Why new year’s eve blows: an essay by me

I think it all goes back to when I was little, and that first new year’s eve that I managed to stay awake until midnight. You know what happened at midnight? Bloody nothing. All this anticipation and excitement amounted to a countdown followed by disappointment and bed. No flashing green light. No magical leprechaun. I don’t know why I was expecting these things. My 5 year old self might have confused the new year with St Patrick’s day. That, and I just really like magic.

I didn’t get excited about it again until the 31st of December 1999 when there was a chance that all the planes were going to fall out of the sky at the stroke of midnight and after all the other machines failed we’d end up living in a post apocalyptic wasteland. Again, disappointment and bed. I wanted to take my money out of the bank and bury it in the backyard so that after the millennium bug destroyed the banks, my childhood savings of $200 would be the equivalent of millions and everyone who didn’t think to do the same would make me their god. Curse you, new year’s eve. Another dream shattered.

This year my rage is already being fuelled by the man next door and his party preparations. He’s put up one of those temporary gazebo thingies in the back yard, which is all well and good, but he’s spent way too much time trying out his brand-spankin-new sOOper loud speakers. Remember the band Creed? I do. Now. How about Puddle of Mudd? Yeah. They spelled it with two D’s just to be extra badass. If I get home before that party’s over, which I’m assuming I will, I have to try to fall asleep with that pumping out over the fence. He also gave Hoobastank a run.

~THE RESOLUTIONS~

Last new year’s eve I was still living in the back room of my parents’ house, still single, and still had no real career prospects. This new year’s eve I’ll be celebrating the fact that I’m another year older and still living in the back room of my parents house, still single, and still have no real career prospects. No one ever keeps their life changing resolutions, which is why this year there will be none of this ‘give money to charity’ or ‘waste less time on Facebook’ business. This year I’m making resolutions I’m going to keep.

1. Don't eat so many chips that I get chest pains.
2. See Europe (trip was booked a few months ago for guaranteed success).
3. Stop typing my Facebook password into every other website I try to log in to.
4. Stop trying to deactivate the house alarm with my pin number, and stop trying to get money out of the ATM with the alarm code.
5. Finally become the proud owner of the complete box set of Buffy the Vampire Slayer (start saving for this after Europe, unless item is seen on sale at an earlier date. May result in last minute run to the shops on December 31 after I re-read this blog and realise I completely forgot about it).

The new adventures of Mr Potato Head

It's the most wonderful time of the year! (someone should write a song about that). We've almost reached the day where the whole family gets together and eats way too much food while wearing ridiculous paper hats. For me, that's the true meaning of Christmas. I love it. I love the decorations, I love the giving of gifts, and I love how everyone eats so much that they fall asleep in someone else's loungeroom. There's really no need to bring Jesus into this.

.

It's also one of the busiest times of the year, and I think I speak for all of us when I say 'what's Mr Potato Head been up to?'

.

Rocking out

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Carjacking Barbie (with a sword for some reason)

Frequenting the gay clubs

Being badly photoshopped into a photo I took of some lemurs at the zoo last week

Re-enacting scenes from popular films

Getting into the festive spirit

Being part of Santa’s freaky Christmas mutant experiment

Terrorising the villagers

and hiding from the authorities.

Merry Christmas, y’all!

Lauren goes to the zoo

I was once urinated on by a lion.

I usually stop telling the story at that point, because it loses a lot of its kick-ass-ness when it comes with an explanation. I was 6, it was a school excursion, and everyone was stoked that the lion came right up to fence. Then there was some unexpected moisture and a small group of stunned 5 and 6 year old children. I’ve tried to forget it, I’ve tried to put it behind me, but my mum was one of the parents helping out that day, and still thinks it was the funniest thing she’s ever seen. She brought it up again yesterday when we went to the zoo together for the first time in what can only be described as 'years,' because that's how the human race measures time. As we got closer to the lion enclosure, she became visibly excited, pointed to the far end of the fence and said, in a voice that was louder than necessary, ‘That’s where you got peed on by the lion!’

She didn’t take me there just to reminisce, we were on a mission. From God. If God has nothing more important to do than take hundreds of photos of BABY ELEPHANTS!!!

Elephants are awesome when they’re full size, so tiny ones are, like, even more awesome than that. Which is a kind of awesome that Maths can’t even measure. Yeah. Suck on that, Maths. They even brought the Man-a-phant out to hang with the lay-deez for a while in the hope of seeing some sexy time. Turns out the poor bugger was so young when he came to the zoo that he’s never seen the mating process and doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do. The two babies they’ve got are from artificial insemination, and they’re hoping for a naturally conceived baby. Nothing happened. He sniffed the lady bums for a bit then buggered off, and I find it hard to believe that it’s really that hard to sit an elephant in front of the Discovery Channel for a bit, then chuck on some Barry White and let nature take its course.

The visit took a turn for the worse when we found out the Pygmy Hippo had died. The devastation was short lived when my mind wandered over to the area of ‘what do you do with a dead hippo?’ Even a pygmy one is pretty freakin big. Then I wanted to know what do you do with the bigger animals, like where you would bury a dead elephant (I’ve excluded giraffes from this thought process because we all know they rise from the dead and stalk the earth for the sole purpose of eating our faces). Then I realised I didn’t care enough to find out, and went to look at some monkeys.

When I was little my favourite part of the zoo was the underwater room where you can watch the seals swimming around. It’s responsible for my desire to one day own a house with an underground seal window, though it seems like the type of thing you could only have if you were some kind of super villain. Now I need an idea for what will become known as ‘Operation Super Villian.’

I think I might steal Christmas. Pretty sure that hasn't been done before.

SOAP BOX

I’ve been watching Home and Away since I was six, have spent the last ten years drifting in and out of Neighbours, and occasionally drop by The Bold and the Beautiful only to become really confused about this family policy they seem to have where you have to sleep with everyone who isn’t a blood relative, even if that person is a blood relative to one of your blood relatives. ‘You’re my half brother’s mother’s long lost son’s daughter. Let’s make out.’

My new found addiction is a New Zealand soap opera called Shortland Street. It started out innocently enough, the show was on at 4:30am, which two days a week is the same time I have to get up for work. Then on one of my days off I discovered it was on another station at 9:30, only there were all these characters I didn’t know. The chick who was about to give birth at 4:30am was now mother to a kid who looked about 18 months old. I was so excited because I was finally going to find out who the serial killer that had been terrorising the hospital was. And I did. And it was when they said his name that I realised something: I had no idea who that was. While I have an in-depth understanding of who everyone is related to/dating/friends with/in shady dealings with, I don’t actually know any of their names.

The chick who has the baby is softly spoken, cute, always looks sad, and is incredibly annoying. This is why my mind regards her as ‘Bambi’. Bambi is a lesbian and has a crush on a straight woman who looks like a hard nosed bitch but is actually alright. So I named her ‘woman who looks like a hard nosed bitch but is actually alright.’

Other characters are known to me as Disabled Nurse (who isn’t disabled at 4:30am and now I watch every episode waiting for him to get kneecapped or fall into a black hole or something); British pub owner who I spent ages trying to figure out if I thought he was attractive or not before deciding that no, no he wasn’t; Flamboyantly gay guy, or ‘FlamboyGu’ for short; Bad nose job lady (currently only seen at 9:30 and having some kind of affair with British pub owner even though he was engaged to Bambi’s sister a few weeks ago, but they broke up after she found out he hired a hit man to kill the guy that Bambi ended up killing because he was secretly filming himself having sexy time with Woman who looks like a hard nosed bitch but is actually alright and putting it on the internet, which made Bambi mad because Bambi has a crush on her, remember? He also gave Bambi’s mum cancer, but I’m still not sure about the details of how exactly he did that); and Sexy silver fox who runs the hospital or something. I dunno. But he wears a suit and I fancy him.

So at the end of this morning’s episode, Hard nosed bitch told Bambi’s mum that Bambi killed the Internet sexy time cancer man. And I won’t get to see the fallout because I have work tomorrow and genuinely considered calling in sick.

Summer In The City

December is here, which means 1.the Christmas decorations are going up and 2. I’ve started preparing for another Melbourne summer of having my face melt off one day, then freezing my ass off the next. Right now, it’s dark in the middle of the afternoon and pissing down with rain. Either be summer, or don’t. Don’t get me wrong, I love this city to death, and if you ever say anything bad about it, I will kick you in the shins. That’s right, you heard me, both shins.

My issue with Melbourne and summer is that they don’t go well together. The days of running under the sprinkler in the backyard are gone forever on account of how we have no water anymore. Even when it does rain, it somehow manages to magically avoid the catchments. Water restrictions have taken away our water pistols, our slip ‘n’ slides, and our will to live. And, because I inherited my mum’s fragile British skin, I can’t go outside for more than five minutes unless I want a skin tone that suggests I’m the love child of Satan and the Pink Panther. One year I got sunburnt so badly that my arms actually cracked and blistered. And last year, I got a tan in Scotland. There is no sun in Scotland. The Scots hear stories of this big bright burning ball of gas in the sky and think it’s just a myth. And yet… it found me.

My summer got off to a brilliant start when my friend and I returned to my car last night to find what can only be described as a FREAKIN GIANT SPIDER on the windscreen. As far as we can recall, the situation looked quite like this:

Please note that items in the artwork may not be to scale, or well drawn. And by ‘artist’s interpretation’ I mean ‘I drew this on the back of an envelope. Poorly’.

It’s common knowledge that Australia is home to some of the world’s most dangerous spiders, and while everyone is banging on about the Funnel-Web, the White-Tail and the Red-Back, very little attention is ever paid to raising awareness of the Giant-Hat-Wearing-Car-Clinging-Spider, whose natural enemy is the windscreen wiper (foreigners should write that down, and only visit our country with extreme caution. Really. It’s amazing any of us are here at all).

I also threw up in a drain at one stage, but there’s no need to go into that.

And if the title of this blog made you think of Regina Spektor, we should hang out more. Coz... coz that's where I stole it from...

An open letter to Television

Dear Television,
I’m bored with you now. Considering our extensive history together, it pains me to see us drifting apart. So I present to you, free of charge, my ideas for shows that will make you interesting again.

When Pygmy Hippos Attack
It’s about when pygmy hippos attack.

Patrick
Sponge Bob is pointless and annoying, and now, thanks to a super mega death ray, he’s also dead. This new animated series follows the adventures of Patrick, his lovable friend who should have been the star from the beginning.

Dora the Fedora
During one of her adventures, Dora is magically turned into a hat. She is purchased at a second hand shop by a lonely teenager and all of her adventures now involve his head lice.

Dora the Abhorrer
This is the other word I liked when I Googled ‘what rhymes with explorer’. I dunno what happens. Maybe she just walks around hating stuff. Like exploring. Then she doesn’t leave the house at all. But she hates that too. So she goes back to exploring. It’s a vicious cycle.

Law and Order H.U (Hillbilly Unit)
Everybody gets away with murder by burning the bodies beyond the point of recognition. It’s impossible to identify a body using dental records if the entire town has never been to a dentist.
Most crimes are the result of a tractor dispute. The rest involve the alleged theft of Lynyrd Skynyrd records, or rage and confusion regarding the spelling of Lynyrd Skynyrd.

Australia’s next top person who hands out flyers while dressed as an animal or inanimate object
After various intense flyer-handing-out challenges, the winner gets to promote the show by dressing as a giant flyer and handing out flyers. Title can be shortened to the more convenient ANTPWHOFWDAAAOIO.

Brothers & Sisters & The Hot Shirtless Guy who lives down the road
I… I would watch this show. A lot.

Two Tree Hill
Same show, extra tree in the title. What if the one tree gets struck by lightning? Then you have no trees. You have to think these things through, people.

The Average Race
13 teams run from one end of Broadmeadows shopping centre to the other. The winner gets an all expenses paid* trip to Muffin Break.
*Expenses must not exceed $5.50

CSI Midsomer
You have to admit, there is a suspiciously high murder rate in that town.

Survivor: Antarctica
Ice. Frostbite. 24 hours of darkness each day. Survive that, bitches.

PS: Please put Bromwell High back on the air. It’s the funniest show you’ve never seen.

Single white female

Classes finished two weeks ago, and the reality of the sitch-you-aye-shon is this: if there isn't a place I have to go to every day, I’m not going to leave the house. Pyjamas have been on before 6pm every night; daytime television has filled me with rage, then entertained me, then filled me with rage again; and I’ve realised that I need to stop living like this before my looks fade. So here’s my lonely hearts ad:

ME

Special skills include Super Mario Bros 1 & 3, returning your CDs/DVDs after I borrow them, preparing food that is burnt on the outside and yet somehow still frozen on the inside, and going from being an incredibly calm individual to a ball of sOOper rage as soon as I get behind the wheel of a car. Everyone on the road is an idiot. Except me. I drive like a champ.

I don’t do cleaning.

YOU

Seeking fellow human being (preferably with man-parts) older than 18 (to avoid prison) and younger than my parents (to avoid creepyness) who enjoys early nights, hates long walks on the beach because they’re exhausting, prefers staying home and watching telly to going out, and isn’t freaked out by Mr Potato Head collections.

Has to be sympathetic to my COMPLETELY 100% RATIONAL phobias, eg. avoiding the giraffes when we go to the zoo because those things aren’t right and will haunt my dreams, almost dying from the flu because I refuse to get a flu shot until they come up with an alternative to needles, leaving the busted light globe in the overhead light and living in darkness because I’m too scared to get on a ladder to change it.

Looking for someone who doesn’t use big words that I won’t understand; someone who will accept that our relationship is over the minute Stephen Fry shows up on my doorstep saying that the whole gay thing was just a 'phase' and he wants to run away with me; someone who knows that in-between the butchering of songs, Glee is an awesome show. All you have to do is tape it and watch it back later so you can skip through the musical numbers and the ads. You can get through the whole episode in a little over 20 minutes. It’s the show that’s hilarious without being time consuming.

Must be happy for me to follow you around all night at parties where I don’t know anyone but you. Better still, you shouldn’t drag me to parties where I don’t know anyone but you.

I find the most attractive thing about a man is his eyes, so you must have them. Or at least one and a glass one. They don’t even need to work. But if you are blind, you have to have a guide dog because that’s way more awesome than a stick.

Must be prepared to admit that I’m always right. Because I am. And to argue with me would just be embarrassing for you.

No Personal Trainers/Athletes/Gym Buffs. I don’t have the energy to deal with you.

You say potato...

StOOpid internet purchase of the week: Elvis Mr Potato Head.
Why: Because I freakin love Mr Potato Head.
You shouldn't be allowed to have a credit card: Thanks. I know. I spent 20 minutes trying to decide between the Elvis one and the Gene Simmons one (which was AH-MAY-ZING) but I've never really been a Kiss fan, so he's now on my list of future stOOpid internet purchases.

I love the little potato-y bastard because he's capable of so much more than just this

and this

he can also take part in Movember

go on a bender

spend a raunchy evening with Mrs Potato Head

deal with the consequences of spending a raunchy evening with Mrs Potato Head

catch up on some reading

pretend to be interested when Hipster-Tickle-Me-Elmo starts banging on about his record collection


and use wrestling moves to defeat other popular childhood toys for the title of Supreme Ruler

I predict a riot

Two years ago I put a coin into a booth with a scary talking plastic head in it. This is what came out.

I’ve kept it in my wallet ever since because the personality section was pretty bang on. I’m fastidious in the ‘excessively particular about details’ sense (a big thank you to dictionary.com and everyone who has ever pointed out my obsessive compulsive tendencies), and the bit about old friends has me written all over it. I met two of my best mates at age 4, one when I was 6, and the other when I was about 10, and have a complete inability to have a conversation with anyone I haven’t known for 10 to 20 years.

In my early to mid teens I had a massive interest in this kind of stuff, and thanks to my ability to pick what song was going to be playing on the radio before I got into the car, I was convinced that I was just a wee bit psychic. I also have a sixth sense for knowing that when I’m in the general vicinity of any kind of ball, that ball is inevitably going to collide with my head. Eventually, my bored and possibly psychic 15 year old mind decided it would be fun to invest in a set of tarot cards. It wasn’t my first time-killing project; originally I was trying to learn how to read palms, but gave it up when I found out that palm reading is more about your personality than your future. That, and it was really, really hard. Really.

The cards had their successes and their failures. They once told one of my friends she was going to get pregnant, and just because it hasn’t happened in the last 8 years doesn’t mean they were wrong. It could still happen. One day. They didn’t specify a time frame. Like that fortune cookie I got in Vegas 5 years ago that said ‘Your love life will be happy and harmonious.’ Still waiting on that one, because I refuse to believe that a cookie would lie to me.

So yesterday I pulled out the cards for the first time in years. First they called me proud, arrogant and stubborn (only the last bit is true. I will out-stubborn anyone in a stubborn competition on any day of the week), then there was an overwhelming message of ‘you are about to be robbed.’ So if you’re planning on stealing something from me, it would be awesome if you could... you know… not do that. Thanks.

LAUREN’S PSYCHIC PREDICTIONS:
-You will eat something before the end of the day.
-At some stage next week, you will walk past a man on the street.
-A politician will do something that makes people mad.
-Stupid people will write letters to the paper about how they're not racist, but...
-Apple will invent an iPhone app that gives you an electric shock every time you start to talk about your iPhone apps.
-Chris Martin will leave Gwyneth Paltrow for Yoko Ono, whose artistic differences will cause the breakup of Coldplay. The world will rejoice.
-No one will invent the hoverboard. Ever.

Hello darkness, my old friend

Lately I’ve been making myself sit down at some stage during the week and actually put some thought into these things instead of leaving them until the last minute, but the dodgy last minute ones that I think are complete balls seem to be the ones that you people like (ahaha you like balls), so I’m trying not to feel too bad about scrapping the depressing piece of shite I wrote yesterday while I was in a bit of a mood. I knew it was a particularly bad one because I had Billy Joel’s Vienna playing on repeat for about two hours. Even though it was written about ten years before I was born, I’m pretty sure THISSONGISABOUTME, and it’s nice to know that Billy cares (that’s ‘Mr Joel’ to you. You don’t know him like I know him). Then instead of finishing my last assignment for the year, I found a website where you can play everybody’s favourite MS-DOS game, Commander Keen. So I did that for three hours. It made my eyes hurt. I kept dying on the ice level. Bloody ice level.

That was when I tried to write something, and all that came out was me bitching about sleep deprivation and just general not-being-good-at-life type stuff. The good news is that today, I feel better. After work I went to Borders and found they were chucking out all their CDs for $5. For the non-Aussie people, in your currency that’s the equivalent of, like, for free. Unless you’re from New Zealand. Then it’s more like $6,000. They didn’t have a lot left, but I did find two copies of an album by a friend of mine which I kindly moved to the front of the stack (you’re welcome) then proceeded to the checkout with The Essential Simon and Garfunkel (get the blog title? Geddit? Shut up, it's genius (There’s been a lot of brackets today, eh?)) and Doris Day’s Greatest Hits. The trendy hipster dude behind the counter looked at my selections, then gave me this look --> O_o which only added fuel to the fire of my anti hipsters-who-work-in-shops-that-I-go-to campaign. I started it last year when I paid for some DVDs with a credit card, and after looking at my signature, the guy looked back up at me and said ‘You know it’s supposed to be something people can’t copy, right?’ Filthy hipster scum.

So now I’m sitting here with a Simon and Garfunkel CD in front of me, staring at the cover, trying to figure out who was supposed to be the good looking one. I reckon Garfunkel, if you got him a hat.

The clean up

Last weekend I attempted to clean my room. I say 'attempted' because after a solid four hours, it didn't look any better. I knew it wasn't a one day job when I started, but I still felt like I hadn't achieved anything.

To paint some kind of picture for you, the last time I cleaned it was before Christmas 2009. My clothes were in a massive pile by the TV, and everything else was in a longer, but not-as-high pile on the opposite side of the room.

(Think this, but tenfold)

The reason I hadn't bothered to clean it at any point throughout the year is because I have been me for long enough now to know that when I do clean it, it will somehow magically become messy again three days later, and I'll end up sitting on my bed, looking at it, thinking 'how does this keep happening?'

.

The trick to maintaining your status as a fully-functional human being while living in such a state is something I like to call 'footholes.' These are small gaps in between the crap on your floor that your foot will fit in. An alternative name for them is 'the only bits of visable carpet.' I like to place a series of footholes across the floor like stepping stones so I can use them to travel from the door to the bed without tripping, falling, and drowning face down in a pile of old magazines.

But don't I hate living this way? No. I like to keep it messy on the off chance that a serial killer comes into my room at night. There's no way that bastard is getting all the way from the door to the bed without tripping over one of the many piles of clothes/cds/dvds/important papers/stuff I still haven't got around to throwing out/scarves (I don't know why I keep buying these) which will then make enough noise to wake me up and give me a chance to arm myself with something that can be used as a weapon. And on top of that, when I put stuff away, I forget where it is. But when the room is messy, I know where everything is: on the floor.

The day wasn't a complete failure though. I cleared out all the clothes from my wardrobe and draws that I don't wear anymore and put all the wearable items that had been living on the floor since last Christmas into the now available space. This was a bad move.

• Massive pile of clothes on the floor = everything is visable and easy to access.
• Clothing put away in the wardrobe = I don't have the energy in the mornings to open a door, and have just been putting yesterday's jeans back on again. For the whole week.

If there's one lesson I can pass on to you, it is this: A drawer puts one too many obsticles between you and your clean t-shirts.

i can has blogz

From: laurenhateslolcats@hotmail.com
To: lolcats@icanhasemail.com
Subject: A few things...

Dear lolcats,

Stop taking up valuable internet space. That space could be better used for porn, whatever social networking site takes over from Facebook, or anything that isn't photos of cats with badly spelled captions. I realise it must be hard to type when you don't have fingers, but I think I could do a better job if I just mashed the keyboard with my forehead like so: hjnbb.

Does anyone really care if a cat has a cheese burger? If you go through the drive-thru one night in your run-down car and pay for it with the money you've made working part time at the supermarket while you're trying to put yourself through school and support your three kids who all have terrible incurable illnesses and require more time than you can give them because you're a single parent and your life is too demanding, then and only then will I be impressed by your so called 'cheez' burger.

Stop prancing around saying 'Look at me! Aren't I cute?' (I have taken the liberty of correcting the spelling). No. No you are not cute. Meercats are cute. Baby elephants are cute. That guy with the lip ring who came into my work everyday when I worked in Hawthorn is cute. Cats are not cute. Especially the freaky hairless ones that haunt my dreams with their smooth skin and their cold, dead eyes.

Please stop being in my email inbox.
Thanks.
Lauren



From: lolcats@icanhasemail.com
To: laurenhateslolcats@hotmail.com
Subject: RE: A few things...

o hay!

i has read ur email and it hurt mah feelingz! :( sorry dat u feel dis way, but wot we do iz nun of ur bizness LOL!!1

u r meanz. ima cum 2 ur house n eat ur foodz! baiiiii!!!



To: lolcats@icanhasemail.com
From: laurenhateslolcats@hotmail.com
Subject: RE: RE: A few things...

In response to your somewhat threatening email, I am pleased to inform you that I have come up with an intellegent and sOOper awesome alternative to you and your kind. He has a monocle. BAIIII!!!

Lauren’s Book Club 2.0

It’s been a while, but we’re going to take a look at another alleged ‘classic’ and the madness that exists between its pages.

Shel Silverstein – The Giving Tree

‘Once there was a tree, and she loved a little boy.’ And so begins the truly tragic tale of a tree with dangerously low self esteem. People seem to think that this story is all about the spirit of giving. People are wrong.

WARNING SIGNS OF AN ABUSIVE RELATIONSHIP:
He carves his initials into you
He brings his new girlfriend around just to rub it in your face
He leaves you, then comes back asking for money
He takes your sweet, sweet, juicy fruit
He cuts off your arms
He dismembers you with a chainsaw and leaves your stump in the forest
He goes to the forest and sits on your stump

Ok, so the boy is selfish. We see this at the beginning of the book where as a child, one of his favourite games to play with the tree is Hide and Seek. This game puts the tree at an extreme disadvantage, since she is rooted to the ground and therefore unable to hide, or in fact, seek. If the boy was a true friend, he would have been up for the occasional game of ‘pretend to be a tree.’ But she plays Hide and Seek anyway, because it makes him happy.

Over the next few years the boy comes and goes as he pleases. He takes her apples for his own financial gain, builds a house out of her branches, and uses her body for a boat. Considering he took more wood for the boat than he did for the house, I’m guessing it was a pretty kick ass boat. Or a really shitty house. But despite the emotional and physical damage his selfish and violent behavior is doing to her, the tree tolerates it. Because it makes him happy.

The boy comes back for the last time as a tired old man. The tree has nothing left to give him, as he has bled her dry. So he just sits. And this makes her happy, ALLEGEDLY.

Due to the size of the tree, it is apparent that she has been around for quite some time before the boy enters her life (I tried to count the rings on her stump but went blind in the process), and one is left wondering what incidents occurred in her past that have left her with such low self esteem. Maybe she’s just lonely in that forest? Maybe the whole situation could have been avoided if someone had planted a redwood nearby? Redwoods, afterall, being the tallest and sexiest of the tree community.

I have never liked this book. Even when I was little there was something about it that didn’t sit right with me. There is no happy ending for our damsel in distress. It’s not a tale of friendship or giving, but one of undeserved unconditional love from a magical talking tree that somehow still manages to speak after it has been cruelly disfigured.

Why can't I... think of a title?

Hello, and welcome to ‘Typing things into the Google search box and waiting to see what suggestions it offers you.’ In this, the first instalment of ‘Typing things into the Google search box and waiting to see what suggestions it offers you,’ we’ll be typing ‘Why can’t I’ into the Google search box and waiting to see what suggestions it offers us. Quick, to the Google machine!

Why can’t I… Own a Canadian
I initially thought it was a bit suss that this is the most popular suggestion. How many people want to own Canadians? Then I Googled it and found out it’s actually quite awesome and possibly stolen from The West Wing. Go have a read here. Then enslave someone.

Why can’t I… Lose weight
SHUT UP! You look fantastic! For real. Don’t change a thing. I love you. Please keep reading my blog.

Why can’t I… Sleep
Because you’re distracted by all the overpowering mental stimulation that is my blog. It’s hard to sleep when you’re worrying about things like how politics relate to Sesame Street. Luckily, I'm here to solve these problems for you. You're welcome.

Why can’t I… Lyrics
Any song that opens with the lines ‘Get a load of me, Get a load of you’ doesn’t deserve to be Googled. (I may or may not have taped this song off the radio when it first came out) (By that, I mean I did)

Why can’t I… Get a job
If I knew the answer to this, I wouldn’t still be working for the same company that gave me my first job.

Why can’t I… Be you lyrics
It’s catchy as hell, but from what I gather, this song is an ode to cannibalism. Let’s face it, Robert Smith looks like he’d be up for it. WOO, THE CURE!

Why can’t I… Get pregnant
What am I, a doctor?

Why can’t I… Get a boyfriend
Good question, internet! I personally have received only two, yes, TWO honest answers to this question in regards to my own situation. The first young gentleman told me ‘You’re too much of a dude.’ The second said that I was ‘Intimidating,’ and I was all ‘Oh my god, what? As if. I’ll punch you in the face for saying that.’

Why can’t I… Cry
This one upset me a little until I found the result TOM JONES - WHY CAN’T I CRY LYRICS and I smiled because it made me think of old ladies throwing giant underwear around in public.

Don't cry on my shoulder

When the holidays are coming up and you start to think about what you're going to do with your two weeks off, you make plans. Big plans. Epic plans. Plans that you have every intention of following through with. Plans you will eventually abandon.

LAUREN'S SEPTEMBER HOLIDAY GOAL: go back to writing that abandoned novel. The shell is there. Most of it is already written. It just needs some tweaking, right?

The original plan was to edit a chapter a day. But thanks to Facebook, Youtube, and convincing myself that I was working by planning out what songs will be in the soundtrack when my novel gets adapted into a film, I was finding it hard to focus. Then, in a brief moment when I was actually managing to get some work done, I was distracted again.

I like to have dictionary.com and thesaurus.com open in another window when I write because I’m prepared to admit that I don't know that many words. And the ones I do know, don't always turn out to mean what I think they do (eg. 'circumvent,' 'masticate' and 'cockchafer.' Next time you’re on dictionary.com, search that last one and click on the little speaker thingy next to it. It never stops being funny. I promise).

thesaurus.com made itself a not-so-powerful enemy when it decided that in its list of alternatives to the word 'cry,' it was going to offer up this little gem: 'ejaculate.'

I'm sorry, but that substitution is going to change the tone of my story. A lot. 'As he watched his daughter leave, he could feel himself start to ejaculate.' No thank you, sir. I won't be buying any incest today.

'Ejaculate' (for most people) is not the same thing as 'cry.' Is thesaurus.com run under the same principals as Wikipedia? And if so, why hasn't anyone told me? How many words have I been misusing?

I'm not the only person who would lose the tone of their work if this were the case. Elvis once sang about Crying in the Chapel. Then think about the impact it would have on the likes of Boys Don't Cry, No Woman, No Cry, Don't Cry For Me, Argentina and most worrying of all, Cry Me a River.

It puts a new slant on the saying 'no use crying over spilt milk.'

The Origin of Phrases - Part 2

Between the devil and the deep blue sea
While Satan is out sailing on warm Sunday afternoons, he likes to whisper his secrets to the ocean. He’s surprisingly deep. Like the ocean.

Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth
When hired to replace the broken butter machine behind the snack bar at his local cinema, a young employee quickly learned that butter melts faster if you sit on it.

Blood is thicker than water
From a recent campaign in Australia where the government tried to deal with the drought by convincing the public to drink blood instead of water. They claimed it contained more nutrients and was therefore better for you. Only the Twilight fans were up for it.

Bubble and squeak
One of the world’s first children’s television programs, Bubble and Squeak was the story of a bar of soap (Bubble) and a rubber duck (Squeak) who lived together in a bathtub. It was taken off the air just two minutes into the first episode when a buxom blonde entered the tub and Bubble ended up all over her.

They’re like chalk and cheese
Used to describe a pale person and their stinky, jaundiced friend.

Cloud nine
When God did his rough draft of the sky he only managed to draw nine clouds before his white crayon snapped. With only red, brown, orange and yellow left intact, he moved on to planning the deserts.

Cold feet
The first man to miss his wedding did so after losing his feet to frostbite when his best man wrongly assumed it would be a brilliant buck’s night prank to leave him drunk and passed out halfway up Mt Everest.

The buck stops here
A signpost you’ll find halfway up Mt Everest.

Cold enough to freeze the balls of a brass monkey
The now extinct brass monkey was the most fertile of all creatures.

Bury the hatchet
What those of us who studied Gary Paulson’s Hatchet in highschool would like to do to that novel.

Curiosity killed the cat
First used when a cat who clearly hadn’t seen enough horror movies went to investigate a strange noise.

The cat’s out of the bag
Refers to the curious cat's attempted escape.

A cock and bull story
In the late 16th/early 17th centuries, a rooster and bull co-wrote a number of remarkable plays. In an attempt to stop the public from making a fuss about the abilities of his magic writing animals, the farmer who owned them tried to cover it up by attaching the pseudonym ‘William Shakespeare’ to the plays.

The Origin of Phrases - Part 1

A fate worse than death
This phrase became popular with the invention of the job ‘waitress.’

A fish out of water
Originally used to describe people who, when in a place or situation they are unfamiliar with, proceed to flop around on the floor for a bit before suffocating.

A foot in the door
In the aftermath of a grizzly murder, a dismembered foot became lodged in the letter slot of the victim's front door. This angered the postman, who complained to the council that it was impairing his ability to do his job properly. Postmen are no longer legally obligated to put mail through any slot that contains a human limb.

A picture is worth a thousand words
This line was used by one particular trickster who managed to purchase several valuable artworks by trading short stories about the exploits of a promiscuous rabbit named ‘Bunny.’

A skeleton in the closet
See ‘a foot in the door’ and fill in the blanks.

A wolf in sheep’s clothing
Sheep clothing used to be far cheaper than wolf clothing, and due to the state of the economic climate, many wolves decided to settle.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder
An early break up line preferred by many to ‘I would quite like you to go away’ and ‘You shit me.’

Age before beauty
An early pick up line used by old men at medieval speed dating nights in an attempt to convince the young wenches to go to bed with them instead of the sexy young chain-mail-clad knights.

All that glitters is not gold
This lesson was learned during the great glitter swindle of 1922.

An apple a day keeps the doctor away
After learning of the direct link between garlic and keeping vampires at bay, a young man mistakenly believed that the best way to spread the message was through a game of Chinese whispers. Hundreds of people needlessly died.

All the tea in China
China was without tea for a brief period in the 1960s when an eccentric millionaire bought it all. He just really liked tea.

An eye for an eye
The equivalent of ‘take a penny, leave a penny’ from the days when eyes were used as currency.

As busy as a bee
Before Albert Einstein invented science it was widely accepted by mankind that bees controlled the universe.

As cool as a cucumber
Used in the days before refrigeration to imply that someone was quite hot.

As easy as pie
Highlighted in the film ‘American Pie,’ pies are generally up for it anytime, anywhere, with anyone.

As happy as Larry
Larry owned a pie shop.

Justin Beiber's Autobiography ***ADAVANCE COPY***

I've been sick the last few days, so this week's blog comes to you courtesy of the Beib.

Come and play, everything's A-OK

Someone has to do something about the current state of Australian politics, but who can say what the answer is? Me. I can. So here’s my solution: replace all the politicians in each party with the cast of Sesame Street. It wouldn’t be that different really, most of the people who get into politics are Muppets.

Prime Minister: Elmo
Who could possibly stay mad at this guy?
‘Prime Minister Elmo is raising taxes.’
What a bastard.
‘But Prime Minister Elmo still loves you.’
Good point. Let’s tickle him!

Minister for Small Business: Maria
She’s kept the Fix-It shop going for years, thanks to a suspicious amount of broken toasters on Sesame Street. Clearly this woman is prepared to take matters into her own hands.

Minister for Finance: The Count
Let’s face it, he’s not going to mess up the numbers.

Minister for Health: Cookie Monster
Screw it, have a cookie. And some cake. And a deep fried Mars Bar. Then you too, can be as happy as this googley eyed, blue ball of fun.

Minister for the Arts: Prairie Dawn
The girl has wicked piano skills and plenty of experience directing plays full of incompetent fools. The position would have gone to Cookie Monster had it not been for the tragic cancellation of Monsterpiece Theatre.

Minister for Education: Big Bird
He thinks he knows everything. Making him prove it will hopefully wipe that smug look off his face.

Minister for Human Services: Gordon
Because he is a human. (I don’t know if he services)

Minister for Transport: Snuffleupagus
We can ride him.

Minister for Defence: Super Grover
Yes, he falls out of the sky occasionally, but he’s a freakin superhero.

Minister for Immigration: Oscar
No paperwork? Scram.

Minister for the Environment: Kermit the Frog
He was only on the show occasionally, but if anyone knows it’s not easy being green, it’s this guy.


If you would like to know more about why Bert & Ernie are not to be trusted with such matters, please refer to this post.

My (super, awesome, and not mundane at all) Life

Saturday & Sunday:
Sleep. Food. Shopping. Find a box set of Robbie the Reindeer in a bargain bin and watch all 3 in a row while swooning over the sound of Ardal O'Hanlon's sweet, sweet voice. More food. More sleep. God bless you, weekend.

Monday:
Get up at 4:30 to start work in the coffee shop at 6:00. Less than 10 minutes into my shift, I accidentally punch myself in the face while trying to remove the cover from a display fridge.
Sit through a four hour editing class where we learn about something to do with editing. Yawn a lot from a combination of sleep deprivation and lack of enthusiasm for editing.
A mysterious absence of peak hour traffic means I make it home in 40 minutes less time than the Monday before. I count this as a win.
I forget it is bin night and, for the third week in a row, have to put the bins out while wearing my PJs.
Check for a bruise from the morning punch. No sign yet. I count this as another win.

Tuesday:
Still no bruise. Morning class means I get to sleep in until 7:00. I realise how pathetic it is that I’m stoked about this.
It’s freaking freezing.
Go to my novel class and listen to people discuss books I haven’t read. This makes me hungry.
Quick trip to the supermarket for bread and milk results in the purchase of chips, biscuits, and several Kit Kats. I then try to unlock the wrong car in the car park. I learn not to park next to cars that look like mine.
Night ends with ice cream and a quality episode of QI.

Wednesday:
The alarm goes off while I’m having a dream about Whoopi Goldberg and Julia Gillard auditioning for American Idol. They are wearing those white ABBA jumpsuits. After a disastrous audition, Whoopi pleads for a chance to perform solo. I’m sorry I didn’t get to see how it ended. I’m sure she did awesome.
Computer skills class finishes two and a half hours early after we learn how to insert a text box into a word document. This is still more interesting than the class where we learned how to copy and paste text. Now I can copy and paste like a mofo. Now I can copy and paste like a mofo. Now I can copy and paste like a mofo.
Get home and sit down to work on an assignment. I make a new playlist on my iPod instead.
I reach the conclusion that living alone is not for me when I consider how long it’s been since I’ve eaten a meal with a knife and fork.

Thursday:
Attempt to work on that assignment again. I write two lines then decide I deserve a three hour break.
Off to school for a night class, where the conversation revolves around Tony Abbott, buying transvestites on the internet, and elephants stealing your credit card to pay for hookers. There is also a brief mention of a monkey in bondage. This is the Australian education system at its best.
Sitting outside during break, I regret the decision not to wear a belt today. Icy wind meets my bum. A lot.

Today:
Another early morning shift at work, where I watch a coworker do an impression of the genie from Aladdin doing an impression of Jack Nicholson. This is some of the weirdest shit I’ve seen in a long time. A discussion of Disney films ensues, and I put forward my feelings that Cinderella didn’t make the most of those dress making mice. But let’s face it, she wasn’t very opportunistic. How many years did she spend cleaning for those skanks? Exactly.
I spend far too long in a discount bookshop because they have acquired some kind of magical Queen compilation CD, and I’m pretty sure it’s against the law to exit a building when Bohemian Rhapsody is playing. Or Fat Bottomed Girls. Or Don’t Stop Me Now.
Nothing else happens today. I consider smearing poo on the walls just so I’ll have something to write about, but everyone knows girls don’t poo.

Tatts Life

I love tattoos. Not all of them, obviously. If you’ve got a Playboy bunny on your lower back you should be taken outside and shot. Or if you’re that guy I saw at the train station last year who had giant sperm tattooed swimming across the back of his neck, you need some kind of mental evaluation. How drunk do you have to be to think that’s a good idea?
Drunk man: ‘Hello.’
Tattoo artist: ‘Hello.’
DM: ‘Neck sperm please.’
TA: ‘No worries mate. Do you want them to scale?’
DM: ‘No, I think giant would be a more visually effective size.’
TA: ‘And you want them right under your chin there?’
DM: ‘Nah, you’d better put them on the back of my neck. I don’t want people thinking I’m some kind of freak.’

I’ve never taken the painful-inky-plunge myself, mostly due to needle phobia and commitment issues (forever is a sOOper long time). I’m an art lover, but I’d prefer to have something that I can take down, put in the back of the cupboard and never have to look at again if I ever get sick of it. I’d love to be in the room the day that Captain Sperm Neck has to explain the sperm neck to the grandkids.

I reckon when I’m old I’ll go for it, when there are no consequences to my actions because death is just around the corner. I’ll shave my eyebrows off and replace them with The Very Hungry Caterpillar, freak people out at Bingo by getting numbered balls all the way up my arms, or get a Salvador Dali moustache tattooed on my upper lip (though by that age, like most old ladies, I’ll probably have the ability to grow one). Anyhoo, here’s this:

WHAT YOUR TATTOO SAYS ABOUT YOU
LOVE and HATE on your knuckles = ‘I’m gonna regret this.’
Chinese symbols = ‘I’m a wanker.’ (Rule doesn’t apply to the Chinese)
Zodiac symbols = ‘I’m gullable.’
Skull = ‘I like rainbows and unicorns and I’m very insecure about it.’
Anchor = ‘I’m a pirate. Arr!’
Compass = ‘I’m lost. Please assist me.’
Snake = ‘I'm desperate for you to think I’m edgy.’
Yin Yang = ‘I’m not very creative so like, I went with this coz like, I’ve seen it in heaps of places and like, it means something deep. Right?’
Gun = ‘Ima mug you now! LOL!’

WRITER'S BLOCK of chocolate

I’ve been struggling to think of something to write this week. I kept putting it off, but this afternoon, it was time to take action. Just this year I discovered a genius method for getting work done. It’s a tactic I like to call ‘drinking a whole lot of water and not letting yourself pee until you’ve finished working.’ Unpleasant, but it gets results.

Half an hour later, still without an idea for the blog and now experiencing a certain level of discomfort, I decided to distract myself with chocolate, for I am a lady and the media tells me this is what we do. As I dipped that Twix into my coffee, inspiration finally struck. So I present to you, ladies and gentleman, my explanation of why the Twix is the mightiest of the chocolate bars.

The Twix is truly a king amongst men. It’s got chocolate. It’s got biscuit. It’s got caramel. What more could you ask for? This is a rhetorical question, but if you chose to answer it, you are a fool. More so, if you answered it by saying ‘coconut,’ you should immediately begin drafting a letter of apology to anyone who has ever tasted a Bounty. It is the shame of the chocolate bar world and should immediatley stop ruining boxes of Celebrations chocolates. It ain't no celebration when they're all that's left.

My second preference to the Twix is our friend the Snickers. I quite enjoy a Snickers. If chocolate bars were people, Snickers would be my boyfriend. Why? Because it’s sweet, a little nutty, and according to the wrapper it ‘really satisfies.’ (Please insert your own ‘snicker doodle’ joke here. I’m not lazy, I’m just making the blog interactive, yeah? Everyone’s getting involved, yeah? You bought that excuse, yeah? Stop distracting me, I have to pee.)

If neither of those options is available to me, I will purchase Maltesers. They’re not a chocolate bar, but they’re magically delicious, and quite painful when thrown directly into your best mate’s face at close range. Priceless.

Thank you for taking this journey with me. I’m going to pee now.

Clifford Appears in a Blog

This week's blog is dedicated to my childhood action hero, Clifford the Big Red Dog.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with Clifford and his achievements, where have you been? For real. He had about 800 books and a TV show. Basically, he's a dog, he's red, and he's big. Really big. Super big. His dog house is bigger than a people house. Yeah, that big.

Clifford's owner is a little girl named Emily Elizabeth, who rides him everywhere and refuses to aknowledge the fact that Clifford's size is most likely due to a glandular issue, and that he probably needs urgent and extensive medical attention. She just doesn't love him the way I love him. I would have respected him. I would have paid his medical bills. I... also would have ridden him everywhere (but I'd have done it with love).

Clifford is a spectacular dog. He puts out fires on more than one occasion, is popular with the other dogs in the neighbourhood, and to the best of my knowledge, saved Santa at least once. That's only one less time than I've saved him. Fair effort for a dog.

Some particularly action packed escapades include:
Clifford’s Tricks: in which Clifford's spirit of one-upmanship leads to a street riot, the destruction of a police car, and a young girl falling from a bridge.
Clifford Gets a Job: where Emily Elizabeth’s parents get sick of Clifford's mooching and tell him he needs to contribute to the family's finances. During his efforts to find a job, Clifford and Emily Elizabeth encounter some gun weilding bandits and wind up in the middle of a police chase.
Clifford Saves the Whales: this is... I don't know. I don't own this book. I have no idea what happens. I'm guessing he saves the whales or some shit. Again, fair effort for a dog.

Wikipedia's list of Clifford books includes the title Clifford Sits on a Peanut, though sadly, a quick Google search suggests no such story exists. Until now.

(You’re welcome)

Apple iHateYou

iPods appear to have some kind of built in psychic ability. Sadly, they choose to use their powers for evil rather than good, playing the worst possible song at the worst possible moment.

Incident 1:
You would figure that setting your iPod to shuffle for a train journey would be harmless. It is, unless you’re the kind of person who thought it would be funny to put ‘My Lovely Horse’ from Father Ted on there. Then it starts playing. Then you start laughing. Then you realise everyone is staring at you, and you have just earned yourself the honour of being the train nutter for the remainder of this trip. You also feel the need to buy sugar lumps.

Incident 2:
Still on the train, still on shuffle. But this time that track you illegally downloaded from somewhere quite dodgy, that for some reason has a volume level approximately three times louder than any other song on there, begins to play. The loud noise causes you to flinch suddenly and make a sound that is somewhere along the lines of ‘AAARGH.’ You are now a slightly more terrifying train nutter.

Incident 3:
You are at work, and have managed to get to the iPod dock before any of your co-workers. While chatting to your super-awesome-music-nerd manager about how amazing that Yeah Yeah Yeahs concert was at the start of the year, and how you’re both really bummed that you missed out on Florence and the Machine tickets; your iPod decides to play that ONE Lady Gaga song you think is ok. Everyone looks at you with a sense of embarrassment. You will never be cool again.

Incident 4:
See incident 3, but replace ‘Lady Gaga’ with ‘Miley Cyrus.’ Then hang your head in shame.

Incident 5:
You feel the need to admit to anyone who reads your online ramblings that you actually have two Lady Gaga songs on your iPod, because we’re all friends now and friends shouldn’t lie to each other. Friends also shouldn’t let friends listen to bad music, so technically, incidents 3 and 4 are not your fault, and your friends owe you an apology.

The Horror of it all

Everyone keeps talking about The Human Centipede, and I don’t know if I want to see it. Watching the trailer made me feel a little better though, because I didn’t realise he was connecting them ‘via the gastric system.’ I thought they were just pooing directly into each other’s mouths. Either way, I guess you’d still want to be the head.

So, Ladies & Gentleman, I present to you, 'Movies that have scarred me for life'

Scream
I saw this movie for the first time as a 10 year old, and for years afterwards, I was convinced the killer was hiding in my garage. When I went outside to feed the pets at night I’d shuffle along the wall so I could see the sneaky bastard coming. He never did. Probably because I look like I know karate.

Halloween 2 (The Jamie Lee Curtis one, not that new shizz)
It ruined the song 'Mr Sandman' for me. Every time I hear that happy-go-lucky ‘bum bum bum’ intro, I associate it with people being brutally murdered.

The Silence of the Lambs
Why make a suit out of skin? You’re already wearing one.

Hostel
The only movie where I’ve ever had to look away. It was during that scene where he goes back to save the girl, and… her eye… If you haven’t seen it, well done.

Total Recall
Like everyone, I was fine with the three-booby-lady. What kept me awake at night was the scene where he takes his helmet off, and his head explodes. It’s the reason why I turned down that job at NASA.

The Wizard of Oz
Dorothy murders a chick in ugly shoes and the locals decide to have a street party. Munchkins are scum. Except for those gangstas in the Lollipop Guild. R-e-p-r-e-s-e-n-t.

Attack of the Giant Leeches
This movie is responsible for my fear of people who wear garbage bags and pretend to be giant leeches.

Toy Story
I can't help but think about what toys might be plotting behind those cold, plastic eyes. When I was in my teens I made the mistake of sharing this fear with my mum. She thought it would be good for a laugh if she arranged a bunch of toys on my bedroom floor so that when I got home from school, it looked like they were having a meeting. They would also frequently appear wearing reading glasses in front of the newspaper, or on the couch with the remote control in their hand. That's some quality parenting right there.

To Walt Disney, in the event of his un-death

Dear Walt Disney,

I don’t doubt for a second that you will one day read this. We all know that your body is cryogenically frozen in a secret room under the Pirates of The Caribbean ride, and I can only assume that exploring the magic of this ‘internet’ contraption that everyone keeps talking about will be your first priority as soon as mankind finds a cure for death. As you were responsible for the creation of the greatest cartoon character of all time in one Miss Minnie Mouse (total legend), I’ve always admired your work and feel the need to warn you that quite a few things have changed since 1966.

For starters, you need to know about a little company known as Pixar. There have been a number of advancements in animation since computers became capable of magic (did they have computers in your day? A computer is kind of like a television with a wizard living inside it). Consider sitting down with a stiff drink before you watch Finding Nemo, as there is every chance the graphics will blow your partially defrosted mind.

Celebrity isn’t what it used to be. They give stars on the Hollywood walk of fame to pretty much anyone now. I realise you don’t know what an ‘Olsen twin’ is, but trust me, when you find out, you’re not going to be happy. On a brighter note, you own The Muppets now! When you find out what THEY are, you’ll be stoked. From a business point of view, I recommend that you give the Swedish Chef his own movie while people are still into this whole ‘celebrity chef’ thing. Oh yeah, people are into this whole ‘celebrity chef’ thing. I know right? It’s madness.

Your beloved Pirates of The Caribbean ride is going to look a little different. Or a lot different. I don’t know, I haven’t been there since they changed it. Some genius managed to turn it into a movie franchise a couple of years back. Please don’t be mad at him, just thank him for the cash and continue going about your business. They’re quite good movies actually, you should get your hands on the box set. OH GOD AND WE HAVE DVDS NOW! Ask someone else about those. I have a life outside of you. Geez.

Regards,
A well meaning fan.

PS: Racism doesn’t fly anymore. If… if you were, that is. I mean, I didn’t know you, I’ve just heard… things.

Age ain’t nothin’ but a number

Time is a bitch. A mean, nasty bitch.

I think I'm aging prematurely. The years don’t seem as long as they used to, there aren’t enough hours in the day, and I struggle to stay up late. Last time I went to a pub with friends, we got a taxi home at 12:18am. Party hard, y'all. Party hard. Just yesterday I heard myself say the words ‘the cold weather’s making my back pain play up.’ I’m a walking stick and a shawl away from being able to predict the weather through my bones.

I went back to studying this year, and spending my days with 18/19 year olds has made me realise that a) I look younger than I am, and b) their youthful enthusiam is draining the life out of me. For starters, I’ve already lost the ability to understand internet slang. After much confusion, I eventually had to ask a friend of mine what ‘fml’ meant. She told me the answer, paused for a moment, then admitted that she only knew because she asked the teenage sister of another friend of ours. Turns out I was way off the mark with ‘Fat Mother Liker,’ ‘Frisky Male Llama,’ and ‘Fully Mischievous Lesbians.’ I come from the days of obvious internet terms. My typing was littered with classics like OMG for ‘oh my god,’ and LOL for ‘laugh out loud,’ and WWABISSOHAHFUF for ‘wow, what a bitch, I’m so sick of her and her fat ugly face.’

You know the oldies radio station? The one that plays ‘classic hits?’ Last year I noticed they were playing songs that I remember being on the charts. I choose to believe they’re letting their standards slip, because it’s easier than admitting that 1994 was almost 20 years ago. I know bugger all about the charts now. What’s a ‘Beiber?’

Kids these days have no hope. They aren’t learning anything from Hannah Montana. When I was growing up, we had real role models on TV, like the Power Rangers and Blossom. Blossom would kick Hannah Montana’s ass in a dance-off. The Power Rangers would just kick ass. Then they'd turn into a giant dinosaur robot. That show was countless kinds of awesome.

But at the end of the day, you can always rely on the constants, all of those brilliant things that will never change. Sesame Street will always be quality viewing, William Shatner’s cover of Common People will always be hilarious, and I’ll always just be killing time until Ben Folds agrees to run away with me.

Great days in history: June 25

If you live in the Philippines, happy Arbour Day! Yay for trees!

If you’re Nicole Kidman and/or Keith Urban, happy anniversary! Yay for not being Tom cruise!

If you’re American, happy National Catfish Day! Yay for catfish! (Not just any catfish though, it only celebrates the farm raised ones. That’s a tad discriminatory. No one should be judged or excluded based on where they were born, which is something President Regan neglected to mention in the speech he made when the day was introduced. And he called himself a leader. For shame, sir. For. Shame.)

If you’re a Michael Jackson fan, welcome to me never being able to have another birthday without someone saying ‘You know it’s been *insert number here* many years since Michael Jackson died?’ and everyone else saying ‘Wow, really?’ and me saying ‘Who wants cake?’ and them saying ‘So sad, isn’t it?’ and me saying ‘It’s good cake,’ and them saying ‘He was so talented,’ and me saying ‘Like, really good cake,’ and them carrying on with the conversation as I start to quietly weep into the icing.

Yes, today we celebrate the fact that I managed to make it through another year without accepting candy from strangers, forgetting to look both ways before crossing the street, or getting (fatally) electrocuted. High five!

For a child raised in a (loosely) Christian manner, June 25 is the best possible date for a birthday to fall. Why? It’s exactly six months from Christmas. Presents were always distributed to me on a half yearly basis, and with careful planning, a kid could make their birthday money last the entire six months. Of course, I never took part in this careful planning, and pissed it away in the toy department at Kmart the very next weekend. It’s not my fault Barbie needed so much crap, it’s society’s fault.

Wikipedia tells us that I share my birthday with the likes of George Orwell, Carly Simon, Ricky Gervais, Phill Jupitus (who I saw walking around Edinburgh last year during the Fringe wearing a hat that I can only describe as hideous), and some rapper called ‘Candyman.’ If he’s actually made of candy, it’s gonna be one kick ass party. However, it’s also George Michael’s birthday, so you might want to avoid using the men’s room.

But it’s not all about births, deaths and marriages. And fish. Other things have also occurred on this day. The BBC claims that on the 25th of June 1970, the US launched a new peace plan for the Middle East. Glad to see that worked out.

Follow me...

Operation world domination hasn’t been moving along as quickly as I’d hoped. My cousin said he’d post links to the blog on his Facebook page if I mentioned him. Which I just did. I hope he enjoyed it. But on the off chance that he didn’t, I decided to do some further research into increasing blog traffic.

• Invite guest bloggers
  Dear President Obama/Betty White/Sponge Bob, you seem to be quite popular. Would you care to contribute to my blog? B.Y.O topics and witticisms.
• Remove the comments section so people can’t see all the zeros
  No, I don’t want to lose the 8 comments I already have. I love each one of them dearly. It’s like I own little pieces of your souls.
• Make lists
  People I’d turn gay for: Regina Spektor, the original Brand Power lady, Judy Jetson*
• Use a human voice
  Recent studies have shown this to be only marginally more popular than meerkat.
• Be the first to break news
  I just found $5 in the pocket of my jeans. More details at 11:00.
• Make posts that will stand the test of time
  I think those S Club 7 kids are going somewhere. I really do.
• Have ads that are relevant to your content
  Sesame Street is on the telly. Dr Suess is in bookshops. God is everywhere.
• Write in English
  Què?
• Be controversial
  I don't care for Bindi Irwin very much at all.
• Ask provocative questions
  Busy later? Nudge nudge, wink wink.
• Use buzzwords
  Beiber, Twilight, Viagra, iPad, Kim Kardashian’s ass.
• Discuss current events
  So… politics, eh? That… that's something.
• Post photos
  This is the rubber band ball I made at work last year. It is next to a $1 coin.
  
  If you're not familiar with Australian currency, you will not understand the full scale and/or impressiveness of my handiwork. The Australian $1 coin is approximately the size of a large goat. I know right? I’ve got mad skillz.
• Don't be boring
  ...please excuse the rubber band ball.
• Run a contest
  Your mum’s a contest.**
• Use correct grammer
  i really dont thinks that was not never a issue. semicolon semicolon semicolon.
• Flatter your readers
  I could not agree more with your religious and political views. I love your taste in music/movies/blogs. Have you lost weight? We should hang out more.
• Join forums and pretend to be someone else
  wat up??? LoL!!! :P I lyk totes fownd dis blog nd its awe$ome!!! u shood fllw it!!1 :D
  

*if she was not from the future, and not underage. And, you know, real. There are just too many obstacles to our love.
**I did consider a Mark Watson style 'first person to comment gets to suggest a topic' type deal, but I know too many smart arses who'd write something like 'quantum physics' and cause me to have a panic attack and die.

Are you there Lauren? It's me, God

‘Heyyyyyy, it’s the G-Man. Sorry I didn’t call back sooner, but you try dealing with six billion messages! Most of which were, you know, from you… I’ve been pretty busy with other stuff too. Did you see what I did with the volcano? How cool was that! Ahhh, I’m brilliant… call me!’

‘Ok, now I feel bad. The real reason I didn’t call back is because, well, you’re kind of clingy. It gets annoying. I guess it’s not your fault, I'm the one who made you that way. Anyway, I’ve decided to make peace, because life’s too short. No, really, it is. And you’d know this if you went to see that 2012 movie like everyone else did.’

‘Hi, God again. I forgot to say, to answer your question, wireless internet is the Devil’s work. Yeah, that guy is super tech-savvy. He keeps banging on and on and on about his iPad. You can see why I banished him, right?’

‘Found Jesus yet? If you see him, tell him to call me. And no, I’m not sending him that money, he can get a job like everyone else. Oh yeah, it’s God.’

‘You shall kill your son Isaac. Wait… oh, wow, sorry. Wrong number.’

‘Eww, dude, that wasn’t what I meant by "love thy neighbour." And stop telling people that Google knows more than me. I invented the guy who invented Google. Give me a call when you get the chance, yeah?’

‘Ugh, hey. Me again. Feeling a little bummed out today. I’m getting bored with the whole human race thing. It’s all "me, me, me" with you people. I can't believe I thought you'd be more fun than the dinosaurs. Oh well, we all make mistakes. Anyway, I should hang up in case you’re trying to call...’

‘Why, uh… why haven’t you called? I know you’re not busy, I can see you. ANSER THE PHOOOONE. Don’t just stare at it, pick it u- oh. Oh no you di’nt. Did you just roll your eyes? You did! You just did it again! I can’t believe this! You know that’s what Noah did to me? Don’t make me make you build an arc and gather two of every animal.’

‘Alright, look, I’ll level with you. I’m still pissed that you didn’t like the Grand Canyon. Do you know how much work I put into that thing? And you just stood there checking your watch the whole time. It’s not called the Average Canyon, is it? You wanted a sign from me? Fine, I'll give you a sign. Guess which finger I'm holding up.’

I'll tell you what I want, what I really, really want

Last year, I found something buried under my bed. A video, to be exact. I decided to watch it, for old time’s sake, and was blown away by what I saw. Ever since that day I’ve been a woman on a mission: I want the Spice Girls movie released on DVD.

Of course, there’s the sentimental factor. I loved this movie when it came out because the Spice Girls were my life, and I was 10. Remember Girl Power? Remember the platform shoes? Remember Victoria Beckham’s original face and body? Those were the days, my friends.

This movie is hilarious, and not in an ironic ‘it’s so bad that it’s good’ kind of way, but in an awesome ‘it’s a genuinely funny movie’ kind of way. They’ve stolen technology from Doctor Who by having a tour bus that’s bigger on the inside, they get in trouble with the police for ‘frightening the pigeons,’ and we’re asked to believe that not only can Posh Spice drive a double-decker bus, but she can drive one in heels. This film has also inspired me to start insulting people by standing inches from their face and quietly saying the words ‘your mother’ into a megaphone.

There’s a struggling documentary maker, two Hollywood hotshots pitching shoddy film ideas, a pregnant friend (played by that chick from Torchwood. No, not that one. The other one. Yeah, her) who’s just been dumped by her babydaddy, an alien invasion, danger on the high seas, boot camp, a night in a haunted house, flashbacks to a simpler time, a girls night out, a ticking clock, and a bomb on a bus. And to top it all off, we’ve got Barry Humphries as a bitter newspaper editor/hater who’s trying to bring the girls down by hiring a sneaky paparazzi dude (the guy who ‘got the Teletubbies taking a poo’) to follow them. It’s everything you could ever want to see in a movie, and then some. Sadly, at the time of writing, its average rating on IMDB was 2.9/10. You should all be ashamed of yourselves.

The highlight of this movie is Roger Moore as a character known only as ‘The Chief.’ He likes feeding piglets with baby bottles, and talking absolute balls. At one point, he answers the phone by saying ‘When the rabbit of chaos is pursued by the ferret of disorder through the fields of anarchy, it is time to hang your pants on the hook of darkness... whether they're clean or not.’ He then hangs up the phone.

At no point is this movie asking you to take it seriously, and that’s where its brilliance lies. But if you’re not sold yet, know this: it’s the only place you’ll ever hear Stephen Fry say the words ‘wicked, dirty, phat bass line.’

Wick-ee-pee-dee-ah

When I'm famous enough to have a Wikipedia page, I would like it set up thusly (I looked that up on dictionary.com, I love it when words mean what I think they do):

Early life
Little is known about the reclusive author before she published her first novel. What we do know, is that at the age of six, she decided she wanted to marry Buddy Holly. At the age of seven, she learned why this wasn’t going to happen. Her fascination with boys who played guitar and wore glasses never waned.

Career
Her first novel, See that? I Totally Wrote all Them Words, was a surprise success considering the amount of crude drawings that were featured in the margins. The story told of two detectives trying to make it on the mean streets of New York, hindered only by the fact that they were a monkey and an elephant on an otherwise all human police force. *SPIOILER ALERT* the killer was a shifty duck. It was praised for its grittiness, and panned for its excessive use of the word ‘hullabaloo,’ which the author claimed was necessary all 427 times. Her second novel, I pissed away all the money I made from the last book and need some more, y’all, was shite.

Personal Life
Lauren married a total of nine times, just to show Elizabeth Taylor who’s boss. Of her 23 children, she openly admitted that JimBob was her favourite, and that the music he made with his all transvestite jug band was truly inspiring. His father was one of the hot Doctor Who’s (husbands four and five), but she could never remember which one.
She was also known to be a brilliant artist, a talented musician, the inventor of the George Forman Grill, and a pathological liar.

Retirement
Lauren became a recluse after her last divorce, and decided to live out the rest of her days sailing around the world on her yacht, the ‘S.S. Stick That in Your Pipe & Smoke it.’

Death
Turns out she didn’t know how to sail.

Lauren’s Book Club

If Oprah can have one, I can have one.

Dr. Seuss - Hop on Pop

The first thing that must be noted about this book is that despite popular belief, this is clearly not for children. There are far too many adult themes and sexual references. There are obvious phallic connotations involved when one character is depicted wearing nothing but a satisfied grin as he sits on top of an upright baseball bat, and no one can deny that there’s something a little bit kinky going on when Red, Ned, Ted and Ed all decide to share a bed.

Next up is the section where ‘all’ play on the wall. Really? Encouraging people to juggle and play baseball while balancing on a wall? Did we learn nothing from Humpty Dumpty? Less observant readers may feel that the characters learn their lesson on the next page when they are shown falling from the wall, but this only shows the process of falling, not the consequences. If the next page had something along the lines of ‘all are feeling very sore, all shall sadly walk no more’ with an illustration of ‘all’ enduring a painful physio session, Suess would be a far more responsible author. To be honest, I’m not even convinced he’s a real doctor.

Then there is the horror of a man being attacked by a lion, people being chased by kamikaze bees, and the concept of fish living in a tree (though one could argue that they’re just chillin’ up there, and we all need a little time away every now and then).

The story becomes downright ridiculous when we see a dog catapult its owner out of town using a seesaw. I found this to be unrealistic on the grounds that the weight of the animal pictured could in no way ever propel a grown man to reach such distances.

My only other complaint is that I freakin hate rhyming. Unless it’s clever rhyming, which this isn’t. One must question the amount of desperation that lies behind rhyming the word ‘thing’ with ‘thing.’

Now, I don’t want to give too much away about this book, but let’s just say, it involves one unhappy pop.

I’m not ageist, but...

I’ve figured something out, and it involves maths. Heavily estimated and not properly researched maths.
The Elderly:
20% are awesome
40% don’t know what’s going on
40% are really freakin mean

First up, if I don’t know you, I don’t want to hear about your surgery. An elderly woman on a tram once asked me if I had the time, and apparently telling someone it’s twenty past three translates to ‘please tell me about your hernia operation for the remainder of the trip, and don’t leave out any of the details.’

I don’t want to hear about how ‘in my day,’ you didn’t know cigarettes were bad for you. If anything, people nowadays are worse off. We know that everything is bad for you. Sun: cancer. Red meat: cancer. Not laughing at my blog… cancer. No happy-go-lucky-good-times for us, thank you sir.

I used to complain about all those idiots who got on the train with their iPod turned up way too loud, or the people who don’t even bother with headphones because they think they’re so bada$$ that they want to inconvenience everyone else on the train. As annoying as that is, it’s nothing compared to a new trend I’ve discovered: Old people who get on the train with a transistor radio. It’s always turned up full blast, and crackling due to bad reception, while a talkback radio host and all his callers express how outraged they are about whatever issue the media has decided to sensationalise that day. It’s gotta be exhausting to be that outraged all the time, doesn’t it? Take a break dude. Have a cup of tea, and maybe even some biscuits. Nice biscuits. Chocolate biscuits. Cream filled chocolate biscuits. Then go hug a puppy. Feel better now? Thought so.

Speaking of transistor radios and older people (segue!), I feel the need to mention an incident from high school. One of my teachers (an older gentleman) was chatting to the school librarian (an older lady) about how he liked to listen to talkback on his transistor radio when he couldn't sleep at night. What he should have understood, is that the 15 year old student standing behind him, would most likely get the wrong idea when he heard him say the words ‘last night I was in bed with a trannie.’ That’s how rumours start, y’all.

Ignorance is bliss

I learned something yesterday. Apparently ‘chock-a-block’ is a nautical term. For almost 23 years, I’d always assumed it had something to do with chocolate, and how it comes in blocks, and if you eat too much of it, you’re full, or ‘chock-a-block.’ It’s just logic, really.

Sadly, pieces of information such as this never come as a surprise to me. I have an extensive history of completely missing the point. So, in a spectacular celebration of shame, here are some of my greatest misunderstandings:

• I used to think Elvis was singing ‘I’m a sugar,’ despite the facts that a) this makes no sense, and b) the song was called All Shook Up.
• In early 2009 I finally realised that the title of blink-182’s 2001 album Take off Your Pants and Jacket was a pun. Yes, I thought it was an odd request, but hey, whatever floats your boat. Maybe they liked getting down with their shirts still on? I felt dirty. Dirty and betrayed. However, now I can enjoy the fact that it is both clever, and amusing. Kudos, boys. Kudos.
• ‘Feckless’ is a real word. I thought it was Irish slang.
• I thought Danke Schoen was sung by a woman.
• Towards the end of high school I found out the book is called To Kill a Mockingbird and not Tequila Mockingbird, and that it is about the racial divide, and not a drag queen (she sounds fun though, right? Yeah. You know she’d show you a good time). I still haven’t read the book, but I saw the movie. Shut up, that's not lazy. It's time efficient.
• It took me 14 hours to understand the bumper sticker ‘My Karma ran over your Dogma.’
• You know that scene in Grease where Rizzo and Kenickie are going at it in the back of his car, and he pulls out his ‘25cent insurance policy?' Up until the age of 16, I thought it was an actual insurance policy. I could never understand why they were so upset that it broke.
  

What worries me about all of this is the number of other things I’ve completely misunderstood, but still have no idea about, and will surely one day embarrass myself with.

Personally, I chose to believe that I’m not slow. Society is just impatient.