That's What Love Is... A Classy Post

My room is currently a mess. It is so fucking messy it's disgusting. I wake up and have a little vom because of how messy it is. I don't clean it up.

The other night I gave my friend a lift home on the condition she stay friends with me despite the state of my car, which is similar to that of my bedroom. She responded with her belief that we were in a contract of unconditional love. This contract was apparently signed (metaphorically of course as neither of us were in a position to hold a pen, much less use one) during an incident in which one of us was found sleeping fully clothed in a bathtub and the other convinced them their parents would not be sad should they die. Foundations stronger than the liquid of Jupiter*.

As comforting as it was to know that we will forever be bound in the ties of friendship there is something to be said for conditional love. Conditional love tells me I am awesome, except for when it isn't given in which case unconditional love is better. Mum says she loves me unconditionally... Except for when I rap. I hardly think telling her to "Drop it like the NASDAQ" constitutes her revoking her love, or unconditional love can have exceptions, but she still buys me presents on occasion so who am I to question?

I guess next time I want someone to love me forever I'll just get drunk in a bathtub.

*Very strong. Look it up.

I got it from my Mama.

Did anyone have a Feral Cheryl doll as a kid? She had piercings, tattoos and underarm hair. I had one. So did my best friend. To be fair we went to the Steiner school so alternative playthings were really to be expected. I've googled her but none of the dolls I have found were quite as Feral as mine was. I have a sneaking suspicion that my mum made adjustments to her.

My mother once went through a book titled 'Farmer Fred' and added an 'a' to every 'Fred' so I didn't grow up with restricted gender schemata. You know what Freda? Us ladies can do anything!!! Now I can eat a sandwich, play spart (is that the right word for that "fun excersise''* thing people play in teams? I've not had to use it before) and impregnate bitches. Wassuuuuup.



*An oxymoron if ever I've seen one.

I cant do one thing, I'm just too good. I cant do one thing, I am Tiger Woods. I make your science hotter than a lighter would.

Sometimes, in an effort to be badass I wear tights on their own, put rap music on and do my assignments the day before they're due. Unfortunately when writing about buffer solutions and listening to Lil Wayne profess his love for lady parts, I have the inexplicable urge to talk about how bitches love my pH probe. I'm sure that one day one of those science types are going to open my assignment and vomit at the things I have written about neutralising their solution. Maybe, in ten years I'll be giving a lecture on elephants (because that's a very likely career path after a B. Arts) and I'll say "An elephant never forgets... So my dick remembers everything."

That would be awkward.

Manopause

At a certain time in any woman's life, her fertility marks its demise through various symptoms. These include hot flashes, irregular cycles and taking offence when daughters feign intellectual disability. My mum is a pretty ace lady. She works, has popped out two children and it only took her three and a half years to figure out how to turn the telly on without assistance. She doesn't need help on the whole menopause front. She's a woman. Women can handle that shit.

Men however, cannot. It was no shock when Dad began complaining about the heat, I thought he was aiming to prove the existence of global warming. What I did not expect was the stomach pains, weight consciousness and sudden interest in the plot of Brothers and Sisters- which, by the way, is as much of an emotional roller coaster as menopause itself. I've heard of sympathy pregnancy- in fact I often get a chuckle out of the image of my dad singing to his inflated belly- but sympathy menopause has never been on telly, so of course I had no way of knowing it existed.

After much consultation with other dad-havers*, it has become apparent that my situation is not an isolated incident. Universally, dad's are struggling with sleep deprivation, mood swings and general grumpiness. I'm not sure if this phenomenon is a mid-life crisis for those who think that it is poor taste to drive a red sports car whilst wearing leopard print or is just sympathy for the women in their lives. I'm likely to believe the latter. I mean, Dad has achieved offspring of this calibre... Crisis averted.

Having come to the conclusion that Dad was going through sympathy menopause for Mum, I thought I'd show him some support and get some sympathy symptoms of my own. I stormed through the house yelling about cleaning products, cried during Australia's Got Talent and began** eating twice the amount of food anybody should ever consume. Judging from the response I received, Dad was after no moral support. Bloody trooper.

This is for Dads; the silent sufferers. May your phantom uterine pains leave as quickly as my dignity did when I mentioned watching Brothers and Sisters.

*Read: one conversation with a friend.

**Read: continued.

Registered Readers Only

Apparently we are all being monitored. According to the gods of propaganda our IP address, real life address, credit card number, age and genital size can be listed by the government, foreigners and tech savvy pedophiles at the drop of a hat. These 'big brothers' aren't putting their knowledge to very good use- if everyone knows everything about me then why do I have to continually register to vote, drive, work, not work and why do I have to give someone my credit card number every time I win a million dollars on the internet?!? Next time I have to fill in a registration form, I'm just going to write "Google that shit!"; or maybe if they seem like the type to go for the underdog, "Bing that shit!"

That being said, there is one situation in which it is beneficial to register. Gift time! Unfortunately, I have never been eligible to do this as apparently "It's my birthday" or "I'd like some presents for being nice" aren't good enough reasons to. I think that they are better than "I'm getting married" or "My uterus is full" but society seems to disagree.

Really, I deserve to register for gifts. Believe me when I say that I have paid my bad gift dues. I once received a second hand tennis trophy with my name scratched into the plaque from my brother. He knows knows full well that I'm not good at any sport- particularly tennis. Rub salt in the wound asshole. My eco friendly Mother gave me a jumper made from recycled beach towels. 'nuff said*. I wore it once because we were having spaghetti bolognese for dinner and I wanted to stain it. Success.

These presents were slightly off centre but I could tell that they came from the right place. I'm sure my brother was trying to show me a world where I was good at sports and at least the jumper didn't destroy the Earth. Often in gifts you can see that somebodies heart is in the right place but this next gift- my all time favourite- shocked me to my core. My boss must think that I am a twelve-year-old Dwight Schrute (Yes I watch the American office; the humour is easier and it has a happy ending- deal with it) because for christmas last year she gave me a five headed, hand painted, hand glittered dragon. I shit you not.

It is my birthday soon. I expect gifts. If you can't think of any good ones; just google that shit.

*It was very thoughtful Mum. Thank you.

To Mock A Bird Killing

I work at a market. In a tacky hand-painted glass stall. I have to get up at 6 am on Sunday. It is done only because I am poor. I'll be honest with you; the less-than-amazing pay, the babysitting* and the really long days suck but some of the weirdos that I meet through this crazy place make the whole thing worthwhile (that and $150 cash). After all, it's nice to have a little chortle at the oddities of others. Really really glaring oddities that keep you on the chortle all week. This is my favourite:

We sell one piece in the entire stall that is not glass. It is a pair of metal foul. One rooster and one duck. They scream class. One day a lady came up to me, presumedly to ask me about prices or how the materials are made; often people become blind to price tags if they don't really like them. Sometimes they decide to become blind to me incase I should try to push them into a sale. This must appear to be a very likely possibility given my obvious enthusiasm and sales hungry choice of career. I used to use a much more friendly approach to customers and ask about how their days were progressing but I would more often than not get a response that indicated that I had threatened to kill them with a spoon rather than ask about their day. I digress.

Instead of asking about pricing (or about my day, the bitch) this woman proceeds to tell me a story. Pointing to the aluminium friends of a feather she informs me that she used to have a best friend who was a rooster. Insert long and strange pause here. "But then I killed him''. I didn't really know what to say so I stuttered out "That's no good". The conversation continued:

Strange Rooster Killer "Of course it's not! I was very cross with him, so I locked him in the shed. It was very hot, but I was so cross that I left him there. I left him in there the whole day because I was so cross. He suffocated in the heat." She then left.

I couldn't really tell if she killed him on purpose but I knew she felt the matter was quite serious. It will always be a mystery what foul thing the bird did to make her so angry. Maybe he made a comment about her age; after all, she was no spring chicken.

*read: looking after my bosses incredibly spoilt and unlikable child- much like her mother- for free

The Seven Deadly Sins

I saw a television program the other day where a man said that he thought the seven deadly sins had become irrelevant to our society. I decided to, in my infinite wisdom, prove the bugger wrong. Following; I have written 7 (very very short) poems to illustrate the very real prevalence of these sins in our society. They are all very serious and should be taken as such.

Always Greener

My neighbour bought a swimming pool,

So I bought a swing.

My neighbour talks quite frequently,

So I learnt to sing.

My neighbour bought a little dog;

I bought a Great Dane.

My neighbour planted fields of wheat;

I learnt to process grain.

My neighbour bought a second dog,

So I had a second child.

My neighbour got a cold one day,

So I up and died.

The Gluttonous Goldfish

The goldfish Graham sat

At the bottom of his tank.

He’d eaten so much yesterday

To the bottom he had sank.

His lovely owner Isabelle

Fed him every day

She wanted him to dance for her

She wanted him to play

But all he did was lie around

And wait till he was fed

So she gave him all the supplements

That popped into her head.

One day she gave him caffeine

And eighteen little sweets

He ate them all with gusto.

She then gave him cured meats.

After he had finished,

He felt his tummy burst

And as he died, he gurgled

“I’d have danced for liverwurst”

The Wrath of Randy

Randy was a robot.

He was programmed to be cross.

His mantra, announced daily

Was “RAN.DY. IS. THE. BOSS.*”

He had no formed religion

He never understood

Why people would not serve him

Because he thought they should.

He saw them care for trees

He frowned a metal frown

Then Randy got quite angry

And burnt the trees all down.

He saw them feed their animals

And some big, fat, greedy fish

So he planned to kill them too,

Then he could get his wish.

For people to serve him,

He’d have to kill each one

So he’d find them in the water…

And have a little fun.

Randy was a robot,

In the water, he jumped in.

He forgot he would short circuit

Showing; robots should not sin.

Buzz

Penny lay about all day,

She longed to sleep;

But not to play.

She went to lie beneath a tree,

And went to sleep

From ten till three.

She woke to see a small black fly.

This fly he flew,

He flew so high.

As he flew down,

She sat up

And watched him on a

Buttercup.

A breeze then blew.

The fly flew south.

And popped into

Her open mouth.

Inventory

The lunches cost five thousand.

The suits then cost 3 more.

The ceiling was repainted;

We reorganised the floor.

The finance manager makes

Ten thousand every week,

But if you count embezzlement,

I beat the little geek.

The lunches cost twelve hundred.

I stole my boss’s suits.

My cousin did the ceiling;

I paid him in beetroots.

The lawyer came to meet today,

She has a stunning fee.

She better get me off this charge,

It better be tax free.

On the Table

Petra was wheeled quickly

To the operating room.

In the lobby waited anxiously

Her soon-to-be bridegroom.

The scalpel cut her open.

Then she was stitched back up.

She was wheeled back to her bed,

To eat a jelly cup.

Her bandages were set

To come off in a month

To show her face in public

Would be quite truly uneath.**

Eventually in time,

The bandages were stripped

And out from underneath came her

New nose, pointy tipped.

The Birds & the Bees

The bird and the bee

Sat up in the tree

And peered in each other’s eyes

Said the bird to the bee

“Well darling, really;

I thought you’d be more into flies.”

Said the bee to the bird,

“My love, have you heard

That flies do not have your brains

I was really more worried

That you would have flurried

For my house floods each time it rains.”

The bird was so flattered.

Her fears had been shattered.

The bee seemed to love her back.

The bee continued,

“My love, I need you.

That, and you’ve got a great rack.”

*Said in robot voice

**Month rhymes with uneath (a very obscure and now archaic word meaning 'difficult' or 'not easily (borne, or done)'

The poem ‘Buzz’ refers to sloth, 'Always Greener' to jealousy, ‘The Gluttonous Goldfish’ to gluttony, ‘Inventory’ to greed, ‘The Wrath of Randy’ to wrath, ‘On the Table’ to vanity and ‘The Birds & the Bees’ to lust.

So there you have it kids. The seven sins really are deadly!