll either get a dead leg from being on your knees, or an aching arm from lying on your side and trying to hold up the top half of your body with one elbow.

Highest possible comfort level attained (not very), you must then must ‘ease’ into proceedings, as just shoving the whole thing into your mouth and letting it sit there like a docked boat until it explodes is, unfortunately, considered poor form.

You must try to coat the whole shaft in your (sexy, make sure it’s sexy) saliva to ensure adequate lubrication for your hands (usually still covered in glistening ball sweat), which will shoulder some of the workload while you avoid the inevitable for as long as possible: the attempted deep throat.

orangThis is all I could find in stock images to represent sweaty balls.

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a penis must be in want of an individual to deep throat it. And no matter how many times he has tried and failed, he will grab the back of your head mid blow-job and try to push it as far forward as he can.

Men tend to forget the concept of head ownership during sexy-times; they assume that if their penis is currently attached to someone’s head, it indicates ownership of that head. IT DOES NOT INDICATE OWNERSHIP OF THAT HEAD. The person who owns the head knows how far it can go in, okay?

It’s at this point you are usually expected to begin ‘sexy moaning’. This involves ignoring the fact you currently have a penis trying to poke the top of your left lung, so that you may concentrate on making the relevant human sounds that indicate sexual pleasure.

It is also, though not always, expected that you make sexy eye contact with very sexual sexy eyes. It should also be noted here that looking sexy with your gaping mouth stretched around a penis is impossible – no amount of sexy eyes is going to fix that.

It’s been said that a very rare and select group of women look attractive while crying – I suspect those are the only women who look attractive with a dick in their mouths. And probably also at the dentist.

Okay. Here’s where things start to speed up. At this point you are basically like one of those perpetual motion chicken toys that drinks the coloured water, except on steroids. All pretence of hand involvement is forgotten. This part is basically about you trying not to gag as your head moves back and forth at an exponential rate. You must resist the urge to switch whatever leg/elbow/hand/toe you are leaning on, or the rhythm will be interrupted and you may end up having to go even longer.

The lips you have wrapped around your teeth to protect his precious manhood are starting to feel the pressure. All you can think about is how much easier this would be if you were fitter. You desperately need a glass of water.

Then…

fountain

Get ready to die, sperm. IN MY MOUTH.

He finishes. (Which is just a nice way of saying that he explodes 1 billion little wriggly sperm into your mouth, which immediately begin gasping for air, racing towards an egg they’ll never find).

Grouped together, they have the consistency of warm snot and the taste of broken dreams. And it doesn’t matter whether you spit or swallow; some of them will definitely end up wedged in sad little sperm graveyards between your teeth.

So, that’s it. Not unbearable, but certainly not pleasant. I’m not saying that I never do it. I’m just saying that I hate it. And I know, I know, I’m not the only one.

Because giving head is the worst.

Now please excuse me while I go and watch any chance I have to find a man slowly fade away.

 

My first thought on reading it was, ‘Lesbian!’ Followed shortly by, ‘So…does that mean she swallows?’  Then, inevitably, ‘Wait a minute, you can imagine that it’s not easy to “swim through [your] pube garden”? Maybe, um, you know, you should give your hedges a little trim every now and then?!’

Plus, she makes the bile-inducing suggestion that even though giving head sucks, she does it.

Wow.

Rosie. I mean, bravo.

You heroic, blow-job warrior.

Her making this comment is a thinly veiled “See? I’m not a man-hater” but it actually comes off (ha! comes off. Geddit?! Like… Oh, never mind) as the dating equivalent of “I’m not racist but…” In other words, a bad justification.

Oh, maybe I could have made a semen joke there: A bad jizz-tification!

Ha!

A girl left a comment saying how much she “freaking *loves*” giving head, thereby securing her a moderate queue of men who would happily cut off their leg at the hip for half a chance to spend the night with her in any permutation of any foreseeable future.

Anyway, if a man told me that he hated to eat pussy, then proceeded to describe the act in the way that Ms. Waterland just did, I would rightly brand him a sexist pig and promptly take my lovely, little ‘giney to a man that is going to enjoy it. People who use phrases like “yuck”, “gross” or “I don’t do that” in regards to oral sex immediately ring alarm bells for me. Not because they’re a prude and I’m a fiend (which I may well be), but because people who flap their hands at the wrists and cry “Ew!” when it comes to something as normal as oral sex have some fucked-up issues that I don’t want to begin to unravel. I’ll find a nice, normal man who is only too happy to bury his head between my legs with delightful regularity and work on repaying the favour. In full. With interest. And stuff.

But it’s this double standard that annoys me about feminism, and I suspect it is what is sending a generation of girls running to websites like Women Against Feminism. For many feminists- and I have that heinous clan of upper/middle-class, Anglo-Saxon wenches at Mamamia firmly in my sights when I say this- feminism is less about fighting for “equality” and more about carrying a large, vagina-shaped chip on your shoulder. (On a side note, I just googled “Does feminism have a capital f?” and found that someone had answered, “Isn’t there a man around that you can ask?” Bwahahaha.) If Mamamia really believed in equality, they would never have published this article because it’s fucking hypocritical to call out instances of sexist jokes against (against? toward? about? yeah, about sounds right) women and then poke fun at men. That’s not equality. That’s fucking sexism.

And I’m calling it out on my tiny blog.

And, gentlemen, you know how you can thank me? 😉

I’m kidding.

 

 

…But seriously, I’m not.

Get down there.

Now.

The case for Wicked Campers

15 Jul

Paula Orbea is the devil.

But, since that is technically slander, I withdraw that remark.

Paula Orbea is, for those of you who don’t know, the woman who is campaigning against Wicked Campers, asking them to withdraw their “misogynistic and degrading slogans and imagery.”

In other words, Paula Orbea is a radical feminist who is creating a storm in a teacup by whipping a bunch of puritanical idiots into a lather.

Slander? Or opinion? Not sure. I’ll withdraw it anyway.

Long story short, Paula’s eleven year old daughter saw a Wicked Camper van with the slogan “In every princess, there’s a little slut who wants to try it just once.” She then went to her mother, expressing mild levels of distress. So Paula, for reasons unknown to a rational human being, decided to start a petition on change.org campaigning for Wicked Campers to obliterate it’s fleet of wacky vehicles in exchange for safe, slogan-less vans.

Reading the petition on change.org, I can assume two things.

  1. Ms Orbea wants to wrap her child in bubble wrap, and turn the world into a vanilla wonderland that prevents her having to engage in any mildly awkward conversations with her offspring.
  2. She needs a good fuck.

Okay, okay. The second point is offensive. Since I own a vagina, I should probably not assume that uptight, overly-moralistic women are sexually frustrated bitches. Paula is just exercising her right to equality between the sexes. Blah, blah, bleat, bleat. I have the petition here for you to read. In it, Paula enthusiastically clucks and pecks to get her point across, using words like ‘degradation’, ‘offensive’, ‘sexual objectification’, ‘paedophilia’, and ‘disrespect’. You know, the magic words that unlock stuffy, priggish feminists. The words that form four sides of a soap-box for idiots with no sense of humor to stand upon and rant about things that don’t matter.

In all honesty though, I can’t understand how a woman would happily waste hours on social media, branding herself as a “warrior for balance” who believes that “women are the key” when she could have put in a modicum of effort as a parent, had a two minute conversation with her child, and saved everyone a lot of hot air.

Anyway, this is the petition from change.org. I have added my own comments in bold.

“My 11 year old daughter was with her grandfather in the Blue Mountains a few days ago, when she read the slogan:

‘In every princess, there’s a little slut who wants to try it just once’

on the back of a Wicked Camper van.

This is the only way I can explain how offensive it is.

When one reads such a slogan, the same thing happens to every person who understands it – which my 11 yr old did – we picture it. This business, makes us picture that and many other degrading things.

[Okay, stop. ‘It makes us picture things’? You know what can make me picture sexual things? This

calvin-klein-underwear-02Or this

promo3Or this

marc-jacobs-diet-coke

Or this

Untitled

Or this

volvo-ad

What are we going to do? Ban underwear advertisements, Volvos, diet Coke, gelato, and Gossip Girl?

Sex isn’t even confined to advertising. It’s in EVERY POP MUSIC VIDEO. Like this:

192085_f260Or this.

kanye-west-and-kim-kardashi

What’s the answer there? Neck-to-knee attire in all music videos? Assassinating Kanye West?

Anything can cause us to picture something sexual. My God, seeing one of these

deskin the right company can make my mind wander to a depraved place. As can this

l29000001Or this

downloadOr this.

honeyAs you can imagine, the supermarket is a veritable minefield for me.

Anything can cause a sexual thought in a person. It’s part of having reproductive organs. It’s evolutionary. Deal with it.]

You can either gain pleasure from this image or disgust.

Those who gain pleasure are the problem – yet they have a platform to spread their vile perspectives.

[So, hold on- does daydreaming about a member of the opposite sex after seeing one of the aforementioned advertisements mean that I am objectifying and degrading men? 

Does the sexual thought that I indulge in mean that I am going to spike someones drink with Rohypnol and Viagra and assault someone?

Of course not.

Does a man watching Kylie Minogue in all her gold-hotpant glory in Spinning Around assume that she is a slut who is asking to be raped?

No.

Does a person seeing the priest/ nun Gelato advertisement believe that nuns regularly relinquish their vows to seduce good-looking priests?

Of course not. We all know that priests are busily ogling alter boys.

SORRY! Sorry. I don’t think this post could get any more offensive. 

I can try- here’s a random picture of a naked Miley Cyrus. 

WreckingBallScreenshotI love those boots she’s wearing.]

My daughter was upset by this because she felt, as a girl, that the slogan was refering [there are so many fucking spelling mistakes in this] to her and it made her fear being perceived that way – especially by someone she may cross paths with who may agree with that perspective.

[Then you need to spend five minutes having an educational conversation with your daughter and teach her that men are not all potential rapists/ sexists.
What you shouldn’t do is start a ridiculous campaign to ban things that some of us find interesting and humorous because you are too lazy to do some actual parenting.]

This particular phrase promotes paedophilia [whoa…what!?] and resonates very badly with everyone who thinks it’s abhorrent to sexually assault a girl, especially by groomed males who think ‘she wants it’.

[That’s a leap- Paedophilia? Rape?

You know what I pictured when I read that slogan? A woman- one of those perfectly groomed, high-maintenance, Barbie dolls with perfect hair and make up- sprawled on all fours on a bed, manicured fingernails clutching at a pillow, quivering, enthusiastically waiting to be, um…well, you get my drift. My point is that I pictured a ladylike woman in a highly-charged, sexual situation. Not a forced sexual situation. Not a child in a sexual situation. A princessy-type in one. I posit that anybody who immediately went to “rape” or “paedophilia” after reading that slogan is the depraved one. The majority of normal people wouldn’t automatically go there.

Plus, I would like to volunteer that there is a modicum of truth in the Wicked Campers slogan. Women are, on the whole, much more perverted than men would imagine. It’s one of the reasons Sex and the City was such a big hit- it showed the truth:
Women. Like. Sex.
Women. Talk. About. Sex.
Just. As. Much. As. Men. Do.

Case in point: I was having a conversation with a guy recently and, out of the blue, I found myself thinking: ‘I wonder what his orgasm face looks like?’ I have no idea where the thought came from- aside from a passing desire to copulate with this gentleman- and it disappeared as quickly as it came. Every woman will, upon seeing an attractive man, wonder what he looks like naked. If I see strong arms or big hands I often imagine them doing, um, things.
…Like the dishes. Yeah, the dishes. Scrubbing…pots…and stuff…

I’m sure other women daydream about sex, as well.
…I hope they do, anyway.
Good grief, if I’m alone in my deviancy it’s a frightening thought…

But, my point is: women are sexual creatures, too. Let’s not get all prissy in our feminist views because it will only succeed in turning us into sexless, joyless, humorless drones.]

Slogans such as this ring too familiar to real life attrocities, such as the recent discovery of Rolf Harris’s sexual assaults; enacting on a girl as young as eight.

[Ah, yes. To drive your point home and drum up a few thousand more signatures, relate this to a well-publicised case of paedophilia.
A girl seeing an offensive slogan on a camper van is NOTHING LIKE being sexually abused at eight years old, and to suggest so is HIGHLY FUCKING OFFENSIVE to the victims of paedophilia.]

It is inconceivable that Wicked Campers choose to not only write the misogynistic ‘joke’ but also then publicise it through their moving, billboard vans.

Disgustingly they have also promoted that, ‘Fat girls are harder to kidnap.’

[Hahaha!- ‘Fat girls are-’ …Oh, sorry.]

Shame on them.

Adult females are also degraded into sexual objectification and disrespect – with slogans on show for people of all ages to indiscriminately see and absorb:

‘A wife: An attachement you screw on the bed to get the housework done.’

[Attachement? What the hell is an attachement?! Someone should have hit spell-check on their computer before sending this petition out…]

‘A blowjob is a great last minute gift!’

[Oh, come on. How fucking hypocritical to call this degradation! I bet if your partner grabbed you and had a little gnaw between your legs, you’d be perfectly content.

And there is nothing wrong with giving a blowjob. How is giving your partner a blowjob any different to them buying you flowers for no reason? Or cooking you dinner? In fact, I will put my hand up and say that I quite enjoy giving my significant other head with no expectation of reciprocation. It empowers me. You know why? Because I choose to do it. I choose to make them feel good because doing so makes me happy. It’s my gift to them. It’s my way of saying ‘Honey, you are awesome.’ I don’t blow men I’m not in a relationship with and I have never used a blowjob to gain anything but I wield my blowjob prowess with pride, joy, and gusto. That is feminism, folks.

Okay, probably not.

Come to think of it, I don’t even think that last point supports my argument at all.

Why did I say it…?

…where am I? Who’s talking? What’s going on?! It’s cold in here…]

‘I wouldn’t trust anything that bleeds for five days and doesn’t die!’

[A joke that is as old as the sun but we are deciding to get offended by it NOW.]

Racism has also played a part with slogans such as:
‘Save the whales, harpoon a Jap.’

[Because if you can’t incite enough morons to sign this petition by using phrases like ‘degradation to women’, you can play the race card and get a few more people on your side.]

You get the idea.

[Actually, there is another Wicked Camper slogan that has been conveniently left out of this campaign: “If God were a woman, would sperm taste like chocolate?” Now, if we are going to get our lacies in a twist over how women are treated by Wicked Campers…isn’t this statement degrading to men? How interesting that she chose not to include it…]

Are you happy with this?

[Yes. I am. Wicked Campers have PERSONALITY. They can make a dreary drive entertaining. Their vans are no different to someone wearing a T-shirt with an offensive slogan on it. It’s freedom of speech. Don’t argue with me on that. It is.]

This business (amongst many others) thrives on pleasing a small demographic of people, who find it funny to mock those who may be living the horrible realities perspectives such as these manifest.

[And what a “horrible reality” women live. Every now and then, we bleed. For five days. Oh, nobody has suffered the way that women-kind have suffered. How dare someone make a joke about our menstrual cycle?]

But we are the majority, not them.

Enough. It is time to say enough – with calm, intelligent but firm resolve.

[Trust me- NOTHING ABOUT THIS IS CAMPAIGN IS INTELLIGENT.]

We must become Actionists – by looking at the action that is being performed, (regardless of gender), deciding whether it’s good for us as a species and calling it out if it isn’t; demand change.

[You know what isn’t good for us as a species? Losing our sense of humor. Taking everything too seriously. Reading too much into things. Trying to turn the world into a boring, beige place.

Life is ridiculous. You have to laugh at it. And these camper van slogans are JOKES. Have we forgotten the simplicity of that concept? Does Paula Orbea really believe that Wicked Campers are promoting paedophilia and rape? Surely she realises that John Webb (founder of Wicked Campers) doesn’t think that we should stab our Asian neighbours with a spear? Or kidnap women?

Not everything in life is to be taken with po-faced seriousness.

In fact, this is Wicked Campers rebuttal, and it kind of makes me take their side a little more:

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]

This is not good. I’m calling it out.

Join me.
Paula

You know what, Paula? There are things that we should be pissed off about as women:

Female circumcision.
Gang rape in the Congo.
Child brides.
Sex slavery.
The infanticide of female babies in India and China.
Women in Thailand forced into prostitution to help support their families.
Women in Saudi Arabia not being able to drive or access education.
Women in Chile not being able to own land.
Dowry deaths.
Honour killings.

The list goes on. If you really want to change the world, how about we start with the things that really matter?

Or are you content with trying to enact a tiny change. Tackling “inequality” one camper van at a time, is simply throwing a pebble into a rushing stream. If you really are an “Actionist” why don’t you put your money where your mouth is?

The Definition of Insanity…

4 Jun

…is doing the same thing over and over again, expecting different results.

An incident recently happened, an incident that culminated in an email that is too hilarious not to post and poke fun of. This is what happens when you sexually reject an egomaniacal, arrogant, narcissistic, delusional depressive with a penchant for the theatrical. I received this from an ex-boyfriend that has been repeatedly pestering me for sex. I told him no on five separate occasions, got the shits, and finally emailed him and told him to leave me the fuck alone. He went crying to a mutual friend, received no sympathy, told said friend to “fuck off”, and then sent me this. I’ve added my own comments in bold.

No. That’s unfair. To say all that & expect me not to contact you again. [Translation: you touched a nerve with your last email] Please read this whole thing at least.

Then you’ll never hear from me again.

Yes, I am capable of realising when I act like a cunt, & I do have insight. In fact, I’m going to be more honest than I’ve ever been, & I might be a bit of a cunt now, because that last email you sent me was pretty cunty really. I hope I can chalk it up to you quitting smoking or something. [Oh, for goodness’ sake- and he says that he has ‘insight’? Why not just ask if I’m on the rag and throw a block of chocolate at me?] Besides what have I got to loose [pointing out grammatical errors would probably be petty] that I haven’t lost already?

Yes I wanted to fuck you, actually I wanted to go down on you for a good while. [his ‘good while’ equates to two minutes of real time] Make little explosions in your brain. [I think it’s about time that someone explained the female orgasm to this boy] I inadvertently attempted to manipulate you. I thought you might still have a spark for me somewhere [despite constantly hearing otherwise] I thought you might want to just throw caution to the wind, play with a little fire, get drunk and fuck & not worry about all the relationship shit. [Translation: ‘No’ doesn’t actually mean ‘no’. ‘No’ means ‘Get her drunk and try’] I guess I thought if I could get you into bed you might feel something for me again. That’s all. Your right. [grammar! …sorry] I don’t see you so much as a “friend”, as I do an “ex-girlfriend”. I’m not sure at which point the “ex-girl” part was cut out of the equation. I think that’s pretty crucial. The reality is we have a history, as much as you seem to want to forget all about it all. [Golly, I wonder why?]

It’s not like I planned it out, to wait ‘till you were “drunk & trapped”, hell, I felt drunk and trapped because I’m a man and I have instincts and desires [Translation: having a dick is a curse] and a passion for you that goes beyond the superficial, despite what you like to believe about me. The two things aren’t mutually exclusive. Love + Testicles = Sexual Desire. [Translation: Having a dick is a curse. A curse, I tell you!] Men and women are built differently. Deal with it. Actually, Testicles = Sexual Desire, [Translation: So there! It’s not my fault. It’s my dick’s fault] but Love helps when it comes to monogamy.

I didn’t accuse you of leading me on purposefully. I noticed elements of body language [Translation: I clutched at straws] from you that I took as purely bio-chemical reactions to someone who used to have sex with you on a regular basis, me, remember? I guess you wish you never did. That sucks. I think I was a bit average in bed back in those days, a little mechanical maybe. I guess my ego does want to conquer that particular mountain again. My dick’s bigger than back then you know? [How To Get Women 101: Tell them, in a none-too-subtle way, that your penis has magically grown] Ah, *chuckle*. What a charmer I am. Just like you. My grandmother says you’re not very ladylike you know. Firing those curse words at me. [But writing a lady an email with seven ‘cunts’ in it is perfectly acceptable] Sorry, but I have no one else to talk to now since Glen [a mutual friend] has sided with you, which is to be expected, I’m pretty sure he’s into you as much as I am. I just push through the facade. No wonder I’m so unpopular with the both of you. [Yes, your whimsical honesty is the only reason you are unpopular.]

I don’t believe you ever said “I don’t want to fuck you”, [then you, my friend, weren’t paying attention] at least not in those words [see previous point]. So your use of quotations there is spurious. [something tells me that he is proud of this use of ‘spurious’] You said you didn’t want to “use me”. You said you didn’t want to “hurt me”. You said you don’t want “a relationship”. But you never said you didn’t want to fuck me. That’s exactly what I was clarifying that night. & as soon as I did, gave it my best shot. I went back to watching the movie right? Didn’t press that issue at all [except for the four previous times the issue was pressed until it bled] once I understood where the boundaries were. Yeah, that’s actually what really happened [No. It wasn’t.]. Then you spent the night stewing, I spent my night bawling into my pillow so you wouldn’t hear me. Sure, that’s a fella with only one thing on his mind. You wouldn’t believe the amount of hours my sorry ass has spent crying over you in my life. [Translation: you need to feel really bad about the fact that you refuse to fuck me. Bitch. Prick tease. Lesbian!]

As far as “wasting an hour of your life guilting you”, that’s just arrogant. At first you thought I was calling you a slut, so I don’t know if that’s your conscience talking, [Translation: I wont call you a slut, but I will insinuate it because you are a bit of a slut] when I was actually saying the contrary. & I don’t know how sleeping with an ex-boyfriend would make you slut by anyone’s standards. It was only a waste of an hour for you, because only I got something out of it. That’s not very friendly of you. [Translation: Because it’s ALL. ABOUT. ME. How dare you take the focus off my needs and wants for a second?] A waste is when nobody gets nothing. [Says the boy who went to bed with a wet pillow and a dry willy] It would’ve been charitable of you to have that talk, [Charitable? Charitable. Am I The Patron Saint of Pity Sex?] if you didn’t carry on about it as if I pulled my cock out and stuck it in your face. That would equate to a lack of respect. [‘You never waved your cock in my face?’ Wow. What a prince. It’s good to see boundaries somewhere.]

I really don’t see how my wanting to be intimate with you, proves that I don’t enjoy your company. That is a fundamental flaw in your argument, you seem to think men don’t have emotions or something. Well this man does ok? A copious fucking amount actually. If you can’t tell that I’m a sensitive guy, maybe it’s because you’re insensitive to me. That sounds about right. [Translation: I just gave myself a Joygasm with how clever that sounded] Like I said, caring and sex aren’t mutually exclusive. It’s just a difficult thing for a man to compartmentalise, I think it’s definitely related to having fucked you in the past. At least I never fucked you over, (‘cept over the kitchen bench that time, that was awesome…) […then why do I have absolutely no recollection of it happening?] Am I being too facetious? I think it’s because I’ve upped my meds. Maybe you should try it? [Translation: any woman who doesn’t want to fuck me is crazy and therefore in need of medicating] It’s a chemical thing, the lust I mean. Tricky to get around with anything but sheer willpower [No. It’s not. You just put your grown up pants on and DEAL WITH IT as an ADULT] and a clear understanding of the lines you have set. Which involves talking about it, not having to pretend like I’m a eunuch. [I think that your inability to procreate would indeed be a blessing for the human race.]

“No interest in being your friend and no regard for you as a person.” Well that’s just false. I held you in high regard until you ripped me a new one. [Translation: Bad CC! That’s a very bad CC! You don’t bruise fragile egos!] I’ve spent the last 6 months telling you how much I care for you, respect your intelligence, your cultural learning, independence, attitude etc. [Translation: See? You’re more than just a walking, talking vagina] and how much I want to be there for you. Talk about a waste of time, [Translation: I’ve spent hours trying to prise your knees apart and I get nothing. Nothing. Not even a whiff. Lesbian.] but it’s alright when you’re getting your ego stroked right? Never mind I’ve been wearing my heart on my sleeve. I have an interest in being around you, but really it’s that added dilemma of making what my balls want strictly out of bounds. Castration anxiety. [‘Castration anxiety’? …shouldn’t it be ‘The Blue-Balled Blues’?] It’s an internal conflict. Have I made you laugh yet or are you still frowning at the screen? Whatever.

Alison? [His ex-girlfriend who he is casually fucking] You really don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s not as black and white as you want to make it. Her & I have an understanding, & I’ve spent plenty of time making sure she is alright. [I am assuming that this takes place in the three minutes that peel by before she is unceremoniously ejected from his bed: ‘Are you okay? Yes? Good. …Then why are you still here?’] I’ve had a lot of CALM conversations with her about it, which is a courtesy you no longer extend. [Gee, I wonder why?] I never led her on, I’ve been honest with her from the start that it was purely casual sex. I’ve never said anything nasty about her. Anything I’ve said to you, I’ve said to her face. [So you have said something nasty…] But you probably think that makes me a cunt. [Yep.] I think it makes me honest. Semantics really. I’ve basically done to her what you did to me back in the day, [Translation: you have the right to treat someone like shit if your heart was broken nine years ago] so it’s kind of funny that you’re getting angry at me about it and defending her, when you don’t know her from a bar of soap. [True. But you did say that she told you that she was in love with you and having casual sex with you was painful for her…] She’s made her feelings “abundantly clear”? Actually she has said she doesn’t know what she wants. [Translation: Therefore, I am free to exploit her] So I don’t know where you’re getting these facts from, except from your own aggravated overly-feminist delusions about what a lecherous villain of a man you think I am.

Is it because I licked your asshole that time? I thought that was a true show of commitment… (I’m just joking okay.) [A paragraph that was nearly edited for the sheer fact that reading it actually makes me vomit in my mouth a little bit.]

So, as you’ve told me twice [five times, actually], I won’t contact you again. After this. Third [Sixth] times a charm. If I pissed you off the other night, this email might well make you homicidal. [Translation: Have I pushed enough buttons for a response yet? Please? Anything- call me a cunt again, I don’t care…just…pay…attention to me!] Sorry. You really need to try & relax & calm down more, for the sake of your nursing at least, if you don’t want to become that cold-hearted, detached and angry [(Lesbian)] woman.

My idea is that true friends can be honest with each other. [Translation: Except when the honesty involves something I don’t particularly want to hear] In order for ex-partners to be friends there needs to be a level of emotional maturity which you’re not really giving me. I guess you could say the same about me. I’ve been working on it. But it requires a bit of give and take from both sides. [Translation: You give me eons of time to talk about my feelings like a hormonal teenage girl and I…take that time.]

You (& Glen) act like you being my friend is some kind of noble gesture on your part, but being around you for me, is like being run through an emotional meat-grinder. You left me. [(Bitch. Lesbian!)] So Ultimately, maybe I pushed things too far on purpose. I can’t cope with you keeping me at arms length constantly. [Translation: Let me fuck you. Please?] If you can’t understand or sympathise with that, then you’re not truly my friend. You’re the same victim-playing neurotic that you were back in the day. [How To Get Women 102: if you can’t harass her into bed you can always try to insult her, maybe it will break her confidence down low enough to fuck you] So I guess some things don’t change. I’m still the “self-centred narcissist” (I’m not sure how that syncs up with my anxiety disorder, maybe it’s a defence against the massive shame and self-doubt I’ve had in the intervening years since you dumped me? Not to mention the molestation & abandonment issues, there I go being the victim), and you’re still the feminist that is convinced I’m a bastard because I like sex, and have minimal notions of romance. I guess that makes me callous to a degree, (scars will do that). [AND I’M PLAYING THE VICTIM?!] I like sci-fi, not chick flicks y’know? [When all else fails, go with a stereotype.] I’ve tried, with the cooking you dinner and such. I’ve never figured out what you wanted in that regard. You never told me. You’ve always expected me to be a mindreader. [With some of the barbed comments that have flown through my head whilst in your company, I’m quietly thankful that you aren’t a mind reader.] Hell, I thought you hated the conventional notion of marriage as much as I did back then. Then look what happened. [Yeah, I got divorced. That’ll teach me.]

Actually, it’s not entirely me. You have a double-standard. You can’t carry on blogging about booty calls, writing about dripping vagina’s [Dripping vaginas?! When have I written about dripping vaginas?! Is my slutty, smutty alter ego updating my blog while I sleep?] & fat naked crazy women, getting into all kinds of extreme media, then turn around and expect a man to treat you as a sensitive romantic. [can somebody give this boy a dictionary with the words ‘persona’, ‘facade’ and ‘self defence mechanism’ highlighted, please?] You send the message that you’re just like one of the fellas, rough and tumble, up for it, bit of a tomboy, then when you get treated like that, [Ha! He admitted it!] you cry foul and pull out the feminist handbook. [Damn, I left my well-thumbed copy of Feminism for Dummies at his house…what on earth am I going to use to cock-block men with now?] You can’t have your cake and eat it too in that respect. If you have the right to be completely crude, then so do I, and any other man you’re with. If you want to be treated like a lady, than you have to act like one. Then I would do my best to be a gentleman and an old-fashioned romantic. That’s where the mixed messages come in for me. [Ah, I see. So you badgering me for a root like a piece of meat is all my fault. Okay, cool. Now I know. I will do my best to act like a demure Betty Draper in the future to stop anything like this happening again.] Maybe I was just raised differently. I always tried to do the right thing by you. Closed relationship? Open relationship? Casual Sex? Rough Sex?! (That never happened, not sure if you’re into that shit either, I’m not really). None of the above? Ok well shit. My bad. Maybe you should have never gotten with me in the first place. Because you’ve done a bang-up job of messing with my head ever since. [(you hideous, horrible, hard to bed lesbian wench)] I never needed any help with that.

It would be good if we could make something work, but, such is life. Maybe do some soul-searching yourself? I’ve admitted I’m fallible. [Have you? Where? All I read was justifications] Realise, that you have again spitefully attacked, & run away from, a guy who would actually do anything to make you happy. Including letting you go. I’ve done it before and I can do it again. That’s real love. [is that what love is? Harassing someone, guilting them, manipulating them and, when all else fails, writing them an offensive and insulting email. Shit. I’ve been doing the whole “love” thing wrong, then.] I want you to be happy even if that means I’m out of the picture. Have a nice life CC. I’m sorry it didn’t work out. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to figure you out, & I’ll never forget you. [(Lesbian.)]

-Anthony

[Final Translation: You asked me to leave you alone but your words stuck in my head like little, emotion-filled bullets of unfairness; so I had to stew for twenty four hours, binge-read your blog, cry, jerk off, eat a pizza, self medicate with several hundred beers, then fire this email at you. I will leave you alone. However, I will also periodically stalk Chattering Cat and feel indignant if you ever dare to ride a pole that isn’t attached to me.]

I’m in two minds about this- the person who wrote this wants a reaction from me, so posting this could be playing right into his hands. The adult thing would be to smile, delete and block him from all forms of communication. But, that’s boring. And, he is so ridiculous in this email- puffed up with his own sense of grandiosity like some ridiculous, oversexed flamingo- that I have to shred him.

A bit of back story is required to put this in context. Anthony and I were together when I was 21. I left him. In a bad, immature, slightly bitchy way. I married someone else. It didn’t work out. Anthony contacted me again when I was first divorced, wanting to be friends. I agreed. He wanted to catch up with me, to talk about what transpired between us years ago, to clear the air. I agreed. He put the hard word on me to take him back. I told him that I was just out of a marriage and he had a girlfriend. He said that he would leave his girlfriend, Alison, for me. I politely said no. A few weeks later we caught up again. He put the hard word on me again. I said no, politely but firmly. A few weeks later he messaged me. He and Alison had just broken up, did I want to hang out with him? Sure, he was keeping a casual sex relationship up with her, but that didn’t matter…did I want to fuck him now? After this, there were two more times where he either rang or bailed me up and badgered me into giving him another shot. My patience wore thin. I wound up saying “I want to be friends but do not want to fuck you and that isn’t going to change”. His reply was a wounded, “…that’s harsh.” I went on to say that I was a patient woman, but constantly bringing this up was wearing my patience thin and if he wanted to be my friend he should accept my offer of friendship and nothing else. He agreed.

I did want to be his friend because I enjoyed his company and I was incredibly sympathetic to how he felt. I know the feeling- liking someone that you know you can’t have. Anybody who is friends with the opposite sex knows how that feels. It’s hard, it’s painful and it sucks but it can be done. You can acknowledge your feelings without acting on them. I have done it myself. Recently, in fact. So when he repeatedly brought up the possibility of us tumbling into bed together, I told myself to be patient, that it’s not easy to have feelings for a friend.

Friday night, I went over to his house. We had a few drinks and watched a movie. At 1am, when I was too drunk to drive myself home, he put the hard word on me again. Badly. Relentlessly. He told me that I was leading him on by hanging out with him. He insinuated that I was easy: he didn’t understand how I’d fuck all these other men but not him (what other men? I’d like to meet these imaginary fellas. I do hope that they are nice guys, I’d like to think my promiscuous alter-ego is with someone who treats her well). It got so bad that I remember thinking ‘I’m drunk, not drunk enough to kill someone if I got into my car and drove home…but I would certainly lose my licence if I got pulled over…Do I really need a licence?’ I told him no- again– went to bed and left early the next morning without saying goodbye. He sent me an angry text message. I ignored it. He rang me several times. I ignored him. He emailed me. I told him to stop contacting me. He put it back on me: ‘You are the one who rudely left without saying goodbye and haven’t bothered responding to me. I’m trying to see how I’m the bad guy?’ Suitably agitated, I let him have it. I told him that his behaviour was reprehensible, I called him a self-centred narcissist and asked him to stop contacting me because I now had zero interest in being his friend. He stewed, boiled over, and emailed.

And, after telling me that he would leave me alone, he contacted me on Twitter.

All My Single Ladies…

16 Dec

Okay, so I broke.

Not Facebook, but I am updating the blog. I can’t help myself. I’m writing anyway, may as well edit and share the nonsense.

It’s quite difficult to stay off Facebook. I have to say I’ve cheated- a certain amount of Facebook is necessary for travelling, so I send trip related private messages. I know. But I haven’t looked at a news feed. Surely that buys me some willpower points somewhere…right?!

After a week of my self imposed exile, Facebook emailed me. “You haven’t checked me! Are you okay? Have I done something wrong?! You have notifications waiting! Come back! Whatever it is, we can work it out, I can change!”

I told my best mates about my Facebook Holiday Ban during one of the semi frequent emails I send: Hello, not dead, robbed or raped. I’m here now, heading there tomorrow. How’s Sydney? Miss you! 🙂

One bestie drily replied to the FBHB news: Good. You aren’t there as a fucking foreign correspondent.
The candour that only fourteen years of friendship can bring.
You are there as CC trying to rediscover herself. Much more important.
The same candour that allows one to call out a self indulgent and hackneyed three month voyage of self discovery that only the immature ones with no responsibilities can afford to do.

Anyway, enough of that. Travelling. Alone. Hmm.

If I had a dollar every time I heard, “You’re alone? My god. Isn’t it scary?”

…Well, I’d probably have seven dollars, but this is South East Asia, man. You can live like a King for seven dollars.

This question is usually followed with, “Don’t you have a boyfriend you can travel with?”

I had no idea that a partner was a prerequisite. Now I know.

Come to think of it, the question at the Thai border makes much more sense now, “Ladies: are you in the company of a man who regularly fills you like a bathtub?

I, of course, answered no. I was preoccupied with the realisation of how long it had been between, um, baths. I had to bribe the guy to let me in the country by myself. AND he only did on the assurance that I would don the harlot lipstick and do my best to find a man and settle down like a normal person.

My solo bliss hasn’t stopped a hive of indignant-bees entering my bonnet. I actually wrote a messy rant: why is a single man a bachelor- a swinging, free, fun, hard drinking lad who has taken the brave path of avoiding histrionic banshees loaded with oestrogen. A single lady? Well, she’s a spinster, crying into her soup-for-one and forgetting the names of her fifteen cats. Because, we are worthless unless we are part of a couple. We have to be paired off like animals heading towards the ark before we dry up downstairs and become useless. Well, title of my blog aside, I would like to firmly place myself as a bachelorette rather than a lonely cat lady, and it’s so unfair that…

Eek.

I know. Me and Ms. Greer. Frightening.

If it can be edited to sound more clever and witty, and less slavering feminist, it may make the blog. Maybe.

Probably not.

You’re welcome.

I’ve had other reactions to being alone. I met an almost lady boy in Sihanoukville. Beyoncé. Yep. Truesies. I change names on here but that was too fabulous to cover up. I’d periodically see him sashaying down Serendipity beach, hawking cheap friendship bracelets. He would sit next to me as I sipped piña coladas and we’d chat. We initially bonded after he made fun of my arm hair.
“Let me remove it?” he asked, brandishing threading string with a wicked gleam in his eyes.
“No, it’s fine.”
He pouts. “Who are you here with?”
Upon hearing that I was travelling alone he bluntly asked, “Don’t you have any friends?”
“No, actually. People hate me. In fact, I didn’t come here for a holiday, I was chased from Sydney by a mob with burning torches.”
“You’re so funny. I’m going to make you a bracelet because you’re so funny. Even though you have hairy arms.”
“Beyoncé, I don’t have hair on any other part of my body. My arms are fine. Leave them alone.”

Girl power rants aside- Does solo travel ever get lonely?

Fuck. Yes.

South East Asia has been a whole other experience: quieter, more introspective. Europe was a giant party and it was so easy to meet fellow solo travellers but this is vastly different, and my time so far has been a long way from the drunken debauchery of last month. When I chat to people and hear their Full Moon Party stories I wonder if I’m supposed to be vomiting in a tuk tuk instead of blissfully reading trashy thrillers in a hammock on the beach. But, to be honest, I feel that someone my age at Koh Panang is a bit pathetic. If you’ve done it at thirty, power to you, but I’d feel like I was squeezing myself into a pair of jeans that no longer fit. Lying on the bed, wrenching them over my almost-thirty-one-derful hips, pretending not to notice the camel toe…I’m over drunken debauchery. Sigh. It’s happened. I’m getting old. I’m entering Cher-town.

To finish this post, I’d like to make a reference about how I believe in life after love, but I can’t figure out how to make the bad-synth vocals come off in print. My writing is rusty. Damn.

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Mon Chat Splash

20 Sep

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You may hate me by the end of this post.

When I don’t work out, I tend to get moody.

I hate getting grumpy. It’s always in the back of my mind that the men around me may be thinking: She must be having her period. Keep away, she’s probably irrational. You know they can’t wash their hair while they are on the rag? It’s true. And, if they swim at the beach they can be attacked by a shark. Uh-oh, she’s glaring at us. Quick, throw chocolate at her before she starts crying, then tell her she’s prettier than other girls and give her money to go shoe shopping. That will make her happy.

Apologies to my male friends. I don’t really think that. I hope you don’t either. *pointed glance*

Anyway, I don’t get PMS, but if I can’t jog on the treadmill whilst Ça Plane Pour Moi plays in the background, I get a bit cranky.

That song is perfect to run to. It’s annoying, repetitive, inane, and lame; but it is perfect to run to.

Ça Plane Pour Moi….

Most of the music I exercise to is the utter shit that they play in Western Suburbs nightclubs. Not cool electronica, the radio friendly stuff. In these songs there’s usually a break where something quiet and synthy plays. This is the time where you and your girlfriends pause in your little circle of oxytocin, your clutches in a heap on the floor. You fan your face and grin maniacally through clenched teeth, absolutely off your chops on endorphins and life and happiness and strobe lights, enhanced by thirteen vodka raspberries. The beat kicks in, and the booty shaking continues. When running, this break is the perfect spot to slow down to a walk and give your tortured, black, ex-smokers lungs a rest before launching back into it.

Unless you are listening to: Ça Plane Pour Moi, that is.

No break in that. It’s three minutes of vacuous nonsense, pumping through my iPod headphones at 162bpm.

Ça Plane Pour Moi….

I had no idea what the song was about. I typed it into Google translate which told me that it literally translated to: this flat for me. I would thump along the treadmill like a hamster on a wheel, merrily singing along in my head: This flat for me. This flat for me. This flat for me me me me me me, this flat for me. Oooo-weeee-oooo-ooo.

Unfortunately, said translation is wrong, and I’m glad that I don’t have the breath to run and sing.

Anyway, it had been a week since I had worked out and I began getting stroppy at work. Luckily, I can keep it together when I have the shits. I just get quiet, and I’ve been told I can have a face like thunder. This particular day, I may have been less than sunny to the cleaner who constantly jokes about my being single. The jokes are like me some days: old, tired and not funny anymore. Usually, I force a laugh and make a flippant comment: ‘Oh, boys are just trouble! Tehehe!’ But when I’m withdrawing from endorphins like a junkie, the words on the tip of my tongue are: Yes, I’m fucking single, imagine that. Either stick me in a cage and charge admission or shut the fuck up about it.

I should have said that- he might have offered me chocolate. Instead, I went quiet and a few grey clouds blew across my face. I hightailed it to the gym after work. I used the hip adductor machine. The one Greg Giraldo refers to it as The Twat Spreader. You know the one, the don’t-make-eye-contact machine. I have a fantasy that its going to turn me into Xenia Onatopp. Mwahaha.

Ça Plane Pour Moi….

Anyway, I have never embraced physical fitness. I’m atomically clumsy and ridiculously uncoordinated- an interesting combination to float through life with. And, with the exception of martial arts, I was never into sport.

I used to periodically flip through my mother’s old Who magazines. I’d get inspired by a ‘My Best Body Ever!’ special, often read whilst munching on a Milky Bar. The proud, grimacing celebrity seemed to scream: You can do this, too! Yes, my weight loss was largely due to black coffee, cigarettes and cocaine. Yes, I have a personal chef on call 24 hrs to whip up whatever vegan abomination I opt to cram into my malnourished mouth, and I have the time to exercise with my personal trainer for half of my day, but ignore that. Subscribe to unattainable ideals of beauty. You can look like a whippet, too. It’s sexy! You don’t need to ovulate. You aren’t pretty enough as you are. You need to change and consume and drive this whole bullshit industry along because a lot of old, fat businessmen have a lot of money invested in your unhappiness.

That’s just me trying cynicism on for size.

The space between reading the article and feeling inspired; and giving up by diving head first into a vat of melted chocolate, usually went like this:
Decide: Diet. Fitness. Yes. Now is the time. Just do it. You are what you eat. Other overused idioms. Let’s go.
“Husband! We are no longer stocking chocolate or treats in the house.”
Argument ensues. Husband shrieks and demands sugar. Husband does not wish to diet. Husband wishes to gain weight.
Wife relents and allows chocolate on the condition that husband finds suitable hiding spot.
Wife has night at home. Wife is alone. Wife works out, then watches movie.
Wife gets peckish. Eats dry rice cakes x2.
Wants chocolate.
Ignores desire.
Chews fingernails.
Taps foot.
Eats fruit.
Desire for chocolate grows.
Wife enters kitchen and begins tearing it apart like a feral Tasmanian devil. Chocolate eventually located behind bag of potatoes.
Wife consumes ALL of chocolate.
Wife curses husband for having unimaginative hiding spots. Husband a foot taller than wife, couldn’t he hide it where she can’t see it?
Wife feels sick.
Sugar remorse begins.
Wife drives to shop and replaces husband’s chocolate.
Repeat the following day.

Fun times.

This year, however, I started working in a job where a degree of strength and fitness is handy. I half heatedly started going to the gym and now I’m a bit hooked. I fear I’m turning into Richard Simmons.

Ça Plane Pour Moi….

Do you have that song in your head yet? My goal with this post was to drive an annoying, obscure, 1970’s pop song into your head like a coffin nail.

Ça plane pour moi….

That is why you may hate me. You probably assumed that I was going to go on a smug, ‘I run therefore I’m superior’ rant. Nope. Just this: Ooo-weeee-oooo-oooo. Ça Plane Pour Moi….