Category Archives: Uncategorized


This post was written 30,000 feet in American air space & published in retrospect. Flying to the other side of the world inspired this slightly bitter & exhaustion laden piece about air travel.

Right now I am sitting on a plane. By the time you read this I will have long ago disembarked my temporary jail cell of the sky, yet rest assured, as these words are being written I am very much submerged within the suffering inflicted on those needing to get to far away parts of the world.

Obviously made by a slightly racist, childless man. But nevertheless somewhat accurate.

Flying is shit. Let’s not roll a turd in sugar and try claim it will taste nice. It’s so bad. So very bad. I happen to have an intense phobia of flying, but that is neither here nor there right now. It is the most irrational part of my life. I’d like to kill some time (PLEASE GOD) exploring WHY flying is so shit. Please behold my musings from the sky:

 PEOPLE. People are everywhere, right? So why would people make flying shit? You are near people for the better part of everyday. Yes, true. But holy shit so many people. So many people in your personal space. STRANGERS, at that. So many people in your fucking grill for such a long god damn time. Oh, what true test of patience and tolerance does one ship of the sky bestow. Some dude putting his elbow on both rests. Quite an innocent gesture, on the ground. NOT IN THE SKY. IN THE SKY THIS MAKES YOU A FUCKING DEVIANT. HOW DARE YOU?! STICK TO YOUR MEAGRE PORTION OF PERSONAL SPACE YOU ASSHOLE. Please. Always fly with someone if you can, as even though you are sharing, this doubles personal space. And personal space is the currency of the sky.

SPACE. As previously mentioned, this shit could be a commodity in the air. Stake claim as you as you sit down. You weren’t the first to sit down? Oh. Suck shit. You will more than likely have less space than you were meant entitled to when you paid some humorous amount of money for your ticket. Like me right now. Elbows tucked in, personal belongings neatly on your lap, for five whole hours. Amazing.

One of my American Airlines flights. The plane was about 30 years old & much too likely to fall apart in the sky for my liking.

One of my American Airlines flights. The plane was about 30 years old & much too likely to fall apart in the sky for my liking.

PACKING. An anal retentive, organised person’s nightmare. Why? Because you’re fucking organised and that means packing something for every which situation that your over-active imagination could fathom. I really envy laid back people when it comes to flying. A long haul flight calls for a contingency for everything, and the kicker is it must all fit in your backpack. Currently I have a backpack with me that weighs as much as a five year old child who only eats chicken nuggets. I have something for everything in there. Including pyjamas. There is no pride when hauling your ass cross country.

PRIVACY. While we are on the topic of leaving your pride at the airplane door, it is worth noting that flying fucking sucks partly due to the lack of privacy. Someone is probably reading over my shoulder right now thinking “what a load of shit. What a loser. This bitch”. Such is the ways of flight. If you want 30 odd people to see you sleeping and drooling and in your rawest, ugliest state then flying is what you should do. But this matters not as I have a strict no-pride policy. It’s all about comfort. Because FLYING FUCKING SUCKS. Who cares. I would smear shit on myself if it somehow made flying an ounce more endurable. I would. Luckily human shit serves no foreseeable benefits so I won’t yet be pooping in my own hand and smothering it on my face. See what flying does to people? How did I even get to discussing wearing human faeces? I obviously hate flying a whole lot, as there is a running shit theme rearing it’s head.

A very small consolation. Breathtaking view of LA lights flying into LAX

A very small consolation. Breathtaking view of LA lights flying into LAX

 So what can you take from all of this? 

1. PEOPLE: they suck mostly. Avoid them as best as possible.

2. SPACE: take as much as you can. Would you rather be the selfish asshole or the stupid asshole? Just remember if you are the selfish asshole, you ARE going to hell (in moderate comfort). 

3. PACKING: try and be the disorganised, naive type who packs nothing yet gets by fine. Hippies.

4. PRIVACY: there is none. So don’t smear your poop on yourself. Everyone can see you. 

5. Cop it on the chin, and hope your destination is worth the hours of suffering. Which they usually are, or I wouldn’t be here right now. And I know I will always do it again, and illogically I cannot wait until next time. 


“New Year, New You”

Firstly, hi. Remember me? I hope so. I remember you. I feel like I should explain. I feel like someone would when they take a person out on a date, & it went really well, but they left it too long to get in touch again & then just sort of drifted. The date was awesome. It wasn’t you. Laziness, perhaps.

The holidays sucked me in. & maybe zapped my creativity a little bit. I’d like to also confide the fact that I had a mini freak out. A mini freak out about my life being put on the internet. That anxiety ridden part of me hijacked the logical part of me like a mexican cartel hauls their squealing mule into the desert to bury them in a hole. I got over it now & I’m back. Hi guys.

It’s 2014 & I’m here to call bullshit on the silliest, but most widely accepted, self-improvement paradigm. The general premise is that once we have ticked over from ‘last year’ to the next, you get a clean slate. Start again. Like your character died in a video game & you’re respawning (is that the word? Gaming n00b right here guys). NEWSFLASH: THIS IS REAL LIFE. NOT A VIDEO GAME! I’m sorry to so harshly & wholly shit upon this notion. Perhaps I’m coming off as a bitch, but I’ll redeem myself I promise.

The worst concept ever. Did you feel different after midnight? No? No wonder

The worst concept ever. Did you feel different after midnight? No? No wonder

Time is a man-made concept. The universe is something so vast that it has, literally, brought me to tears. But it didn’t come to being with ‘time’ existing. Humans were the ones who invented time. Days, months, & the somewhat now controversial YEARS we use to keep track of this time. Man made. Made by people. A human concept. Got that? Good.

So WHY on earth do we believe that passing from one year to the next will erase all the shit in our lives magically, like some toxic fog lifting to reveal a cloudless, blue sky? When you enter a new year you are still you. With all your flaws, fears, anxieties, & your whole past too. These things are what make you, you. The BAD things count too. All your horrific experiences & your worries co-mingle existentially with all your best parts & the happiest times of your life to form the person you are today. You are of yesterday, of now, & of tomorrow.

It’s important to grasp this concept wholeheartedly. I have spoken before about being realistic. Embracing the good & the bad. There’s a reason why New Year’s Resolutions fail, & everyone posts the same Facebook status at the end of each year saying “THIS YEAR WAS SO SHIT. BRING ON 2012/2013/2014/2015” (put any year you want in there. It doesn’t matter. It’s always the same). People seem to believe it must be ALL good to be a “good year”. This is never going to happen. Just like you didn’t check your emotional baggage at the door of 2014, bad things won’t stop happening because it’s a new year. That’s called life. It’s a continuum with YOUR idea of ‘good’ at one end, normalcy in the middle, & ‘bad’ at the other. You will experience the full spectrum this year, I promise you that.

So does this mean I think people who have made resolutions are stupid? No. No, not at all! I myself have a list of things I would like to do this year. But I KNOW I am still me. Same pitfalls, same flaws, same bullshit emotional baggage as before. I also know that perhaps I will stray enormously from this list. We cannot live our lives constrained by a predetermined list that society says we should write at the ticking over from one calendar to the next.

People take great meaning from everything that is symbolic in life. This is normal. Healthy, even. It’s absolutely necessary. Moving from one year to the next is PURELY SYMBOLIC. The fact that people use this symbolic shift in time to reaffirm their goals & feel as though they can start afresh is unsurprising. Imagine if we didn’t have years? Just one huge vortex of everything that encompasses life, unbroken & swirling, until death. Weird. That makes me feel gross.

Please don’t aspire to a “new you” this year. It’s not going to happen. A new year doesn’t erase much except the ‘2013’ date on the top right of the page. Embrace your past. Concede that really bad things will probably happen this year, as well as good. Look at life like that yin & yang symbol: the good, the bad, the good in the bad & the bad in the good. All essential.

Make goals whenever the hell you want, & achieve them whenever the hell you want too. A “new you” is not necessary.

Pessimism versus realism

We are the generation of optimism. Seriously, you cannot have a “successful” Instagram account without daily mantras, words of wisdom or some sort of prayer for prosperity or peace. It is guaranteed likes. We can be so detached from each other in real life, including ‘spiritually’ (if you believe in that stuff), that it’s really quite farcical. We preach Buddha online & call strangers ‘cunts’ at the shopping centre for taking our car spot at Christmas time. Our generation has come to believe that if you are positive, you can achieve ANYTHING. It is THE most important thing. You wanna be a rockstar? Cool. Think positive, work at it, & shit… You can do it. Want to be famous? Not hard these days. Tell yourself you CAN & you WILL! A scientist? Of course you can. Love yourself, & others will love you too. Etc.

How much of this is true, though? Why have we come to value optimism over anything else? Why are you akin to a modern day deviant for being truthful instead of positive? People like Miranda Kerr & Louise Hay have spearheaded the notion of positivity over EVERYTHING. But really, when you think about Kerr at least, all she is doing is telling you to treasure your body. Nourish your body. Women, it’s all about your body. Where is the honesty? Where is the truth in any of this?

Women have brains & can think, & are actually not really like flowers at all. Women are more than their beauty. But thanks, Miranda. You look smoking hot.

Women have brains & can think, & are actually not really like flowers at all. Women are more than their beauty. But thanks, Miranda. You look smoking hot.

I got here because I realise I am perceived as quite a negative person. A pessimist. A fucking wet blanket, if you will. I say, actually, you are wrong, dear optimist. I am a realist. My mantra is truth. I live by TRYING (it’s impossible all the time. We change hourly, depending on who we are with) to be who I am, speak what I really think, & just generally avoiding anything that might not rest easily with me upon deeper reflection (it’s easier to sleep at night). I say, let’s start to value realism. Let’s all be realists, not only optimists. Let’s be honest with ourselves & each other. It’s hard. It’s not the du jour persona to broadcast. I can honestly say, the people who dislike me probably do so because of my overt realist attitude at times. It can come off offensive. It can come off rude. Whiney & whingey, even. I know this. & that’s because I’m a REALIST: I’m even real with myself. Most of the time, anyway.

I'll take this quote & trade you this food for thought. Life is about balance: how about we be realists & embrace the good AND the bad?

I’ll take this inspirational quote & trade you this food for thought. Life is about balance: how about we be realists & embrace the good AND the bad thoughts? & learn from both?

Before you write me off as merely a pessimist, please understand sometimes optimism is crucial. Sometimes, the only way to get through something is to believe you will be okay, & allow yourself only happy thoughts. & it’s true, you WILL be okay. There are some certainties in life, & that includes inspirational quotes on Instagram by celebrities that didn’t ever say that shit, & that you will eventually be okay. Optimism is an amazing thing. The ability to both support & encourage yourself during trying times is one of the most important abilities one should learn to harness. BUT. Here is the big, heaping, OMNIPOTENT BUT… All the time? Really? You are happy your cat just got hit by a car? Did it teach you heaps, did it? Heaps about fucking HEARTBREAK. WHAT IS POSITIVE ABOUT THAT. WHY DOES IT NEED A POSITIVE SPIN!? Optimism, I believe, is not above everything. It is both powerful & important, but not always the best policy.

I’d like to put my theory into practice. Let’s take a look at this scenario, first with the optimist:
YOU: “Does my ass look huge in this?”***

OPTIMIST: “No. It looks bountiful. Always believe in your beauty, & you will always look beautiful”
Three days later, you’re untagging all the photos from the weekend on Facebook because actually, those positive thoughts didn’t fix the dress you wore that was perhaps too tight. Thanks.

Replay this scenario, but with me. The realist:
YOU: “Does my ass look huge in this?”
ME: “No I like your butt, but I don’t know about that dress, try on something else?”
Three days later, you can’t even decide which picture to use as your display picture because you are just so hot! That outfit was killer! YAY FOR REALISM!

So anyway, as you can see by my very scientific scenario I created in my mind where we are best friends & I am brutally honest with you, being truthful is good. It’s really good. Being honest should not be, and IS NOT, the same as being a pessimist. Please, let’s praise being honest. Even if it seems rude, or harsh, or shitty. & let’s be optimists sometimes, but not value it over everything else.

The truth isn’t always positive. But always being positive also isn’t always the truth (if you wanna make that your Facebook status please make sure to include my full name as the person who said it, in quotation marks. Cool, thank you).

***I love all asses so please, do not think I am some heinous bitch. Asses are beautiful & I’m sure yours is too. Purely for scientific purposes.

Flying the nest

“I wish I could run away & just start again”.

You’ve seen this status on Facebook. If you haven’t, count your blessings because I see it OFTEN. I’m not afraid to place actual, real life money (which I don’t have much of) on the fact that these people probably partied really, really hard the weekend before. But that’s beside the point & a whole other issue. These people are more than likely still living at home, although this is a huge generalisation that I can’t prove. I actually have done the proverbial “running away & starting it all over”, although it’s not so much running away dramatically & never looking back. It’s more like months of planning & a horrendous upheaval of absolutely everything you’ve ever known. It’s not a fairy tale… Actually, it can be fucking shit. That’s without an ounce of hyperbole, promise.

I moved from Victoria to Western Australia three years ago. I was completely naive & totally unafraid, which I am now thankful for. Sometimes cliches are the most apt of things to say. Ignorance is bliss. Moving to the other side of the country & thinking it will all be perfectly fine was the best head space to be in, because you probably wouldn’t do it if you were aware of how hard it was going to be.

I packed up my things (basically my bedroom. Packing up a bedroom versus packing up a whole house is A COMPLETELY DIFFERENT EXPERIENCE). I put my shit in my car. I put my car on a big ass truck. Then I put myself on a plane. Sitting on the window seat & watching Melbourne lose all its features & turning into nothing but a nondescript chunk of earth was heart-wrenching. I cried. I was sitting next to a woman with a baby who was screaming, totally ruining my Hollywood movie moment. Head turned, looking out the window & tears running down my cheeks. But seriously, the surge of emotion I felt leaving my place of birth ‘for good’ was one of the strongest things I have ever felt. Like anyone, my home is a place full of painful memories & experiences (LIFE). But it is also where my blood is, my friends are, & where my heart will ultimately always reside.

Then I got to Perth. The first thing I noticed was sand. Heaps of sand. Where is the dirt? Holy fuck, I have moved to the Sahara desert. I’m sorry, when is the next flight back to Melbourne? 10 hour wait? That’s fine, I will sit right here & wait for it. I happened to be moving over for the love of my life, & seeing him again was nothing short of fucking awesome. I was shaking with anticipation.

I moved into a house with people I had never met before, & hid in my bedroom for at least a couple of days. My own house felt strange to me. It wasn’t really mine, I didn’t know this place at all.

I had no car. I had none of the things that were in my car. I didn’t know where the supermarket was. I didn’t know where anything was. I knew no one but my boyfriend. I KNEW NOTHING. In movies, this is liberating & beautiful & adventurous. So gloriously romantic & free-spirited. In real life, this is extremely trying. All that shit about getting out of your comfort zone, that’s where the magic happens, blah blah blah… I was there & it wasn’t fun. I’m not a cryer. Anyone who knows me will know that I don’t get sad, I get angry. I CRIED DAILY. “Oh boo, pathetic woman, the hardest thing she has ever done is move. What a blessed life”. No, it’s not the hardest thing I have ever done. But YES, IT IS HARD. Life is not a fairy tale, & these things are never how they appear romanticised in your mind.

When you ‘start again’, it is also tempting to believe you can be whoever you want to be. Oh, how beautiful. A clean slate to work with. A chance to build the life you never had before. Mmm… Not likely. You are still you. You are still carrying the same emotional baggage that once plagued you. If anything, all the shit in your life is placed under a magnifying glass because you are so hypersensitive & missing everything you ever knew. Every time I had too many drinks, it ended up in “I want to go homeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee”, tears flowing, sometimes lying on the ground, fully reverted back to toddleresque forms of communication. Not very grown up or mature. I couldn’t help it. I yearned for everything that felt familiar. My mum. My grandparents. My friends. Those cliches are serving me well today, as you sure as shit don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone.

I left these two cuties behind also. I like to think this is how they spend their days, waiting for me.

I left these two cuties behind also. I like to think this is how they spend their days, waiting for me.

Very slowly, the crying would be every four days. Then every couple of weeks. Then one day it stopped altogether. Like a break up I guess. At first it hurts so bad while the synapses that have formed in your brain sit there familiar & unused. They fade though, & new ones are formed. That’s how it stops hurting so much. New pathways are formed, as you create something new. Eventually, you build a life around you again. Nothing like you envisioned. It’s sometimes shit. It’s sometimes beautiful. The same petty dramas, different location. You live not much differently to how you did before. Sometimes, home is all you want. Sometimes, your new home is all you need. You never stop loving everyone you left behind. Somehow you have enough love left to give the new people you meet. It’s not anything how you think it would be.

If you really do want to run away & start all over again, I wish you well. I hope you find strength when you need it, & comfort in strange places. I hope you find similar souls & create a life with no regret. It’s hard. Really, really hard. I’ll admit though, sometimes it works out.

West Coast Eagles Best & Fairest 2013

Last Friday night was the annual West Coast Eagles Club Champion Awards 2013. It was my third, & although I have an odd superstition & voodooistic love for the number three, I was pretty blah about the whole thing really. The first year I attended was terrifying. A news crew? What the fuck? I very literally tried to run away, to no avail. Then I ended up quite drunk in a bath tub eating mini bar chips & crying by the end of the night. The second year, we got a limo & I wore a sparkly dress & it was a fun night apart from my strappy so-in-but-fucking-worst-trend-ever stilettos ripping my feet to shreds. This year, well, I’ll start at the beginning. You may know someone who has attended an AFL club Best & Fairest awards night. You may have even been to one yourself. This is what my experience was like this year.

Three dresses. Yep. Three. I bought them all with my own money (THE ABSURDITY?! Aren’t WAGs meant to know, like, everyone whose anyone?). I know no one. Not one single person with sweet hook ups. Sigh. So this year I went through three dresses before I found one I was comfortable wearing. I’m off to a bad start more than a month before the night. The white, ethereal Camilla & Marc dress which is totally reminiscent of what I would love to wear to my own wedding one day has a small problem. Ha, the irony. A small problem. My tits are too small. It looks stupid. I hang it up & leave it there for over a month while I drag my feet as to what to do because really… it’s a beautiful dress.

Then I find this sleek but slutty red dress online. It plunges at the front, it plunges at the back. Just plunging necklines/back lines/bum lines galore. I get back from Bali (I ate three full meals a day, to the point of gagging almost) & eye it off suspiciously. Fuck you, plunges. Or fuck you, delicious Bali food, either way. I put it on & the sexy satin grabs at the tops of my thighs. But not in the way a lover should… The way you grab them with frustration on an especially “fat” day. So maybe I was being really overdramatic. I am a size 8, I’ve got an alright bod. But FEELING pudgy in this dress wasn’t an option. I wanted to feel like a babe. That’s the best part of this annual night; getting dressed up & having heaps of Facebook display picture contenders.

Bec & Bridge come to the rescue. Thanks, girls. It’s semi see-through but I decide if my undies end up a laughing stock, it will blow over the next time the Fremantle Doctor comes through. AKA. the next day.

The winner. Front & back.

The winner. Front & back.

So next came the fake tan debate. Do I? Don’t I? Do, I decided. I asked for dark “but not ridiculous”. Shit. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that I liked my fake tan to look like fake tan. I came home & looked at myself. I’ve had enough spray tans in my life to know when one looks slightly off. I instantly regretted the way I had worded what I wanted, as overspray was drying into speckled pools on my shins. Next comes an hour of frantically texting a handful of people asking what the fuck to do?! As if it’s someone else’s problem to deal with instead of mine. I shower once that night, & wake up looking like I never did. Shit. Another shower & a bit of a scrub, & I’m okay. CRISIS AVERTED, THE WORLD CAN GET BACK TO WHAT IT WAS DOING BEFORE MY TAN TRAGEDY.

My luck starts looking up when it’s time for hair & makeup. This is the fun part, when you get to feel like a princess. Ady Orupe from AROUSAL&DESIGN has done my makeup for three years. & holy shit, if I were rich I’d move her in with me. I show her a picture of Cara Delevingne. She doesn’t laugh, thank god. A pretty impossible task to make me look anything like her, but she does my face exactly how I want it. Makeup gods walk the earth ladies & gentlemen, & Ady is one.

Ady. She doesn't do makeup so much as make your face a piece of her art

Ady. She doesn’t do makeup so much as make your face a piece of her art

This is how much makeup it takes to get me ready

This is how much makeup it takes to get me ready

When I moved to Perth, I was pretty worried about how I was going to find a hairdresser (priorities). Queue David Marchesi, from Marchesi Coiffeur in Osborne Park. I’ve never let anyone else do my hair, for good reason. We do a slick pony, & for a few minutes I ask everyone if maybe my ears stick out?! Do I look okay? My head is really round, isn’t it? We decide it’s amazing, David never disappoints. Like, ever.

My regular hair saviour working magic

My regular hair saviour working magic

I’m feeling good. I had found out ALL my accessories did not match my dress about an hour ago, but that’s forgotten. Thank you two year old Diva rip off cuffs (I totally mixed Diva with Alexander Wang. Sacrilegious!). The night goes really quick, & I lament my outfit when I get home. I only wore it for a couple of hours. & the night wasn’t about me anyway, but it was fun to be a babe for the night.

A LOT goes in behind the scenes, even for something as ‘low-key’ (it’s no Brownlow) as the West Coast Eagles Club Champ Awards. Saying I struggled might be a bit of an understatement, thank god for the amazing people who were there to make me look half decent. Lastly, a quick congratulations to every one of the boys at the club. I’m going to throw a really cheesy one out there & say you’re all champs. 2013 wasn’t so great but 2014 is a new year.

Blue Carpet 2013

Tagged , , , , ,

Shit graduates say

If the title involves a bad word, you can guarantee that’s just the prelude to a lot of bad words. So please, don’t read this particular post if you are not fond of bad words. I am really fond of bad words, obviously.

So anyway, I found out I passed everything this semester, with a High Distinction as the candied, sickeningly sweet cherry on top of what was my university degree. Thank god I got at least one in my final year. I THINK that means I will get my degree?! (more on this coming). Anyway, all I seem to talk about is that I just FINISHED UNI! Like wow, so much awesome. “So what do you do?”, “I just FINISHED UNI man. YEAH!”. The ceremony is next year but I keep calling myself a graduate. I assume I am graduating as there are 5 big fat COMPLETED on my progress transcript right now. (How awkward if I don’t actually graduate next round of ceremonies, I’ve even had a FRICKEN PARTY & EVERYTHING). So anyway, it’s a really weird, in between stage of life. This is what you may find yourself, or other graduates, saying after you have danced around your burning textbooks naked & drunk (based on what I can’t stop blabbing to everyone right now):


Well, shit. It’s not rocket science (unless you just graduated with a major in rocket science?! In that case, I’m a little lost for words right now). Meeting new people means they will ask you what you do. The funny/awkward/confusing thing is you don’t actually really do anything. Except maybe the part-time job you’re still holding on to while you’re floating in this black void of space. Whenever asked ANYTHING about your life, the only thing you really can say is that you just graduated. Most people will give a massive congratulations… and then the conversation is gone. Just like that. A topic usually lengthy & fantastic at breaking ice becomes a mere fork trying to demolish a glacier. Because actually, you don’t do anything except think “help” while pondering the real world you’re standing at the gates of while nursing a hangover from congratulatory shots (the uni lifestyle isn’t gone, even though your student status may be).



Forms become confusing. Why?! What do you mean? Am I talking about a tax return? Because that shit is always confusing… No. You see, I now realise every form asks you your occupation. I was getting a massage/facial/pedicure at a swanky retreat, & the form had the obligatory health questions, and my address, my birthday, yada-yada. Apparently to have expensive mud slathered over my face, & my dimply thighs rubbed by a complete stranger, they must know what I do for a living (couldn’t you just buy me a drink instead?!). This is where it becomes SO GOD DAMN HARD. I FEEL LIKE I’M BACK SITTING MY FINAL EXAMS. I START LOOKING AROUND THE ROOM NERVOUSLY TRYING TO FIND THE ANSWER. Student? No. Not anymore (small tear slowly & gently falls from the corner of one eye). I majored in Journalism… Lie & say I’m a journo? Mmm, no. I’m not. That’s weird. Write ‘graduate’? That’s not a thing. Well, it’s a thing, but it isn’t an actual THING. Anyway, forms are weird because life has all of a sudden become weird too. Welcome to the life stage of perpetual in-betweenness.



I am. Genuinely, I am. It was so hard. I cried. I had nightmares. I stressed so much my adrenal glands have permanent damage I am sure. I am experiencing something that happens once in a lifetime (mostly, usually, in general). It’s amazing. & I constantly tell EVERYONE how stoked I am it’s over! But then my conscience, or inner child, or the part of me that never wants to be an adult, screams out NO! No no no no no no no no no no no no no. No. Stay at uni forever. Stay young forever. Do not become a slave to the MAN. CAPITALISM IS EVIL. RETAIN YOUR INNOCENCE. BE AFRAID! Okay maybe I’m becoming a little bit dramatic. But graduates will say (or I have anyway) how so over the moon they are that they finally got here. & it’s true. But we leave out the part that never wants to be anything but a uni student, too.

grow up


THIS ONE IS THE ONE. This is the holy grail. Prepare to be asked by every single person every single second of every single day “what are your plans now?”, “what will you do next?”, “what are you going to do?”.


It’s a reasonable question. Logical. It probably fills that awkward silence that comes after revealing you don’t do anything & therefore have just whacked a massive stop sign right in the middle of the dialogue between you & said stranger. It’s dangerous territory. Well, for me it has been. I don’t have a five year plan. I don’t have a one year plan. OKAY, I DON’T HAVE A PLAN. I don’t. The last four years have been all about studying. All about getting that degree. All about surviving. Never daring to envisage life afterwards because most days it felt like I might not ever get here. Now I am here. & shit, I don’t know. I majored in two things I liked, & did well at. Isn’t that okay? Isn’t that what they tell you in high school? Ah, alas, I am not in high school. I just graduated uni, therefore making me an adult & my majors must have had everything to do with my life plan & nothing about what I enjoy. Um.. well, shit. When asked what now I just have to say I don’t know. & this makes me feel like I lack direction, drive or ambition. It probably looks like that too. It’s not true though, I have a burning fire that most graduates have & a belief I can achieve greatness. This is probably because I haven’t started job hunting yet (god help me). But it’s there. Don’t ask me anything else, please. Because I don’t know. My qualifications are so broad that there are no set paths. Also, I don’t even know how the hell to actually GRADUATE. Do I just do it? Where are the forms? Am I actually even graduating? What does this stuff mean? What do I do? I DONT KNOW?! You get the picture.

Lastly, sometimes I’ve thought, but not said, “I regret that”. The tattoos on my fingers suddenly seem idiotic. University & its toleration of any hair style/colour/body mod/tattoo doesn’t last forever. I regret not relaxing more. I regret not believing in myself more. Ah, hind sight. The biggest bitch that ever was. Apart from Monday morning tutorials.


Growing up can suck. Graduating can be awkward & weird & confusing. But it’s also the start of the rest of your life… & that shit is pretty cool.

Tagged , , , , , , ,

Pink bits


All too often I am quick to tell people how much I miss Melbourne because, “the shopping is so much better”. It’s really hard to beat Chadstone or Chapel Street. Chadstone has every which label, cosmetic & THING you could ever need. I used to work there, & spent more than I made. I was 18 & it was GREAT. Like most humans with a vajayjay, I love clothes. I love shopping. I love things that sparkle. Candles? Yep I will take three. IS THAT GLITTER NAIL POLISH?! I need that too. Perfume? Um hello, I have 20 but I need another.


To my delight I found a special little place, my favourite shop right now: COCO PINK COTTESLOE. It was recommended I check it out, & even though it’s not really near me I drove to Cottesloe & had a peek. I’m not sure if it’s good that I did, or bad that I did. My bank account says it was very bad. My heart says it was very good. This little store is a treasure trove of delights. Amazing clothes; the kind of stuff those fashion bloggers wear & you see everywhere on instagram. The pictures are super cool & you just have to have the whole outfit. This is where you can get it. Also, THEY HAVE A VERSACE TEACUP. No one buy it, because I want need it. If you buy it, at least send me pictures, okay? Thank you.



I have clothes, candles, jewellery & nail polish from Coco Pink. Whenever I go in, I CANNOT stop at one. I dare you to try, & let me know how you go. I love this place, it has too many beautiful things. It’s worth mentioning that they stock KLUMINATI CLOTHING for the lads. Best men’s tees around, but I am biased! It’s well worth a visit when you Perth ladies can get down. Do like I have & pop down after a gym sesh & treat yourself for all those squats & lunges. Then get a coffee to refuel. I promise you won’t be disappointed!

Coco Pink Facebook HERE

Coco Pink address HERE

cocopink_cottesloe on Instagram

Happy shopping.

Be back soon

I’ve been MIA lately. It’s killing me, I’m sorry.

This is just a quick note to tell you all I love you very much (truth) & that I’m in my last few days of university EVER & will be taking a little hiatus.

In the mean time, please drop me a line HERE & tell me what YOU want to hear next so when I come back I can give you what you want. Which is the most important thing.

I’m in Bali next week, but will blog from there if I can. If not, Hello November!


Goodbye for just a tiny little while. I’ll dream of you,

Courtney x

Twerk, Miley, Miley, twerk

I considered calling this post “feminism, hip hop & Miley Cyrus” but Jay-Z’s lyrics from Somewhere in America are way better & a lot less dry. At first I thought maybe Jay-Z was taking a jibe at Miley; little ‘white girl’ trying to twerk to get internet hits. Instead, it suggests that hip hop culture is now the mainstream. Race, ethnicity, background, country matter not… Hip hop is king. I wish I could twerk. I wish I could rap. It’s all I really listen to. Hip hop, rap & trap. I’m not one for ‘the classics’ at all. Yuck. & sorry if that offends anyone, it’s just not my style in any which way. This post isn’t really to discuss the rap game & where Miley fits into it. Or even her penchant for “twerking” (Miley I love you but what a pitiful attempt. I can’t twerk. So, importantly, I don’t. To my dismay). I am 210% team Miley so I’ve been following her very public spat with Sinead O’Connor. Read about it here.

I’m really disturbed. Not by Miley gyrating half naked. Not by her sitting on a wrecking ball with the chain perched perfectly between her tiny thighs, right in the sweet spot. Not at all by her rapping in 23 (holy shit someone finally made an anthem for a little white girl like me who loves hip hop. Can’t wait to dance to this on tables should the chance arise) but by SINEAD. By her open letter. Actually, by THREE letters she posted on her site to Miley. Brings a new meaning to ‘We Can’t Stop’. It seems Sinead could not stop trying to tell Miley why she is such a horrendous role model & to stop shaking her ass IMMEDIATELY. This is where the feminism part comes in.

I am not familiar with Sinead O’Connor. I had to google her. I think it’s a combination of both being too young, and having no interest in golden old tunes. I did, however, know her as ‘the woman with a shaved head’ for want of a better description. Her face was very familiar. So, she is obviously a pioneer in the music industry and an idol for a lot of people. So I am not discrediting her in any way. More admitting my ignorance. Sinead seems to be a feminist & a trail blazer. So why, then, is she using the most loaded language I have ever read in my life? Likening Miley’s actions to a prostitute, & telling her she is being “pimped” by the industry seems hardly any different to just taking the dive & calling her a whore. She goes on the say that sexuality & compassion are somewhat mutually exclusive:

“If they want you sexually that doesn’t mean they give a fuck about you. All the more true when you unwittingly give the impression you don’t give much of a fuck about yourself.”

Where to start with this? Being overtly sexual, as a woman, will mean that no one cares about you. Perhaps she means only the music industry, but as a feminist l think this reflects her values & beliefs in general. So, back to it then: if you flaunt your sexuality men (& women, I guess) will not give half a fuck about you let alone a whole fuck or multiple fucks. But you will get fucked, both literally & metaphorically. Also, if you employ an attitude of not overly caring about yourself or taking yourself too seriously, again you are setting yourself up for no one to give a fuck about you. I will reiterate that this may have been meant about the music biz, but surely reflects her values in general. I myself am a bit of a “I don’t give a fuck” kind of girl, like Miley in 23. Is Sinead telling me that this is wrong? That it is anti-feminist to act like a girl who doesn’t really give a fuck about much but being herself & having fun?


My head is hurting because for O’Connor’s desire to empower women, I think she has done the complete opposite. This is not feminism in my opinion. Singling someone out & attacking them for being provocative & wearing little clothing only perpetuates myths about women. “Cover up your tits. Do not swear. Act like a lady. Be quiet. Don’t have an opinion. Be seen & not heard”. I’ve been time warped back to the 1950’s.

I argue, actually, that Miley Cyrus may be something of a GOOD role model in some ways for women. Feminism as a movement or ideology to me is confusing. THIS SHIT IS JUST COMMON SENSE! We all deserve equality. If Justin Timberlake had’ve taken his clothes off & gyrated at the VMA’s it would have been “holy shit so hot did you see it?!”. Miley does it & it’s ‘slutty’. Sinead O’Connor suggested such a thing. Miley, on the other hand, just wants to be herself & do whatever she wants. Every single woman should be able to be themselves & do what they want. I believe this includes wearing skimpy clothes & shaking our asses like strippers if we so feel inclined. Does this actually make us strippers? No. & so what if we were strippers? Women are free to choose whatever career they like & as feminists we should either be encouraging or nonchalant. Not publicly condemn them.

Miley, while I might not want my future daughter gyrating with teddy bears, I myself would like to get turnt up & sip cough syrup with you & be the “bad bitch I really am”. Love or hate Miley, everyone should watch the documentary ‘Miley: The Movement’. Including Sinead. She comes across as a woman deeply sure of who she wants to be right now with a strong vision, & the orchestrator of her own “strategic hot mess”.


Tagged , , , ,

Anxiety & a dash of OCD

I read recently that the way to keep your readers coming back is to be honest with them. No problems there. But also to reveal things about yourself & be relatable.

The relatable part is easy, for I am merely a normal person. Sorry for being blindingly obvious. The revealing part is also fine with me, as honesty is my best policy with you. But it is slightly scary knowing people potentially can start to put together the tatty patchwork of my whole life story without ever having to meet me. Blogger problems 101? I have decided that revealing things that scare the shit out of me & I wouldn’t EVER say to someone upon meeting them (“hey nice to meet you GUESS WHAT?! I’m having an anxiety attack. Nah it’s cool I pretty much do this daily”) is fine if it helps someone, makes someone feel somewhat better, or perhaps just says it because they feel like they can’t.

I’ve had my fair share of mental health issues, it’s been a constant thing since I was around 12 or 13. The thing is though, I am totally normal. Hell, I think I’m pretty smart & competent actually. People with these problems are often completely functioning members of society. You don’t necessarily have to be bed ridden to be unwell. This is important. In my view, the dialogue about depression has increased tremendously recently. Men’s mental health, post natal mental health, suicide awareness even, has become less ‘taboo’ & more we must do something about this now. I’ve been depressed, MANY people have, I’m sure you know at least more than one. But today I want to tell you about anxiety & why it’s one of the hardest things I have had to deal with. & why it’s so misunderstood.

It sort of snuck up on me I guess, in that way like when you were little one day you woke up with boobs like BAM. You didn’t really just WAKE UP with a busty chest, you just didn’t realise that each day they were growing slowly towards their potential gloriousness (in my case, that it was getting worse & worse). So I guess one day I woke up & all of a sudden I couldn’t leave the house without a sickening churning in my gut. Thinking about anything that had to be done was met with dread, the kind of dread you usually feel when you know something terribly horrible or terribly painful is coming your way. Was there anything terribly horrible or terrible painful imminent as I was sitting at my desk studying each day? No. So why was my body ALWAYS in fight or flight mode? My adrenal glands were haywire. Daily. I developed cystic acne along my jaw, which was both painful & had to be medicated. I had nightmares whenever I slept. I probably don’t have to mention I was constantly tired, but I just did. Sorry. EXHAUSTED. The way I dealt with my new found chronic anxiety was to express my worries with obsessive compulsive behaviour. My ‘thing’ or my ‘tick’ was locking doors. Yes, okay, we have ALL turned around to check we have locked the door. This was something I did multiple times, daily though. If I was with my partner, I would know he wouldn’t want to turn back. So I would ask 3-4 times “are you sure I locked the door?” to try to satiate my fully fledged anxiety attack building up inside me ready to explode like a container of food microwaved for too long. At home, on my own, I would check the back door was locked roughly every hour. I would check on our two puppies about the same, convinced they would either escape, or die, probably BOTH, if I didn’t. Utterly convinced the lack of these activities would cause the worst scenario possible. Classic OCD.

Not so funnily enough I can't find a photo of my skin in the midst of being ravaged from anxiety. This gives you a good idea, though.

Not so funnily enough I can’t find a photo of my skin in the midst of being ravaged from anxiety. This gives you a good idea, though.

I visited my GP about my skin, alarmed at the severity of the acne I had developed for the second time (the first time was when my ex partner passed away. I guess my skin tells me when I’m not coping with life because I choose to ignore it). She made an off the cuff remark, & I found myself saying “actually I can barely leave the house. My anxiety is ruining my life. That’s why my skin is so bad”. The flood gates had opened. The hardest part, you have probably heard before, actually IS saying it out loud. I feared there was not something ‘legitimately’ wrong with me, & that it would just go away. Anxiety & obsessive compulsive disorder are not things to ignore until they go away. Why let yourself suffer in silence & isolation when you certainly do not have to? Step outside of your own skin & imagine yourself as a friend. What would you tell them? For me it would be, “dude WHY aren’t you giving yourself the love & treatment you so obviously need? Let’s do something about this because you deserve to be happy”. Be your own best friend & take the steps to heal yourself. You deserve it. My GP wanted to medicate me daily. Now, I have done this maybe twice before. A lot of people say it made them feel dead inside, & they would rather be sad than be nothing. I’ve never felt this. I still have the same thoughts & feelings, perhaps the edges aren’t as razor sharp as before. But isn’t that kind of what you need when you hate yourself, hate life, or are constantly petrified? I am on the medication now as I type this. It hasn’t dulled my ability to write, & pain is not necessary to be an artist despite what romanticised stories may say. I was sick like a heroin junkie coming off smack for the first three days. Vomiting, vertigo, inability to concentrate. But after those three days I stopped feeling petrified for my life & riddled with anxiety every single day. It works.

We all experience anxiety in our lives. It’s a good thing when it’s functioning in the normal way it’s supposed to. Adrenaline is your best friend in that job interview or before you have a sitting to get tattooed. It serves a purpose. What makes it so misunderstood though is it is uncontrollable. For me, when I am in a full-blown-all-out-ride-or-die attack I am convinced I am dying. My body is telling me that through the physiological changes it is producing. Unnecessary bodily functions stop. Sweat begins. Pins & needles from head to toe. The racing thoughts of “oh shit help” with the loss of ability to think rationally. These are all things that would happen if you actually WERE in a scenario where you could potentially die. It’s up there with the most horrible & frightening feelings in the world. & some experience this daily. I did.

Do you know someone who suffers from anxiety? Just be there for them. Don’t tell them to calm down. PLEASE don’t roll your eyes. They can’t help it & all they probably really need is a hand to hold & calm reassurance while they ride it out. Do you suffer from anxiety or OCD? Please, seek help. In whatever form you feel comfortable with. Do not suffer in silence & do not let it control your life. I still have attacks but they are nowhere near the regularity or severity they once were. & do not be afraid of medication. It got me through a trying time in my life & is still helping me now.

Visit any of these sites or see a GP for more info: Beyond Blue, Mind Health Connect, SANE Australia.

Tagged , , , ,