P.S

LFOW is the seventh hit when you google "People with Purple Beards".

I'm way groovy.

The Chillenos

I'm back in Santiago and the weather is rather marvellous. As is the food, wine and company, but for some reason I'm ridiculously conservative.

You see, los estudiantes here are on strike. Not having a protest, not camping out in the city-center having sex in tents and complaining about god knows what, but literally not going to class. They haven't been to class in six months. Normally I would be in support of such action, but the high school students are now striking as well. Also they throw rocks and downtown is always flooded with tear-gas.

From what I can understand with my limited spanglish and Mother's intelligent student-type friends that read a lot of Satre (I know, how retro!) is that the protests are really about wealth distribution, but also about a static class structure. I understand that it must be frustrating to be stuck in a public university that doesn't allow you to get a job to live north-side, but I just don't think that student striking is the way to go. Doesn't that sort of completely defeat the purpose? They're ceasing study in order to study.

Not sure what I would do differently, but it would involve less rocks, more peace and I'm guessing a wider-range of fun activities that involve alcohol.

You have to wonder why no one has heard of these fandangled strikes, don't you? Even so, if they were on the news in Melbourne I would probably be excited. Here I'm just frustrated that all the streets are closed and old, pretty buildings are sullied with graffiti.

More on hiking boots, ambassadors and cuicos. As well as the inside of a car, Harry Potter audiobooks and glaciers. Oh so many glaciers to come. I'll try to add some photos as well.

Ciao,

Evilboy. 

New Love

Friends busy with uni/employment/life?
Moved back home and can't stand it?
Restrictions on how much you can drink during the day?
Waiting for more Parks and Recreation episodes?
Watch Party Down.

Or I dunno, go for a run or something, fatty.

Blonde, Bearded, Feminist.

Oh yeah. I give credit to the Linguist for this link:

Feminist Ryan Gosling

Except that after a good facebook stalk, I think I should be crediting a new LFOW character called Uni-Friend#1. I call her this because she is the first (of two) friends I have made through actual, real-life tutorial attendance (I even added her on facebook!). It was pretty tough, but I haven't failed any of my two whole subjects this semester due to tutorial attendance requirements. I have mad skills, it's pretty hard to keep up....

Expect more on Uni-Friend#2 later.

For 'Anonymous'

I woke up thinking about the anonymous comment someone left about vomiting over my penis-dream. Instead of grossing you out, I thought I would share with you my bad-ass dream that left me feeling super powerful and ready to study Irigaray. NB// I'm going to embellish this dream. It will seem really detailed, but it actually wasn't I just thought I would add extra details for funsies.

It started out on a normal, boring weekend day. I was probably hungover, and lying on the couch with my little sister/friend. My little sister says to me 'OH SHIT! I totally forgot that I had tickets to Singapore for a few days. The flight leaves this afternoon and I have a spare ticket - wanna come???'.

I jump up and decide to come along. I don't even bother to pack, I just pick my hungover-night-ee-clad self and jump in a taxi to the airport. Next thing I know I am on a plane and we're scooting off to Singapore. There's hardly anyone else on the plane and the flight reminded me of this amazing trip I had from Auckland to Melbourne a few months ago in which I had four seats to myself and three really fluffy-proper-sized pillows. I was totally loving it and all the flight attendants were way nice. So basically life is fabulous and despite the fact that I'm wearing my dirty night-ee that smells vaguely of goon and body odour every one is being really nice to me.

BUT THEN I remembered that I forgot my passport!! I'm on a plane to Singapore in a night-ee and I don't have a fucking passport. How lame. So I start freaking out a bit. How did I even get onto this plane in the first place? Had we even organised accommodation? How am I going to explain how I got onto an international flight whilst evading immigration? Will they still let me into Singapore if I plead temporary insanity? Will special consideration help me?

I get off the plane and my dream jumps to me having a conversation with a flight attendant. She is way-nice and believes that I've just got myself into a hopeless situation. I ask her what will happen if I can fax my passport to her (in my dream you can fax passports apparently). She got me tea and said no, I couldn't fax my passport to her because it hasn't been stamped in Australia. On paper, I am still in Australia. It's all very stressful. So she pops me onto a plane home, except that the other flight attendants are way-mean and don't want to let me on the next plane. They want me to wait overnight. I'm totally not okay with this, and end up on the proper plane, where all the mean flight attendants won't give me water and food and there are no fluffy pillows.


In retrospect it kind of reminds me of the security breach at Sydney airport recently. It might not seem very fire-y, but I woke up feeling super-excited that I was grown-up enough to confront someone about my passport-nudity in a night-ee. Normally I would just freak out and avoid my problems. Also fluffy pillows are way fun. Fluffy pillows in dreams on airoplanes are even better.

Hope you're feeling less queasy Anonymous!


Evilboy.

Pearls of Wisdom

It's been a long time since I posted. To be honest, not much has happened but I figured I would exploit my position of power here to let you all in on some of my infallible wisdom...


1. When you're drunkenly attempting to pick-up, don't lean into people with your tongue sticking out and toward their mouths. I can assure you that you will not get the desired effect and even if the person you're attempting to woo/just make out with for fun does return your attempted kiss, it won't be pretty.

2. Instead of looking for love, try settling for some gangsta cred. The hoodie-clad boy handing you bag-less drugs will do.

3. Ron Weasley is by far the most attractive character in Harry Potter. Try dedicating your life to meeting him slash performing sexual acts for him.

4. If you want something from your family and friends claim to be heart broken. Money will flood in, and you won't have to make your own cup of tea or roll your own cigarette for at least four days.

5. When you've given up on your essays and have decided that it's not worth aiming for high marks, purchase some goon. Make sure that when you invite all of your friends over you tell them that you've nearly finished - this will allow you for a guilt-free night that ends in a satisfying vom and a long, hot shower.

6. Couches do belong in kitchens. Don't fight it.

7. If you run out of money before the weekend, call a sibling or close friend and propose that you share their money for a time. Don't let them know you're broke and spend your last eleven dollars on goon. Proceed as you would if you had given up on an essay.

8. Pay your debts on time.

9. Share all of your horrific dreams with everyone you come into contact with. I had a dream that I had a penis. It was extremely thin and had a bobby pin stuck under the top layer of skin - you could see the outline. I also dreamed that I was molesting a young girl. Dreams allow your life to be slightly more exciting without the guilt or disgust that would exist in the real world.

10. Get your tutors to like you. This just requires a few astute comments at the beginning and end of each tutorial. Lately mine has been something related to Irigaray. Try using the words scopophilic and post-colonial in the same sentence. For the purposes of gender studies throw in the names 'Judith Butler' or 'Toril Moi' or even 'Janice Raymond'.

11. Attempt to know everything about the seventeen year-old son that belongs to your idol. Not only does this provide an hour or two of internet-fun, but it makes you feel closer to them when you read/watch/listen to something they are in.


All of these things will keep you below the line of poverty, entertained and feeling slightly less alive than before.

Hope you didn't miss me too much,

Evilboy.

Daddy Issues and Life Decisions

Reasons to live in London:

• It's not Australia
• English boys are cute
• Dad doesn't understand why I want to live there

Reasons not to live in London

• It's shit 
• I haven't met any English boys
• There are too many Australians

Reasons to live in Berlin

• It's not Australia
• Way cheaper (my friend's bathroom is bigger than my bedroom in London)
• Kreuzberg hipsters shit on East London hipsters

Reasons not to live in Berlin

• German is a ridiculous language that I don't want to learn
• I would have to learn German
• Dad would be happy if I did

It's been a while since my last post. Here's what I have been busy with:


- Changing the face of social theory. It's a pretty huge task, but I have this dream in which all of my friends and I become the future theoretical gods of academia. We'll all sit around smoking cigarettes and talking about products of post-modernity and the death of theory and melancholia and shit. I think what will really happen is we'll find really average, un-thought-provoking ways of appropriating Jacques Lacan, or critiquing any form of analytical/rational philosophy that we can manage to read through without impaling ourselves. But I can still dream, can't I? I'm going to learn how to smoke cigars in preparation. Perhaps even consider who I'm going to marry in order to create a power-house of theory. Like Simone and Jean-Paul.

Lacan Looking Luscious

Simone and Satre Sizzling

- In addition to smoking cigars and planning sexual encounters with dead French philosophers, I've been thinking about radical feminists. You see, they depress me - there are only so many conversations you can have about patriarchy before you get bored. Whatever - men beat women, rape isn't convicted nearly enough, sado-masochism is only a mode of internalising inequality, we should all stop enjoying phallic objects and encourage feathering and cunnilingus. I'm sick of talking about privilege. Sheila Greer has been harking on about how post-modernity is a theory only allowed to the privileged, and to be honest it probably is - but who is to say that I shouldn't harness my privilege in order to learn and adapt and consider separate modes of understanding our selves? I don't see the point of ignoring my own privilege in order to become what? A political activist, a social worker? An academic that continues to argue the same tirade of top-down oppression? What is wrong with entertaining the idea that power is more complicated than something that belongs, is dictated and harnessed by men?

 

 

 

Feminism Fucking the Phallus

Cunt-Conquering Cannibalism

- Smoking slightly too much marijuana and watching a lot of psychological thrillers. There aren't enough cinema essays written on thrillers as a genre.. or maybe I just haven't read them? I also watched all three Matrix movies in one sitting last weekend. That was a kick. Neo is probably one of my favorite characters of all time. So bad-ass. Neo, Elle from Legally Blonde, and Sam from the Lord of the Rings (so much hotter than Frodo. He's too meek). Oh, and Debbie from Queer as Folk, which leads me to the fourth thing I've been up to...

- Characterising my friends according to characters from Queer as Folk. You should try it out. It also works quite well for True Blood. I like to think that I'm a mix between Debbie and Pam from True Blood. I might go and find some trashy quizzes to consolidate this.


Hope you guys have been up to more exciting things than I!


Evilboy.

p.s: Hope you noticed the alliteration.

The Art of the Sext.

Recently I've been wondering how to construct the most rousing sexy text. For a while I was working with gardening analogies - you know, shovels and dirt and stuff. But I'm not sure if it's been particularly successful, here's a few between a friend and I. I was trying to scare her, because sometimes she gets embarrassed in gender studies classes when people talk about their sex lives...

Me: I want to penetrate you with a shovel
Friend: I'll use that shovel to dig you out.
Me: I'm dirty. You need to tie me up and force me to submit with your vibrating bullet.
Friend: Or worse. The Force of the Feather.

I don't think I was particularly successful at setting the mood. Firstly, I've never gardened in my life so I don't really know what it's all about. Secondly, I sense that fucking in a garden would be like a beach - except probably a bit more moist. Finally, perhaps sticking with the 'shovel/phallus' paradigm is a mistake, because lets face it - it sounds like something out of American Psycho, and no one wants to find Brett Easton Ellis on the other end of a sexy text message.

David Wygant gives a few tips on the sext. I've paraphrased them for you:

1. Make sure you've either had sex before, or talked about sex with each other before you start the hot-and-heavy words.
2. Go 'right past' the small talk. I'm not sure what he means by this, because most of my small talk does involve sex. Or sexualities, genders, trans people. How I've always wanted to have groupies. I think what he's saying is to not start the sext-adventure with 'how are you today?' or 'we're having chicken for dinner'.
3. Don't ever pressure anyone. I think he's trying to tell people to always keep things hypothetical: 'if you come over tonight', 'if you do that i might have to do this'.

He gives an abysmal example of some texts he shared with his ex-girlfriend. Check them out here. I needed to give away with this David-guy, because the first highlighted words on his bio are 'he's a regular guy', and no one wants a sext from a regular guy.


Having done away with David Wygant the 'dating coach' that fox news recommends, I'm left with just one question: should we be using analogies for penises and vaginas like in romantic/erotic fiction or is it better to go with a more literal approach?

Examples, anecdotes, suggestions? Let me know. While you think about it, maybe this will get you in the mood..

Evilboy.

Life back on track

One of my first posts here was about becoming the linch-pin of organised crime in the Brunswick area. Whilst I've yet to make any substantial deals with the local ruffians, I do live next door to suspected dealers and I have begun practicing my mad-skillz and intend to perform a hostile take-over of my tutorial. Here's what has conspired...

I have a gender-studies arch nemesis. We'll call her Sheila Greer - always talking about violence against women and other IAMWOMANHEARMEROAR atrocities. I'm not really into this business - I would much prefer to work away at an essay on True Blood, discuss why I want to bone Foucault's rotting corpse and name my first child after Judith Butler. Lets face it, drag makes for a better essay than patriarchy - so passe.

Anyway, Sheila Greer and I had a tutorial together last year and seemed fairly intent on arguing every point each other made. I seem to recall having a heated debate about niche porn and rape scenes. I have a penchent for rape-scenes - so visceral. They just seem to fall into an argument about horror films and post modernity. This is not to say I condone rape - obviously I do not, I just condone rape fantasies. I come across as less creepy that way.

Long story short we've made a pact to run our last gender studies tutorial as best as we can in order to silence our somewhat daft tutor who thinks that the term 'gender instability' has ambiguous political connotations (I know - what a cunt! How dare she have an opinion). So I figure I'm on my way to gangster-living because:

- I have organised a hostile take-over of someone else's domain.
- I have made a temporary peace agreement with my foe.
- It's all in the name of rendering someone incapable of work.
- There were witnesses. I have henchmen!

I'll leave you with this track. Whilst you listen to it, imagine me and Sheila Greer walking in slow motion towards the economics and commerce building of Melbourne uni with shot-guns in our pockets and stern faces. It all ends with an array of corpses in the G05 building near the water fountain at quarter past 5 next Wednesday afternoon.

Live in Fear of My Gender-Wrath!

Evilboy.

Infans

Ingredients:

Development Psychologist
Free Access to frequent MRIs (once a month or thereabouts)
One or more Parent(s)
One Teacher
One Psychoanalyst

Literature:

Lacan
Freud
A lot of Child Psychology
Some neuroscience
Theories of subjectivity pertaining to at least three different schools of thought.

Method:

To attempt to return to what Lacan calls the 'infans' stage - to a mode of being like a baby's in which I forego my subjectivity for a period of time and dissolve my self-hood in relation to Others - I would first need to engage in a relationship with my Parent(s) that excludes discourse. I could either:

1. Immediately cut myself off from the outside world and only interact with my Parent(s). No use of language would be permitted. My Parent(s) would have to engage on a pre-determined regiment of feeding, bathing, changing diapers etc. I would be confined to a house/room in which only myself and Parent(s).

2. Slowly eliminate aspects of my cognitive behaviour. For example disengage with greetings, followed by goodbyes followed by particular words, actions until I forget completely how to speak and act the way I and Others expect me to.

Both these scenarios would require a period of about three years in order to forget discourse altogether (or not at all depending on the experiment's success) and then a slow period of re-engaging myself with language and theoretically re-configuring my subjectivity.

Queries? Ideas?

Future-Evilboy Salutes You.

This really happened

I'm back in Brunswick amongst the crazies and I have a question for you. Do Schizophrenic people sometimes commit murder when the voices tell them to or does that just happen in the movies? I don't intend this to be inconsiderate, but here's what I witnessed this morning:


I woke up at like 6am (maybe jetlag will help me sort my life out with all this extra morning-time) and fucked around for a few hours. Then I wrote a shopping list and jumped on my bike to get to Barkly square (those who have been to my house will know that I didn't really need to be on a bike - I'm just lazy and don't like to carry things a few hundred meters) - I forgot my helmet but couldn't be fucked turning back for it. Anyway I reached the intersection of Brunswick and Sydney roads and crossed to the seven eleven. It was only after I reached the other side that I noticed the man wobbling on the side of the road. I figured he was just high so I didn't perceive him to be a threat until he started talking to himself. He said:

"I won't do it, Jack! No, Jack - fuck off!"

I figured it was kind of sad/funny (lets call it Fad), but nonplussed until he yelled really loudly:

"LOOK AT HER FACE, JACK! I WON'T DO IT, LOOK AT HER FUCKING FACE!!"

I should probably mention that I was the only person standing at the lights, and suddenly had a flash-daydream in which he pulled out a gun from his jacket and shot me. Or worse, a knife.

So I ask you - dangerous or just harmlessly deranged? Mentally ill or just high? (or both, I suppose). Maybe the girl he was talking about was just another personality in his head. Maybe he's like Russell Crowe in A Beautiful Mind? In which case I should have flirted with him and he might have shown my some stars or done an equation that makes me a lot of money.

What do you think?

Evilboy.

Taking over the World plan #1

Last night my father, in a moment of brilliance and half way through his second bottle of wine, told me that there will be a war between China and the US and China will win. So, apart from having to learn both Cantonese and Mandarin I've decided to align my political-aspirations with South America. Here is why:

- I think I might be a Child of the Revolution and if I join to Chilean communist party I might be able to marry into Mao's family. With this socialist-cred I can survive any economic change that may incur.

- I like pisco and I can salsa. These two attributes appear to be imperative to a life hanging with my fellow revolutionaries - particularly considering when your order a piscola here you're getting half a glass of spirits and some coca-cola to alter the taste slightly.

- I think I'm turning into an alpaca. I would thus be ideally suited to the mountain ranges of Argentina/Chile (ie: the Andes). I could spend my days being herded by vaquero (cowboys) and munching on fertile grass-lands. They would call me 'Angus' and my wool will be worn by royalty.

- In the event of a war between China and the US, China will most likely become an economic superpower. Therefore, North America's 'war on drugs' waged in the South may cease to be so inefficient - in which case someone will need to lobby for the legalisation of the cocaine industry. This way, whilst I may not be a gansgter, I will still be chillin' with the mafia regulating the manufacture of coca. Therefore Israeli kids on their gap-years (between military service and university) will know that what they legally buy is clean and safe. (NB// This is simply an example. Anyone who purchases cocaine in South America will be pleased, I have simply noticed that many Israeli teenagers frequent this continent in search of a binge/purge prior to re-entering the normal social strata).

Thus it makes perfect sense for me to never return to study and continue enjoying my afternoon pisco sours in peace.

I hear nay-sayers!

Julie Powell cheated on her husband, made money from it and was played by a babe in a movie. She remains on the list, with the linguist.

People Who Make me Feel Little #3

Julie Powell. Yes, the Julie Powell from Julie/Julia the movie with Meryl Streep. I know I will never become a good cook, or even just an average one - but I just watched the movie and it put all of this over-intoxicated, under-sexed nonsense into perspective. I hate it when people put me into perspective! I have wonderful daydreams about meeting new people who think I'm fabulous and we slowly grow up, read more widely and eventually write a magazine that brings postmodern philosophy into real-life. Then my dream cuts to seven years later and Shane Judith**, my child, is reading my article in her first year Arts class. Then I have to wake up and realise that the only thing anyone has ever read of mine is either this blog or my tutor reading an essay. Also that Simone de Beauvoir, Judith Butler and George Bataille (my latest theorist-crush) were most likely geniuses - perfectly educated ones. My marks might not even allow me into Sociology Honours at lousy ol' Melbourne University (a major that I'm not even marginally interested in).

The point is that this probably won't happen - I am not going to grow old with my friends and revolutionise the Academy - and Julie Powell makes that pertinently clear. You see, I read her blog and discovered that Martha Stewart is her god (as well as Julia Child by the end of her 365 days, obviously). She is educated and can cook, and whilst she is one of the more relatable People who make me feel little, she still projects this wonderful sense of femininity - the kind that grew out of home-made bongs and raiding her parent's medicine cabinets and actually did something she loved and made money from it! (and kept drinking and smoking and not exercising and eating fatty foods!).

So, instead of sticking to the four dishes I can cook - a Jamie Oliver roast chicken (I won't lie, sometimes I deviate from the orange and lemon stuffing and revert to some sort of bread-crumb, butter and garlic concoction), a Donna Hayes chocolate and raspberry pudding***, spaghetti bolognese and goats cheese and mushroom risotto - I'm going to actually attempt to learn proper-cooking. I'm not sure if this would bode well with the real-life Julia Powell, but for now I might stick with a Hollywood idealised version of her and then graduate to the real-life one once I've learned how crack an egg without getting egg-shell in my food.

Food-loving-peace,

Evilboy.

** Shane Judith is the fag-hag-love-child of Projectile Josh and I. She's named after Shane from the L Word and Judith Butler.

*** I used to make the chocolate raspberry pudding for cake days in high school and no one seems to have forgotten them. It got to a point where I would have to make like twenty-five little puddings (I made them in little china ramekins) so that everyone I made contact with that day could have a bite. I actually woke up two hours before school to bake them. Unfortunately, I think I might have lost my touch (and my budget) because last time I made them they weren't as good as I remembered.

Purple beards, wrestling masks and Children of the Revolution

Sian has left me to fend for myself. It's like being deserted in a very comfortable, slightly cold but sunny jungle with ample water and the occasional fresh salmon jumping toward me. As you can imagine I'm drinking the wine instead of the water and frequently calling for salmon from my comfortable leather couch that Trevor bought at a department store. Thank goodness she thought to leave my scarf with me - otherwise I might have only had three to choose from.

Anyway I've been reading the linguist's blog recently and it's made me feel guilty, because she's been away for less than a week and has kept up to date with her life and everything (perhaps I should add her to my list of people who make me feel little. I got to South America and she's still having a more interesting adventure..). So I thought I would tell you about a few of the more interesting parts of my trip:

1. If you've ben reading recently, you might have seen my extremely brief post of Valparaiso. Apart from some of the people we met at the hostel we stayed in, it was pretty marvelous. In fact, if I ever returned I think I would like to become the captain of a tug-boat and a Child of the Revolution - I would smoke cigars, drink lattes and salsa sensually to loud, fiesta-like live music. Unfortunately we did our big-night-out on the first night we got there. I tried to salsa but all the cheap beer got the better of me and I ended up giving too much money to a pied-piper looking busker who played me a Chilean song. From then on I was content using travellers-cliches too often and planning my life as el Capitan - which translates as 'the captain' obviously, but I think is more likened to a chief. In fact the most common usage of the word seems to be as the name of a big rock in California, but whatever - people here seem to have different meanings for words.

2. We went to see a band because this guy Ricardo (whom I found out yesterday is fondly known as Richie to his friends) was playing. Ricardo is Mum's old Spanish teacher and also does a walking tour that we went on. Informative, but the night out was much more entertaining. Sian describes the band as a mix between the strokes and the beach boys with a wrestling mask twist. They looked a bit like this:

except with a bit more Chilean hipster cred, less colour and more tattoos. I should also mention that my Mum came out with us and hung around until 2am. I have a newfound respect for her. Anyway after she left we had a dance and I tried out my spanglish - describing gender studies with no command of the language is impossible. I spent about half an hour trying to describe feminism to an engineering student in spanish - unfortunately I made the mistake of actually trying to use Spanish to describe it. I kept yelling machismo machismo machismo and trying to say feminism and of course Sian pops up behind me and yells drunkenly 'man' 'woman' and does some hand gestures and he immediately understands. From now on I'm sticking to 'no entiendo', because for a while I thought that 'no hablo' explained that I couldn't speak spanish, not that I couldn't speak at all.


3. I saw a man with a purple beard at the markets. They have fruit, veg and sea food markets that move around the city every day. I also saw live barnacles (might try to eat them before I leave).
More later,

Evilboy

Dear Tom,

I went to the clinic but I was too late. Will you push me down the stairs?

Sincerly,

Sian.

Dear Tom

My bail is set at fifty grand. I could work it off in your bar/restaurant. I promise I've given it up. I mean it this time.

See you soon,

Evilboy.

Dear Tom,

As a fake redhead I require a job to continue paying for my hair dye. Your vague gumtree ad for bar staff will do. I am a couch potato but I will do my best to pour beers for you with minimal head. From my expatriate friend's apartment in Chile I have decided that London is the way to go for I can't speak Spanish. Working at your bar/restaurant/brothel would be my pleasure (and maybe yours too). I used to play the trombone - you know what this means. I'll be good to you, bitches.

Please hire me.

Kisses,

Sian.

Brain of a VIP

I'm back in Santiago. Went for a drive to the snow this afternoon as it was the first rain of the season yesterday. I do all of my big thinking in cars. Here are some of the things I thought:

- "I would quite like to become an expatirot. They seem to spend money frivolously, and you meet lots of important people. Except I wouldn't like to be a wife. I would like to be an important person."

- "That dog has a rabbit in its mouth."

- "We're going to die, we're going to die, we're going to die!" - We drove up a mountain and Trevor was determined not to put chains on the tires. We did eventually, though.

- "That child is shoveling snow into its mouth. Yuck"

- "I wish I had brought my copy of the book Sian is reading" - It's about life in a Bolivian prison. Cocaine and tourists. Called Marching Powder.

As you can tell my brain is full of particularly poignant thoughts at the moment.

Valparaiso.

Saw a man with a skull tattooed on his face. Went to Valparaiso. Spent an hour and a half trying to find a car park - got yelled at by lots of drivers for trying to turn into a one-way street. Ate a gross hamburger. Went to a Karaoke bar. Waxed about Children of the Revolution for an hour in a salsa club. Whinged in a park all day (hungover). Wore clean socks. Ate cheese, salami, crackers and off-tasting olives watching the port of Valparaiso. Sian popped her pimple with a pin. Bought really bad wine for less than $7. Watched Friends and Two and a Half Men for at least three hours. Played Jenga to avoid the TV. Someone called Jorge (hhhore-hay) made us pisco sours with chili flakes. Woke up, saw the rain and left a night early. Walked for forty-five minutes with pack in the rain. Got home, ate blue cheese and poured expensive wine.

Itchy. Bed bugs?

I'm in Santiago with Sian, whom has recently caught the travel bug. She has become a couch surfer convert and is in the process of writing reviews of the people who hosted her in New Orleans. I've been particularly helpful and wrote my own draft of her experience. It's all true and plays an important role in my decision to save for accommodation.


A review of couch surfing hosts in New Orleans:


I enjoyed staying with These People. They picked me up from the airport and from there my time in the south was a hoot! I was so enamoured with the place that I offered to clean up their pittbull's explosive diarrhea, my hosts were so pleased that the smell had abated they placated me with empty promises of a night out.

Unfortunately Sarah is severely depressed about the fact that she is currently unemployed and has developed a severe case of chronic fatigue, which is also related to her severe exchema. This means that she is awake approximately four hours a day. Recipe for a bit of loneliness, but if you free the three puppies from their small cages they will be sure to befriend you.

People seem to have alternative lifestyles in this city. When I arrive they did not provide me with any bedding and seemed entirely uninterested in having anything analogous to what I would consider 'fun'.

Best of all, I finally managed to get the travelers bug. I will forever remember my time spent in New Orleans. Mostly because some of the bite marks will be forever imprinted upon my skin.




Expect a post on South America, but be patient. My main priority is to drink my daily pisco sour.


Hasta luego!

EvilboyinChile.

A Very Happy Un-Birthday to You.

Last night I became Candy - a sixteen-year-old lesbian looking to find her way into a drag show after hours. I was clad in my lime-green, floor-length coat and my sequin-covered vest looking to score some amyl and free beer. So naturally when the beautiful blonde woman on stage asked if it was anyone's birthday I piped up - she sang me Happy Birthday lesbian-style (with her hands down her throat) and promptly told me to walk to the bar, where the 'lovely barman' poured me a shot of jager because it wasn't my birthday. Projectile Josh, The Hussy, BigFoot and our latest protege Forceful Consent were all in fine form - not many of us really able to take our eyes off the 'go-go-dancers' in their glittery underwear or s&m rihanna-inspired gimp outfits.

Forceful Consent is a new addition to the murder of misfits that I seem to meet and befriend. She's another Perth-kid and has approximately three dance moves: 'come hither', 'go away' and 'rape' - which she prefers to keep PC and call 'Forceful Consent'. We collected her after she had spent the evening wandering the streets of Brunswick, seemingly walking in the wrong direction the whole time.

Anyway by this time I'm fairly inebriated and meet this ridiculous dancer on the d-floor. He introduces himself to me with a name that sounds like 'Lesley'. For some reason he's not wearing a top, just a cardigan - paired with a pair of tight leather cut-offs. He has red hair and is styling the 'quiff' hair-cut that seems so trendy amongst young gays. He bends his knees and lowers his back to the ground, gyrating  against my leg which he has wedged between his. He smells of sweat, and some non-de-script chemical. I quickly aim for the toilet because I'm fucking busting. Not being able to figure out if the toilets are unisex I just use whichever door is closest. When I get out there's a gaggle of girls talking make-up and boys, and as I make my way to the sink they all seem to disappear until it's just me an a beautiful blonde girl removing her top. She apoligises when I turn around and I have absolutely no problem with this girl removing her clothing next to the sink.

Heading out to the D-floor I run into Leslie again - we dance for a while and decide to go out for a smoke. Leslie's name is really Jesse and he's an interpretive dancer from Cairns. He lives in a warehouse around the corner, and lesbians tore off his shirt at Orlando. He came with the blonde-topless-girl. We went inside and Jesse handed me a small black bottle - I sniffed and smelt the chemical I had smelled before. I inhaled using both nostrils and viola! Amyl. I'm not kidding. I actually spent my night sniffing poppers every ten minutes in order to maintain a high and avoid an unbelievably painful headache. What's more I was conned into stealing $10 from Bigfoot to buy what was remaining and spend the rest of my night eating macdonalds and talking macro-economic theory with aid from amyl. Needless to say I was royally pissed off.

The rest of my weekend was spent either trawling second-hand shops on Sydney rd to find a fluro fanny-pack or buying raffle tickets in order to win a white-croqueted rug (and cover it in red-wine stains) from the yarnandcrafts festival at Brunswick town-hall. I met the Linguist's grandmother. We bonded. I ate pie.

Hope you guys had equally as eventful un-birthdays too,

Evilboy.

People who make me feel little #2

I've been reading a cooking blog that has made me feel entirely useless whilst using an oven. To be honest I don't think I've used our oven more than once (or twice if you count packet-chips) and the only thing I'm capable of baking is a Donna Hay chocolate and raspberry pudding. It's known for being pretty fucking fabulous, but I think I'm incapable of baking like this woman.

Her name is Rosie, she buys vintage home-wares and she has two beautiful children. After spending a girls night out (which I have done more than once in a month, believe it or not) talking about children and child-birth, I feel as though she's a good candidate for this post.

I often wonder why I continue to live the life the way I do when there are prettier and more dignified ways to exist. I just did a round-a-bout on my 'cocaine chair' (a big white swivel desk chair that I like to pretend is my drug-dealer chair) and found approximately four dirty dishes (courtesy of ikea) and an half-empty packet of fantales (which break my teeth every time I try to get through one). Also there is a vacuum cleaner (which I did use!) and numerous piles of dirty clothing. I feel as though if my life was more like Rosie's I would be:

a) far more productive,
b) a hot ma-ma
c) capable of producing a meal from ingredients
d) able to breast feed
e) an entrepreneur
f) happier.

I know happiness is all impossible to define and that I will probably look back at these days as the glory days, but if I could just see my floor life would be far easier to comprehend.

I'm in the process of writing Rosie an email telling her all of this. In a manner that doesn't seem to stalker-esque or trashy.

Pterodactyl noises WILL fill the void.

Have you ever had that feeling that you're so confused you could shout and scream?

I'm sitting at my messy desk looking at copies of Deviant Love (Freud), A Biography of Georges Bataille, Story of O and a book titled Masochism and the Self. I've now spent three hours trying to understand the relationship between sex, ek-static (yes, spelt like this), death and God. I actually did scream, as well as making that pterodactyl noise some of you know I make so adeptly. I've digressed to dancing to daggy Savage Garden songs and searching google images of Foucault to stick on my wall.

Some of the things that have stuck in my mind are: "the corpse is the truth of the biological individual, its consummate superfluity" and "I think as a girl takes off her dress. At the extremity of its movement, thought is indecency, even obscenity." Both Georges Batailles - if any of you know any more than this please let me know.

Also a quick message to you all: if you're ever in a bind, binge drinking is always the answer.

Peace,

Evilboy.

This week is going better than normal. This is why:

- I cleaned my room this afternoon for the first time in six months. I found: A vintage cigarette tin given to me on my birthday that was in my chest of drawers, a wine-stained copy of Story of O that I actually need for essay-writing fun, five empty tobacco pouches (I tried to combine the remaining into one cigarette, but apparently I had already tried that. There is also none left in the bottom of my bag), a copy of some poetry that was due back at the library months ago, scales and many items of clothing that I thought lost.

- Even thought I'm $60 in debt to Blockbuster, when I take my DVDs back they will halve the fines! (no questions asked)

- It is winter, but not cold enough to ditch my new fingerless gloves. Crocheted by the third fastest crocheter in Australia of 2009. (yeah, I've got connections...)

- I finished all six seasons of The Office. To be honest it got boring after Pam and Jim started dating. The lack of sexual tension was a downer.

- I tried explaining Foucault to my housemate and it made sense to me (but not him). 500 words down and many many more to attempt.

- SisterAl bought me lunch and gave me three cigarettes.

- I cleared my debt to The Melbourne Uni library.

- I discovered www.academia.edu now I can facebook stalk other people's tutors as well as my own! (for the record my current tutor's fb profile is private..)

Because of all of these things I am now considering the 'writing book' option for my future. Of course the offer for a $200 'impressive thinker' review is still on the table.

Tween

I'm watching a hillary duff movie high and it's somewhat exciting. Sometimes I think I'm a tween - you know Miley Cyrus and crushes on Justin Bieber. I watched that proactive add that he was in and kind of felt a bit turned on. He's all fresh and bright eyed, or bushy and bright tailed or whatever the phrase entails. I would post comments on celebrities' facebook walls telling Britney how talented she is and Lady Gaga how much she inspires me. The other day I watched some youtube video of her crying and started concocting a letter to her in my head about how fabulous she is and to feel better soon. Then I had a daydream about her turning up at my door looking all nonchalant and me making her a cup of green tea that I stole from the Hussy because I can't afford my own. We would talk about our neuroses and she would give me a hug and tell me that my letter really spoke to her on a level that she can't seem to find in her super-star world. We would share a joint and talk gender and religion for a while, then she would pay for me to travel with all of her tours as a self-esteem booster.

I feel as though this would be a more productive way of spending my time - plus I probably wouldn't have to pay rent, or buy booze or pay for food. Technically I currently don't do any of those things, but at some point in the future being Lady Gaga's self-esteem booster would be a good opportunity for me to use my degree to do good.

I've been reading a lot about future prospects studying gender studies and as it turns out there isn't that much I'm qualified to do. Here are my current prospects:

1. Finish an undergrad degree that has so far taken me seven semesters to get half-way through. (usually it takes six semesters to graduate)
2. Be Lady Gaga's right-hand genderqueer.
3. Move to Chile, become a drug mule (like projectile-Josh's Mum was) and work my way up to owning a quarter of South America's cocaine industry. From there I become President-of-the-world and legalise Marijuana. From there I buy a hemp-paper company. Then (naturally) I become a tycoon - an entrepreneur, a monopoliser of life.
4. Write a book. About plastic. Pay a reviewer $200 to call me an impressive thinker. Refrain from eating for approximately one week until people star buying my book.
5. Study Retail Management at Victoria University. Work as a manager in a music-store.
6. Hire a terrible song-writer and produce music myself using garage-band. Date Justin Bieber. Receive crippling hate-mail from fellow tweens and have a nervous break down.

So much to do, so little time

What the Hell

Did anyone know that Avril Lavigne was still around? I had kind of assumed that she was poisoned by all of that eye-makeup. Or rendered permanently blind and shipped off to a convent. Something like that.

As it turns out she drowned. In product placement. If you spot the self-advertising I'll buy you a drink.

Fave lyric?: So what if I go on a heap of dates?

I wonder if she knew that her career would end with this song and decided to finish with millions of dollars in advertising?

Flopsy, Mopsy and Nibbles

I've been driving kilometres recently. Lot and lots of kilometres. Luckily, I've had the world's trashiest music to guide the way. When was the last time you all listened to 92.9 or 93.7? They're playing this rad new song called Good Girl. I like to belt the lyrics somewhat loudly. Also I only just saw the video a second ago - you can guarantee that some of those d-floor moves will be emulated in Melbourne over the weekend. (Sister Al and I have a penchant for stealing daggy moves..) and when did being a 'good girl' equate to wearing a school uniform? It's like the western world has yet to discover anime porn.

As well as driving kilometres, I've been in Busselton with my family - which includes two little nieces and one not-so-little-anymore nephew. Lets call them um. Flopsy, Mopsy and ah. Nibbles. Flopsy, the eldest is into animations, sci-fi and apparently this new board-game called War on Terror. He fabricated some of the rules in order to slaughter me, but you can imagine the basic plot:

1. Create an Empire (I called mine Hezbolah)

2. Buy villages, towns or cities in your preferred nations (I chose Palestine, Saudi and 'North Australia').

3. Pick up cards that allow you to bomb things.

4. When you go bankrupt you become a terrorist, and you steal oil, suidice-bomb and undergo espionage attempts.

It's all rather politically in-correct, and would be far more fun with grown-ups.

Nibbles is the youngest of the three. I've named her after her favourite guinea-pig. We wrote a story together one night about Nibbles and Maisie marrying the man guinea-pig, Omni. She's obviously a firm believer in polygamy, and told me that she would never drink 'beer' or 'champagne'. I asked her about vodka, I was shushed by my Mother.

Finally, Mopsy is the mopey middle-child. She's kind of the teeny-bopper kid - always talking about the size of her thighs and how she doesn't look good enough in clothing. I empathise with her though, I tried the tween thing once, it didn't suit.

Hope my family added some humour to your dreary easters. If not, then fuck you.

Evilboy.

Things I know to be true

- Natalie Portman truly looks better bald.
- When you feel full you shouldn't keep eating.
- When you feel like vomiting anti-nausea pills actually work.
- Everyone wants to finger Natalie Portman
- If you stop taking valium you will want to die.
- Savage Garden cures the worst angst-spurts.
- People don't notice when I dye my hair.
- You should listen to Muffin when he tells you to avoid certain drugs.
- Everyone enjoys listening to ke$ha. Don't deny it.
- Shitting on the Routeburne track will make you cry.
- Biting on a boys bottom lip is kind of hot.
- Vaginal juices gross everyone out.
- When a boy licks your ear you're secretly turned on.
- Push-up bras will always make you feel uncomfortable.
- Everyone wants to bang the brown-haired-pregnant member of t.A.T.u.
- I get lots of emails from russian mail-order brides on my university email account.
- Too-much information is never enough.

Hope this post is less angsty than the last, Linguist.

Evilboy.

Things that have gone wrong...

Here's a list:

- Projectile Josh and the Hussy bought me a lovely bottle of red wine and a bottle of champagne. I was ecstatic with this until I moved the booze into my room so that no one would steal it, and accidentally dropped the bottle of red all over the floor. I half expected it to just bounce up, but naturally the whole bottle shattered and its contents went all over the floor just as Projectile Josh entered the room.

- I broke my vacuum cleaner trying to clean the stain on my floor. Now there's a pink circle on the floor and I have no functioning vacuum cleaner (again).

- A chair broke. Whilst I was sitting in it.

- I accidentally added two cups of beef stock to my chicken and mushroom risotto. I am eating it as we speak. It's disgusting and I wasted $40 worth of ingredients on it.

- I got black hair dye on my toothbrush.

So I had a cry and dyed my hair. Things are looking marginally better.

Mary and Me

I've been spending far too much time with my Mother recently, and somewhat abnormally we did not argue over six weeks. She says it's testament to my newfound maturity and I say it's testament to her old age. We regale over our newfound content in each other's company and banish our previous years of angst as part of our collective mis-spent youths.

In less sentimental terms that means that we spend a lot of time mulling over a vintage 2007 Vasse Felix Cabernet Merlot stolen from the cellar and argue over Q&A.

Anyway, picture the two of us sitting at a nice pub, sharing a bottle of sparkling, followed by some beer, followed by a glass of red and a cup of tea. We're exchanging vowels and consonants about DH Lawrence, cycling and how she once vomited on the dance floor of Connections, an infamous gay club in Perth. As the sun slowly goes down, a band starts to play and we both say 'ah. what a lovely evening - how nice it is to have a good bitch and indulge in our favorite pass-time'.

The drunk in the corner ignores us, mostly because we look fairly boring having red-wine-induced teary conversations about how wonderful our lives are etc, whilst the bar tender probably thinks that we're the strangest drinking-buddies the world ever saw. Needless to say we're not harassed and not rushed to be anywhere. Conveniently the kitchen opens and we have an early dinner, slightly worried about driving home.

But as the last of the sun disappears a certain air of hurried-ness comes over both of us. Suddenly we're waiting for the other to finish eating, begging inwardly that the other doesn't want a coffee. Hoping that we miss all the traffic lights and don't get stopped by police. Mum checks her watch as I lift my phone from my pocket. 'Shit!' I exclaim. Mum says 'It's 7.30! We have to head home'. We leave immediately, in a tipsy haze. The walk to the car sobers us both up and Mum briskly drives us home. The car is silent, our conversation does not continue after the last drop of wine is finished.

As we hurry to get out of the car, lock the car, walk down the stairs to the front door, open the front door and race down further stairs to the kitchen, still not a word is spoken. Mum puts on the kettle whilst I race to the TV. I press the '2' button and find that there are adds.

'We haven't missed it!' the first words spoken since dinner, whilst Mum rushes in with two cups of weak, black tea and the theme song for Midsomer Murders plays. The only conversation left to have is our speculations as to who is having an affair with whom and who is killing whom.

How long do I have to wait until the highlight of my week existing of drinking tea and watching Midsomer Murders on Sunday night with my Mum stops being pathetic?

Coversations with Sian's Lame Exchange Friends

On the way to bus stop on Friday I decided I was going to sit out on yet another International Students thing as my bowels were doing backflips.

Kai: Aw, don't go! You should come out with us! What if you come but don't drink?

Me: What's the point in going out if I don't drink??

...silence...

Liza: Do you really believe you can't have fun unless you're drinking?

Me:....nooooo.....I was jooooooking.......

What is she? My health teacher from year 9?

12:31

I'd totally donate my body to science/art for this kind of thing.

I find the process really fascinating too.

Shit, you can eat my remains for all I care. Apparently human meat is supposed to taste super good too. Because we're so well nourished compared to other animals.

People Who Make me Feel Little #1

Um, does Tavi Gevinson depress anyone**? Is that just me?

When I look back at when I was fourteen, I think I was wearing billabong boardies and a roxie top lamenting the fact that I had to go on a family holiday to Esperance. Instead she's writing beautiful posts on existential crises and what constitutes her identity and getting mail from Romance Was Born.

Even though I spend a great amount of time running around University like a boozed-up, sexless undergrad student lamenting identity politics and claiming that sexualities are discursively produced, I kind of wish that Tavi could come along and tell me all about my identity and analyse my obsession for Jean Paul Gaultier/androgynous fashions. She could even give me some writing tips.

I would totally reevaluate my outlook on life for Tavi. She makes me feel like a teenager desperate to die my hair because it's the only thing I can legally change drastically enough to make people see me differently.

**are you completely oblivious to internet trends? Tavi writes the blog Style Rookie.

Polymorphous, Pop-Star Love

There's a distinct possibility that I may lose readers by admitting that I kind of really (secretly completely) dig Jessie J.

Haven't listened to commercial radio since you argued with Mum on the way to primary school about not wanting to listen to Radio National? She's this super-sexy girl from the UK who sings that song called price tag. The one that has that really catchy line 'aint about the cha-ching, aint about the ba-bling, ba-bling'. If you haven't heard it see it here

Apart from really wanting a derelict , larger-than-life teddy, it forces me to make fists of my hands, mouth the lyrics exaggeratedly and move my arms around manically. Listen and you might understand the movement I can't quite describe.

Should my obsession be a guilty pleasure? Who cares, she can DoItLikeADude for me anytime.

Peace!  EvilBoy

Stolen From Frankie #2

I plucked up the courage to leave the house today. Which, to tell you the truth, is a pretty mean feat - but I'm sick to death of my pyjamas with three blind mice carrying a plate of cheese and the shirt I stole from my Dad that says 'foolish behaviour' on the back with the i's dotted on the bottom for some reason (a reference to his boat, not his character. mostly).

Anyway I went for a gander and bought a Frankie. Now, I used to live in college with a girl who had an orgasmic voice, impeccable taste in housewares and clothing and reads Frankie religiously. I used to sit in her neat little college room lamenting the fact that mine smelt of moulding-somethings and dirty sheets and look at all the pretty pictures on pretty paper wishing my life fit into a pretty little mould like her room did.

Anyway Sian stole a list-idea from Frankie and I've just spent the past hour reading about creative-people (whom, admittedly seem like the kind of people I detest. I bet they don't enjoy Buffy or watching Miss Maple with their mummies) and I'm sick-to-death of the magazine. Sorry to those who read it religiously, but the only thing I like about this publication is the paper it's printed on. If I see one more not-so-subtle limedrop or romance was born reference I will scream.

So here are my own answers to the questions being asked of all these creative-types who can make pretty things I can't afford and own shops at ridiculously young ages.

What do you do? My average day at the moment consists of waking around noon, having a cup-a-soup and considering whether I should go back to sleep or try and read more about gender. I tend to try and avoid the fact that on paper I attend University. Or the fact that I am alive is sometimes too much to handle when I'm suffering for the previous night's spontaneous four bottles of $7 Cab Merlot cleanskin purchased from Brunswick Cellars.
How did you start out? With a lot of fluids and a hairy, 10cm dilated vagina.
What challenges have you recently overcome? What? Other than putting two feet to the ground and being vertical for approximately eight hours everyday? This morning I had a headache, but had to struggle through my glass of Riesling anyway.
What are you here for? What? On Earth? To cause a riot. No! To deteriorate my liver? To grow old, achieve little and eventually stop dreaming.
What's one thing we should know about you? I'm an Optimist!
What do you stand for? A greater understanding of the implications different body technologies have upon genders and sexualities. Oh, world peace blahblah loving neighbours (I actually do love my neighbours. Alex-the-Russian only speaks about them in hushed tones, claiming them to be 'drug dealers'. Bigfoot calls them Up-sters) and um. The transformative power of a good bottle of Cab Sav.
What did you want to be when you were little? An astronaut (which until 30 seconds ago I thought was spelt Astronaught.

Do I make the cut for Frankie's pretty-papers?

the Hair Interwebs Trawl

Every once in a while (usually when I have oodles too much time to myself) I decide that it is time to CUT ALL MY HAIR OFF. So I've been checking the internet out for ideas. Starting with vogue italia...

Then, naturally I got distracted by fashion blogs and came across this:

It would take me a lot of money and time to get my hair this colour(s) and length. But it's somewhat tempting...

Guilty pleasures.

If you don't know I'm on somewhat of a health kick at the moment and it has made me consider my guilty pleasures. These include smoking and drinking and the odd binge of both, but also music tastes and movies. Here's a list:


- savage garden.
- breakfast at tiffanys. In a moment of hungover-clarity the Hussy and I decided to bake savoury muffins which have since been named cheese monsters. In between baking, vomiting and smoking her, Muffin and I partook in some viewing of breakfast at tiffanys and I realised that I know all of the scenes quite well...
- aqua. No night time, drunken expedition to Sydney road is complete without a lot of aqua.
- Muffin and I have a penchant for TaTu. It's all in the wet, lesbian kiss...
- lady gaga, beyonce, Britney (sister al and co saw her live...)
- i dled Missy elliot's discography. Best amount of dl limit I ever wasted on torrents
- my hoe down boots. The shoes themselves arent particularly shameful, but they force me to do the grapevine, clap a lot and ask anyone in a close enough vicinity if they can do-si-do.
- perseverance. That's not a positive attribute, it's a dirty club. For those of you who don't know it's on Brunswick st and Friday nights are nineties nights. Beware the slippery floor.
- toasted cheese sandwiches. Bigfoot and I quite often spend weeks living off these. With pickle sandwhich spread, chutney or even egg or baked beans. Or all of the above...
- true blood, Buffy, the l word, queer as folk, make it or break it (for a while I used to avoid going home by staying in the library at uni and streaming this. It's horrendous.), Greys anatomy, gossip girl, friends, project runway... And lots and lots more tv shows.
- when alex and i were younger our favourite movie was chasing liberty. It's one of those first daughter falls in love with her body guard type movies.. We were fairly classy..


These are just a few of the things I doslashlistentoslashwatch when there aren't too many people watching...

The twentyfirst.

I've never really understood the twentyfirst phenomenon. Why would you want all your friends to meet your parents drunk? Why would you want your family friends listen to your closest friend/partner in crime/the person who sees you when you're passed out in your own vom whilst smoking a j tell the stories of passing out in vom and smoking j's? I don't want photos of me passed out at the local college pub to circulate as far as my parents and their friends.

Nevertheless, I do (as most of you know) understand the desire to be the center of attention. So I'm having a twentyfirst with my family/family friends, and a twentyfirst with my friends. I just happen to be able to separate these things with an entire country, sometimes the circumference of Earth. Anyway, here are a few of the things I know will come up in speeches/attempts to embarrass me.

- When I was four (I think) I lived on the Cocos Islands and had a rebel friend. We would go out into the tropical wilderness and collect hermit crabs (which eventually came to live in the shower), jump off rocks in the sea and learn naughty words from his parents. One day we went frolicking near the local primary school in search of fun/adventure. Only to break into the art room and trash it. The only vague recollection I have of this is covering a wad of toilet paper with black paint and throwing it upwards to the ceiling. OH, and being strongly reprimanded and cripplingly ashamed of what I had done. In my memory there are police cars, but that may have something to do with my exaggerated nature.

- I have a saxophone teacher who later became a friend. When I was 15/16 I was a bit of a prickish little prude/sober person. Anyway the first time I ever had more than a few beers was at this saxophone teacher's 40th birthday. I ended up not only sleeping on his couch (only to be woken by his children), but also vomiting rice/champagne/beer all over his bathroom and garden.

- I have a godbrother who has attempted to strangle me/suffocate me on numerous occasions. As well as pull off my Barbie's heads/tie a knot around their necks and hang them from the second floor.

- When I first moved to Melbourne I had never really been out before, I was underage and had never smoked or taken any form of recreational drug. Unfortunately I went a little bit overboard and most people who lived in college with me have some story or another regarding the infamous Sammy/SamT. Mostly involving vomit or naivety.

- Still to this day I smoke a j after getting home and end up passed out on the bathroom floor. It's become somewhat of a ritual for Bigfoot to yell outside the bathroom until I stand up.

See? You all think you've been there now.

Conversation with a former linguist.

Me: I'm inboxING you!

Linguist: no you're not! I hate you and your murder of the english language. Also missed you today in rom fem rev lect. you would have liked it. x

Me: Yeah I would have liked to make an appearance but i spent the afternoon cleaning my room and reading d.h lawrence (ick. he's so freaking elitist! but slightly funny).

The English language is perpetually changing. Stop holding onto a romanticised notion of language and embrace utterance.

Me: p.s: 'rom fem rev lect.' talk about bastardising the English language..

Linguist: I'm just contracting words. I'm not turning a noun into a verb

Me: I'm going to hold on to inboxing for the rest of my life. Why aren't you inboxing whomever came up with the word 'texting'?

Linguist: nice correct usage of "whomever".

The thing is, you're not sending me an inbox. If you were I wouldn't have a problem with you saying "inboxing". The inbox doesn't change. you're PMing me. See that's fine.

I'm just upset because I had to put up with a bunch of teenagers on the way to wang "inboxing" each other, then talking about it, then updating their statuses and saying "like my status!". They were taking up the whole carriage and i got really grumpy. The icing on the cake was when one girl said "I have five inboxes! I'm so popular!"
I wanted to kill her. She may have five inboxes -- if she has four other email accounts as well as her facebook account, for example -- but I'm pretty sure that's not what she meant.

But it's one thing to hear it from ignorant teenagers and another from an intellectual equal.

Me: That teenager sounds like a genius! She knows how to embrace postmodern linguistics.

Just kidding, you have a point. PMing is probably correct. But I like the idea of social networking warping our language. Im holding onto inboxing.

Linguist: I wouldn't expect anything less from you :)

quitting

I'm sitting at my newly cleaned desk admiring my brand new chest of drawers and smoking a cigarette rolled with a road map of somewhere on the south coast of Victoria. I just checked, it's the Bass Coast.

Trying to quit smoking has made me crazy hungry/crazy grumpy for the past week. But so far I'm down to one or two smokes a day. As opposed to probably about fifteen. I can't bring myself to buy smoking paraphernalia so I stole sister Al's smokes and have been experimenting with the yellow pages, an indian menu and finally a Melbourne road map. Also I no longer keep an ash-tray in my room so I'm ashing into my unfinished pumpkin cup-a-soup.

If you're wondering, road maps taste like the sticky part of an envelope, and the ink seems somewhat toxic...

Best Friday Night Eva

This one is my favourite:

Personal Add

My Mother just stormed out of the house in a bit of a fit, so now I have a fabulous Friday afternoon planned in which I clean a bit, study a bit - but mostly waste my time and break my non-smoking rule.

Lately The Hussy and I have been considering love, and why neither of us have/want/need it. Anyway I've been trawling craigslist personal adds again. Here's a few of my faves:



I took a sickie off work today and am very bored so I invite you to my apartment in southbank to share a bottle of wine on the balcony and enjoy the city views. After that, what better way than to have some nsa fun together. Let's start chatting and organize something together. Perhaps we can watch a movie together, share a drink together, cuddling, kissing, bubble bath, snuggling up in bed together. I can host in Southbank if required.

I am a good looking, sexy Australian man, fit physique, tropcial eyes, light brown hair well .... my picture is attached for your viewing pleasure. Please hurry and send me a message with your picture. If you are a genuine one, please write ROMANCE in the subject field when you write otherwise don't expect a reply.

Married man who is in a relationship where the the sexual spark has long died and after someone who is also married or attached or single.

I try to keep fit & healthy, attractive, funny/witty and think I can hold a reasonable conversation.

May look to change my situation at home.

Discretion is obviously a must for both parties so will be respected  



Hi - male here available as a sperm donor. 40 year old, have had two great kids but would like the chance to help someone. I'm ok health & fitness wise and would be a good father material I promise. Please contact me to discuss.

I love kids and I know the joy it can bring to a mother so here's your chance -  




All that remains is to wonder what 'tropical eyes' look like... 

Study Timez

Things I have done instead of studying for an exam that was in a few hours:

• Napped
• Watched gang bang porn
• Wrote a story about how AWESOME Perth is
• Drank 2/3 of a bottle of red wine
• Watched amateur porn
• Stared out the window and talked to myself. A lot.
• Wrote a story about eating dog and human meat
• Trawled the interwebz for lolz
• Also found this (I have a midterm for a class I keep skipping tomorrow morning):

Awkward Facebook Moments

I'm conscious of the fact that the only people who read this probably just clicked on a link from my facebook, so I shall preface this with an apology to people who recognise themselves in this...

- When you fuck someone and don't swap numbers, but facebook names (totally unromantic, right? probably a testament to my pillow-talk). Then you spend approximately three days avoiding chat because you don't want to be the first person to initiate first-non-coital-contact. Only to get drunk and inbox them.

- When you have a really unsatisfactory chat conversation and have to go offline mid-conversation with someone else because you lied and said you needed to pee, eat, sleep or smoke. Only to get drunk and inbox them.

- When you've had an argument with someone and you have to constantly see their names on news feed. Only to get drunk and send them a nasty inbox.

- Family and Family Friends on facebook. Just don't do it! The evidence of my first year in college is all over the interwebs - and I like it like that! What I don't like is when my mother calls me and tells me to quite smoking or that she heard I had passed out in a pub ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WORLD.

- When you accidentally-on-purpose add someone you've been staking and they don't know who you are.

- When your stalking goes three steps too far and you end up going to the events stalk-ee has clicked 'attending' to.

Crisis-mode

The first thing I need to do after every natural disaster I'm privy to is construct a privy.

Preferably decked out with viewing pleasures.

I make no apologies for the horrendous pun.

My Monopoly Life

When I play Monopoly I imagine myself as a gangster. Obviously these delusions are aided by alcohol and the valium I stole from my father, but they remind me of one of my very first posts.

I sit in the kitchen on a white swivel chair with The Hussy, Yhana and occasionally Muffin or sister-Al. We start fast - slowly buying up every property we land on - and I imagine that we're spending big with profits made via cocaine sales and rich, young student's naivety with regards to the price of marijuana. Then, once purchases are made we sit in our multi-million dollar mansions waiting until one of us tries to stoop the other. I might put a 'brothel' on Old Kent Road, and use the light blue properties for open houses and meth labs. The rest are property investments. Gradually, the price of cocaine increases and the students get richer and more stupid.

Finally we get to the stage where a meeting has to be called. I wear my most expensive sunglasses, have a glass of rum&coke in hand and we draw up the wants and needs of each party involved. Perhaps The Hussy wants one last red property to provide a home for their latest favorite hoe, or to force Yhana off the board - Muffin is looking to improve the quality of his meth. Sometimes I'm tempted to keep minutes, or even buy cigars to increase the real-life-effect of my structured play - swap my rum&coke for some grappa or bluesapphire.

This is the closes I have and will ever come to being a man-of-the-mafia.

We usually end just before the first person goes bankrupt, and just after 10mg of valium warps my judgement. I am usually the first to go bankrupt.

Kind Regards,

The Chairman of the Monopoly-Board.

Note to Self:

Don't joke about self harm at the doctors.

Porn

Unlike Sian, I have never considered the speed at which my nails grow. This is perhaps related to the fact that I am not studying at the moment.

Also I'm guessing a large portion of you have already read slutever's post on ladypornday. It has made me consider my porn-watching habits - and I also happened to be speaking to my Hussy friend who admitted to never/rarely watching porn. Guess what? I do! Here's some dot points on why/what/how..


- Submission is fabulous. Age adds an immediate power dynamic that I'm kind of into. I've always had tutor/lecture fantasies, which naturally leads to watching babysitter/student-teacher fantasies.
- There must be a story-line of some description.
- Usually I will only watch to generate more fantasies. My imagination is way cooler than watching a silicone-stuffed, exaggerated orgasm.
- Amateur porn takes off the edge. The real-er the better.
- Erotic fictions is also pretty marvelous. I can't remember where I read this but I'm pretty sure it's incredibly common for women to immediately feel guilty/disgusting after orgasm via porn. I liken it to la petit mort, but instead of sighing and wondering what to say to the boy/girl who caused your climax/anti-climax you snap the laptop closed and dread remembering the details of what you just watched. Fiction takes the edge off, because at least you're not guilty about the poor girl that just had to endure dry-sex for you to come.


Hope you don't mind the over-share.

Oh, the new layout is courtesy of my sister, Al. She actually took that photo in Argentina. It's obviously still in need of some tweaking - she's in the process of learning how to use photoshop.

Friday night update

Does anyone else feel like their toe nails grow faster than their finger nails?

Oh

It's okay I found the link for the second half.

It sucked.

I am not pleased

I was just watching Eyes Wide Shut from this crappy streaming site. It cut out juuuuuust before the weird sex stuff started.

Bigfoot, Muffin and the degenerate lifesyle.

I'm back in Melbournetown, which is fast becoming the hometown. After recovering from some significant valium-induced discomfort, watching Muffin vomit all over his beard and wipe it up with my jacket and allowing Terrace (my house) to return to its former infamy, I have had time to soak in the cool breezes, intellectual-types and tobacco that has overpowered my senses since returning.

Here is what has happened so far:

- I had a distraction-free, glorious sex-dream about a former one-night-stand that involved some serious metaphysical considerations. It was academic and sexual masturbation for the soul. It also involved fucking in my favorite toilet in Melbourne - Middle (unisex) toilet at Prudence.
- I made Muffin (who is actually Lennard) wash my vomit-covered jacket.
- Yhana the drug/condom hero slash nympho found a new place to live. Most likely quieter and involving less nudity.
- I inherited yet another Melbourne-freak housemate in the process of temporarily losing the hairy man. Whom I would quite like to dub bigfoot (in hairy-love-and-appreciation).
- I spent approximately three days sharing my bed and room with projectile-josh, muffin, anna (who is yet to inherit a nickname) and my sister Alex watching Grand Designs. Anna and I have both chosen house-related careers to pursue. I am to become a blacksmith.
- I facebook stalked a prospective tutor who's masters thesis was on Story of O and who's pHd thesis is on Foucault. I rather suspect that she will become my new girl-crush.

The general feeling is that I am going to become a household name of gender studies whilst spending a great portion of my time between Perth, Chile and Melbournetown over the next six months.


Wish me good luck,

Evilboy.

It's kinda funny that I was really excited about making new friends

I don't have a lot in common with my new friends. Here are some things they find particularly odd about me.

• I burp a lot
• My frequent use of sarcasm (completely wasted on them)
• I have a dirty mind (I was under the impression that everyone does, but apparently not)
• I don't listen/know about craptastic top 40 songs
• I have pissed in public (so fucking what)

Here are some things about them that I don't get.

• They don't use/understand sarcasm
• They don't make nearly as many or as clever dirty jokes as I do
• One of them asked me what a "good kisser" is
• The same one thinks I'm a freak because I don't like muscley guys
• He also asked me what a hangover is
• They think there is something wrong with me when I make little noises that don't resemble words
• They think it's a big deal that I have pissed in public
• They can't drink beer/are annoying when "drunk"

Eugh.

The Can-Do Man

My Dad has been dubbed by most of my friends/me as the Can-do man - which I have no doubt he will take great pride in regaling to his friends and family now that I've told him. Anyway, he's a bit of an eccentric character, and I have inherited most of my character-traits from him so I thought I would let you know what he's all about...


- He is completely preoccupied with death. When we go to a wedding he will lean close to Alex or I and say "you have to get married before I die!", or once when we had guests over for dinner we spoke at length about which way people would like to be disposed of when they die. Luckily for Trevor, he already has a space in the closest graveyard reserved for him - which he takes great pride in reminding us of.

- He calls his very few friends 'cobbers', and when counting these he includes the family dog, Ralph, whom he also believes will die at the same time as himself. When he comes home after a long time away he sings to Ralph, as well. Occasionally he worries that if he took Ralph to Chile with him, he wouldn't be able to communicate with all the other dogs. He calls this his 'theory'.

- My father mines things for a living, but still proclaims to be an environmentalist. I have tried to argue with him at length about this, but most conversations end with something similar to "I am invaluable to the world. Goodnight"

- He calls the remote a "multi-lazer-twister-operator", "multi-lazer" for short - which Alex and I believed was the correct name for years. Until one-day I asked a friend to pass me the "multi-lazer" and they had no idea what I was talking about. Instead of tucking us in at night he used to give us a 'gossimer' which involved pulling our sheet up until it was in the air and letting it fall down over us.

- When I was born, he named me after the hill in Japan he was working at called "Hudgimoto" (or same-sounding with different letters). I've forever been "big-hudge" to Alex's "little-hudge".


This might explain to some of you a few of my oddest behaviours.

Peace!

Evilboy

My Ventbox

I skyped with my Dad and my Nanny (his mum) last night (for the first time since I left Australia) and it made me realise how glad I am that I'm on the other side of the world and don't have to put up with them everyday anymore.

Look how fucking adorabubble my dog is though.

Afterthought

How cool are these?

The picture should link to an etsy shop with these in all different colours. Unfortunately they're ridiculously expensive, and not even for sale online by the looks of it. But these are:

Not only is the sweater/jumper/dress AMAZING. The leggings are also really fucking cool also.


Winter-approaching-love,

Evilboy

The Home-Land/My Family

Those of you who don't know, my family lives in Santiago. That's in Chile, South America by the way (for some reason I find it necessary to remind people of this. Probably because I'm terrible at geography and until recently didn't know that Bolivia is in South America. Not the Middle East) Anyway they're back in Perth for a week or two so I'm here to meet and greet and remind myself that I didn't fly into Melbourne via stalk.

So anyway, my sister and I had a week of sisterly bonding to do before Mum got here. We spent most of it arguing, but we also managed to break the pool pump. It now has a layer of algae growing on the surface and reminds me of when the Swan River grows deadly algae and we're all told not to swim in it. The dog likes to drink out of it, though - so at least we've pleased someone (regardless of the fact that by drinking from the algae and cockroach infested waters he may very well die).

Here's a few other things that happened:

- I died my hair a feral pink-colour. Which - according to my sweet, darling younger sister - made it look like I was losing my hair.
- I shaved it again. Which is surprisingly therapeutic - which is probably why some people shave it all off when they have post-traumatic stress. When we lived on the Cocos Islands Mum hated her job, so her, Alex and I paraded around with shaved heads. I shall try to find a photo for you.
- I dropped my sister off at Murray St (for those of you who don't know it's a place to go out in Perth). Apart from a bunch of drunk teenagers thinking that I was a taxi, it made me feel old. I actually fretted over her getting drunk and being abused by some sweaty eighteen-year-old boy in baggy jeans and a v-neck white t-shirt.
- I heard a lot about Alex's love(r). Last time she stayed with Mary and Trev (parents - Chile) she met this guy that we call Rollerblader because apparently he's the third best rollerblader in the country. In addition he doesn't speak any english - according to Alex they're in love regardless. Apparently they google translate emails with each other.
- Failed to pee on command for a urine test. Got to carry a cup and later a cup of pee around with me whilst I spent the afternoon trying to piss slash lamenting the seven viles of blood that were stolen from my body.
- Spent half an hour fretting over the fact that the urine test might be checking for drugs. Which they would invariably find. Only to be told by Mary that they were only looking for sugar in my pee.
- I made a lot of trips to the local shopping center Karrinyup and managed to get away without running into anyone.

That is all,

Evilboy.

Sam complained that I haven't posted here for ages

Sorry to anyone else if you've actually missed me. I've been too busy living Somewhere Other Than Perth and blogging about living Somewhere Other Than Perth.

The problem with having a blog that people actually read is that I can't be completely honest and write about whatever I want. For example, my new friends annoy me. They're okay sometimes but I know that if we were all in Perth, I wouldn't be friends with them. They range from Dropped On His Head As a Baby Stupid to Nineteen Year Know-it-All Annoying. They make me miss my friends back home whom I actually have things in common with/want to spend time with.

I'd still choose my annoying friends over living in Perth and being stuck in that black hole of petty drama.