Hair 2

Hair.

Some of you may know that I have a little bit of an undercut happening at the moment.

Here's what it looks like:

You see, I got rather drunk one night and my sweet, malicious housemate robbie thought it would be fun to suggest that I cut my hair. Next thing I know I'm standing over our little pink sink in the bathroom with my sister (pictured in background) taking photos of me shaving a patch of hair off with electric clippers. Which is somewhat different to most of my experiences over a sink.

Oh - sorry for the lame photo, I was a bit shocked that I allowed someone to talk me into hacking my beautiful locks.

Anyway, now it's a bit grown out and I thought I would bleach it like this:

You know, minus the cock-sucking lips and myspace pout.

It's Official!!

I've hit rock bottom.

Here's why:


- Today I have watched not one, but THREE Sabrina the Teenage Witch movies. The original one, the 'Sabrina Goes to Rome' one and the 'Sabrina Down Under' one.
- I've started letting slutface lick my neck. Pretty sexy.
- On my way home tonight (at ten thirty) and after stopping off at seven eleven to buy dinner I met a guy from Singapore who was crying. He was in the city from Gippsland celebrating his 23rd birthday and lost his wallet. Amidst tears he told me he needed fifteen dollars to get a v-line ticket back. I gave him $7, everything that was left in my wallet. But the worst part is that for a second I considered bringing him home and giving him a spare bed. But whilst I was considering it my mind wandered to having steamy sex with him, and I nearly turned back to let him stay over.

It's either the end, or the beginning of the end.

Feeling Down?

Christmas got you grinding your teeth? Is the family staying with you taking up your bed? Does the dog you sleep with snore too loudly?

Youtube flashmobs. Here's my fave:

White Blouses.

So, I have a month in Perth over Feb, and Sian isn't going to be there cos she's away in urbana champaigna (I know it's not called that for the record), so I thought I would learn how to sew. Anyway, I have this like - woolen shift dress, but I hate the neckline and have always planned to get an awesome collar to cover it. Something reminiscent of The Uniform Project.

Like these, maybe.

 

Hopefully Mummy can teach me to do this.

Kara-yo-ke

Tonight I went to the final Hip Hop Karaoke at the Bird. While it probably wasn't worth leaving work early for (and losing $36. Yeah, that's right. I make sweet Fuck All per hour) it was an enjoyable evening. Particularly because I got to see people like this:

say things like "I just wanna fuck bad bitches."And a girl who's dermals were crooked (although she was pretty fucking good at rapping "HIP HOP HIP HOP IT'S BIGGER THAN HIP HOP HIP HOP. And this guy who was totally amazing AND wearing a santa hat (and he won):

The night would have been way more enjoyable if more of my Alcoholic Friends were there.

DL Rampage

My housemates are away, which means I have the internet ALL TO MYSELF!
This is what I have downloaded:

Girl Talk's Discography
Max Normal - Ninja from Die Antwoord's previous alias
Missy Elliot's Discography
Sleigh Bells (see previous post) - Treats
Sufjan Stevens - The Age of Adz
Step Up 2: The Streets Official Soundtrack (judge away, but I bet you secretly with you had more phat beats like me)
Karen Elson - The Ghost Who Walks
Sage Francis - Li(f)e (witty album title - yeah!)
Charlotte Gainsbourg - IRM
Kavinsky's discography - house beatsrah.
Broken Social Science - Forgiveness Rock Record
Joanna Newsome - Have One on Me
Jack Rose - Luck in the Valley
Neil Yong  - Le Noise

Also some very very trashy movies:

Letters to Juiliett
Leap Year
Going the Distance

I'm in the process of trying to download Kanye's latest but it has failed me.

Body-furniture and angels

This freaks me out/ intrigues me.

If you can't be bothered looking it up it looks something like this:

Also if you can be bothered reading the 'words' part of her website, it's rather cool. Or it's cool for the gender-nerd in me, and seeks to transcend interior/exterior conceptions of the body. Hoorah for the body's fluidity and what that means for gender theory.

She should hook up with orlan:

Ciao!

Evilboy

sleigh bells

Maybe I'm waaaay behind all the trendsters but raaaaaah!!!

This has become my new cleaning music.

I finally man'd up and got something else pierced

I give Mum three days before she notices and Dad until the end of time/someone points it out while I'm standing in front of him. Which ever comes first.

I'm kinda pissed I can't sleep on my left side for a while. The left side is the best! That's the side that faces the wall and away from the horrible Lightness of Day from my window.

Quickie

Things I like about slutface:

- She snores like a human
- She's warm, and at the moment it's a little cold here.
- She likes to cuddle at night times.

Things I don't like
- She snores really loudly and likes to sleep in beds
- She farts. Filling my room with the aroma of sulfur.
- She insists on touching as much of your body as possible at night times
- She trembles when she sleeps.


Therefore I wake up in the morning to find more and more pieces of my golden (literally) $10 outside couch littered over the backyard.

Here's another picture of her ready to kill. (for those of you who don't know, slutface is the dog)

Auf Wiedersehen!

Evilboy.

For Samantha

You're not on chat so I'm telling you about the shenanigans of Saturday night here. For the few readers who aren't Sam, my friend and I threw a party at The Deen (gross, I know but it's cheap for students) because we're both going on exchange next year. I can't remember a whole freakin' lot of last night so I'm assuming it was good.

Lloyd and I demanded that everyone buy our drinks because they didn't turn up before 8pm so we missed out on our bar tab.

Drank many, many free vodka, lime and sodas.

Got kicked out of my own party for falling off a bar stool. The security guy also told me to eat a kebab. I had a burger. I vaguely remember thinking it was fucking good.

Had a sneaky pash with Lloyd.

Went to Amps with Rob but we couldn't be bothered waiting in the giant line so we went to The Moon with Lloyd and his friends. Drank some more. Attempted to visit vom city but I didn't make it.

Made friends with and shared several cigarettes with a skimpy while waiting for the train. Can't remember her name. She had an impressive rack.

Walked home (at about 2am) bare foot because I had a blister the size of a 20 cent coin on my heel. Dropped my phone about 10 times as I drunkenly jogged/stumbled from the train station (in the right direction of my house), in attempt to get home faster so I could get a decent amount of sleep before work at 8am.

Slept through my alarm, was late for work and was almost caught by my boss's dad (who owns Carine Glades shopping centre) having a vom out the back.

Apart from the fact that I've had that feeling that I said something I shouldn't have all day, I'd say it was a success.

How a Taximan saved my life

Last night I went to see Pablo play with his band Applejack. The series of events that lead me to become lost somewhere in the West of Brunswick go as follows:

- Drank for two hours before getting in a cab from house.
- Poured a large portion of the remaining goon into two bottles.
- On arrival, my sweet friend Josh who is normally v. quiet starts to demonstrate his techtonic skillz to the soundtrack of applejack playing folkypoppy music.
- The goon is poured into three glasses.
- Aforementioned friend goes for a smoke.
- Applejack finishes, I'm a) desperate for a smoke; and b) a bit worried about josh because it's been about half an hour.
- We don't find Josh.
- Next band plays. We dance, I drink more goon. We figure Josh took himself home (as he does this often).
- I discover that I am horribly drunk, and someone yells that they spotted Josh walking away from where we were.
- Josh is found, and I later find out he spent half an hour passed out in his own vomit.
- Skip an hour of smoking and dancing to nineties trash and I'm taking a hit from a maroon bong somewhere in West Brunswick.
- I nearly vomit, decide to not inflict that upon a room of people I have only just met and run to the gutter.
- I call my sweet, darling friend Sian (who happens to write this blog with me) and we decide that I'm too drunk to be calling Perth for directions in Brunswick, and I have a sneaky suspicion that I'm walking in the wrong direction.
- Ten minutes of me walking towards Flemington instead of Sydney road (look it up) I discover the life-saving-abilities of taxi-men. Here's why:

1. They let you have the window open when you think you're going to vomit.
2. They alert you to the fact that you aren't walking towards your home, in fact you're heading exactly the wrong way.
3. They stop at seven eleven for you to pick up a sandwich, powerade and microwave pizza. Score.

I profusely thanked my taxi-man and I'm guessing he ripped me off because I woke up with half a sandwich missing and only $20 in my wallet.

Tchuss!

Evilboy

Ageist

Recently I've been researching masters degrees in America, and getting really stressed out that I'll a) lost my social life and b) be really old by the time I get to do my masters. These are actually things that have gone through my mind:


- What if my fellow masters students don't like to get drunk mid-week?
- What if there is no time to get drunk mid-week?
- By the time I'll be finished my masters degree (and may or may not be finished with tertiary education - depending on if I find a job I like or not) I will be like. 27 or 28. That means I would have wasted from the age of eighteen to twenty eight on university. Even worse, on gender studies. My youth will be behind me.
- What if masters students in New York don't smoke weed?

See? I'm not worried I won't get in or that moving to a different country will be scary slash incredibly expensive. I'm worried I won't be able to get inordinately drunk mid-week, pass out on a friends couch and wake up, go to class, smoke a joint, write some thesis.

Maybe it's easier for me to stay in Melbourne..

adrenaline?

SO I've decided I need more kicks. Therefore in the next week this is what I am going to do:



1. A pregnancy test. I'm not even close to preggers. My life is far too unexciting for such things. But I reckon that ten seconds or two minutes or whatever I'll still feel the kick. I might even wonder what would happen if I was pregnant. Thinking about it now I feel rather maternal. I might even keep the baby, call it James and teach her the joys of postmodern gender theory. According to this add on tv kids learn the fastest between the ages of one and five. I'm going to read my child Judith Butler and Foucault. Maybe she'll even help me make sense of Irigaray.

2. Speed. Never done it, crave the rush. Don't want to sleep for a few days.

3. Cycle drunk more often. It's quite refreshing.

4. Devour the Christmas hamper that my mum is sending me out of pity :)


Peace.

Evilboy.

Youtube and Artistic Shit

I fucking love this.

Taking over the Interwebz

Some could say that it's far too early in my blogging career to start another blog ("but no one even reads this one..."). Imma be blogging about my time in yankidoodle town and Sam and I didn't want parentals reading this blog (so we can be free to write about our scandalous lives).

I spent way too long coming up with a name, choosing a colour scheme and which links would be displayed on the side and the finished product isn't even that fantastic. Anyway, my original idea was to have one of those billowing photos of the American flag with a super dramatic photo of me photoshopped over the top. And maybe an eagle too. I got as far as downloading an image of the flag before I changed my mind (partly due to laziness at the thought of posing for a photo and then staying sober enough to use photoshop). This isn't actually the image I had saved, but I think it's wankier and therefore better. Click on it to read my other blog.

Melbourne: The Bad

Those of you who know me would know that I fucking love living in this city. Something will be open 24hours every night - even if it's just seveneleven - the booze is cheaper and it's full of boys who look like girls and girls who look like boys. Oh, and leather shoulder bags, of course. But unfortunately living here comes with a whole lot of wank, as well.

I previously mentioned a poetry night that I thoroughly enjoyed. It's a new stream of skinny-jeaned boys I never thought to discover. Unfortunately, I was half-dragged, half-convinced-by-free-booze to the launch of a new magazine called steamer at a store under degraves street that I never knew existed. Anyway, we had some drinks and eventually the poetry started flowing.

Someone actually got up and did a poem of hand gestures called Escape from Coverband Island, that involved them gesturing the kiss symbol, the ac/dc symbol, shaking their head a little and putting their hands out like a cyclist about to turn. I thought poetry was about shaping phrases and ambiguity. Metaphors and similes and shit. Otherwise I would have got up and signaled YMCA all through high school. The thing that really irritated me is that everyone stood there, surrounded by jewelry labeled as 'trendy, edgy jewelry' laughing at this poem as though it actually had something constructive to say about like 'society and shit'.

Maybe I don't understand his poignant take on the state of coverbands and signaling cyclists these days. Maybe he's attempting to create his own postmodern poetic aesthetic that transcends written discourse, but if he was he would be better of doing it without a straight face.

In the future, I think I'll stick to horny gays.

Sorry Luke (if you're reading this),

Evilboy.

Glamrock

I kind of think that men were meant to look effeminate. Shoulder-pad clad, skinny, tight-panted and with a green askew kind of colour that indicates too many wild nights is far more attractive than bordies clad, buff and wearing an ugly hat.

Just watched Velvet Goldmine for the first time (but definitely not last).

Here is what I learned:

- Ewan McGregor and Jonathan Rhys Meyers were meant to have sex.
- Everything looks better when there's a skinny topless man involved. See...

- Shoulder pads are always necessary.
- Cult fan bases are super-freaky
- Every star requires an orgy scene or two, the odd black ass just thrown into the mix and polymorphous sexual tendencies.

I also feel as though fashion should follow its natural progression and hurry up and look more like this:

Tchuss!!

Evilboy.

V-cards

It's twothirty am and I'm watching the videos on Pablo, my housemate's hard drive and thinking about how I was always taught in sex-ed that you should love the person you lose your virginity to. I suppose I kind of understand this - it's sorta special. But mostly just humiliating. Who wants to experience the awkward fumblings and feelings of complete incompetence with someone they actually have to converse with in the morning? I don't know, maybe the experience is completely different when you feel more than a mild attraction for the boy trying to schtick it to you.

It's all nice and well to be told that hymens are precious and must be saved for loved ones, but when it actually comes down to business don't you want to learn the birds and bees with someone you don't have to see again? Otherwise you'll always be reminded of the awkward moments before finally understanding where all the parts belong.

Maybe I just don't have enough sanctity for monogamous relationships.

A seriously good fillum

The first time I saw this movie I was in a super lame angsty mood and it completely cured me. I've also watched it while hungover and it was better than four powerades, a regular whopper meal and a giant ginger beer (seriously try it) combined. I'm watching it now because I have a sore throat and ch131.com ain't loading. Devastating.

gumtree

sometimes am tempted to become junkie-whore (as you know). these would be my first port(s) of call


business-man looking to share his 5shtar hotel bed


PROFESSIONAL-PARTY-PERSON.

Boat-repairs slash livin' on high seas

By the way in case you were wondering, there are way more seedy men in Melbourne hoping to lure unsuspecting asian girls to live in their rooms free of charge than in London. (I'm pretty sure you were).

I leave you with the only personal add I have ever considered replying...

hi i am 36 with a drinking problem with no family suport looking for a girl in simular position so we can suport each other and discuss why i drink etc as well as other current affair issues of course

i like collingwood in the afl i like 3aw and sen fav tv shows city homicide, the force, modern family entourage last movie i loved was kick ass great movie. i lke phill collins, fall out boy ac dc a bit of everything.

i am in footscray area so someone from local area be cool but hjappy to travel to city


gumtreelove,

evilboy.

life-is-okay

Sometimes I wake up the morning, either clothed in whatever I put on Friday morning  (making it to Sunday before changing) or not at all. The sheets have fallen off my bed and there's dog hairs and tomato sauce everywhere, the smell of spilt goon from a few nights ago forcing me to race to the bathroom and retch for a while and wonder when my life is supposed to turn around and be normal. Or functional, at least.

Then I read slutever and am reminded that I don't have an Irish book-bitch, cook up ketamine in my London squatter apartment or inspire women all over the world to take their clothes off and write 'slutever' on their chests. Subsequently, for a second I feel regretful of all the nights out I'm clearly missing and the titty/erection emails I don't get and then realise that I like my big queen size bed (usually with sheets), being able to watch tv/use the internet and waking up knowing who I am and where I am and that I could never live without a bed-base or stay on drugs longer than 5 hours.
 It's also a cruel reminder that there are people in the world who have bigger problems than me. Don't you hate it when that happens?


therefore:

- send me titty pics
- if i could break into a vet school the first thing i would steal would be k.
- i have dog hairs between my fingers.

Notes, Quotes and Last Night's Dinner

Whenever friends visit my house they often comment on the notes and messages that Mother has placed around the place. On the back of the toilet door are wise statements from the Dalai Lama, Phillip Adams’ modern take on the Ten Commandments, a quote on success by Ralph Waldo Emerson and an excerpt on the value of time by Someone Not That Great. On the fridge there are all sorts of clever WITTICISMS such as “there are two options for dinner: take it or leave it”, “raising teenagers is like trying to nail jelly to tree” and “you can’t scare me, I have children.” Father’s favourites include: “I’d kill for a Nobel Peace Prize”, “I once had a psychic girlfriend…she dumped me before we met” and “borrow money from pessimists, they won’t expect it back”. There are also some intellectual quotes to match the gems of wisdom displayed on the back of the toilet door: “isn’t it enough to see that a garden is beautiful without having to say there are fairies at the bottom of it too” by Douglas Adams on the existence of God; “we owe almost all of our knowledge not to those who have agreed but to those who have disagreed” by Charles Colton and that poem by Dylan Thomas that Stewie Griffin quotes.

I collectively stare at these sentiments on an average of 37 minutes a day. While I’m eating last night’s dinner for breakfast, while I’m eating more of last night’s dinner for lunch, while I’m snacking, while I’m on the toilet expelling breakfast, lunch and snacks. They bring me wisdom and social and spiritual grounding in times of mental vacancy, spiritual boredom and lack of social interaction.

Notes are taken seriously in my household. Almost every morning when I wake up, Mum will have left me an informative note about where tonight’s dinner is (usually “in the fridge”) or a fun suggestion for things I can do if I get bored (“make dinner”, “clean your bathroom” or “vacuum and mop the entire house.” These suggestions are clearly invaluable to curing my boredom and taken seriously). Mum once had Dad LAMINATE a message that said “Please put dirty dishes in the dishwasher” and kept it on the sink for several weeks.

After surfacing from my room just then, to see if any of last night’s quinoa was left in the fridge, I discovered another pearl of wisdom left next to the sink by dear Adele. This is by far the most insightful and useful message yet.

If I was Harry Potter..

- I would let Ron penetrate me.
- I would probably penetrate Hermione. She's way hotter and smarter than Ginny, and never went to the Yule ball with Neville. Instead she went with Krum. Who is obviously super-cooler and broods way more.
- I would most likely whinge too much to save the world from Voldermort. Actually, I would probably whinge too much about sleeping under the stairs, and the Dursleys would have left me there. Therefore Hagrid would never have found me, and I would never know the meaning of 'sorting hat', 'potions' or even know how to find Diagon Alley.

In essence I would be left, under the stairs and talking to snakes. Which, if you ask me is a far better state than either a) dead, b) married to Ginny or c) saving the wizarding world from a) the incompetence of the ministry and b) the world's meanest wizard.

Unfortunately I would never have had the opportunity to grind with Ron, thus maintaining sphincter-virgin status. (also arguably a good thing).

Also as if Wizards wouldn't have just discovered guns and saved all their energy? machinegun>avadakedavra.


In addition here are some tid-bits I learned this weekend:
- Don't buy your younger sister shots
- Enya dancemixes are boss
- Don't leave half-full, melted icecream containers on the floor. Otherwise someone WILL lean over to ash in it and in the process empty the contents of the ashtray next to it onto the lounge room carpet.

Auf Wiedersehen,

Evilboy.

Something I learnt this weekend:

Don't eat slimy ham. No matter how much you're craving ham on toast.

The following twenty four hours will not be fun.

a little bit about Sian in dot points

Mildy Gross Things that I enjoy Doing:

• squeezing pimples
• picking at ingrown hairs
• pissing/shitting with the door open
• looking in the tissue after I've blown my nose
• petty theft (morally gross)
• cleaning the dirt under my toe nails

Things I get Anal About:

• having a clean kitchen
• not drinking milk if there's less than half a bottle left
• staying away from the smell/imagined taste of bananas

To The Woman Who Comes Into My Work And Hides Her Hand When Entering Her PIN So I Can't See Which Numbers She Presses And Steal Her Monies,

I don't care what your PIN is. I'm not going to steal your monies. Stop doing that; it makes you look like a prick.

Regards,

Me.

QueerNation

This is why I hate ethics.

Draw the Line is a new campaign that seeks to foster dialogues between 'young people' about what is considered to be appropriate for a 'respectful relationship', and what is considered to be 'crossing the line'. Apparently in Australia, we are united as a community "about things that are unacceptable". I don't know about you, but I wouldn't have a clue what we should consider to be 'acceptable' behaviour for a 'respectful relationship'. I don't think I have any 'respectful' relationships.

If the Australian Government wants to inscribe their moral standards upon me, they couldn't have found a more patronising way of doing it. Someone should draw the line at paternalistic campaigns that do little more than censor my sexual behaviour.

Is anyone else peeved that women have come up with this absurd campaign that seeks to define what I am allowed to consider a 'respectful relationship'? What the hell is a respectful relationship?

Seriously considering some bondage action. In drag, gagged and being fucked with a dildo, filming it and sending it to Tanya Plibersek. What would her thoughts on consent be then?

Anyway, I'm off to stalk someone at a place where they're known to visit regularly (home, work, school, social or leisure) and threaten my dog into performing sexual acts.

More gender-love, Evilboy.

Glass half full.

So apparently I'm a whiney bitch (it's true!). Instead of lamenting how I spent Saturday night (see previous post) and how much my head aches, I thought I would let you know about "Things I like" and "Things I am good at"


Things I like:

- I actually enjoy hangover days. Spending a day on the couch moaning is like my idea of heaven. I like to set myself up with Dr. Who or Charmed, smoke a joint and forget that I have 2000 words due tomorrow (no lies).

- Recently I have taken pleasure in standing umbrella-less in the rain. A good two-day long Melbourne rain makes for awesome puddles to jump in and a pleasurable come-down.

- Morning smokes. There's nothing better than waking up in the morning (mid-afternoon), making yourself a cup of tea and rolling a smoke.

- Rain in summer and sun in Winter. Uncharacteristic weather is the bomb.

- Fashion Blogs (see The Sartorialist, Sea of Shoes, FaceHunter and one that you might not have read: Bryanboy). The last guy wears socks during sex (ha!).

Things I am good at:

- Withdrawing from subjects after the census date. So far I'm about half-way through my degree and have $9000 of debt, as I freak out mid-semester and decide that it is ALL-TOO-MUCH-TO-BEAR and quit..

- Writing cover-letters. I'm completely useless at resumes, but as soon as I can aggregate a higher word-count concerning myself I kick ass.

- Writing essays about postmodernity and pop-culture. So far I've written about: TaTu (You know, the lesbian video clip that makes your heart flutter), True Blood and Barbie. Expect more on Dr.Who and androgynous fashions.


Peace! Evilboy.

Thrift Storzzzz

One time when I was at Goody Sammy's trying on what was soon to be my ninth Granny Jumper and this amazing Elaine Benes dress, a toddler crawled under the changing room curtain and looked up at me in my sexy Bonds end-of-the-washing-week dacks. Hands that I'm assuming belonged to his father picked him up and then a voice that I'm assuming belonged to his father too said "good boy."

More on Being Gangsta

In the vein of being disappointed with how your life ended up...

I once thought I would be a fucking awesome drug dealer/pimp. You know the kind of person I mean - like, when you walk into a club and everyone flocks to you to buy some pills from the little bag that you have sewn into your underpants (having - of course - just come from an international flight of drug-topia)...

Anyway, whilst walking into the trendy-melbourneite-club where girls have bangs and profess polymorphous sexualities, I would immediately pick up and spend the night having screaming intercourse with some tight-jeaned, fringe-and-blazer-clad boy who plays The Smiths on Sunday mornings after fucking to Felling Good (Nina Simone).

Instead, I spend Friday night hoping to pick up with a trendy-lesbian who will forward my social status (so that next time I go to a queer party people won't scoff at me) and Saturday night at a pub where it's cool to scream eighties ballads to the girl on the stage who likes to show off her elle mcpherson underwear.

Anyway, my dog just ate half my maccas burger, I have to go finish the rest.

(Guess who sister-Alex.)

Evilboy.

EWEKNEE1101: Choosing Units: Don't Bother With These Ones.

Now that I’m nearing the end of my undergrad degree (I sat my last UWA exam on Friday. It didn’t go well) I thought I would give a review of some of the more terrible units I have taken. Any degree has those classes that can only be described as a Complete Waste of Time and my Bachelor of Arts (majoring in Psychology) is no exception.

Like most freshers, I was super excited to start university thinking I would become some kind of old-school-70’s hippy, involved in the all the most important protests (I’ve still never been to one) and was beyond motivated to become the Greatest Psychologist Ever; curing the world one case of Depression at a time. I soon learned that uni is a lot like school except you can wear whatever you want, its somewhat acceptable to turn up drunk to tutes and you’ll spend more time eating your body weight in wedges on Oak Lawn (because you can’t be bothered trekking to Broadway even though you’re craving Ararat/Nagano) than learning anything of any real world value.

I was also pretty excited to be doing an Arts degree. I didn't have any compulsory 8am maths classes like my friends in Science, I had about fourteen contact hours, half of which I miiiiiight turn up to and I could write most of my essays with minimal research due to the great art of Bullshitting. I had some great arts units that I loved and was actually inspired by but I also had some doozies.

First Year Philosophy

My tutor looked like Steve Carrell which was very distracting. Unfortunately he wasn’t Steve Carrell and also wasn’t funny. He was a bit of a dick actually and made everyone print out every week’s readings even though they were an average of 75 pages long. The only things I can remember from Philosophy are Plato’s Cave Allegory, Freud is a sexist dick, Sartre is cool and that I’m still not convinced that the mind and the brain are separate entities despite the Philosophy Freak’s (you know, the one who always sits closest to the tutor) best efforts to suggest otherwise. UWA ruined philosophy for me.

Any Anthropology

I don’t understand why anyone would major in anthropology. It’s supposedly the study of cultures and human interactions which sounds pretty awesome to a Psych major, but it really blows. Although, I did write an awesome essay on polygamy. I watched a whole lot of Big Love, got my feminist on and received a High Distinction.

Half way through second year I got fed up with the Dud Arts subjects I’d chosen and was looking forward to the major end of my degree when I would study only Psychology units. But this wasn’t all that great either.

PSYC2217: Cognitive Neuroscience

This unit involved a group project on something that I obviously didn’t learn much about because I can’t remember what it was. Something to do with, ugh, the brain. I was a third year, and I had two second years and third year mature age student in my group. The second years weren’t too bad except that I had to explain simple stats analysis to them and the mature age student was completely useless because she was a mature age student. From the country. The exam contained 20 multiple choice questions from the possible 250 practice questions in the text book. The book was way more complicated than the lecture material and I didn’t have time/the motivation to read and understand all 15 examinable chapters so I printed out the 250 multiple choice questions and memorised the answers. A valuable learning experience.

PSYC3303: Psychological Science in the Modern World: Challenges and Controversies

This should be a first year unit. Carmen Lawrence was the co-ordinator which I was initially really excited about (even made a status update about it!) but I soon realised she is balls. I summarised this unit in my first post.

By far my favourite Complete Waste of Time Unit was:

VISA2218: Art Backwards: Painting into Film

I resent having to eventually pay for this unit. It was about what it means if the back of a painting was featured in a painting. As in, if I’m sitting opposite you and you’re doing a painting so I can see the back of your easel; what does it mean about the painting and about me as the artist, if I paint the back of your easel in my painting. We also spent about half the semester staring at and analysing this painting:

I can’t remember why this one was so important. Something to do with people in the mirror and the man in the doorway at the back. And the back of the painting on the left.

I don’t think the lecturer knew what it meant as he brought up more and more ridiculous theories every week (none of which really made much sense). He also wore t-shirts that had slogans that were way too young for him, with his ginourmous hairy gut hanging out underneath and mispronounced my surname (it’s fucking easy to say/a common food stuff). From what I gathered, it might possibly mean that the artist is gay (but probably not) or it could signify some kind of internal reflection or wank wank whatever. Most likely though, it means that the artist did a painting of someone else doing a painting.

slutitup

Apparently Judith Butler ** has a theory regarding reclaiming the word 'slut'. I heard this once in a gender studies tutorial, and decided it was for me.

So I'm pretty sure that those who identify as WOMAN/WOMIN/WOM*N/GENDERQUEER should reclaim the gaze and become slutty. Here are some steps.

1. You don't have to be inebriated to pick up! Sober, anonymous sex is like asserting yourself as powerful within patriarchal discourse.
2. Sexy eyes are key! For those of you who haven't come across the sexy-eye phenomenon, it is kind of a cross between SMEYES (smile-with-your-eyes. Tyra Banks style) and that look you get when you're alone at the end of the night and need to pick up. Find a way to appropriate this into EVERYDAY of your life.
3. If you can be bothered, try to consider the political ramifications of being 'easy' as opposed to the political golden-stars you'll get when you're a 'S-LUT' and have discovered a practice (promiscuous sex) that reverses the male gaze and forces people to reconsider the consequences of objectification.

** Judith Butler, for those of you who don't know is a post-modern philosopher/theorist who has had a great influence on my life, as well as queer theory.


Gender-peace.

Evilboy.

The Bird is the word

I am glad I'm at home drinking Lipton tea (because I ran out of stolen Vanilla Tea from work) studying Neuropsychological Assessment rather drinking Kosciuszko Pale Ale (on tap) at Hip Hop Karaoke.

Adele's Thoughts on Exchange

Back in May when I first decided I wanted to go on exchange (about two weeks before the cut off date) I presented the idea to my mother who was initially somewhat unenthusiastic. This is what she said to me:

Adele: But aren't you scared to live in a country on your own for six months?

Me: Well yeah a bit. But if I never did anything because I was a little bit scared I'd sit in my room watching 30 Rock for the rest of my life. And, Mum, they're going to stop making episodes at some point.

Later on, once I'd already applied and the likelihood of me spending six months on my own in another country became more of a reality I started toying with the idea of staying in The States after semester and travelling for as long as my visa would allow me. Mother understood my desire to travel and was quite encouraging, apart from this:

Adele: You're not allowed to fall in love with an American and not come home. We've lost enough family members to America.

Meet slut-face

This is our dog, Bella.

Most commonly known as slut-face/whore/sperm-purse. She takes pride in eating shoes, and has slowly infiltrated herself into our household to such an extent that she is no longer even remotely an outdoor dog. We also like to whore her out to neighbourhood mutts for a small fortune.

As you can see I have a rather messy bedroom (which is now dirty-dish-free).


Anyway, if any of you are as lame/occasionally nerdy as me you might read Questionable Content. Please don't judge me, it's a guilty pleasure, but it has also produced this monstrosity.

Adieu!

Evilboy

*note me signing off as my disappointment of a younger sister can't tell the difference between evilboy/whatever,fred.

Even Crazier Cat Lady

A couple of weeks ago Dad told me an actual True Life Crazy Cat Lady Story. Because it’s True and involves the death of a lonely woman its quite sad, but it’s also fucking hilarious because it’s a Crazy Cat Lady Story.

Actually thinking about the True Life Crazy Cat Lady Story more recently, I've been finding it more and more depressing than funny. This is likely to be related to the two hour long lectures of psychometric tests and related statistics I've been studying and lack of social interaction with anyone apart from my parents and dog outside of facebook. Listening to Interpol and staring out of my rain streaked window also isn't helping. Anyway, here's the story:

My family friends had an elderly woman living down their street who had an unknown amount of cats. They knew there were a lot and that cardboard barriers had been added to the surrounding fence on the property to prevent the cats from escaping.

When the woman died and paramedics went in to collect her body, fifty two cats were found on the premises. The carpet was sodden with cat faeces and the place absolutely stank. She had a son but he had stopped visiting her several years ago because the house smelled so bad. The authorities think she may have been dead for a couple of days before the body was found, as the cats may have started to eat her due to the scratch and bite marks on her body and face.

Rumour has it that she left the small amount of money she had to a woman who have given her free coupons for cat food at the supermarket.

In late high school I had a life plan that I was going to be the kind of woman who would lounge around her huge, old fashioned, eclectic mansion (much like the house in My Summer of Love) all day wearing a silk dressing gown with a glass of hard liquor in one hand a cigarette in the other (I'd forgotten about this, actually. My seventeen year old self wasn't as clueless about real world possibilities as I thought).

My lovely friends, slightly missing the point, added in that I will have lots of cats and sit on my porch with a rifle shooting at nothing in particular. While I wouldn't necessarily be that surprised if I turn into a Crazy Cat Lady with various delusions, blurting out personal information to the bus driver (I would have lost my driver's license long, long ago due to several speeding infringements after believing "they're all following me!") and never wearing shoes. My three children from four failed marriages no longer visit because I'm just too difficult now and the neighbours on my street would steer clear of me as my unkempt hair would suggest a certain lack of personal hygiene that they would just rather not encounter, so I would be forced to seek company in a number of loyal and overfed cats. However, I actually don't like cats. At all, really. Particularly fat cats. Which I guess would make me an Even Crazier Cat Lady.

stalkME

UWA should get itself one of these:

http://www.facebook.com/?ref=home#!/group.php?gid=125119954190647

I challenge you to start one.

a little bit of wee just came out

OHMYGODOHMYGODIMGOINGTOAMERICA!

Melbourne

Having given up keeping an alias (as everyone guesses who I am within the first five seconds of reading anything I've read), I thought I would tell you about a few golden tid-bits about ol' Melbourne-town, as I happen to live here.

1. I live in Brunswick, which for those of you don't know is kind of an up-and-coming student area where we all own hard rubbish couches and have no respect for our landlords. Anyway, I happen to also live really close to sydney road which looks like this: 

We share it with a lot of homeless people, but also an array of pubs/cafes/bookshops and of course Savers. Anyway, last Friday night I went to The Spot - I had never been there before, but if you live in Melbourne it's the one that does dinner deals depending on the time of day, just past Barkly Square. They have a new Friday night event that's called hung:

I highly suggest it to those too drunk to know where they are, and that aren't afraid of bra-burning lesbians and muscle-tee clad gay men. Otherwise maybe you should stick to Barrys.

2. Even if you don't live in Melbourne, I'm guessing you've been on Lygon street in Carlton and discovered Readings. If not, next time you're here make an afternoon of it. It's a great book shop with an amazing cultural studies section, and as I have discovered, also a poetry reading fortnightly on Mondays called Poetry to Pages. As my friend Luke is currently trying to infiltrate the world of Melbourne poets, we attended post-tsubu-jug and enjoyed a few glasses of (free) wine before drunkenly setting ourselves down for half an hour of poets.


Expect more spontaneous Melbourne-suggestions, gays and bearded ladies.

Friday night drag

Those of you in Melbourne, I highly recommend a night at The Spot on Sydney road, Friday nights. Expect more on this when I'm less inebriated.

Study lolz

vag-pie, bearded ladies and bongos

So, I'm re-enrolling for uni next year (which happens to be a very stressful occasion). So far I have 'Same-Sex Desire', 'Concepts of Childhood' and 'Saxophone Ensemble/Something worth only half-points'. I dare you to guess what I am studying. In the process I have been thinking about...

- The scary bearded lady who works at my local post office (more to come in another post)
- My terrible track record of marks throughout my university career
- Cigarettes (always)
- The fear of my wine falling onto the carpet (again)
- The pie my housemate, Pablo (read Robbie) made for me for dinner that read CUNT in pastry (we're a classy bunch.obviously)

Also I thought I would add some colour to this post. This is Adam Cullen

Believe it or not he actually won the Archibald in 2000.

Texts with a Friend Part 2

Friend: Oh ye-yah. Trashed on a Thursday. 'Sup?

Me: I am also intoxicated. But i'm home alone, so i guess i shouldn't be proud of it. Whatever i'd rather be home alone and drunk rather than home alone and sober.

Friend: I read the first sentence, stopped, and laughed with pride.

Me: So why are drunk when you have an exam in two days?

Friend: I hope that's not judgement I detect?! Well, it's a first year exam and my friend asked if I wanted to mid-week. Later found out that her dog died. Consolement booze.

Me: Dude, I have a third year exam on Saturday and I'm the one drinking alone. I don't know what judgement means. Thats a complete lie. I spend half my life judging others. Tell your friend I said sorry about her dog. I was devastated when my dog died and am still bitter towards my parents when they say anything negative about her. **

Me: You know, i never used to drink alone until i knew you did.

Friend: That's not cool... I use you as my excuse for lone drinking!

Me: How the fuck does that work!?

Friend: I'm confused again! I need another drink...

Me: Let's call it even. Cheers! *makes text eye contact* *****

** Seriously, when my parents rang me to say they were having my dog put down I was at my friend's house. As soon as I hung up, I started crying. They never knew this happened. By the time I built up the courage to go home, after my dog had been 'taken care of' at the vets, I was convinced to go to Lancelin with my parents. In the car I felt pretty low and enjoyed listening to my iPod on an hour and a half trip there. Funny how love songs about "her" and "she" and how "she left you" and "broke your heart" become about your dead dog. I'm somewhat certain that was the last time I went to Lancelin.

***** I also didn't know about this tradition until I met this friend. Apparently if you cheers someone and don't look them in the eye at the same time you get a bad sex life. When I think about all the cheersing I did before I met this friend, it explains a lot.

I can make pasta while intoxicated too

I normally reserve making pasta for when I've been home alone for a week and have already eaten everything in the fridge that makes an obvious meal. I once made a killer sauce out of a bag of mint and three red onions (it was either that or a carton of eggs and a bag of carrots).

However tonight, on the first night of my parents being away I made a pasta dish just to show that I can do it too:

• 1 onion
• a splash of white wine from your glass (I definitely didn't spill it)
• 1 clove of garlic
• a handful of home grown and home pickled olives
• several slices of salami

• 2 fresh tomatoes
• tomato paste
• red wine vinegar
• salt (use ionised, it makes you smart) and pepper (black, cracked, it tastes better)
• dried oregano (i used to say o-RAE-geno ironically because that's how silly American's say it. But now I like the way it sounds and say it that way all the time)
• homegrown fresh parsley, rocket and spinach

before cooking: two bottles of kosciusko pale ale

while cooking and eating: three glasses of white wine and a cigarette (cutting the onions was a stressful ordeal and I had to have a smoke with the wine to calm down while they sauted with the garlic and wine)

Recommendations:

• Use more than 2 tomatoes, therefore reducing the need for tomato paste
• Use chicken or even lamb instead of shitty woolworths salami
• Cut up the olives into smaller pieces. This way there is more olive flavour spread around rather than giant lumps of awesomeness that I looked forward to with every bite.
• Make it when there are more fresh greens in the garden. The three leaves of spinach I had were more like one and half due to the holes from caterpillars/other slimy things/the families of rats I often see running along the fence while having a cup of tea at the sink.
• Don't bother with the pasta - the sauce was awesome enough on it's own.
• Drink more before entering the kitchen. Drunk cooking is the best way to pass time. Even if you're not hungry.

Texts with a Friend

Friend: These kids are such dicks. They're so preoccupied with being indie? Apparently they haven't heard of making fun of hipsters yet.

Me: Indie? That's so five years ago.

Friend: Well these kids are fourteen, so apparently it's six years ago. Why didn't I get drunk before coming? I really need a flask.

Me: Shouldn't they be ahead of us? Because they're six years younger and find stuff cool that we think is cool, but when we were their age the stuff we found cool is now uncool to them? And us.

Friend: That must be why the find me uncool then? 'Cause I was cool in school? Yeah?

Me: Are you saying you follow trends that were cool when we were in school rather than whats cool now? I need a drink.

Friend: I'm confused. I need one too.

Mission accomplished.

Takin' over the 'hood.

Sometimes I like to think of myself as a gangsta. The linchpin of organised crime in my student, drug and greens infested neighbourhood. I would have:

- Body Guards
- A dog that doesn't cower at the vacuum cleaners/wooden flute and bark when you turn the radio on. He would have already mastered the 'kill' stance, and wouldn't whimper when you take his collar off.
- A crack pipe. I have never had the desire to smoke crack, but I think if I was a linchpin of organised crime I would do more than occasionally smoke joints. Perhaps I could turn the lounge room into an opium den.
- Respect. You might not understand this point if you don't live in my area. When you're walking down the street, trying to find the latest cafe craze or the right bar you need to make sure that the bar/cafe you're entering is in fact the cool place to be. Otherwise linchpin status is immediately revoked.


Unfortunately I have none of these. So far in my quest to take over the 'hood I have:

- Stolen two trolleys, filled them with boxes and left them in the middle of the road
- Had a house party that was triumphantly average (as opposed to depressingly bad)
-Spent too much time in the terrible pub down the road (that is remarkably un-trendy and has an eighties night every weekend)

Thus, until I make the jump from 'average unemployed student' to 'gangsta' I will always have good/average parties, a tendency to drink warm goon (as my freezer is too small) and housemates instead of body guards.

Hey There Siany!!

Props for dogma, facism and cardigans.

http://hipsterhitler.com/

Also I hope you like the layout. It's currently 3:30 and I'm about to take another sleeping tablet.

OH, and after I got home tonight (at 12am, as I was studying hard) I cooked pasta with:
2 Onions
Some rocket
Some garlic
Olives
Tomato pasta-sauce stuff
4 glasses of red wine

Also I saw Maree Pardy at the pub. She lectures gender studies (and thus holds like, god status. Or Hitler. Read the link, Yhana showed it to me)

Mr King had a vision

I had a dream last night that my jaw really hurt and one of my teeth fell out and then I had sex with someone who I knew in the dream but I don't know who it is now.

I really need to go back to studying for my exam on Saturday which is about how fucked up the world is and all the strategies that have been implemented so far but have failed and what we would do to fix it if we were Boss of the world but we can't because we're not Boss of the world.

But I'll probably just end up watching another episode of Seinfeld and drinking more juice.