You can bank on me to be annoyed at banks

This is a story about a girl and a bank.

Let’s call the girl Tijana as that is her real name.
Let’s call the bank MAB for fear of getting a fee for using the banks real name.

One sunny day, Tijana went out for an afternoon stroll. The heat of the sun was comforting on her shoulders and the faint song of the native birds created a gentle symphony as she walked. All was well with the world.

When Tijana made it back to her home she noticed the postman had come by. After opening her mail, Tijana found out that she’d been charged a $35 missed payment fee on her credit card. This was bizarre to Tijana as she had paid off $200 a couple of weeks ago and the total amount left owing on her card was less than $35.

Being a naturally curious person, Tijana called up the bank and inquired into her missed payment fee.

“Well Miss” said the pleasant voice on the other end of the telephone, “You failed to make a payment after you received your statement.”

“But,” Tijana optimistically pointed out, “I paid $200 just before I received the statement and thus there were only a few dollars remaining on the card.”

“Yes Miss,” the pleasant voice said, “but after you receive a statement you must make a minimum payment of $10.”

Tijana felt a little confused by this notion. She felt she was not making herself clear so sought to explain her position further.

“Yes, but I made a maximum payment of $200, which is 20 times more than $10.”

“Yes, but that wasn’t a payment. You were decreasing debt.”

“Isn’t that what a payment is?” Asked Tijana out of genuine curiosity.

“No Miss, a payment is what you do after you get a statement.”

“So anything I pay before a statement is in fact, not a payment?”

“Yes, that is correct Miss.”

And with that Tijana learnt the valuable lesson that there are only 15 days out of every 45 where a payment is actually called a payment. And the bank will charge you an exuberant fee (one that in Tijana’s case is double her current debt) should you not make your payment during the ‘correct’ 15 days.

Sadly, with the threat of global warming upon us, the Amazonian basin cannot afford enough paper for Tijana to explain just how ridiculous this is.

Nonetheless, Tijana has long accepted that the world is stupid so she just tries her best to accommodate it. Thus Tijana tried to set up a periodic payment which would deduct the minimum $10 from her normal account and pay it to her credit card preventing future punishments for high treason such as this.

However MAB does not have the facility to deduct payments every 45 days which is what Tijana needed it to do.
To be fair this is probably good news as the bank would charge every automatic payment made a $2 fee. And should there be insufficient funds when the bank tried to transfer money they would charge a fee of $50. Presumably, this would also incur the $2 transaction fee and also result in the $35 missed payment fee.

I don’t pretend any of this is funny or of any interest to anybody, but I feel the need to get Tijana’s story off my chest.

And to make the story less one-sided; in defense of the banks they are wonderful institutions that bolster the economy by awarding their CEO’s million dollar salaries and thus create a demand for luxury cars and holidays.

At least it’s a sunny day.

The end.


Wine, will you be my valentine?

Roses are red,
violets are blue,
wine costs less
than dinner for two.

Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day, a day that proves florists are in cahoots with God and where people in functioning successful relationships flaunt their wellbeing before the rest of the world and generally mock the lonely and broken-hearted.
Generally, being alone is a little like having a bruise on your chest — it doesn’t hurt all the time, only when pressure is applied. Valentine’s Day feels like taking a sledgehammer to that bruise thus single people use Valentines Day to become manic-depressive and buy cats.

If history is anything to go by, irrespective of my relationship status I am more likely to spend the day shouting profanities than paying compliments and am more likely to give someone the finger than a kiss.
This year, however, I am changing all that.
After careful consideration, I’ve come to the realiziation that blindly throwing blanket hatred over the whole day is pessimistic and unhealthy and thus this year I am going to embrace St. Valentine and his chocolate shaped heart.

My newfound appreciation for all that is lovey and dovey has led me to investigate the origins of this most holy day. In summary, my research has found that Valentine’s Day was created in the 1700’s by St. Cupid, the patron saint of babies with wings and complaining about commercialisation; and along with Mothers Day and Fathers day, it is one of the most important festivals of the religious calendar.

Having a sound knowledge of the days history and significance leads me to my next obstacle: actually finding a Valentine. Gossip magazines inform me that Mr. Gosling already has plans, my puppy prefers to immediately eat the flowers I give him rather than be a participant in a dramatised ceremony of presenting them to me and my best other Valentine prospect is inconveniently on the other side of the Pacific Ocean.

But fret not, for I have come up with the perfect solution. You see, I have this friend who has loved me for years but whom I only pay attention to when the circumstances are right. They’ve been there through my laughs, my frowns, my ups and downs. I think we all know who this person is:


Valentines CardSure, it may not have been love at first swig, but over the years we’ve built up a very loving and reliable relationship. I don’t discriminate against it; I don’t judge based on color or the size of its… bottle. And in return, wine doesn’t discriminate against me. It’s taken me for better or worse (progressively worse as a night wares on) richer or for poorer (mostly poorer), in sickness and in health, and I know it will stay with me as long as we both shall live. And that’s why wine is my Valentine, but I’ll make sure to treat it properly every day of the year, not just when it suits me.

What I’m trying to say is that people need to take a page out of my metaphorical book (written by Hemingway? He was a drunk, right?) and rise above their defensive instinct to just hate the day or believe they’re above acknowledging it. A day can’t authenticate or validate a romantic relationship so it can’t shed shame on singledom, either. If you put aside the irrelvant history of how the day came about and the extensive and unnecessary commercialism associated with it, what is the actual harm of just having a day that acknowledges and reminds us of all the different kinds of love we have in our lives? That’s all it is (or should be), a day to simply recognize love in all it’s forms.

If you’re lucky enough to have someone, use Valentines day as a reminder to celebrate your relationship. Then do that everyday for the next 364 days. If you find yourself single, replace the self loathing and sadness you feel in in your heart with warm positive thoughts and appreciation for the love you do have. Start an affair with wine, open a bottle of red and embrace the day. It’s better than spending the day being cynical, mocking others and wasting an otherwise perfectly good Friday. Not to mention it makes for a fun way to pass the time until Mr. Gosling finishes with his plans and runs into the sunset with you.

An open letter to my puppy:

Dearest Tesla,

Tesla3I realize that being a 7-month old Golden Retriever, the chances that you will both read and properly comprehend this letter are slim; but at this point I’ve run out of ideas for communicating with you and am pretty much willing to try anything.
So please consider this an intervention and a place where we can talk openly and share our feelings without screaming or throwing poop like usual.

Basically Tesla, what I’m trying to say is that your recent behaviour has been less than acceptable.
Not that your track record is anything to brag about.

I know it’s not completely your fault, and I have to share some of the blame. I acknowledge that naming you Tesla was a mistake. It placed unrealistic expectations on you. Ones you couldn’t possibly live up to. You have to know though, I never expected you to speak 8 languages or invent a new type of electricity. I just expected that it would take you less than 4 tries to pass the 1st grade of puppy school.


Tesla dear, no matter how much you chase it, your tail will still always be there.

I know you tried though, so there’s no hard feelings about puppy school. Sitting on command can be hard, especially when you get distracted by your own tail every 8 seconds. We can’t all be academically smart, I respect that. You’re more about street smarts.
Rather than being ‘friendly’ or ‘obedient’, your teacher described you as being ‘unique’ and ‘having a quirky temperament’. There’s nothing wrong with that. Individuality is something to be proud of.

What’s more Tesla, it’s obvious you’re a social butterfly and a natural born leader. You used puppy school as a place to socialise and master your escaping skills.
You quickly realised that you were the common denominator, the puppy everyone else compared their puppies to. I think when you realised this, you really upped your game. You no longer just ignored a command, you learnt to do the exact opposite. ‘Sit’ meant ‘run away’. ‘Shake’ meant ‘eat your own poop’. The other ‘parents’ were so proud of their puppies when they saw you. I admit this was a little disheartening and embarrassing for me, but I knew you were just doing the other puppies a favour.


Also, how is this a comfortable sleeping position?

Still, I think we should talk about another one of your ‘quirks’ that became apparent in puppy school; your distaste for sharing. I’m an only-child too, so I understand how hard the concept of ‘sharing’ can be, but sometimes it’s a necessary evil.
Tesla, why is it that every time we give you a new toy to play with, you run off, dig a hole the size of a small European country and then bury the toy? I know I initially found this behaviour endearing (and it did wonders to accelerate your digging skills) but now it’s becoming a little annoying. The yard looks like a large family of wild badgers inhabit it and every time we want to play a game with you, like fetch, we have to buy a new ball.

Speaking of fetch, what part of that game don’t you understand exactly? The idea is that I repeatedly throw the ball and you repeatedly run off and and bring it back to me. I know you understand the principle concept as the first time I throw the ball you manage to bring it back. So why is it that the second time I throw it you just sit there with a look that says “You threw it, you go get it?”


You used to be so little and innocent…what happened?

These are all little things though, and I can live with you never learning to fetch and even with your desire to spend your days digging to China in the yard. What I can’t live with is some of the bigger ‘incidents’ you caused.

Need I remind you of the morning poop incident? That time when you did a poop on your puppy pad, then proceeded to roll you body in said poop, and then made it your mission to touch every surface in the house with your poop covered body? Do you really think I had nothing better to do than clean the entire house and bathe you that morning? And did you really think I didn’t have better things to do the second time you did the same thing!?

Now, I think we should also talk about the wooden stairs you systematically ripped up and ate (how is still beyond me!) And the countless pillows, blankets, flowers and brooms that have all gone to heaven due to your teething (all whilst your numerous teething toys remain buried in the yard). That being said, I still think the 8 piece dining set that you single-handedly turned into splinters is to date, your biggest achievement.

But despite all your exploits Tesla, you and your cute puppy dog eyes have a power over me. You suffocate the life out of me, yet I still love you.

Tesla Thus Tesla, I’m sorry I yelled at you when you ate my socks. I didn’t mean the things I said, it’s just that they were my last pair of uneaten socks.
It’s unfair that you’ve learned how to open a draw but not to sit on command.

I’m sorry I threatened to take you back to the store when you woke me up at 3am for the seventh consecutive night because you’re scared of a possum. It’s not like I would ever actually go through with it –  you were very expensive and I can’t get a refund.


Just your typical play session with a watering can.

I’m sorry for actually enquiring if I could get a refund.

I’m sorry for punishing you when you stole and ate the steak I had defrosting on the kitchen counter. It’s just that that was my dinner, not yours.

I’m even more sorry for yelling at you when you vomited that steak up. But I still would have been less upset if you chose to vomit it outside rather than on the carpet.

I’m sorry I put you on a stringent diet when the lady in the park called you fat. It’s not your fault you’re big boned.

And I’m really sorry I googled “puppy + sedative”. Twice.
You’ve got to understand that you’ve grown so much that you can’t jump around and go crazy like you could when you were little. Now when you jump on me, it literally knocks me over and it hurts.


Tesla, I know you’re currently hellbent on destroying as much property as you can, but I really hope you outgrow this stage soon. Or at least stay as cute as you are so I forgive all the death and destruction you cause.


The hand that feeds you.

Post-Grad Boogie

Sometimes, I like to pretend I’m a character on Suits. A kick-ass forensic accountant wearing a suave outfit and shooting fast and witty comebacks to all the lawyers around me. Naturally, in this fantasy Donna is my best friend, I get paid a lot to do very little and a miracle occurs where I manage to wear high-heels all day without dying.

Donna's first words when she meets me.

Donna’s first words when she meets me.

A quick look around my surroundings is all it takes to violently spring me from this fantasy and back into reality. Every surface in my room is covered with textbooks, readings, cue-cards, post it notes and hand made calendars with wild scribblings of all the dates my assignments are due.
Post-grad life isn’t nearly as glamorous as my Suits fantasy. To be honest, the only occupation post-grad life is more glamorous than is being a dole bludger; but they earn more money so even that’s disputable.

So with my mind firmly in reality and assignments looming, I’d like to procrastinate list (yes, I don’t actually have time to write a full column, so a list will have to suffice) the fun things I have learned and experienced about post-grad studies.

I like to call it the post-grad boogie. It’s kind of like the greenback boogie only with less money and fame and higher rates of unemployment and daytime drinking.

post grad someecard1. Despite what you learned as an undergrad, Thursday night is a weeknight. You’re expected to be productive Thursday night and wake up before 9am Friday morning.
Crazy, right?

2. You’re expected to refrain from drinking Sunday through to Friday afternoon – including day-drinking. Seriously.

3. Post-Grad is triple the work of undergrad and only half the fun.

4. I’m lying; it’s none of the fun.

5. Your monthly calendar looks less like the responsibilities of one person and more like the responsibilities of a small country.

6. You become obsessed with efficiency. To the point that you break down and publicly abuse people if their way of doing things takes even a minute longer than your way would.

7. Your main life survival skill is multi-tasking.

8. You have no idea where anything is on your campus except for the 2 buildings you have classes in.

9. During the start of semester you drink coffee. Obscenely large cups of dark coffee.
You shout “Thank God for caffeine!” at complete strangers whilst nervously attempting to conceal your involuntary facial twitches.
Towards the middle of semester you realise that drinking coffee is an inefficient process as it requires time to order, make and drink. Thus you develop a mildly concerning addiction to caffeine tablets.

10. Social events on campus? Say, what now?GPA

11. You seriously worry your relationship with the library is becoming too intimate so you swap libraries. You then worry about how your initial library feels about you cheating on it.

12. Lists begin to turn you on. Everything that can be written should be done so in an efficient list format. You then put your lists up on every wall to ensure all you ever see, think and dream is lists.

13. You have vivid hallucinations of attaching the 10 weighty textbooks assigned to you per semester to your torso and then jumping out a high window.

14. You have absolutely no school spirit. You’re pretty sure your university colours are a light colour and a dark colour but can’t remember which ones.

15. Your to-do list is organised by chapters.

16. If you’re not in a serious relationship, you’ve started to feel really really self conscious about the extremely high percentage of classmates that are in a serious relationship.

17. You’ve gotten to know your professors a little too well, including a lot of unnecessary details about their personal lives. You’ve become a little concerned by this fact.

18. You live in hope of keeping your memories of university longer than your student debt.Studying

19. You’re pretty sure that ‘graduate student’ is an oxymoron but you’re too tired to care.

20. You’re excessively worried about your thesis and exams, but you shouldn’t be. Given the rate you’re going at, you’ll be dead long before then.

Here, allow me to explain the world to you:

Disclaimer: This post will not explain the whole world to you. It will attempt to explain different types of twenty-somethings living today. But given we’re so incredibly self-involved and self-obsessed, the whole world really centres around us anyway.

Snow white - fair trade organic

Being young is exhausting work.

Everyone knows that teenagers and twenty-somthings are a different species. Media outlets today are rife with articles analysing and complaining about Gen Y and then subsequently trying to categorise and fix us. Clearly, we’re a complicated case that needs to be studied to ever be successfully eradicated understood.

So in the interest of science, I will thus seek to provide an insight into the mind and culture of a twenty-something. This will hopefully fulfil the twin functions of expanding the horizon of human knowledge and clarifying the questions my mind has about a culture I belong to, know absolutely nothing about yet claim to be an expert in.

Indie tom and jerry

An image that makes sense to Gen Y.

So let’s start by confirming that everyone is indie.
I see the confused look on your face so I’m going to stop right there and clarify:
According to urban dictionary Indie is:
1. (n) An obscure form of rock which you only learn about from someone slightly more hip than yourself.
2. (adj) Indie is cooler than emo.

This begs the question, what is an emo?
1. (n) An entire subculture of people (usually angsty teens) with a fake personality.
2. (adj) Like a goth, only much less dark and much more Harry Potter.

Now just to clarify, not everyone who falls under ’emo’ is actually an emo.  There are wemos, which are wannabe emos, and memos, which are mistaken emos. The latter is someone who is not an emo but is confused for one. I can’t personally explain how this happens but apparently it does.

Moving on, there are also lads:
1. (n) A lad is a male who specialises in creating and distributing exquisite banter.
2. (n) Males who like polo shirts and have a penchant for exposing genitalia and being a douchebag.

Now just for the record, ‘chavs’ are young lads.

And to complement the chavs, there are teeny-boppers:
1. (n) Stupid girls of ages 10-14 who squeal and giggle so much that Satan is willing to drag them back to hell.
2. (n) Females who wear small denim shorts no matter the season, are obsessed with pop-punk bands, are desperate to grow up and are unable to structure a sentence without using the word ‘like’ 5 times.
3. (n) The ethnic group Hitler would focus on instead if he were alive today.

An accurate description of how I feel when I'm around teeny-boppers.

An accurate description of how I feel when I’m around teeny-boppers.

There are also modern day hippies:
1. (n) An overgrown child who may occasionally abuse drugs and alcohol to cope with their impossible ideals in the modern world.
2. (adj) An urban hillbilly.

And who could forget the gym-junkies:
1. (adj) People with a Hulk like physique and intelligence level.
2. (n) Members of a society driven by the slogan “get shredded or die trying”.
3. (n) People who use the terms ‘looking ripped’, ‘nice rig’ and ‘do you even lift’ at least once in every sentence.

Now I can’t possibly write an academically sound piece about sub-cultures without mentioning the following:
There are wiggers (white guys who think they are black), chiggers (Chinese guys who think they are black) and hasians (hot asians).
There are skinny guys, who suffer from manorexia, and browned up girls who suffer from hipstertanorexia.
There are stoners who smoke the sacred herb and look like Jesus and there are coke-heads who are people fortunate enough to have enough money to support a devils-dandruff addiction.
Devils dandruff is cocaine, and how this comes up in conversation is beyond me.

There are geeks, whose IQ’s exceed their weights but they’re not to be confused with nerds who are people you’ll end up working for when you grow up.
There are also punks who are rebellious hooligans with funny hair and gangstas’ who have street cred and are unable to find sweat shirts that aren’t 5 sizes too big for them. They’re also not to be confused with thugs although I struggle to understand why.

Now this educational and mildly nauseating journey through sub-cultures leads us to the Hipster: the ultimate sub-culture enigma.
StupidHipster21. Definitions are too mainstream.
2. (n) Someone who listens to bands you’ve never heard of, wears ironic tee-shirts and has a hair style that can only be described as ‘complicated’.
3. (n) An individual who hates corporations and everything mainstream, yet still buys Apple products.
4. (n) A mainstream label referring to someone who rejects mainstream labels.
5. Everyone in my masters program.*

My head hurts too much to even begin making an assessment on what it means to be a hipster. Basically, if you walk round my University, everyone you see will qualify under this label. And no one will actually know what it means.

So there you have it. My contribution to society for the week. I am more confused than when I started.  Labels are gloriously vague, unnecessary and potentially damaging. For todays’ twenty-somthing’s, life is confusing enough and everyone is just trying to find a way to fit in.

The roads that we take are merely kaleidoscopic images that shift with every turn of the head. Everyones either lost in the rat race or lost somewhere outside it. I think it goes without saying that it’s easy to make fun of lifestyles and subcultures, but truly understanding them is a different matter. And maybe the reason society can’t understand twenty-something’s is because we can’t (or don’t want to) understand ourselves either.

hipster red riding hood

*Admittedly, this may not be a very descriptive definition – but it’s true nonetheless.

So, what do you want to be when you grow up?

“You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself any direction you choose. You’re on your own. And you know what you know. And YOU are the one who’ll decide where to go…”                                              – Dr. Seuss: Oh The Places You’ll Go!

When I was five, I was certain I wanted to become a ballerina. At seven, I wanted to be a doctor. At ten, I thought becoming a professional singer and joining the Spice Girls was for me. At thirteen I wanted to become a forensic pathologist. At fifteen, a lawyer.
At every stage of my childhood, when someone asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I had an answer. And more often than not, it was a different answer to the one I gave the week before. But funnily enough, when I actually ‘grew up’ I started running out of answers.

Through school I’d always been hardworking and studious so with my good grades came a self belief that I could do anything I put my mind to. The only problem was that I didn’t know what that ‘anything’ was. When I graduated high school I was offered a scholarship to a top University and took it with open arms assuming that when I finished my undergraduate degree I’d be a grown up and thus know what I wanted to be.
I’ve finished my undergraduate degree, but I’m still no ‘grown up’.

The past few years have seen me go through many phases of self discovery. I’ve met incredibly diverse people and travelled to exotic and contrasting parts of the world. I have found myself a thousand times only to realise a week later that the person I found was just one facet on myself rather than a whole. I’ve been surprised by my abilities, disappointed at my failures and encouraged by my resilience. I’ve experienced highs climbing mountains – both physically and metaphorically, near death experiences at the hands of hippos and extreme lows which have left me drunkenly analysing my life at 11am on weekday more times than I wish to admit.

But after all that I still don’t think I am any closer to figuring out what I want to be when I grow up. To be honest, the only thing I have figured out so far is that I don’t think I want to grow up.

No doubt, most twenty-somethings reading this would know the exact feeling I’m trying to describe. None of us can change the decisions that have brought us to where we are right now: the job we have, the city we live in and the path we’re on. But we do have control over the future. After all, we’re twenty-something, not eighty-something, which means that we have a lot more life still to live and quite a few more chances to get it right. There is no such thing as ‘too little too late’ in regards to learning a lesson or creating a life that makes you happy.

I think the biggest obstacle people face is fear. We are afraid that there is something wrong with us because we aren’t happy with where we’ve ended up; despite the carefully calculated plan we followed to get there. We’re frightened of the uncertainty of the future and thought that no one else is feeling the need to walk out of their current life and start over. We’re increasingly scared with each passing thought of a new beginning, that our decisions will be frowned upon and those we love the most may not be proud of us when the dust settles. And not to mention, we all become a little more fearful and crazy when our constant need to compare ourselves to others only serves to illuminate our own faults and shortcomings.


It’s all pretty scary. But I don’t have the ability to erase the fear or a step-by step guide to a solution. But maybe that’s a good thing as calculated paths are what got some of us to this point in the first place. We followed specific plans until we landed in a place so far removed from what makes up happy that we forgot where our passion lives; so far down the wrong path that we can’t even figure out what we want to be when we ‘grow up.’

At the end of the day, I think if we’re all superbly honest with one another (and ourselves) we’d soon find out that none of us are certain about much. We’re not alone and we’re all just trying to figure it out without screwing too much up in the process. We need to set happiness as our only goal and learn that the key to life is making yourself proud. I’m not sure if or how it’ll all work out, but I have faith that what’s meant to be, will be.

The reason for my reflective-state-of-mind, if you will, is that I’ve recently been accepted into a Masters program. After working so hard to get into the program, I’m now left second-guessing whether I truly want to be in it. I suppose part of it is fear of change and fear of the unknown.
It’s safe to say though, that I’m not sure if I’ll ever figure out what I want to be when I grow up. I still just hope that I will never have to grow up but rather have an entire lifetime to exhaust all resources and opportunities to figure out who I am and what makes me happy.

If the past few years have taught me anything it’s that we never stop changing. Life is about mastering the ability to continually keep going after what you really want; having the courage to always start over when you aren’t happy and acquiring the knowledge that you’re not alone in the process.

John Lennon credited his mother for telling him that happiness was the key to life. At school when a teacher asked Lennon to write down what he wanted to be when he grew up, he wrote down ‘happy.’ Lennon said “They told me I didn’t understand the assignment and I told them they didn’t understand life.”

I just hope I can continue to grow old and learn; all the while never growing up or out of happiness.

What it’s like to be a twenty-something as told by Mean Girls, Bridesmaids and Girls.

Golly gosh, I love the inter-webs.
I found this little gem on them and just had to share it.
Kudos, BuzzFeed.

If you’re a twenty-something you probably feel like this:


College was all like:

But now you’re all like: 


Most of the time you just want to yell at the universe.

Because no one understands you. 

With boys, it’s like:

But with your girlfriends is more like: 

And every time you say to a boy:

He’s just like: 

At which point you’re like: 


And in the end, you don’t even want a boyfriend because:

So I guess what I’m saying is that being in your twenties is hard.
Most of the time is feels like this: 


Because the problem is: 

But at the end of the day, you’re only twenty-somthing so you should be doing this:

To see the whole story, you can head to the BuzzFeed article here.

A Letter to PMS:

Hey Girl,

I think we need to be honest with each other here; the only reason you’re called PMS is because oestrogen-induced-manic-depressive-bipolar-disorder-prone-to-fits-of-psychopathic-rage is too long.

But I gotta hand it to you, at least you’re consistent. Since 2005, every 28 days you come into my life and make me want to turn into a unicorn just so I can stab everyone around me with my head. You curse my hormones, contaminate my thoughts, manipulate my appetite, and generally turn me into a sugar addicted screaming banshee.

FYI PMS, your material is getting old. Like getting me to sob at the Stegglers Chicken commercial filled with a happy family enjoying a meal together? Boring. Convincing me to eat a whole jar of Nutella to get a chocolate endorphin boost? Predictable. Encouraging me to watch The Notebook for the thousandth time whilst eating a family sized bag of popcorn and realising Noah doesn’t exist in real life and I’m never going to find him? Unoriginal.

You do realize PMS that you interfere with 25% of my life? Now let’s get this straight, a quarter of my life is in your hands just because I happen to have fallopian tubes? Seems a bit unreasonable don’t you think? I’ve honestly accepted my fate of suffering through the crimson wave for 5-7 days every month, but why must each period come with a week of pre-gaming!? Why do you insist that I eat everything in sight? Feel paranoid and insecure? Sob about menial things? Severally bloat? And then sob about bloating so much? WHY OH WHY?!?

The thought of your monthly return gives me major anxiety. I’m pretty sure it gives my friends and family anxiety too. We all live in fear of you and all the insane behaviours you cause. I just don’t understand why Mother Nature can’t send me a text to tell me I’m not pregnant rather than put me through this every month. Can you explain that to me?

I hate that I’m a stereotypical moody PMS-ridden woman. I hate all the jokes that get made about PMSing. I hate men who don’t have to suffer through it and therefore makes jokes about it. I hate that they don’t follow the rule of ‘No uterus no opinion’.
But most of all I hate that I can’t decide whether I want to kill someone or have a chocolate chip biscuit more. It’s this indecision that kills me.  


Exactly how I feel for a week straight.

PMS, if you happen to read this and hear my pleas, can you do me a little favour? Can you take it a little easier on me next month? I like my friends and my mental health and I don’t want to see either lost over another PMS-Induced ‘episode’.

Love and oestrogen,


P.S. Thanks for the bigger boobs. I know they’re only temporary, but they’re the only thing getting me through this week.

New Years resolutions start in the second week of the year, right?

“Since, because it’s an extension of New Year’s Eve, smokers are already on a smoking roll and cannot be expected to stop abruptly on the stroke of midnight… Also, dieting on New Year’s Day isn’t a good idea as you can’t eat rationally. I think it would be much more sensible if resolutions began generally on January the second.”

– Bridget Jones

I completely agree Bridget, except for one thing…for a New Years resolution to succeed, you need to learn from your failures first. Thus, New Years resolutions should start in the second week of the year to give you ample time to fail and subsequently learn from your mistakes in the first week. Flawless logic I know.

Now I’m sure last week like me; you were seeing in the New Year both:
(a) obscenely drunk 
(b) having decided that 2013 would be your year to be the best person you can to be.

A new year, a clean slate and a ridiculous superstition that you would suddenly be able to achieve everything you couldn’t in 2012.

This time last week I was thinking up a new batch of New Years failures resolutions. At first I dreamt big and thought 2013 would be the year I’d become famous and finally marry Ryan Gosling. After giving it some thought though, I decided it might be best to not set myself up for sure failure and thus to aim lower. Next I decided 2013 would be my year to be healthy. However, given that that has been my resolution for the past 5 years, I thought I should come up with something more original and that I haven’t failed at, 5 years running. And then it occurred to me; this year, I’m not going to set myself up for failure.
This year, mediocrity will be my oyster.
This year my resolution will be simple and attainable.
My resolution will be to go to bed earlier every night, wake up earlier every morning and not waste so much of the time in-between being tired. Practical and easy. The perfect resolution.

Alas, 7 days have passed and I have gone to sleep before midnight once. (One out of Seven ain’t bad though!)

I don’t know what it is, but no matter how long I’ve been up for or how tired I am, the night owl in me refuses to sleep until at least 1am. This subsequently causes me issues in the morning as I spend the hours between 6 a.m. and 11 a.m., trying to get my bearings in a world that is 8 shades too bright and won’t stop making horrible, loud noises. Pretty much, this is me every morning:

However, what irritates me even more than having to wake up, is the ‘morning-I-go-for-a-run-before-work-people’ that I encounter.
No, I don’t want to talk to you, can’t you see I haven’t fully risen out of my coffin yet and I’m only on my third coffee of the morning? No, I’m not a morning person like you. The only way I could ever be considered a ‘morning person’ was if the morning happened around noon and there wasn’t much blood in my caffeine system at the time. And seriously, what time did you get to sleep last night? For me to both justify and have the ability to be such a chipper douchbag at such an ungodly hour I would need to be in bed by at least 6 p.m… the night before.

It’s not my fault that, for whatever reason my brain has decided the hours between 11 p.m. and 1 a.m. are the hours at which all interesting and engaging thought is going to occur. Lying down without any external stimulus, my brain will yield a million useless thoughts, occasionally stopping to discover a cure for cancer only to forget it 5 seconds later. It’s between these hours that I want to party, to write, to talk, to blog and to discover the meaning of life. It’s my time, okay? I’m not trying to be a 5 year old intentionally staying up past their bedtime, I’m just a prisoner to my own internal clock.

But I get it. I know that I have to acclimatise myself and live on societies time. I know that the 5 minutes of extra sleep I get every time I press ‘sleep’ feel like small orgasms cuddling me, but I also get that I waste too much time cuddling these orgasms. I’m going to kick the habit. I’m going to go to bed early, make myself fall asleep and wake up refreshed. The next time a ‘morning person’ has a loud monologue describing all they’ve achieved since they’ve been up, I’m going to resist the urge to throw my hot coffee on them because I too, will be refreshed and happy to be awake.

I still firmly believe that whoever invented the saying “the early bird gets the worm” needs to be shot. But as of tomorrow, I will suck it up and make my New Years resolution work. (Except on Sunday, as God didn’t even get up on Sunday so really, not sleeping in would be blasphemy – flawless logic once again I know).

And if that fails…well I guess New Years resolutions can start in week three of the year, right?

Good morning 2013; My head really hurts.

Why is alcohol a thing?blog-hangover

Like, what exactly compels us to drink our body weight in wine and then spend the next 24 hours losing our dignity and then either passing out underneath a fan or vomiting in a garden bed? Do we actually aspire to be that person walking down the street at 2am, mascara running, shoes in hand, pants unzipped screaming ‘souvlaki’ at the top of their voice? How is it that we lose our inhibitions so much that we deem sexually harassing the cashier guy at McDonalds in the interest of procuring breakfast McMuffins before the designated breakfast McMuffin time an acceptable thing to do?

Alcohol makes you it’s bitch. It takes your personality, remixes it, makes you do stupid things and then laughs at you.

This is at least the incredibly hungover me talking. You know the one that wakes up the morning after a big night and tries to recall why she’s sleeping on the floor next to her bed and why there’s a two meter tall stop sign in her room.

Now I know the saying goes that if you ever read about the evils of drinking, you should give up reading. This is why I’m going to stop writing about the evils of drinking and describe how it is I got myself into my current state. Anyone starting 2013 with a mighty headache would have like me, gone through the following stages:

1. The ‘this is nice’ stage
Hey, it’s only one drink. What’s the harm is just having one? It tastes so sweet and fruity. I mean, it’s basically a serving of fruit. It would be irresponsible of me not to have it. If God didn’t want us to indulge, he wouldn’t have made it taste like alcoholic heaven.
I do need to go home pretty soon though, I have work in the morning and things to do. Oooh what’s that, half price meals? Well I could go some potato gems. Yeah, the potato gems do make a compelling argument. And nothing goes with potato gems like another vodka cranberry. Bartender; another round!

2. The ‘I’m buzzed’ stage
Oh I feel amazing! My whole body is tingling, it feels like I’m rolling around in a pit of vibrators. I love it. Time to just relax and enjoy this drink. Or several more. I mean sure, theoretically I need to get up tomorrow, but realistically I don’t need to be out of bed before 8. It’s doable. I can just leave here, not sleep, run a half marathon around 4am and then go to work sometime after that fully refreshed. There’s no limit to my abilities right now. This is what life is about. Being out and having fun. It would be a shame to leave now. Maybe I could eat some more potato gems, but maybe I should just order a shot. Yes, I feel like a shot is what I need most right now. Yeah, a shot.

3. The ‘Heyyyyyyy’ stage
Have you heard this amazing story about my personal life? Look, it doesn’t matter what your answer is because I’m going to tell you anyway. And I’m going to do it at the top of my voice. As of this moment, everyone in this room is my new best friend and I’m going to talk to all of you until I have to pee. At that point I will awkwardly scuffle to the bathroom and when I realise there’s a long line to the girls bathroom I’ll bravely use the boys bathroom. There I’ll find another girl whose done the same as me and we’ll quickly realise we’re soul mates and will loudly gush on about how much we LOVE each others fashion choices.

4. The party must go on stage
Now comrades, no matter what happens this evening and no matter what travesty may befall us: this party does not stop. I don’t care if you have class in the morning or if you have to go home to your children. THIS IS SPARTA! Only the strong will survive. When we agreed to have the best night ever we knew we would have to make personal sacrifices. We can’t leave now. It’s only 3am. Only the elderly and weak go home at this geriatric hour. You must all do a round of shots with me.

5. The ‘I’m fine’ stage
Look I’m fine. You don’t need to hold me like I’m about to fall over. Look, I’m standing. Almost upright. I’m fiiiiiine. Just ignore those tears, I accidentally mentioned my ex boyfriend and my tear ducks accidentally swelled up. I’m fine, honestly, I’m totally over him.  And look, who cares if the bouncer is kicking us out? Lets just go to the McDonalds parking lot and then continue the party. I could go a cheeseburger or twelve anyway. I’m fine you guys, we don’t need to go home. It’s not even that late. The sun is barely up. Fuck these birds, that don’t even know what they’re singing about.

6. The pass out stage
Just a random question but does anyone have a bed I can sleep in? You know what, a bed isn’t really that important, maybe just a warm cot that’s not too close to an open door or window? Or even a bathtub? Look, I’m just going to have a little nap on the floor over here. My shoe is a really great pillow, and if I leave my clothes on I’ll be warm. Plus I’m not going to take my makeup off as it’s acting like a little blanket for my face. I’m content here, I just need a little nap and I’ll be fine.

7. The morning after
Oh I feel like death. I may have a hangover but my head hurts too much to actually confirm my hangover status. Why is everything so bright? Can you pass me that water bottle? I’m never drinking again. I have to go work. I’m a relatively fresh corpse. Is my head or stomach in more excruciating pain? I’m not sure. My mouth tastes and feels like a graveyard. Can you pass me more water? I’m cancelling work. I’ll go blog about my drinking experience instead.

Wine Hangoverwork