Tits, twats and tinder.

A penny for your thoughts

New year, old me

I suppose I should start this off by saying Happy New Year. The Earth has successfully orbited without exploding or imploding; not that it’s much to say with what happened ON the Earth in 2014 but that’s a whole different topic for a whole new blog post. Today’s post is about this whole New Year “resolution” stuff…

There are the optimists; those of us who set a resolution in the hope of maintaining or achieving some sort of year long goal. There are the pessimists; who laugh in the face of those hopeful enough to give up fatty foods, caffeine or alcohol whilst they guzzle down a double shot whisky and skip gym for the fifth year in a row… And then there are the realists; those who set short term goals, often not applicable to the whole “new year” but just in general, like spending more time on themselves, appreciating their friends and family more or just spending less time worrying about the stresses of work. No matter which one you are, you’ve at least had some thought in your mind that a New Year means a New You and I can’t disagree more. A new year doesn’t mean you automatically get a do-over. A new year does mean though more chances to freshly fuck up; to love more, work hard and play harder. It’s your new opportunity to take the you that you already are and to start liking it; to start accepting it.

This year, I’m encouraging you to be a realist. Make 2015 the year of loving yourself. Buy yourself expensive lingerie, wear red lipstick no matter what fucking gender you are. Splurge on nice wine or aged scotch. Have sex with yourself. You’re hot, you’re witty and you’re awesome as hell – so make that your New Years resolution and stick your skinnyme tea detox in your pipe and fucking smoke it.

Victim Blaming

We live in a society, a world, where the 7 o’clock news reports on a story about a vicious rape on a 14-year-old girl, and instead of saying “why the fuck would six men rape an innocent girl in a suburban park?” we question her. We sit there, staring at our bleak televisions, in our mediocre excuses for living rooms, wondering “but why was a 14-year-old girl walking home alone at 11pm?” We may ask, where were her parents? Why did she walk so late? Why did she walk through the park? What was she wearing? And do you know how fucking wrong that is, to question HER, the victim, rather than the disgusting excuses for humans who did that to her. We don’t wonder if maybe there was something wrong with those men? We’re they touched as children? Maybe they’re mentally sick. Why would they be walking around at 11pm? What would drive them to hold down a girl, use and abuse her? Did they not think of their own mothers, sisters or daughters when doing so?

Why is it that we automatically are accustomed to blaming the victim? I’m sick of it. When I’m out in a club and Joe Bloggs rubs his semi on my leg, is it my fault for choosing to wear a shorter dress than normal? Is it because I chose to put on red lipstick instead of going makeup free? Why do we choose to almost excuse the inexcusable just so that we can question the motives of the victim?

When it comes to things I just don’t get, this is up there, this is probably number one. I don’t get it now, I probably never will understand how a young man or lady can ever be blamed for something bad happening to them. It doesn’t matter where they were during the event, it doesn’t fucking matter what they were wearing at the time – it is never, ever their fault.

The times are changing, man

I was born in 1993, making me 20-almost-21 this year. My mother was born in 1970, making her 44 this year. Now, if my calculations are correct, that would mean that my mother fell pregnant at only 22, giving birth to me, her first child at 23. My parents married in 1991, which meant they were engaged and married all before my mother turned 21, the age I am now.

Now, I’m looking at all these facts and figures I’ve been crunching and there’s only one thought on my mind, and that’s why? Why get married so young? Why have children so young?

It’s simple. The times are changing, man.

My grandmothers on both respective sides of my family were married by 19. What was I doing when I was 19? I was in my second year of University, working two jobs, going out drinking, eating, shopping and overindulging at every given opportunity.

I can’t even begin to image what life would have been like if my grandmothers were given all of the opportunities that I have thrust upon me on a daily basis. Like a job? Firstly, I’m the first of my entire family (ENTIRE FAMILY!!!) to go to University. Secondly, I genuinely can’t even tell you what my great-grandmother did for work. I knew her until I was in my late childhood (around 10 or 11) yet, all I know is that her parents owned a farm. Did she work? Probably not. Was she given the choice of further education? That much, I know for certain; no. My grandmother worked – but only in factories from what I can remember – never a job through a higher education. My mother is the woman I deem most successful. She went on through high school to complete her HSC, then went on to TAFE and work full-time as an office administrator and all-rounder. The difference between the four generations at play here are the time frames. My mother and I are women of the new age, raised in a time where schooling was deemed more important than family business, farming or becoming somebodies wife (and slave).

I look back to the generations of my grandmother and her mother, and think to myself: at 21, am I ready to be a wife? Am I ready to be a mother? My body says yes, but only because that’s the way it has been designed. It’s been saying yes since I was 11 years old, but imagine what a riot that would be. I couldn’t even feature on 16-and-pregnant, because I’d only be 11 and probably still playing with doll houses.

However, it’s strange to think about how nowadays, if you were to “fall” pregnant in this generation at ages 16-18 (like they did back when my great-grandmother was on the bandwagon), you’d be labelled every single hurtful derogatory word you can think of. Even as a female, my initial reaction at a younger female pregnant is shock. Why? I’m not sure. Is it because I’m worried about her? Maybe. Or maybe I’ve just grown up to be conditioned in a more materialistic and selfish way. Instead of dedicating my twenties to finding a husband, becoming a mother and cleaning the house, I’ve been taught that you go to school and you get a good job, maybe you can travel the world and eat exciting food too along the way. How bizarre it is to think that while federation in Australia was happening, so were regular teenage pregnancies and marriages and that was all normal.

All I can say here is that I’m glad the social norms have changed. Call me selfish and the exact product of 21st century narcissism, but it is what it is. My fore-mother’s didn’t fight a war against social misogyny so that I could be married at 17, god dammit.

– To my grandmother, and great-grandmother(s): Thank you, I love you, always. Rest in peace x

How to: live life awesomely without the help of (insert your ex’s name here)

I want to start off by saying that this is my final post for today! I’ve been all over this whole blog because I’ve got a lot on my mind that I want to share with the world.

Lately, my brother,  a 19-year-old somewhat recently single guy has been struggling to come to terms with life without his other (no-longer) half. He gets worn out, anxious and angsty fairly often because of the weight of living differently. Now first of all, I want to point out that I know what it feels like both to be the dumper and the dumpee. I’m not an awful person, I’m not heartless and I do genuinely care about the welfare of my brother. Here’s some ways that I think my brother (and so many people in similar situations) can ‘live life’ without the aid of an ex-partner.

Stop living in the past. You fucked up, they fucked up. Somehow, somewhere down the road, mistakes happened and it came to an end. There’s no point in dwelling on things you cannot change. You can’t go back in time, you can’t live every day wondering ‘what if’. Every single moment you spend thinking about the past, you lose the present and it too, becomes the past. Think about your future.

Don’t bother with the blame game. There’s no point to he said, she said. It won’t win you friends, because let’s face it, her best friend will take her side no matter how shit her half of the situation was. Also, remember that there’s two sides to every story and not everybody wants to hear it all. You can’t change peoples minds and you shouldn’t put your friends in positions where they should have to choose. You may be hurting but don’t be a dick about your feelings.

Be happy for yourself. As shit as the situation may be, make the most of it. Go travelling, try something new, pick up a hobby. Learn to be happy on your own. Remember that X was only a contribution to your happiness,  they weren’t the determining factor.

Go out. Get dressed up. Try a new hair style or start doing winged eyeliner instead. Be bold and be brave. Why should you be hiding yourself away when you’re single?

Love your friends and family. They stick by you. They probably bought you ice cream and cried a bit with you. Be grateful for the wonderful people you’re surrounded by. After all, once you get rid of the weeds (said ex), you start to see the flowers.

What’s the hype? Lorde, Robin Thicke, beanies in summer and overpriced coffee

This is my third post today, but there’s just so much I don’t understand that I feel like I need to get it all out there in the open. I’m a confused person, I can’t help my curiosity.

Let’s start off with the hype around some “pop culture”. Lorde. What’s the go? I just don’t get it. Her first single was cool, it was original, it was fresh and it was dope as hell. I sung along, like many others, every time it came on the radio. It was a catchy song, Royals. But then I hopped on spotify and listened to the rest of her album. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not a bad album, I just don’t get the hype. Her follow up single sounded almost the same as the first, and then the next one after it sounded the same too. It’s a repetitive cycle, Lorde. I get it, you grew up in a shitty, no-good area and you’re kind of hipster and that’s “in” at the moment, but please, you don’t need to remind us. Also, being mean on twitter isn’t nice. Don’t you read those things in DOLLY magazine about online bullying? If you’re going to call me a hypocrite, look up her tweets. They’re a bit meaner than anything I’ve written here, and to put it frankly, I’m a nobody, and well, she’s Lorde.


Secondly, what the fuck, Robin Thicke? What’s the hype around that song, Blurred Lines? On New Years Day, Channel V had a count down to the biggest songs of 2013, and I bet my family it would be this song despite how much I dislike it. Now, now, I know it sounds like I’m just being bitchy and that I dislike everything. That’s not entirely true, I promise you. Listen to the lyrics of this song, listen to the message it sends. You might be out, drunk and happy when it starts playing and hell, you might want to dance along but please just remind yourself when you’re sober and curing a hangover, that it’s not a good song. It has rubbish sexist lyrics, the beat isn’t that great and there’s nothing THAT wonderful about girls dancing around topless in a film clip – half of the population has a pair of tits (males included here).



Look at this hottie, Robin Thicke before Blurred Lines.

Now, beanies in summer. I’m pretty sure we’ve got classic Harry Styles to thank for that one. BEFORE YOU START TO HATE ON ME, I want to clarify, I’m a massive fan of his – I just don’t get why you’d wear a beanie at the beach. My boyfriend did it the other day and it annoyed me so much because it was 40-fucking-degrees outside, and you know what, he wasn’t the only d-head at the beach wearing one. Put the beanie back in the cupboard for winter, it’s not cold outside, nobody gives a shit if you’ve got beach hair, you’re at the beach, not a fashion parade.

And this rant concludes with: overpriced coffee. I’m a VIP member for both Starbucks and Gloria Jeans. I love coffee so much. I love it from franchise shops, I love it from tiny little cafes where it’s a bit burnt. But what the hell kind of VIP treatment am I getting if I pay $8 a coffee? That’s such a rip-off. I’m a uni student, not Caggie Dunlop. Believe me, if I could afford my own wonderful machine (not those crap pod-things; an actual machine, milk frother and all) then I would go out and buy one, but I can’t and that’s why I’m annoyed about $8 coffee. It’s wrong. It’s a disgrace. Coffee beans ARE NOT that expensive, and I would know because I work in a restaurant that serves coffee, and milk is only $3 a bottle at Coles, so please, Starbucks, tell me what I’m paying for, because I’m dumbfounded.

I’m not a fan of popular culture.

Marrying our parents?

My boyfriend turns the big 2-2 this coming weekend. It’s a silly age, 22, isn’t it? You’ve passed that euphoric milestone period between ages 18 and 21 where every day is a party and you can go out all night drinking, only to wake up at sometime past midday the next day and not worry that you’ve already missed two lectures. At 22, you’re on track with life (hopefully), you’re planning to travel, get a good job, you probably drink wine that isn’t boxed anymore (maybe). At almost-not-quite-22, my boyfriend still drinks wine from a box, still sleeps through uni lectures and still picks his nose. This is where my point comes in: do we really marry our parents? Probably, not literally though, because that’s quite morbid, but figuratively speaking, yes. I find myself slapping my boyfriends dirty fingernails away from his nose, knuckle deep in his nostrils as we drive along a busy road. I’m surprised there aren’t people staring from cars passing by, cause by golly, he’s having a field day up there in his tunnels of skull.

I constantly find myself caught in this haze of question, “am I his girlfriend, or am I his mum?” Sometimes, I’m not even sure. I stop myself, half way through making his bed to realise that yep, there it is, I’m that hybrid of girlfriend-mum. The female superhuman that our mothers attempt at teaching us to be from an early age. I’m even kind-of angry at myself, because here I am succumbing to age-old misogyny without even realising. I’ve got a degree, dammit, I don’t need to be a housewife.

My boyfriend, as wonderful and loving as he can be, is also stubborn, overly cheerful and just as ridiculous as my dad. He has just bought himself a “project car”, God knows why, but he’s got it hidden away in his rental properties garage, where every afternoon he welds, sands, bogs and pulls it to pieces. It was my dad’s idea, thanks for that; Dad, who in his lifetime has owned 20+ of these so-called “project cars” that sucked up money and space in the backyard where the trampoline used to be.

Moral of the story is: no matter how hard you try, you’re either going to turn into some hybrid form of your own parents (god forbid) or you’re going to start acting like your mother-in-law (an even more god forbid scenario; please send help ASAP).

For the time being, I say enjoy being young. To my boyfriend, I say Happy 22nd Birthday, but please, stop picking your nose and wiping it on all of the upholstery.

My two cents, please

There’s a lot of things in the world that just don’t make sense to me. One of them is how I’m a fourth year student without a single clue on how to borrow a book from my uni’s library. The others include taxes, mortgage payments, how to properly hold a baby and why girls cut their hair short and then pay hundreds for fake hair extensions.

I say, here’s my two cents worth, please and thank-you. Firstly, I want to know why the hell we aren’t taught anything to do with taxes and mortgages and bill payments in high school. Instead, they’re teaching us Pythagoras theorem in the hopes that maybe one of us will go on to use it in further life. Wrong: i’m studying journalism, but thanks to my year eight math teacher, I have accurately memorised that c²= a²+b², whatever the hell that means.

Basically this blog is my diary. Because i’m far too lazy, too busy and too poor to be bothered to buy the old school kind; you know, the one with the ruled lines and a hardcover that you write in occasionally about your crushes and who you dislike at school. I want to make some sense of this ridiculous world we live in, because hell, there’s just too many things to think of that just don’t add up. Like how every Miss Universe contestant wants world peace, but it hasn’t happened yet!? C’mon people, listen to the girls in glittery bikinis with botox, they’re not just a pretty face and sculpted bod you’re objectifying over Sunday dinner.

I’ll end my first post with a quote, basically because I’m not entirely sure what else to say other than hello, welcome, thank you for reading and I’m sorry if I’ve wasted your time or bored you enough to want to plot your own death.

“Behind every good man is a great woman and I am that woman.”


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