Friday, December 5, 2014


I’ve been pretty quiet on the writing front this year, mostly from a lack of inspiration. My mum had the theory a while back that I’d become too content. To be honest, this has been a pretty great year. I got a new job, which has resulted in a lot less staying up at night stressing about things. I have a lovely gentleman friend, who shares my passion for seeking out delicious burger joints and lets me scratch his beard. And I got to travel again, making my way around the UK and Ireland with a quick jump over to Paris so I could cross Euro Disney off my bucket list.

So was my mum right? Am I one of those tortured people who can only make art when I’m feeling all the feelings? ‘Tortured artist’ is too cool an image for me. And ‘No longer an artist because I’m feeling pretty great about things’ is not a cool image at all. Something needed to be done. I had to prove this theory wrong. But how? I needed to find inspiration deep within myself. And deep within myself, there was a passion that can only be understood by those who share it: I really freakin love Doctor Who.

 I have an ever increasing collection of DVDs, books, merchandise, t-shirts (even a skirt patterned with tiny TARDIS-es) and an urge to fight anyone who speaks ill of David Tennant. I think very little of Stephen Moffat, will correct anyone who refers to the Daleks as robots, and on one occasion even found myself defending the sixth Doctor. I know, right?

And that UK trip I took this year? I met up with my aunty over there, and we booked in a few days in Cardiff just so we could go to the Doctor Who Experience, a magical walk through experience and museum of props and such that I went to a few years ago in London before it moved. Having booked the trip at the start of the year, we were unaware that it was actually closing five days before we got there for ‘regeneration.’ Also, on account of the fact we arrived in Cardiff the same day as all the world leaders arrived for the NATO summit, most of the city was closed and there was nothing we could do except take a photo of me in front of the closed building, on my knees, with my arms in the air, cursing the sci-fi gods (I have chosen not to post the photo as it is still an open wound oozing with disappointment and nerdy, nerdy heartbreak).

‘Hey, Lauren, why not give writing sci-fi a crack?’ my brain said late one evening when I was tired and delirious enough to think this was a good idea. ‘You’ve got a notebook and pencil, you’re halfway there!’

Now I present to you, ‘Lauren’s list of things you need to write 
A notebook
A pencil
A mysterious hero
A human to ask aaaall the questions
A spaceship
A popular TV program to steal this formula from

So yeah. That’s what I’m playing around with at the moment. And even if it’s badly written balls, I’m just happy that I’m trying, which is another sign that I’M TOO EFFING CONTENT.

Things that are working well:
The worlds, and the people and things in them, run by MY rules. Because I made them. I am their creator. I AM THEIR GOD.

Things that are not working well:
Naming things. Everyone is cool with Jerry the alien, yes? And describing things. I’m not convinced that ‘Jerry the alien looked like an alien’ is going to cut it, or ‘The spaceship smelled like a spaceship, and had a cold chill like… a spaceship.’

Finally, because I’m feeling generous and can see the need to face my emotional demons, here’s that photo of me at the Doctor Who Experience.

Monday, April 28, 2014

Charity begins at home. My home.

This time last year I had never heard of BRF, a condition that affects many women throughout the world. For the last six months or so I have been constantly plagued by it and looking for coping mechanisms. The signs and symptoms have been present for years, but being unaware of the condition I was oblivious as to what was causing them.

Late last year I received a text message from my supervisor telling me that a friend of ours, after observing me at work, believed I had RBF and that there was a Youtube video I could watch for more information. I arrived home that night and searched those three words that would change my life forever: Bitchy Resting Face.


Exhibit A: My face in both its smiling and resting states (apologies for the lack of quality, blogger and my compter don't get along)

For the uninitiated, Bitchy Resting Face is when a woman’s face appears upset, angry or just plain bitchy when in its relaxed, natural state. Suddenly everything was clear. This explains so much of the behaviour I have experienced from other people since my mid to late teens. This is why people are always telling me to smile. This is why people are always asking ‘What’s wrong?’ or ‘Are you OK?’ when everything is fine. This is why people tend to think I’m bored when they’re talking to me (sometimes I genuinely am, though. But out of politeness I’ll blame my face).

It doesn’t help that I’m a quiet person, or that my hearing is terrible, which leads people to think I’m ignoring them or giving them the silent treatment. Of course I am. I mean, look at my face, obviously I’m mad at you EVEN THOUGH YOU’VE DONE NOTHING WRONG AND THEN YOU GET MAD AT ME WHEN I TRY TO TALK TO YOU A FEW MINUTES LATER LIKE NOTHING HAS HAPPENED. Why am I acting like this? Why don’t I want to talk about it? BECAUSE THERE’S NOTHING TO TALK ABOUT!

In mid February I was a bridesmaid in the wedding of one of my oldest and best friends. The anxiety I suffered in the lead up to the wedding was horrible. What was I going to do? I’d be standing up there, watching my friend marry the man she loves, with a sour and disinterested look on my face. I made sure to smile as I walked down the aisle, then the universe smiled upon me. When I reached the front I found out that at a Greek wedding, the bridal party faces the front with their backs to the guests. Tradition can be a wonderful thing.

The reason I now feel we need to raise awareness about the condition is that my life has been affected by it quite dramatically in recent times. About six weeks ago I started a new job. This means I’ve had a whole new set of co-workers and customers form their own opinions about my face. The early comments of ‘Relax’ and ‘Don’t stress’ I took as signs of friendly encouragement, but as the days went on, I learned the impact my BRF was having.
‘You alright?'
‘You always look so stressed.’
‘He always gets someone else to ask you to make his coffee because he’s scared of you.’
And the clencher?
‘You’re scary when you’re not smiling,’ my boss said to me behind the coffee machine. I tried to explain my condition to him.
‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ he said. ‘But yeah. You look angry.’

Wouldn’t go that far, eh? That’s because BRF is not a recognised condition. It’s a disability, dammit, and needs to be recognised as such. We need some kind of government benefit scheme. Or at least someone to back my ‘It’s not me, it’s my face’ awareness campaign. Basically I need $3.2million to produce some ‘It’s just my face’ tshirts, badges and hats. The rest of the money is for shiny trinkets. I need them. Because I’m hurting. Because of my face.

Monday, January 27, 2014

The Other One

Last week I spent the night at a friend’s place. Many a drunken evening has wound up with me asleep on the floor of her lounge room, a task that would be far easier were it not for her two, furry, precious babies. For the sake of protecting their identities, I shall refer to them as 'Fluffy Butt' and 'The Other One.'

Fluffy Butt
Comically large tail - hilarious to play with when drunk.

The Other One
Ginger - has no soul.

The Other One is younger, fatter, and seemingly stupider than Fluffy Butt. I say ‘seemingly’ because the more I get to know the ginger fur ball, the more I start to think that maybe he’s not stupid at all. Maybe he’s a genius. An evil genius hell bent on making life as hard as possible for everyone around him. Here is a step by step breakdown of an average night sharing a space with The Other One:

Fall asleep

Feel something ticking face

Assume it is a giant spider

Swat at the spider

Realise you just smacked a cat in the face

Feel guilty

Close eyes

Hear rumbling sound

Open eyes to see cat staring at you

Roll over and face other direction

Rumbling sound resumes

Open eyes to see cat is now on the other side

Sit up to shoo cat away

Cat sits on pillow

Immediately stop feeling guilty about smacking it in the face

Push cat off pillow

Fall asleep again

Wake to strange noise

See cat pulling shoe laces out of your shoes while older, less evil cat stands by and does nothing to stop this, proving once and for all which side he’s on.

Lose will to go on

Go to work on a combined total of one hours sleep

Tuesday, November 26, 2013

To the left, to the left

Every day after work I try to go for a walk. I do this because I have what you might call ‘god awful’ eating habits and it makes me feel better (maybe not ‘better’ but definitely ‘less bad’) about all the sugar and meat that makes its way into my mouth. I’ll wait a minute while you make your own joke about meat making its way into my mouth.


…now? Yes? Sweet.

How I like to think I look when I’m walking:

How I actually look:
Fun fact: I tend to sweat more from the right armpit. Refer to drawing.

Today as I was making my way down a busy city street I found myself becoming more and more frustrated that every time someone was walking towards me in the opposite direction, I was always the person who moved out of the way. Not once did I do the awkward dance of politeness where you go to move out of their way just as they go to move out of yours, but you keep moving in the same direction and it’s amusing and uncomfortable and you try to break the tension by making out with and/or groping them but then they just call for help and it becomes even more awkward.

My frustration boiled over, however, when I found myself about to collide with this individual:
Please note: Tail and devil horns may or MAY NOT have been present at the time. You weren’t there. Don’t tell me what I saw.

What I thought, now having been forced off the footpath and on to the road:

What I actually did: Kept walking while looking mildly annoyed.

All I’m saying is, WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT? WHO SAYS THAT TO A STRANGER ON THE STREET? WHO THINKS THEY’RE SO IMPORTANT THEY CAN DIRECT FOOT TRAFFIC? I know you think you’re sOOper busy, Miss (I’ll go ahead and assume you’re single) Business-Lady with your fancy clothes and your big hair, but other people have places to be, too. Maybe that girl you gave attitude to on the street today had been up since 4am and was very unfit and not coping with the heat and had a river of sweat running between her boobs and just wanted to get to the train station so she could go home and have a chicken sammich.

Then I got home and had a chicken sammich.

Wednesday, August 28, 2013

Same Same

Similarities between a handbag and a vagina
The owner is usually very protective of it.
You don’t want some random dude grabbing it on the street.
It can seem like a vast, cavernous wasteland.
Guys want to put their stuff in there.
It’s always nice to match it to your shoes.
Some have a weird smell.
Middle aged women tend to have one that’s old and worn out.
It’s always surprising how much will fit in there.
Best not to leave it open and unattended.
You should always keep a close eye on it on public transport.
Paris Hilton keeps a small dog in hers.
Despite poking around in there for ages, men can never find what they’re looking for.
It’s poor form to touch someone else’s without their permission.
Men generally don’t have one. Generally.
Mine is black with a leathery appearance and a series of metal studs on it.

Similarities between a car and a penis
Size doesn’t matter, just as long as it gets you where you want to go.
It will occasionally smash into things.
The journey it takes you on can be long or short.
I don’t want to listen to someone go on and on and on about theirs.
The owner often thinks it’s a good idea to go really fast. It’s not.
There’s no point in trading in for a newer model if the old one still works.
It’s nice to give it a name.
The ride won't always be enjoyable.
For a touch of class, you can add a set of fuzzy dice.

Wednesday, July 24, 2013

Like... get a fish

This past weekend, my mum questioned me as to why I don’t blog very often these days.
‘I haven’t got any ideas,’ I told her.
Her response was ‘Hmm… you’re too content at the moment.’
This struck me as strange for two reasons:
1) My mother should be happy about the thought of me being content
2) I’m really not content at all.
So, for mama, I present:


I predicted a Princess Charlotte. You’ve made me look like a fool, Prince X. Though we’ve only had a brief glimpse of the baby, it seems he has sadly inherited his father’s premature baldness. He also appears to be about 90% blanket.

The suggestions are all too classy. If the royals want to keep Australia as part of the Commonwealth and one day have the little bugger’s face on our money, I suggest Prince Bazza. Or his Royal Highness Prince Dave-o. Or simply Prince Maaaaaaaate.

Ignorance is bliss.

You always let me know when I have holes in my shoes.

I was in a shop earlier this year when I saw a child, about six or seven years old, pick up a Furby. He turned the box over in his hands a few times with a look of confusion on his face. ‘These things are sad,’ he said to his mother. ‘They’re supposed to be a pet or something. Why would a kid want this? Like… get a fish.’ YOU get a fish, small boy. I’m not gonna take that from someone who wasn’t even born when Furbys were invented. You have to feed a fish. You have to clean its bowl. You can’t take the batteries out of it when it won’t shut up. But on the flip side, you can’t flush a Furby down the toilet. Don’t ask how I know.

How dare you. I’m hilarious.

Doesn’t require much more of an explanation.

Coworker: ‘That bin smells.’
Me: ‘Your FACE smells.’
Friend: ‘That doesn’t make any sense.’
Me: ‘Your FACE doesn’t make any sense.’
Customer: ‘My coffee isn’t hot enough.’
Me: ‘Your FACE isn’t hot enough.’
And so on.

I looked so good in you, and loved you dearly. Right up until I saw that small hole in the seam of the crotch. The small hole that by the end of the day was a big hole. It is not ok to do this to me when I’m at work.

I had my birthday drinks on a Sunday afternoon this year, thinking it would be nice to have a few quiet ones with friends. They weren’t quiet. And there weren’t just a few. And I couldn’t go to work that Monday because of the vomiting. And my co-workers gladly told people about that. And now, every Monday morning, I get grilled by multiple customers about how many drinks I had over weekend.

I only just figured out that Adventure Time is set in post apocalyptic Earth. This makes me sad. Not because of the apocalypse, but because it took me this long to figure it out.

Everyone seems to be talking about bacon and penis.

Friday, May 24, 2013

All by myself (again)

Last year I spent some time living on my own (which you can reminisce about here). On Wednesday I started a four week stint of solo living with the best intentions, and it’s already gone downhill. Though this time, I did have the good sense to get someone to remove the hair monster from the shower drain BEFORE I almost drowned. And before it gained a life of its own and rose up from the drain to destroy us all.
hair monster

I planned to eat healthy(ish) and properly cook dinner each night.
ice cream

People with obsessive compulsive tendencies should never be left with the task of ironing.

And I tend to leave the washing lying around for too long.