Saturday, July 25, 2009

Ex-squeeze me, tatt hurts

I have learnt how to beat pain.

I recently got my first (and very large and time consuming) tattoo. Always thought that I was a bit tough. I'd gotten surface piercings through my arm flesh that didn't hurt. Never wince when I get injections and blood tests. I knew that getting tattooed would hurt... but damn, did it hurt.

When I went for the first session, I was all jittery (from caffeine), wide-eyed (from having too much sleep) and happy (that I was finally getting tattoo). My senses were swimming. So as soon as the tattooist started to needle me, it was if every pore on my back was screaming. I was in agony. I was gripping onto the table so hard that the next day my arms felt like homebrand custard. I hobbled home like a wounded puppy.

By coincidence, the second session fell after a particularly heavy booze up. I literally rolled out of someone else's bed, still wearing clothes from the night before and plonked myself on the tattooing table. I pretty much fell asleep and didn't notice a thing.

Turns out that sometimes alcohol really is the answer.

Always interested to see what other methods people have to beat the needle. Perhaps I should get some quality weed and just get really stoned? Perhaps I should learn to meditate? Numbing gel? Bring a kitten along (apparently petting cute furry animals reduces blood pressure)? Let me know what works for you.

Friday, July 24, 2009

Feed Me Band Boys

I feel that I should explain the name of my blog. No, I'm not a cannibal. I just find musicians extremely sexually attractive. You know the type: extremely lanky, super-skinny jeans, pointy brogues, leather jacket and an artfully positioned scarf around their necks. Side swept fringe, cigarette hanging from their lips and hoisting a guitar case. The type that can be found on trams to Brunswick Street. This is why I live in Melbourne. All the boys look like musicians because it's too cold to dress like a surfer.

And have you seen a man play a guitar solo? Hello, cum face.

Thursday, July 23, 2009

Making People Uncomfortable #3

I currently live in a hell house, ahem, I mean sharehouse. It is horrible. Here are some tips for making your living situation more comfortable by making your flatmates more uncomfortable.

  • Perhaps the term 'sharehouse' makes the other tenants think that everything is for sharing? Tell them you have herpes and they'll never borrow your toothpaste again.
  • Don't just name your milk and butter in the fridge. Write intimidating threats like, "You touch my bread, I touch your boyfriend."
  • Flatmate having an argument with his/her significant other? Have really noisy, kinky sex, and show them how you do it. Sound effects like whips and chains are marvellous. A sex partner is optional.
  • If your flatmate insists on bringing her conservative parents home for dinner every weekend, insist on bringing home your cross-dressing, chain-smoking, foul-mouthed mates for Sunday roast at the same time. Should make for humorous (read: awkward) conversation.
  • If your flatmate starts getting into your cucumber/carrot/other-phallic-shaped-food-product supplies, gasp and go, "Oh, erm, my boyfriend and I, erm, carrot... never mind." Then shudder for effect.
  • Does your flatmate has a habit of watching your DVDs and CDs, but never sticks them back in the case or scratches them? Then try this: Go to an adult store. Have a look at the discounted items section (trust me, they'll have one with all the nasty 70s porn from before people started shaving). Buy the cheapest and nastiest porn you can find, and replace a normal DVD with it. This obviously only works if they are prudes. If they're perverted you may be in a sticky spot, literally.
  • Find out if your flatmate is scared of ghosts...

If you have any other weird and wonderful things you do to your flatmate, please let me know. I have another four months until my lease runs out, which is ample time to try lots of new things.

NB: If you intend on getting jiggy with any friends or relatives of your flatmate, I would not recommend trying out the herpes thing. May backfire.

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

A stinky, man-loving tofu called 'Vagina' who you can pet

Self-explanatory.



Boobface

I am a child of the Internet. Correction: I am a whore of the Internet who was practically reared on the interwebz. I remember doing a Google Image search of the Eiffel Tower when I was eight because I was going to Paris the next day.

Fast forward 14 years, and I have accounts with Facebook, Google, Twitter, MySpace, WordPress, Blogger, YouTube and a host of speciality sites. I also have an iPhone so I could even Facebook people while I'm in the loo if I wanted to (but, erm, not that I actually do). Wonderful way to keep in touch with my pals spread out all over the world, or perhaps those just too damn lazy to catch a ten minute tram ride to my place. But horrible because people keep trying to add me as a friend.

When I say 'people' I really mean 'complete strangers', and when I say 'complete strangers' I'm actually referring to sleazy 30 year old men with nothing better to do than to hit on younger women. Some of the friend requests come with derogatory comments such as, "Bang bang baby, you're hot!" or more straight to the point, "I'd smack your ass up chicka."

The next time this happens to me, my course of action is: 1. Accept friend request from sleazy stranger. 2. Set up blind date. 3. Stand them up. 4. DELETE.

Thursday, July 2, 2009

An espresso by any other name would still taste as bitter

Between 9am to 5pm, Monday to Friday, I am your regular disgruntled, disenfranchised office worker. In other words, I like my coffee.

I go through about two or three espressos a day. I like my short blacks. They're simple and uncomplicated. I have no time for super large decaffeinated make-that-a-bit-weaker-still chai lattes with skim soy milk and two pink marshmallows, but in two cups so I don't burn myself 'coffee'. I just want coffee. I didn't say I wanted a birthday cake in liquid form.

So imagine my surprise when I went into a rather famous doughnut chain that prides itself on their coffees, and ordered an espresso. "Yes, but what type of espresso?" I was perplexed. I thought an espresso was an espresso was an espresso. "No, it really depends on what country you're from. It could be a latte, a cappuccino, a mocha, a flat white-" Just pretend we're in Australia and gimme my black coffee! "Will that be a long black or short black-" A short black. "Would you like sugar with that? Or milk? Or marshmallows? Whipped cream?"

No. Just. Give. Me. My. Espresso. For. I. Am. Caffeine. Deprived. Or. Your. Fourteen. Year. Old. Barista. Gets. It.


PS What further infuriates me about said coffee shop is its staff's complete and utter failure at stamping loyalty cards. They don't seem to comprehend that I should get a stamp in the circle numbered '1' on my first cup. And then a stamp in the circle numbered '2' for my second cup, and so on. It seems like they enjoy randomly stamping little doughnut shapes all over my loyalty card, then telling me that I've have already redeemed all my free coffees and am now making up for the ones I have to pay for. What?