The blackened charm of the city: an unnameable presence that lures the damned with the fervour of a moth to the flicker of neon lights, upon which there waits nothing but its own inglorious death. A metaphor for the epitome of insignificance.
The stench of exhaust fumes and decay leads us blind, stumbling, to our Mecca. Be it by our own conscious manifestations or through a more subconscious yet profound sense of belonging. We indulge ourselves there: clogging the arteries of the metro subway, pumping through its veins, urged on by the city’s heart beat- a reluctant thump that echoes through the empty lifeless crowds. The corporates, the homeless, the slime. They writhe in the filth and scum which permeates the air and fills their lungs as they dance to the slow rhythm of car horns, sirens and cursing. The faceless crowd: Moving as one with indifference to the human lives that serve as the very molecules of its cold stark features. No one actually lives here- they only survive.
Blessed are the meek for they shall never know what it is to be swallowed whole by the rat race. At the thought itself, the cold hands of an overwhelming insufficiency clutch tightly to their necks and wring from them any starry eyed dreams they may have had of the big city. Without articulating it, the meek are innately aware that the city and its populace by no means equates to a likelihood of opportunity and success. Instead the city steals from its streets a regular sacrifice for the jaws of disappointment to sink its festering teeth into, spreading its bacteria and disease into the body long after it has moved on to its next pathetic victim. The slow creep of one’s demise and the knowledge of its imminence become more unbearable then the pain of the bite itself.
You would much rather be a big fish in a small pond then pour into the sea where the losers outnumber the winners 10,000 to 1. 10,000 constant reminders that at the end of the day fish are still fish and there are few that will never find themselves falling between cracks in the streets to rancid sewers below. Where they belong: Down in the sewers, with the other fish. But down below in the cess pool of despair and perversion await other fish whose lives are as dismal and meaningless as your own. Fish whose interests and intensions are as sick and twisted as your own. Others who have come to realise, as you have, that when you’re nobody you can be anyone you fucking like. Anonymity breeds individuality.
“The freaks are outside and I’ve locked all the doors.”
Pop Culture’s messiah has come. She has descended among us to deliver those who have received the mark, the number of the beat, to a disco apocalypse:
the age of The Monster Ball has come.
From the time of the old testament as we know it: The Fame; to the arrival of the new testament as we know it: The Fame Monster; we've been waiting. The devoted and the faithful, moving in time to deranged gospels, we've been fucking waiting. And now, from the pyrotechnic fires, the lightning flashlights and the bass line that lays waste to our very foundations, Her little monsters disperse amongst the choreographed chaos. Dressed in layers of Haute Ga-ture they come en masse, exhaling clouds of decadence and fame from their cheap cigarettes.
We sweat glitter and we bleed hairspray, we are the avante-ga, we are Her little monsters.
"I’m like tinkerbell... clap for me, do you want me to die?”
As you may have surmised from previous blog entries, I have been dumped. Well kind of more just “ditched”. Long story short, my now ex-girlfriend moved to Sydney for various reasons and we both agreed it would be for the better if we didn’t pursue a long distance relationship. However, given she was the one who left I have chosen to play the part of “dumpee” in tonight’s musical rendition of “stages of a break up”. Gather your popcorn and frozen cokes, whilst I dim the lights and lift the curtains, so begins stage one...
Stage #1: Kelly Clarkson –“My life would suck without you”
Oh Kelly, really?? This is only acceptable in the 24-72 hour period post break up. I find it best to simply make the most of this time by curling up in the foetal position, clutching a picture of my ex and howling into the night.
Stage #2: Alanis Morrisette- “You Oughta Know”
If break ups really could be done in the style of a musical this would be act 1 scene 2 and it would begin with the following dialogue:
Me: “You don’t understand, Alanis Morrisette came on and I didn’t change the channel.”
Close friend: “So?”
Me: “I listened to the whole thing!”
Close friend: “oh...”
Me: “and I enjoyed it!”
*cue music*
It’s at this point I start running my friendships like a communist dictatorship- any friend who does not swear their undying hatred toward my ex and dares to put forward “reasonable”, “objective” or even “sane” viewpoints is instantly found guilty of treason and excommunicated. Friends who have known me long enough know it’s better to ride this stage out and should they come across the rumbling Mt Versuvias that is my temper they’re best to get creative with their swear words toot sweet. Words such as “cunt”, “bitch” and “whore” should be used sans restraint. The ability to use them in unexpected combinations is also looked upon favourably.
Stage #3: Cher- “Believe”
This stage comes off as being reflective and feels almost zen like. Do not, in any way confuse this for the beginning of the healing process. I know from experience that it simply means I’m so exhausted from the intensity of my anger in the Alanis Morrisette stage, that I’ve entered a state of euphoric delirium. At this point I generally begin reminiscing over the “good times”, I may even go so far as to wish my ex lover “well”. Eesh! Furthermore, I am likely to find myself explaining to anyone that will listen that yes, I did spend the night crying into a bag of fat free marshmallows, pausing only to dip them in melted chocolate that I burnt because I was crying so hard, but it was a cleansing cry. It may feel as though the light at end of the tunnel is in sight at this stage. I fear not, that is simply the reflection from Cher’s tinsel-esque wig and disco balls my friend. I am very much still in the dark.
This stage is deceptive too. The new found motivation that comes with it is by no means some sort of end point to the misery. Survivor, ay? Really? If I was really happy and content again would I feel the need to slave over textbooks and lose myself in such topics as “Income Tax Law”? Would I!? And if I was really that happy would I feel the need to torture myself on treadmills with the enthusiasm of a Hollywood house wife? I think not. Besides, “Now that you’re out of my life, I’m so much better” is a little bitter for someone who has allegedly moved on. On that same note, if I’m so over my ex, why is it I know every comment word for word on her facebook?
Ah, welcome to the relapse- also known as the first night out. Things seem to start off fine, just like the album Funhouse. There I am screaming the lyrics to So What? with my nearest and dearest, “Tonight! I’m alright! I’m just fine!”. Things are travelling along famously until all of a sudden Please Don’t Leave Me ambushes the speakers. “Don’t change it!” I say, grossly misguided by the previous Destiny’s Child stage of my break up which has lead me to believe I’m now strong enough to deal with this kind of mishap. Alas, by the end of the first chorus the ball is rolling and I guarantee that before the song is over I’ll be as drunk as a 13 year old who has downed their parent’s entire alcohol cabinet. My ex can then look forward to waking up the next morning and finding 16 messages on her voicemail all of which consist of I Don’t Believe You by Pink and my smooth sultry sobbing in the background. Tell me again why I ended up single?
Stage #6: Beyonce- “Irreplaceable”, “Single Ladies”, “Me, Myself and I”
Now this is the stage where at last I will emerge from that crazy cacoon as a beautiful flamboyant butterfly. Finally able to establish myself as a strong independent black woman, ready to face the world again and put myself back on the market! “How is this any different from the Destiny’s Child Stage?” You may ask. A very valid question, indeed. The difference here is that this stage is similar to Beyonce’s solo career itself. Here, I can at last step out on my own, knowing Kelly and Michelle will always love and support me, but it’s time to stand on my own two feet again. A strong willed woman with my head held higher then my patent leather heals. The last scene of this musical would see me sashay away in to the sunset, ready to take on the dating world with poise and grace, while Cher's (of Clueless this time!) wise words ring in my head “You see how picky I am about my shoes and they only go on my feet!”. That is of course until a round of vodka’s finds me sucking the face off the nearest human with a vagina.
Yes there is a long musical road ahead of me, wish me luck!
Recently Tony 'Twat Face' Abbott, ruffled some feather (boa)’s when he said that he, like "most Australians” feel “threatened” by homosexuals. He has since been made to apologise, backtrack and explain himself. Look, I don’t think Tony Abbott is all that bad - unlike the rest of the gay community which is aghast with his statements. Obviously everyone’s all up in arms about this but I’m here to tell you that Tony Abbott is right. He and every other straight person have every right to feel threatened by gays! After all, gays are planning the end of the world as you know it. Obviously, this isn’t a very well known fact, but I’ve decided on behalf of the gay community it’s time to cut the crap and lay truth to centuries of suspicion and prejudice. Occasionally our plans have been leaked to the world, for example, all that preaching about the end of the family unit if gay people get married. You know the type. Perhaps at times, you’ve supposed it sounds a little farfetched that two girls or boys could make out in a club one Saturday and thus tear apart families they’ve never met and corrupt children they’ve never heard of. Farfetched? Yes. Impossible? No. We’re fucking powerful as shit and can do whatever the hell we want. Besides, your crappy little family units is just child’s play as far as we’re concerned.
We’ve got something far bigger in mind then family units. We’ve been hoarding nuclear weapons in San Francisco for years now. We have blueprints to all the underground subways in all the major cities of the world. We have food stores in underground bunkers across Asia, America and Europe to last us 30 years. 9/11 was a gay conspiracy. The financial crisis was set in motion by gay economic masterminds. The internet was invented by the American Army, yes, but did you know the man in charge of it was a closet gay? It's been the greatest tool we’ve had to date in converting children into our “gay army”. Up until then we were reliant on scout leaders and school teachers. Global warming is an experiment we’ve been running since the late 1960’s. Contrary to popular belief the cause has nothing to do with carbon emissions and is instead brought about by emissions which are produced by gay people killing bunnies and kittens. Oh and An Inconvenient Truth? Yeah, Al Gore is gay. Soon when the resources of the straight world are so depleted we will launch a nuclear offensive of which there will be no survivors, except us. We'll be safely tucked underground with the last of the world's glitter and Doc Martens. When it is safe to come out we will take over the world, replace all the street lights with disco balls, the police with strippers and the army with lesbians.
And all our straight friends? Well, first we’re going to terrorise them for 10 years or so. Just for shits and giggles, yeah? It will be acceptable for common (gay) citizens to harass, spit on and beat anyone they suspect to be straight. With this in mind, there will be nowhere for our straight people to go, no police to report it to and no court they can press charges in. Because, well, we’ll probably make it a crime to have straight sex. Hopefully this will scare our straight survivors so much that they will be too afraid to even admit that they’re straight and instead live horrifically miserable half lives pretending that they’re gay. After we’re bored of being cruel and oppressive, a select handful of countries around the world will deem it safe for straight people to “come out”. In said countries, straight people will be allocated 1 week each year in which they can hold parades and celebrate their sexuality and for the rest of the year we will tolerate them. However, we will refuse to recognise their relationships, encourage them to keep to themselves in particular suburbs and offer them one or two seedy clubs (per city) in which to socialise. Oh and we will also refer to anything bad, unpleasant or upsetting as “straight”.
For example:
A: Ewwwwwww that shirt is so STRAIGHT! B: HA-HA-HA-HA-HA i know right?? So hetero!!
So I say good on tony abbot for spreading his fear and hatred, he knows SO much about what it is to feel threatened! Poor dear!
Universal Declaration of Human Rights (UDHR) is the first part of the International Bill of Human Rights, it sets out the fundamental human rights of every human beings.
Article 1
All human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights. They are endowed with reason and conscience and should act towards one another in a spirit of brotherhood.
Article 7
All are equal before the law and are entitled without any discrimination to equal protection of the law. All are entitled to equal protection against any discrimination in violation of this Declaration and against any incitement to such discrimination
I harbour an ongoing love/hate relationship with hipsters in fake glasses. Especially the ones who you tend to find prowling the valley on weekends sporting a pair of fake Woody Allen-esque spectacles. Being visually impaired myself, I feel like my parade is being rained on just a tad, though at the same time it means I can finally embrace my inner dork in style. After much consideration, I recently hitched a ride on the band wagon and picked up my own pair of (prescription) retro glasses. I may as well, after all, when was the last time your disability was in vogue? Up until now, I’ve taken to hiding in shame behind contact lenses but at last the time has come for me to ditch my disguise as superman in favour of my true identity, Clark Kent.
You can’t blame me for the difficulties I’ve faced in coming to accept myself. Simply cast your mind to pop culture in general and you will see the blatant bias against people who need glasses. Take for example, the ground breaking 1999 chick flick, She’s All That, Starring Freddie Prinze Junior and Rachel Leigh Cook. It had a real meaty story line which went as follows: popular boy turns artistic dorky girl into total mega babe with simple make over. Deep, right? Realistically though, if you gave that chick a year or two out of high school she would have been a bohemian golden god when she ditched Hicksville for New York but whatever.
Anyway, think back to the scene where Freddie takes off her glasses before the prom and “Oh my god! Now she’s a bombshell!”. As if we hadn’t noticed that earlier? Puh-lease. If someone delicately removed my glasses and proceeded to lovingly tuck them away I’d be rendered totally blind and it’s likely I’d attempt a swift upper cut to their jaw- though it’s just as likely I would miss.
Long story short: This is why the recent trend of people who wear glasses with fake lenses kind of irks me. Oh sure, it’s fun to do the whole geek chic thing for a night, sure it’s fun to cash in on my years of self conscious worry- not to mention the medical bills. But please spare a thought for the moments when it’s assumed my ridiculously expensive prescription lenses are just a $20 excuse for me to play dress ups in public. Then of course, there are the dangers this trend creates for me on any given night out. One minute I may be oozing silent cool from my well adorned eye balls when the next, some fucker is saying “Can I try your glasses?”, as they proceed to snatch them from my face, leaving me to fumble around the bar squinting like a stoned mole rat. I imagine my voice would then hit outrageously nasal tones when I cry out “My glasses!!” after the assailant who has already disappeared into the night.
So on one hand, I hope all you indie hipsters with your Sportsgirl spectacles spend an eternity in hell, blind as a bat and stubbing your toes on Satan’s foot stools, thus leaving me to flaunt my nerd in peace. While on the other hand, I’m secretly thrilled that all these wannabes have allowed me to reach a “real deal” level of cool that previously I had never foresaw myself attaining. I guess I’ll just have to reach a happy medium by saying “Thank you” to all you quirky hipsters for making the dieing years of my youth that much easier and then give you the finger when you’re not looking.
I’ve been none too thrilled about the torrential rain that has inflicted itself upon Queensland of late. My hair is frizzy, I’ve ruined one pair of shoes, and my decrepit umbrella is less an instrument in weather protection then it is a dead bat on a stick. Realistically though, these misfortunes are trivial and frivolous in the grand scheme of things. There’s real problems out there, real issues, real lives- all of which are powerless to the whims of freak monsoon seasons. Case in point, my rollerblade gang has been kept off the streets for over a week now. Yes, you heard right- I AM in a gang. So far it consists of three people and we’re yet to have our first skate. Unofficially and much to the distress of our lone male member, we call ourselves Babes On Blades. Unbeknownst to my comrades I’ve also taken it upon myself to come up with a design for matching tattoos, coz then we’ll be like, totally legit’ n’ shit.
Babes On Blades came into being a couple of weeks ago, when my girlfriend was preparing to ditch me forever and move to Sydney. Unable to take her $300 hardly-ever-worn roller blades with her, I did what any supportive soon to be ex-girlfriend would do: I swooped in and took them for my own selfish needs, thus saving her from having to go through the lengthy process of selling them on Ebay and possibly making some much need cash out of it! Besides, you know what they say, “When the going gets tough, the tough get going... and form a rollerblading gang”.
After the obligatory week or two spent wallowing in Kelly Clarkson levels of pathetic heartache (MY LIFE! WOULD SUCK! WITH OUT YOUUUUU!) I assumed I’d have to do what any self respecting dumpee does and go to the gym to get a hot ex-girlfriend body. “Ugh” I sighed, already depressed at the idea of heaving myself up and down the Coro Drive bike way every afternoon for the next month. But wait! Hold that descent into bitter (albeit toned) ex girlfreindhood for just a moment! As it turns out my rollerblade gang not only gives me awesome street cred, but it also doubles as a great work out. Or so I read on the internet, which means it must be undeniably 100% true.
The facts speak for themselves: Rollerblading burns on average about 285 calories per half hour session. Not bad considering you burn about 350 when running or cycling in the same amount of time. Also, rollerblading gets your heart pumping just as hard as either of the aforementioned (less fun) activities, with heart rates averaging 148 bpm in all three. It’s also beneficial for those worried about their joints who are looking to shy away from high impact sports such as running. AND rollerblading works those hard to reach muscles such throughout the entire upper leg, the derrière and the hips.
Whatta ya know? Rollerblading is totally bad ass and good for your health!
"So baby raise a glass to mend all the broken hearts of all my wrecked up friends"
My best friend called me at 10:36am, Sunday the 28th of February. My life came to a standstill in that moment and for the first time I noticed how fast the world seems to spin. I watched it roar past like traffic either side of me while I stood suspended in a half second that promised never to end. Until atlast I gave in and admitted that I wasn’t the one looking on this time, this was happening to me. Horrible words lurched from a phone, my phone. Words that shrieked like metal on cement, inescapably mine. Preordained and unavoidable, they filled my ears, my eyes, my throat, my lungs, my stomach. They tore at the fabric of my soul, jeered at my naivety, ridiculed my careless love. One by one, each of us heard the news, one by one each of our hearts were ripped from our chests, leaving us to watch them beat feebly in the hands of fate.
That cruel fucking bitch, fate, that held our helpless hearts in one hand, while the other hand toyed with a heart on a roadside. I've tried my best to reason with that impossible whore. I beg for someone, anyone, whoever is listening, whatever is out there: please, not him. I beg outloud, willing to trade anything, strike any deal, believe any mantra: please, not him. The empty void of these dark hours surrender no consolation, just the dull glow of a Hope, however vain or valid. So we pull each other to our worn out feet, ration out even portions of the crushing weight of this grief to carry on our shoulders and accept the only alternative left to us: we carry on. Urged forward by each other’s strength, inspired by each other’s humility, humbled by each other’s courage, empowered by each other’s faith. The realisation of the fragility of human life brings with it the realisation of the strength of the human spirit.
I was given a bottle of Moet & Chandon for my 21st, I’m saving it to drink with you when you’re better, because you will be.
