Amorphous residents of the internet world! I am too often dumbfounded by the stuff that follows this preface. So if I might be so presumptuous to anoint you all the wiser, I extend you a cordial invitation, perplexity mounting, to CURTAIL MY BAFFLEMENT IF YOU THINK YOU’RE UP TO IT.
1. What is the rule with toilet reading material? Is it not weird to house magazines and things of that nature next to the sacred bowl? Though an accommodating gesture, is supplying stuff to peruse whilst amidst more lengthy stints at said sacred bowl not a bit of a gross injustice? More to the point, is it okay that this reading material is passed from hand to hand to hand, the pages turned with different sets of hands… OH, so many unsavoury hands! Also, when girls have an abundance of magazines just chilling next to their toilets- rather than scoffing at enclosed gayness like fad diets or celebrity gossip or fash shon- do their male guests instantaneously ignite sparkling imagery of girls taking huge dumps? Well I don’t suppose that can be anything short of explosively uncomfortable.
2. Are people serious when they chuck money on the counter, right next to my yearning, outstretched open palm? Are they! And then. Do they like it when I accordingly slam their change on the counter accompanied by RAISED EYEBROWS and SINISTER KNIFE EYES? I so genuinely hope so.
This and similar retaliations that exert passive aggression are satisfying and mildly fulfilling… but not as hypothetically fulfulling as it would be if they just didn’t do dat.
3. What is the acceptable timeframe between dentist visits? “Young lady, the inside of your mouth is cantankerous to any repair within my means” are not words I long to hear anytime ever. And so, on I plod with my cigarette stains and undone orthodontic work.
4. People that ‘don’t drink coffee’ or ‘I gave up coffee’ types. These people (as I trust the reader is one of my kind, far removed from the smug, disbelieving enemy group) are scant, but THEY ARE OUT THERE. With the obvious monetary/dependency cons they are free from, it pains me to imagine how such people do life. Sick, sad, morose and moronic are words that spring to mind. And so, begrudging their naturally alert existence comes easy. It comes as easily as my response to waking up in the mornings, i.e. pouring two cups of strong black coffee into my desperate mouth.
5. What is this thing we call ‘time’? How unrelentingly mind-blowing it is that, on the one hand, time seems such a perpetual metamorphosis, rapidly and unsystematically spitting out the old to make room for the new. Yet the other hand delineates time as far from fleeting. It takes hold of the present, wrapping it with a robust film of vigour; stewing it then juicing it for all its worth. And that makes it, like, sooo sloooow.
It seems I’ve diverged from the innocent/comical issues. And I’m not reinventing the wheel here. Time and space have been widely speculated about since before erm, the beginning of time. But this has always bugged me out. How can the paradigm of time be so? So transient yet with the capacity to be so very stubbornly stagnant.
‘Time’ is accordingly and perhaps then not a viable measure of anything. Well; of course it is. In any conventional society, time dictates the bulk of predictable daily operation. But as a subjective, subconscious punctuator? It is merely a guise; flimsy and haphazard. For to perceive time is to somewhat relinquish sight of the core of one’s most pure motivations. Whether 3am, 3pm, Monday, Saturday or September should arouse only stoicism in us all. What do these bossy societal parameters matter if we, individuals, carry out existence in ways that are personally fulfilling and really, really fun? Whatever, I am rambling, and I realise it’s because my 25th birthday is an imminent, unwelcome ‘milestone’ and this ‘time’ guy has made me all uncomfortable.
Do the innumerable, contradictory idioms pertaining to time that exist not serve to suitably reveal its complex anomalies? Y’KNOW like “savour the moment” vs “don’t let the moment pass you by,” or “time is on your side” vs “time flies”. Flies! But you should take your time! Because it’s on your side! But WAIT, for on second thought, that ship has sailed! Sailed! Though HOW CONFUSING because you should bide your time.
The very idea that ‘time’ has been pondered so avidly to bring about such abominable idioms is a show of its abysmal idiocy. Rather than persevering with trying to make sense of it, I hereby point an accusing finger square in its face whilst screaming ‘IMBECILE!’ and now ‘FRAUD!’ and now, finally, I am done with it. ‘Time’, go to hell, and reader, thanks for yours.
“MICHAEL!!!” my mother would often shout- seethingly, in growled tones - at my absent-minded father upon finding a singular piece of dirty cutlery in the sink shortly after she’d washed up.
That was her all-time, highest-ranking pet-peeve. Aligning perfectly with the emigrated Asian housewife prototype, she approached matters of kitchen upkeep with the same doggedness as Pauline Hanson’s bid for a white Australia. I was around ten years old; circa year five or something, and at these times I feared significantly for my father’s safety. Then at the peak of her menopausal throes, alongside an inherent obsessive-compulsive, control-freakish psyche, she got me quickly adhering to her Qur’an of meticulous sanitation, tidiness and organisation. I did not fancy any drama, and I was not looking for no trouble. This made accepting my fate very natural, not dissimilar to a cat licking its butthole en route to getting 100% clean.
So witnessing this kind of reprimanding was an illustrative warning that dissuaded any of my own future lapses in household etiquette. It then later acted as a preempting to the formation of my own pedantic obsessions. It was not the isolated fear of my mother howling my name in caps-locks decorated with exclamation points; it was the fifteen minutes of subsequent finger pointing, screeching akin to that of a down-syndrome seagull, and her general psychosis that always, every time, ensued. Her barking at non-compliant family members now resurrects imagery of helpless Jews in 1940’s concentration camps. Sure enough, my own penchants for arranging, organising, re-arranging and re-organising were soon born and ingrained into my daily being. These spawned to encompass a number of outlandish (not at all psychotic) rituals and habits that compromised any trace of my normalcy in any definition of any ‘normal’ society.
Current day, I’m better than I used to be.
My mother recently- with glistening pride- told me that I would be reduced to a confused mess when other children in surgery waiting rooms would fail to properly put toys away in their home boxes. I would quietly, at length, whine to her after their hasty departures. Why were they not thoughtful and considerate like me?
When I was not quite a teenager, I got right into making my own jewellery. My parents invested in many, many beads, with which I fashioned some exquisite pieces. This part was fun and fine and relatively normal. Soon enough though, after building a wild collection, I became really, unhealthily concerned with storing them in small fisherman’s boxes with various compartments to separate the colours. After creative sittings, I could not successfully pack up and put them away without ensuring their impeccable organisation, as per the stringent parameters I had laid out for myself. What’s more, I wouldn’t let my friends in on my beads- they would perpetually fuck with their storage configuration, leaving me wilted and dismayed.
I thought Marcia Brady was the ultimate hot babe for awhile there, and her penchant for hair brushing one hundred strokes per day became mine. Except more intensely. I did two hundred; lending my hair a luscious sheen that guaranteed I was the half-asian version of her, in my own mind.
Sweet baby Jesus, no wonder I was a fucking loner ‘til I turned 15 and discovered boys. I was a real-deal, fun-shunning OCD gaychild. But when the boy receptors surfaced, so too did a tactile decline in the pedantic rituals. I quickly realised that boys care for boobs and flirting, not meticulous bead sectioning and being awkward and bashful. I’m still awkward and sometimes bashful, but I’ve severed ties with the uncool weirdo shit and haven’t owned a hairbrush in some five or six years (told truth! Bed hair denotes ultimate sex kitten, got it down). My mum is also now heaps less of a domestic dragon, so it seemed only proper that I continue to evolve with her.
Hello. I’m drank. Introspective spiel to follow. Cue get outta here if you’re killing it at life or wish not to know of my first world problems and quarter-life crisis.
Fundamentally, humans of adequate socio-economic status can be segmented into two groups. The first group; comprised of happy go-lucky characters, relatively complacent, and potentially and presumably worth greater outcomes. But at a plateau or content with stagnancy. Not necessarily a bad thing. Just doing.
The second; go-getters. Also potentially destined for brilliance, with the point of separation being an intrinsically, self-regulated propeller to obliterate ‘safe’ constituents and explore said greater outcomes.
A brief tête-à-tête with myself during the past few minutes has induced a minor revelation. Much to my repel, I’ve identified myself as a member of one group. The nature of available groups is such that if I am part of one, I am obviously not involved with the other (i.e; two groups indicate a 50/50 divide- with one being ‘representative of me’ and the other ‘not representative of me’).
Consequently, I am not doing a lot of things I should be doing and have regrettably assumed the psyche of an elderly widowed rural dweller who lives alone with several cats and a wine club membership.
But I see the light now. There’s gotta be more! (See - this clip - solid reference point). Anyway the damage is not irreversible. Tomorrow is a nu day! Until then xoxo
Customer stares back coolly, clearly humoured by the routine formalities. Whilst answering “flat white, two sugars” his eyes silently fashion conclusions about the inferiority of his waitress. He likens her to a peasant nigger piece of dirt on ground.
She takes his order and carries on about her business. His ignorance; her (scornful) bliss.
That night, she dreams he returns to the cafe. He doesn’t demand his usual coffee, instead he asks for large serving of arrogance displacement with a side of high-horse-dismount. She picks up a large blob of raw hamburger mince and rubs it all over his dumb face and kind of mashes it into his nose and mouth a little.
Being the wholeheartedly sharing, caring person I am, I felt it would be of insurmountable negligence to not alert everyone to a great facebook group that spruiked my interest. Incoming! I joined it last night, Friday 5/8/11.
It’s called Dye your hair green, paint yourself orange - pretend to be a carrot. Submit yourself here.
i would like you to explain your ideal man! ok go!
Hello Shazza. Missing your Eurasian face. Good question, I’m glad you asked it. Truth is, idealism never did me any favours. I’m onto something else, which I have innovatively coined ‘being apathetic and asexual’. Exciting updates/developments to follow!
I’m doing a hella creepy ass Peeping Tom type deal, gazing over the balcony into other’s apartments, making observations, drawing improbable conclusions.
Observation 1:Couple across the way have a bulllshit large tv. I never see them partying, they must just watch tv and do relaxing things and possibly have sex sometimes and that’s it. Associated conclusion: Someday I will own an impressive tv, which I will watch on Friday/Saturday nights with my semi-serious boyfriend, while ‘vegging out’ on the lounge. I will save a lot of money and probably become obese.
Observation 2: No other balcony is housing hung up, drying washing besides ours. Associated conclusion: People who live around here are intimidated by my assortment of premium underwears and know their peasant panties are unlikely to measure up.
Observation 3: The smell of marijuana is wafting up here. This is supposed to be a visual diary and I can’t see anything per se, but those fumes be pungent. Associated conclusion: Further exposure to second-hand fumes will pique a small high for my unconditioned body. Better go inside.
catstalkingsmack asked: If Pluto is a dog, Daffy is a duck and Bugs Bunny is a rabbit, then what is Goofy?
Are you out of your mind girl! Goofy is a badass motherfucking dog. He is always looking for adventures and pushing the canine envelope. I like that he embraces his dental misfortunes; they really lend him a lot of character. Conversely, Pluto is daft and boring, always flapping his stupid tongue and not doing anything remotely cool. My favourite cartoon dog is Snoopy though, all Asians like Snoopy duhhh.
Yesterday I woke up and I went outside and I noticed the sky was ridiculously clear and blue. I thought ‘how nice’ and went back inside. When I went back out a half hour later I noticed a small cloud where there wasn’t one before. It was taunting me and I thought ‘ugh, go away you small cloud’.
Always noticing the imperfections. OH I’M SO PROFOUND.
Seems I could learn a thing from the owner of this tattoo:
Here are some innocuous banterings that happen to evoke vibes not divergent from the beginnings of a sex cult.
Scene: late-afternoon; a Thursday per chance. Or a Wednesday. Suitably sure it wasn’t the weekend. Three housemates, each in his or her own room, shouting questions and retaliations into the communal hallway.
HM1: (on his computer): Attention! HM2 and HM3… the webs are wigging out. Is one of you downloading the entire internet?
What have I told you guys about doing that?
HM2: (panicky voice, reeking of guilt and dildos) It’s not me! I do have the red sock on my door handle though. Can I trouble you to keep it down? You know the rules.
HM1: What’s the red sock symbolise, again? I keep getting confused between the code for that and the code for the green sock.
HM3: She’s watching porns!
HM1: Oh yeah, red sock for redtube… Noted! And stored! I’ll pipe down, sure. Hey HM3, are interwebs running okay on your computer?
HM3: Yeah they’re wicked. Super fast. I’m just on chatroulette. Nipples are definitely in my bra and partner is absolutely not an overweight Venezuelian female. I’m feeling fly. It’s Friday!
HM1: Oh cool.
Don’t sound that fun. Certainly not fun repeated thrice in offensively nasal autotune.
When Tumblr was being a non-compliant jerk last week, not allowing users to ask me questions, this one shot me a query via Facebook. Here it is, and my subsequent reply:
“Here is a photo of Michael Jordan resembling Adolf Hitler:
Yeah, I didn’t see that one coming either.
Q. How does this picture make you feel? Do you feel this homebody is provoking Anti-Semitism?”
A. Thanks for your question, Sarah. In all honesty, I feel OK when I look at the picture. While pictures can tell a thousand words, I have always been of the opinion that facial hair critiquing is not a viable way to categorise people.
Exhibit A: That ‘babe’ you took home that time because you were feeling his trendy moustache. You thought that because his moustache was ‘trendy’, that he himself was a shoe-in for being a hella ‘trendy’ rly good catch. When you woke up that blistering summer morning, there he lay, beneath a dense film of sweat, and UH OH! The glue on his faux-mo had dislodged the thing, and it flimsily hung from his chin, exposing him as a hairless infant.
Consequently, to draw a parallel between Sir Hitler and Michael ‘Air’ Jordan is a feeble proposition. My guess is that this former b-ball ruffian was merely scoping some sick designer stubble to reinstate that he is still BALLIN’ in some other sense of the word. Jew hatred aside, I think one MJ maybe admired Hitler’s impeccable aptitude for obtuse grooming, rather than looking to stir up anti-Semitic representations.
I hope this answers your question, Miss infer-er of absurd relationships between retired sports star’s facial hair and potentially incriminating religious notions. Hmmph. Here is a video. I hope you will learn something from the chorus (powerful lyf message).
Image of Hitler found here; image of his black doppelganger from here.
Well Shazza, depends on my inebriation levels in direct correlation to my partner selection from the (in)decent caliber of specimens lurking the bar. So generally off. This said, such experiences date back quite historically, with me not bagging dudes in like, ages. So um, not sure on my current stance on lighting in the bedroom. Will update if and when the situation changes. Sincerely, M.