Monday, September 21, 2009

iPricks and CrackBerries

I used to have a normal phone. I also used to be a normal person. Then I got an iPhone.

In my pre-iPhone days, I used to look at iPhone users with great contempt. I was once at a trivia night where me and my friends spectacularly lost - because the other teams had iPhones (although using Shazam in a 'guess what song it is' competition is quite unfair).

I was vehemently against iPhones - who needs a mini computer in their pocket? Who needs constant access to Facebook and Twitter? Do I really have to have a gazillion songs on me at any one time? Who needs to be have GoogleMaps when a street directory does the job? Oh, how the tides changed when I got one.

I now check my email every thirty minutes during waking hours. I update my Twitter over lunch (2,264 tweets and counting). I look up the weather forecast while I wait for the elevator. I check when my tram is coming when the timetable on the street sign is so clearly wrong. I am now... an iPrick. I feel the need to show my friends how much cooler my iPhone is to their un-smart phone. It's horrible.

The only people who understand us are CrackBerry addicts. Similar to iPricks, but a little more restrained (you never see them boasting, "oh look at my adorable qwerty key pad").


Epilogue: I recently competed in a scavenger hunt type for charity in the Melbourne CBD. Even with our brains and an iPhone, we were way behind the other teams. But then again the other teams looked like douche bags - they wore sports gear and literally sprinted off in no particularly direction when they race started. Oh wait...

Friday, September 18, 2009

Interspecies relations

I came across this ad for a dating agency on Facebook:



Um, no thanks. My pet doesn't need a lover. Beastiality isn't really my thing.

Recovering Goth

I am Post-Goth. No, I'm not trying to say that I hunt down little baby Mansonites and shove them down mail boxes. I'm saying that I used to be goth.


When I was fifteen, I was the only girl on the Gold Coast who wore black velvet from head to foot in the scorching summer heat. I wore pentagram jewellery. Stripey socks. Massively extended eyeliner with little pretentious dots around my eyes. Stockings that are made to look like spider webs. All my mates wore pink Billabong summer dresses, coloured Havianas and striped bikinis. Needless to say, I didn't fit in.

Fast forward seven years. I'm not goth anymore, but I can't get over this habit of wearing copious amounts of black. Black skinny leg jeans. Black summer dresses. Black jackets. Black boots. All of my lingerie is black and lacey. I'm not a fan of PJs, but when I do wear them it's usually an oversized Joy Division tee-shirt. I simply cannot understand this concept of coloured clothing.

Thank fuck I live in Melbourne.


PS I found a photo that I was going to post with this as proof... but it was just way too embarrassing.
PPS I'm referring to the baby goth stage not the lacey intimates, you pervert.

Thursday, September 17, 2009

Great Sexpectations

sex.pec.ta.tion [sek-spek-tey-shuh n]
- noun

1. the act of shaving one's legs in anticipation of sex
2. the act of hiding embarrassing soft toys (or sex toys) in one's bedroom in anticipation of sex
3. the act of buying condoms when the likelihood of sex is perceived as high
4. the act of waxing one's genitals in anticipation of sex
5. the act of witholding ejaculation for several days in anticipation of sex (men only)


Related words:
Sexceptional, sexcellent, sexercise.

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

Bite your tongue

My teeth hurt. They really hurt. I haven't been to a dentist for four years, but hey, that happens when you live out of home and your mummy and daddy don't pay for everything.

I finally figured I could afford to spend a little of my tax return on my teeth. So I randomly looked up a dentist in the Yellow Pages and made an appointment. I estimated that I can spend about $300 on my fangs.

So there I am, a poor penniless girl (as I would be since we don't have pennies per se in Australia anyway) and I look at the address I had scribbled down, and glance up at the building. It's this massive, beautiful art deco building. There are marble floors, wood interiors everywhere. The elevator doors look like they are made of copper, and list some ludicrous establishment date (I didn't know there were white people in Melbourne in 1840). The inside of the elevator is bigger than my bedroom.

When I get to the right floor, there so much security that I have to buzz reception and stare at a security camera. The receptionists all wear black uniforms with collars so sharp you could cut cheese. The other patients in the waiting room are all grannies wearing pearls and toting expensive designer bags. I resist the urge to run out screaming because my teeth just hurt so fucking much.

Then this supermodel type woman, wearing four inch stilhettos, approaches me. Turns out she's my dentist. She leads me to the 'suite'. There's a floor to ceiling water feature. There are greek-esque sculpture thingys etched on the ceiling. She opens the blinds, and to my astonishment I can physically see Melbourne Town Hall from where I'm sitting.

So here I am, trying to figure out how I managed to pick Melbourne's most expensive dental clinic. I mentally picture how empty my wallet is going to be every time she opens my mouth.

My treatment will cost me over a $1000. That's more than I make in a month. FML.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

Pimp my luggage

People laugh at me when I travel.

I get super paranoid that my luggage will get stolen so I soup up my luggage. Here are instructions on how you too can 'uglify' your baggage and ensure that your valuable tourist souvenirs don't get nicked:

  1. Fuck all that Louis Vuitton shit. The uglier the bag to begin with, the better. I'm talking really loud prints and if there are words printed in the design, awesome! If the words are in Engrish, you're really set for luggage success.
  2. Don't bother with locks. Have you heard about something called a bolt cutter? Or the fact that most airport security will have a gazillion skeleton keys, and can open your bag easily anyway? I just put one of those key ring things through the opening - they are so irritating to get off that they'll just give up.
  3. Accessorise. Old ties. Scarves. Lace. Try to make your luggage look like a eighties teenager.
  4. On an A4 sheet of paper, write your surname in bold texta, and then your contact details in biro (same as a luggage tag, you want your contact info available but not easily seen by the airport bar pervert twenty metres away).
  5. Duct tape the paper to your bag. And then duct tape the rest of your bag. Everywhere. Coloured duct tape for the win.

It'll work because no one with any dignity would be caught dead carrying this abomination of luggage, and if they do you'll spot your bondage-hot-pink-with-glitter-and-duct-tape luggage from a mile away.

Warning: losing all self-respect is necessary.