Archive | March, 2013


30 Mar


This week I decided to take Ernest Hemingway’s advice: write drunk and edit sober. After several paragraphs that included me describing my perfect cologne[1] and pontificating that during defecation has to be the most difficult time to feel sexy, especially when the broken toilet seat is pinching you inappropriately. I decided I probably shouldn’t be taking advice from a hot mess who deep-throated his 12-gauge. That and my keyboard was covered in melted cheese and half the keys weren’t working because they’d been surrounded by biscuit crumbs.

* Working on my night cheese. *

I figure that while I’m verbally bashing literary giants I might as well go for the big guns and give the bard a spanking. Or perhaps more accurately the schooling system that encourages 13 year olds on the verge of rebellion and social ruin to read a play about children, who took drugs, had sex, disrespected their families and in a fit of melodramatic rage killed themselves. I mean come on. We are teenagers; do you think we need any artistic inspiration for our innate desire to self-destruct?

* I wish we could all get along like we used to in middle school. I wish I could bake a cake filled with rainbows and smiles and everyone would eat and be happy. *

In other news am starting to enjoy the perks of living at home again. For example: when I got stuck in the bathroom without adequate toilet paper my mum was around to throw in a new roll. It’s great. I also really like it when she tries to converse with me while I’m in the bathroom. Usually about something that could’ve waited 5 minutes like “did you know female koalas have two vaginas?!” Weird but true. As far as I’m concerned the bathroom is the equivalent of a padded cell: utterly pristine and soundproof isolation complete with forgiving lighting. While we’re in the porcelain kingdom I have to impart two serious observations and one hilarious sexual encounter:

1)    If you are a guy and you can’t manage to keep your urine confined to the rather large circumference of the toilet bowl then I have serious doubts that you would possess any sort of accuracy when it comes to hitting a smaller more intimate target with your lady friends.

2)    Why does four ply toilet paper need to initially unravel in such a haphazard manner? You are not operating at full ply thickness and therefore I have to unravel half the roll to get things running smoothly again. It’s just the worst, not to mention completely counter productive to my Zen-like tiled haven.

3)    A friend of mine was having sex with her boyfriend, as you do when you’re not single and alone. Cut to them going at it like rabbits, doggy style. Golden ticket in hand, he decides to make a visit to Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. She asks him to stop, he does and as she reaches through her legs to guide him somewhere more practical (I’m ignoring the health risks involved in using the same condom) she accidentally drops a deuce into her helping hand. Now there is an oompa-loompa song of retribution I would very much enjoy.

* Why didn’t you go home?! That’s your home! Are you too good for your home? Answer me! *

Insert a weird, somewhat tenuous link to my birthday in 4 days and eating my body weight in chocolate… It’s not lazy writing I’m just jealous of Jesus’ three-day lie in after the previous night’s drinking binge and I’m out of witticisms.

As a side note, every single time I’m hungover I can’t help but overhear my brain arguing loudly about the benefits of Gatorade and water:

* Gatorade not only quenches your thirst better, it tastes better too. No. Gatorade. H2O. Gatorade. H2O. Water sucks. It really, really sucks. Water sucks. *

My Peter Pan complex is going into overdrive and I have been compensating by consuming more than my usual amount of Easter chocolate and listening to 22 by Taylor Swift on repeat. I figure Its only a matter of time till my status as a youthful gay man crumbles before my eyes and I have to find an actual career, a long term partner and gather a collection of miniature schnauzers as substitutes for children.

* I love chocolatebut I can’t eat it because then I’ll get fat. But it’s sooo good! *

So, there’s a guy who we shall call Mitch Buchannon. He’s essentially the Daniel Cleaver to my Bridget Jones and he knows it. Every time he’s in a relationship I’m single and vice versa. He’s never really treated my relationships or his own, with any sort of reverence. Which I find quite abhorrent but if I want a message full of winking emoticons and innuendo he’s my go to guy. And lets be honest everybody likes a little attention.

He once nearly tricked me into having sex with him while he was going out with someone. Telling me that he was in an “open relationship”.  What even is that?! Why be in a relationship at all. Just have a lot of committed fuck buddies who are down to cuddle you and take you to social occasions as well as ply you with snacks and alcohol. I mean who doesn’t love snacks? Whatever. It was a lie so I shut it down.

Anyway now that we are both single at the same time he initiated contact and wanted to meet up for an adult rendezvous. Lo and behold he backs out at the last minute. He’s all talk and no walk. To be honest I’m pretty surprised because I was convinced it was a sure thing. Maybe it was the potential cheating that he likes and nothing more. Either way he better hope that the rest of the Baywatch cast have their first aid kits on hand because I am this close to drowning him in a pool of angry lesbians[2].

* Everyone’s a dumb whore *

Now If can someone can kindly hide Jake Gyllenhaal in my cake that would be just great, that, or a couple of dragon eggs so I can be the new Khaleesi. Kthanksbye.

[1] A mixture of white wine, hairspray and cat hair.

* They’ve done studies, you know. 60% of the time, it works every time. *

[2] For future reference the accepted collective nouns for a group of lesbians is either a Bieber of lesbians or a murder of lesbians.


A Suit of One’s Own

21 Mar


I had to attend a black tie event over the weekend and not having a suit of my own I borrowed one from a family friend. It would come as no surprise then, that at a catered event, with free alcohol, you could find me several hours later vomiting all over my shoes and borrowed trousers. Hungover the following morning, I failed to notice the dried vomit residue and put the suit aside to be dry-cleaned. I figured everything would be so much easier once my brain stopped trying to hammer its way out through my forehead.

* That’s all it takes really, pressure, and time. That, and a big goddamn poster. *

Never having worn a proper dinner suit before I failed to recognise that it was not a dinner suit at all. This wouldn’t really have been much of a problem if it weren’t for the fact that the family friend needed his actual suit (which his mum had mistakenly loaned to me) for a funeral that very day. A funeral that started in half an hour and so was coming round immediately to collect it.

Cut to me sponging the trousers like madman, misting the jacket with cologne to cover the smell of cigarettes and sin and rushing it down to the waiting car. Only to realise as they drove away that I’d stuffed a handful of free condoms in my pocket that they were handing out at the bar the night before. I imagine he found them mid-service while looking for tissues because his eyes were stinging from the lingering smell of bile on his trouser cuff.

* Did you ever wish you could sometimes freeze frame a moment in your day, look at it and say: “This is not my life”? *

In other news it has taken me a total of 6 days to come up with a text message that shuts down communication with Mr. Sheffield in a satisfactory manner. I know text messages are pretty cowardly but to be fair I couldn’t do coffee because he works from 9 – 5 and organising drinks would send the wrong message. Plus I figured 2 dates and a maximum of 7 hours face time probably means I don’t owe him a drawn out and awkward phone call. Right? Right.

So this was what I came up with:

“Hey           sorry I have been a bit distant I’ve been thinking about what I want at the moment and I’d hate for you to think I’m ignoring you. There’s nothing worse. I just wanted to say that I need a bit of time to chill out, I’m just not really ready for anything full on. I hope you understand it has nothing to do with you.”

It’s direct and to the point plus I mention his name so it’s at least semi-personal. I also didn’t try and blame my lack of communication on work etc. I did really struggle with whether I should include some sort of sign off though but they kept coming across as rude and disingenuous.

One of the earlier drafts went a little something like this:

“Hey Broseph Goebbels! Sorry I’ve been a bit shit with replying lately I’ve been super busy with work. You know how it is, people to do places to be. I say who, I say when, I say WHO! Anyway I’d hate to think that I was leading you on and they say treat people how you would like to be treated. So instead of putting you in a bath and serving you wine and soft cheeses I wanted to say that you’re a really lovely guy but I’m not ready for a relationship right now. I hope you understand. You stay classy San Diego!”

Or even earlier:

“If I wanted to spoon feed someone I’d have visited my grandpa – learn to close the deal nerd!” 

Or just:

“You are the sexual equivalent of a million Hinendbergs.”

I get 30 Rock mean under pressure.

Oh and did I mention that my twin sister is celebrating her 3 year anniversary with her boyfriend today? No? Probably because it’s extremely depressing and I hate my life.

Incidentally I was reading an article about China’s push to encourage the one in five “leftover women” between 25 and 29 to marry. An article that likened the cat-loving, bridge playing women of “ugly” or “average appearance” to the undead. Unless my math is particularly bad, one in five is not an average. And average appearance would imply the majority of the female population. Nor does it seem to account for one important factor: That just because their faces are predominately composed of dust and wrinkles and their thighs so full of cellulite that the craters are visible from outer space and that their lady parts are full of cobwebs; It definitely does not mean that they are lonely.

*Happiness isn’t happiness without a violin-playing goat. *

I have subsequently derived a complex formula for measuring the happiness of singletons.

Happiness = Emotional Security Wine Consumed + (Men Slept With × Age)

                          (Income ÷ BMI) + Pair of Shoes Owned – Cup Size

All of which would be combined with % likeness to George Clooney to give a score ranging from 1 to 10. Because lets be honest, male or female, likeness to George Clooney is always a plus.

Eat a dick patriarchy.

I also have discovered a hidden anger towards outdated hand gestures like winding down a window and the call me hand – which I saw some silly woman doing today. Nobody has a flip down phone anymore, pleas stop that. I’d never call you maybe on that Clueless 90’s bullshit. I do however quite enjoy the wanker hand, especially when it’s coupled with the Spiderman web slinging gesture. It’s good to know that unless we become particularly dexterous that it will never really go out of style.

* I’m down, I’ve got the 411, and you are not going out and getting jiggy with some boy, I don’t care how dope his ride is. My momma didn’t raise no foo’! *

Finally I will leave you with an image of me during my newfound core routine. I have found that watching an episode of Will and Grace is the perfect distraction while I do crunches. When the time comes at the end of the episode for an isometric I get to stare at the reflection of my face surrounded by my legs and pretend that some woman with hairy thighs is giving birth to a fat, red faced and sweaty man who looks strangely like me. Talk about motivating.

* We’re the Spice Girls, yes indeed. Just Girl Power is all we need. We know how we got this far…Strength and courage and a Wonderbra! *

Best Laid Plans

15 Mar


I’m feeling very evil Disney queen today. Very Hannibal Lecter. Very Sarah Michelle in Cruel Intentions – basically if you fucking cross me I will castrate you, fry up your testicles and make your mother eat them while you watch, all the while singing Friend Like Me in my best Robin Williams voice.

* Now that was some straight-up David Copperfield shit! *

I don’t know what has brought on this wave of irrational fury. Maybe when I made a list about what I would do if I had a vagina No.7 actually came true:[1] Having a period that would put elephant placenta expulsion to shame, freaking out from the hormones and scratching some miserable bitches eyes out. That’s how it works right, Sissy Spacek?

Or maybe. Just maybe. It has something to do with the fact I had a shit second date followed by coffee with my ex.

The Second Date:

After some delicious drinks and dumplings with Mr. Sheffield, we relocated to a nearby bar in order to refuel. I love a bar with a bit of atmosphere: loud, but not unpleasant music, a raucous crowd and the type of environment that encourages you to lean in that little bit closer. Alas, with three other patrons and minimal privacy save for some dim lighting, the bar he chose left me more exposed than a priest in a playground.

I was however, once again, very impressed with his ability to include words like scopophilic, loquacious and esoteric in general conversation. But after a couple hours I kept wishing he’d swallow a dick instead of a dictionary.

* Lava, stop teaching her these big words before she choke on one. *

When we left the bar I decided we should grab some desert, mostly because I wanted after dinner snacks but also because the best gelato happens to be right around the corner from his house and I needed to use his facilities.

* It’s all part of the plan. *

We got back to his place, which was when things became particularly uncomfortable. He stood while I sat, he didn’t offer me a drink and I had to ask for a tour before finding it so awkward standing shoulder to shoulder in his tiny laundry that I loudly declared it was time to go home. Take the hint!

* I hate the fact that you wore a football jersey to dinner, because I hate football, but you can fuck me if you turn the lights off, okay? *

He walked me to the bus stop. I had to ask for bus money. That’s the end of that.

Lucky for him I’m over my sexy stealing phase.[2]

The Coffee:

The hardest part about coffee was trying to look like I’ve spent the last 6 weeks and 2 days listening to Independent Women by Destiny’s Child on repeat while working out.

* First, look gorgeous. Two – then totally suck up to famous authors. *

The conversation was very pleasant if not tinged with a bit of sadness and the realisation of how boring our current lives are. We caught up on friends and family stuff, but I laughed more in that hour than I did across two dates with Mr. Sheffield.

* I like a joke as well as the next fat person! *

You often look back with hindsight and view things a certain way; that your thought process was unemotional. That what you felt at the time was empowerment and confidence. But the overwhelming impression I’m left with is that I miss his friendship and now have to figure out if it’s possible to be friends with an ex. Or if I preempted me being OK with his general presence and decided to have coffee with him because I didn’t cry when I unblocked him from my Facebook news feed.

* Glurg.*

Ultimately I’m just going to have to decide what I want at the moment[3]. I’m pretty sure on all fronts though that it is not a relationship. At least not right now. Especially when I get 50 shades of crazy at the mere hint of one.

* I just want someone who wants to hang out all the time, thinks I’m the best person in the world, and wants to have sex with only me. *

[1] Numbers one through seven: 1. Use it for storage (mostly stationary). 2. Make it talk, then stage a domestic between it and my belly button. 3. Give it a fun nickname like Princess Labia or Loose Lipped Lara. 4. Pretend I’m pregnant and spend a couple of hours on my back screaming and crying. 5. Feed it chocolate and then say to it “Look at yourself. You’re a mess!” 6. Be charitable and give my hymen to a good cause (Taylor Swift).

[2] I had a couple of one-night stands where I stole things like remote controls because I knew it would piss them off and they’d never expect me. The sexy part came about because I’d shimmy while I did it. But then I realised I was technically robbing people. So I stopped.

[3] Prince Eric and Joseph Gordon-Levitt’s gay love child

What’s My Line?

7 Mar


Waking up hung-over on Monday morning to a note in my phone that described the Milky Way as the freckly ginger of the universe and a Google search for “balls” I realized that once again gay Christmas had been and gone and had taken with it the little bit of remaining dignity that I had been stockpiling for the winter months.

Cut to Saturday night at the Gatsby Party[1] heaving with Swedes. I find myself asking the age-old question: Gay or European? Rather than make any concerted effort to solve this ongoing conundrum or even approach the midriff baring, makeup wearing, Aryan guests I started talking instead to one of the hosts’ brothers, Mr. Potter.

* Mister Potter. Our new celebrity. *

Mr. Potter is a 26ish Law grad with a cute smile and huge vocabulary. And me, being several drinks deep, thinks it’s a good idea to try and engage him in intelligent conversation. After failing consistently to understand any of the legal jargon he was spouting I decided it was time to change the subject.

“Is that a young Lee Lin Chin on your shirt?”

Smooth! I’m informed, cultured and marginally concerned with the often-idiosyncratic dress of the weekend presenter of World News Australia on SBS.

“No. It’s Aung San Suu Kyi.”

Ah, minor setback. Doesn’t matter that I have no idea who that is. Will think a witty non sequitur before-

“Is that Lena Dunham, naked on a toilet and eating cake on your shirt?”


* It was a brilliant…Post-Modernist masterpiece of oratorical fireworks, really. *

I resolved instead to spend the rest of the evening making crude jokes about our host needing to sit on a stack of phone books to fuck her tall Swedish lover and finishing any drink in sight.

* I’m drunk. What’s up bitches! *

Later in the evening after hitting the clubs and dancing to Robyn (sans yellow mesh shirt) I heard that Mr. Potter had relocated the Gatsby party to his house around the corner. Me being substantially more intoxicated and determined to recover from my previous indignity I decided we had to go. Even with the unfortunate knowledge that my ex just so happened to be there too.

* Aloof. Unavailable. Ice queen. Aloof. Unavailable. Ice queen. *

I walked straight past him looking flawlessly intoxicated, and parked myself next to Mr. Potter. Hours later as the party was thinning out and I was getting up to leave, Mr. Potter said I should stay and we can watch an episode of Girls. Be still my beating heart! We went upstairs. The episode finished. Then I got up at 11 to go to work.

I win.

After the successful weekend that was I finally had my date with Mr. Sheffield on the Monday night. Not the best timing considering I had just done a nine to fiver after a five to niner and all I really wanted to do was be horizontal.

* Yeah. Be still like vegetables. Lay like broccoli. *

To be honest though as far as first dates go it was pretty damn good. I got out of the whole “what do I wear” dilemma by coming straight from work and knowing that I had work the next day meant it could only realistically last for 4 hours maximum.

* You wanted cake, you got cake! Now EAT IT! *

There was delicious pizza by the slice, good conversation and a variety of imported hipster beers including one called “Narwhal” that probably spent 69 days in a moustache shaped barrel in Nick Cave’s basement.

We did the whole getting to know you thing: family, schools, friends and Jennifer Lawrence. He also has a job with a salary and is genuinely interesting! The night wore on, we played pinball and then he walked me to the bus stop and kissed me goodnight.

Date two is lined up early next week!

* Not with a fizzle, but with a bang. *

Finally before I go, I watched Romy and Michele’s High School Reunion today for the first time and I loved it. But I have one major issue. Mira Sorvino’s accent. Honestly, did she spend the majority of her time off screen sucking dick? Because she swallows every vowel like she’s being paid for it.

* Have a “Romy and Michele” day! *

[1] The Gatsby party was less Flappers and Philosophers and more of an excuse to invite the person you love under the guise of an extravagant party. Watch out Ryan Gosling.