The Wealth Of Experience.

There is a theory that says girls seek boys who are either the epitome or the antithesis of their father. RG, the man who once had to explain to me that Muppet’s aren’t real, is the strongest man I have ever met.

The bar was set when I was still obsessed with monkey bars.

“I can lift cars above my head,” onceuponamissingachromosome winked.

“As far as you are concerned, I am a Hummar,” I blinked back.

In an objective world, all of the boys that I have dated don’t add up to an ounce of my papa’s strength.

 

But, man, were they ever so pretty.

 

RG left home when he was fifteen. His mother had a philosophy saying children were adults by the time they reached one-five (much like airlines and cinemas, really). With no formal education, guidance or money, he moved from New Zealand (who wouldn’t?) to Australia and started his empire, including Me.

Twelve years later, he had made his first million dollars. And then I was born. And then he lost it (Aside: I searched and searched under the couch). And then he made it back.

“I may have had to sometimes drink cask wine,” he once told me. “But I have always had tenacity.”

 

Many people try to analyse my reluctance for a relationship as if I am completely unaware of my own behaviour and/or actions.

“Fear”, “Immaturity” and “arrogance” are words often used to describe my decisions. And while there is certainly a place for certain linguistics (see onceuponamissingachromosome), the application of ignorance in my own life is nothing if not incorrect. Sometimes I wish that life was black and white, and simple assertions were true. Because then I would have more time to think about really pretty boys (see onceuponamissingachromosome) rather than Why they are only pretty and nothing more. However, for the majority of time, I am gleeful that there are complex human beings and complex reasons for Why we do what we do.

Then real beauty can be appreciated.

 

I was eleven years old the first time I enquired, “Where did I come from?” My mother recoiled at the idea of explaining to me that I was adopted and/or the stork brought me. But my dad sent me to bed with a copy of both “Atlas Shrugged” and “The Bible”.

“Read and compare,” he advised.

The next day, while all of my friends where doing the Dolly magazine quiz and researching how to give the perfect blow job, I was delving into a world of mystery, intrigue and mind boggling questions and, thus, intuitively knew that frivolous sex would Have To Do, as who has time for a relationship in between Leviticus and The Book of Psalms? 

When I later asked RG for an increase in my pocket money, I was imprisoned to reading “Animal Farm” and, thus, didn’t eat bacon for three years.

 

If life is the war we have to fight, there is certainly something to be said about being lead into battle by a true leader. RG is Julius Caesar to my Russell Crowe-circa-Gladiator.

It isn’t about having someone who provides answers, encouragement and an endless supply of scotch. We can get that from a book. It is about the unique privilege to know someone who inhabits just what a human being is actually capable of.

Some people have to search their entire lives to find it. I am not going to mock privilege by ignoring what I have at my disposal. I wish everyone was as lucky as me.

 

The first time I said, “I hate you!” to RG, he said it back to me and then sent me to my bedroom with no pocket money and a decrepit edition of “Oliver Twist”.

“I can’t wait until you are an adult and you are a tolerable human being,” he told me when I was eighteen [and again when I was twenty-three].

If I had a dollar for every time I said, “I love you” to my dad, I would not have had the order to read “The Wealth Of Nations”.

 

Having high standards in The Dating World can be difficult. Society can be a variable farm of pretty but fearful, immature or arrogant people. I once dated a physically beautiful creature who enquired who Freud was after one of my frequent Freudian slips.

“Someone you would probably get along with,” I suggested before sending him to bed with a copy of “Sexuality And The Psychology Of Love”.

 

As I find myself attracted to yet another boy who I only know to be pretty, I can’t help but ask myself, “What will it take to learn from my mistakes?”

There doesn’t seem to be a book [yet] that I can go to bed with to explain that our twenties are all about learning lessons the hard way. Maybe in twelve years I will know better.

In the mean time, a boy will just have to suffice.

 

 

Quirks And Jerks.

I have a massive snake phobia. Which is ironic, really.

I can’t look at them in pictures in books, on television, on cinema screens and the last time I was at a [real] zoo, my grade eight science teacher threatened to fail me if I didn’t walk through the supermaket-like snake display so that I could watch and observe the pretty birds.

“Knock yourself out,” I hysterically wailed while stamping my feet and experiencing anxiety over-taking my body like an Irish jig. “Aren’t I failing anyway?”

It turns out I was and so the scientist left me alone in the outdoors to watch birds in their natural habitat and fight off a heart-attack while my peers walked past Snakes On A Wall and observed what a bird does in a cage (Aside: Apparently, nothing).

 

Airplanes [and sex] are the only time[s] in life when I am completely anxiety-free.

“Aren’t you worried about it crashing?” My much more logical friend asked. It took a moment to work out what she was referring to. “The whole death-in-a-metal-tube issue.”

Oh. Airplanes. I have only been sober two times while on an airplane. I once saw an elephant in the aisle. My sex stories somewhat correlate. 

“If it goes into the ground like a fucking dart, there is literally nothing I can do about it.”

“So, why the calmness?”

“Snakes can’t fly.”

 

When Snakes On A Plane debuted on cinema screens, I boycotted all media for two months.

“Did you see that earthquake in Japan?” I recall RG asking.

“I haven’t watched the news in five and a half weeks.”

RG quickly chastised me and concluded that ignorance for the sake of anxiety is arrogant. I compromised by watching “Strawberry Shortcake” and not screaming every time Sour Grapes and her pet snake Dregs came into animation.

“Baby steps.”

 

I look at calm, cool and collected people with admiration and animosity.
“How is it possible to wear white and not spill on it?” I am genuinely interested.

I wonder what these people who don’t accidentally burn holes into their jeans when they smoke, who actually own a hairbrush and who never get angry at an inanimate object and pour their milkshake over it, do with all of their free time.

It seems possible (and logical?) to assume that I could be one of these people if I was constantly cruising at thirty-thousand feet with an unnatural oxygen supply. (Aside: Hello Marlboro Lights. What a coincidence!) Or having regular sex. 

 

But if I didn’t have a mild and totally controllable form of OCD I, quite frankly, would be bored.

My clothes would not be coordinated in my wardrobe based on colour, size and style. My puppy would not get exactly fifty-five cuddles per day. And, lets be real, that light switch isn’t going to touch itself every time I leave the room.

 

“What the Hell are you doing?” AM deadpanned as she caught me standing in front of the refrigerator, perusing the contents, while I stood with my legs at exactly shoulder width apart and curling my tongue in a perfectly symmetrical motion.

“Relaxing.”

“You are weird,” she shook her head. I noticed it was an even four times.

“We talked about this. It is called ‘Quirky’.”

 

Every person in the world has some weird-ass quirks that shock the Hell out of You when discovered. I once dated a guy who only wanted to have sex with me when I was sleeping…And have since wondered if it was a quirk, am I that unbearable or is it simply Completely Fucked Up?

I love people because I love getting to know these things. Good or bad, I adore differentiation. Every time I get to know a new quality about a new person is like walking into a room and turning on a light repeatedly: You see things clearly for a moment, and then you don’t, and then you do, and then you don’t.

I don’t care for the social pretence of politeness, as it quickly makes everyone more generic and ignorance for the sake of politeness is arrogant.

 

My new obsession is a twenty-nothing boy I have never spoken to but have spent an exact amount of even hours picturing naked.

“What the Hell are you doing?” my boy friend deadpanned as he caught me observing Him like a monkey in a [real] zoo.

“Relaxing. I just need to find a way to talk to him.”

“Just find out if he finds you more attractive when you are sleeping,” I was warned. “Because that is just weird.”

Or maybe it is just quirky and I need to hibernate? 

Which is ironic, really. 

Bringing Sexy Back.

I frequently walk past a girl whose fashion staple is her butt cheek.

In the library, getting hot chocolate, standing at a bar, it doesn’t seem to matter where, said girl wears anything that shows off what one can only assume is her best feature.

“Every time I see her, I want to cry,” I told boy friend.

“Now, come on, don’t be mean. She could be the nicest, smartest, most fabulous person in the world.”

“I am willing to give her the benefit of the doubt,” I conceded. “But sweetheart: She is wearing the wrong uniform.”

 

I have always struggled with dressing to accentuate my best feature. Mainly – but by no means limited to – because I have no idea what it is. With some people it is obvious: boobs, shoulders, legs, butt cheeks.

Personally, I just wear a hat and hope that someone notices I have a brain.

 

Watching girls who enjoy public displays of Butt Cheek Accessorizing is one of my favorite pastimes. While my boy friend’s ogle, I have plenty of time to put on my thinking hat and come up with hypothetical positive reasons for her outfit choice.

“Laundry day?”

“It is too hot to wear pants?”

“Easy access?”

“You are thinking about it far too much,” boy friend warned. “It is about attention. Nothing more.” He went back to watching her pick up dropped coins and I conceded that he must be correct.

 

No one accidently leaves the house without wearing pants…Right?

 

Ever since I can remember (Aside: Real Time = Nine Days), I have been on a one girl mission to bring back The Tracksuit Pant.

“Ah yes. Elasticized waists. The wardrobe of geniuses,” boy friend mocked when I declared my goal. I once lived with a Swedish Boy who would return home from tracksuit infested days out in public and wail, “I mean, really, how hard is it to put on jeans?”

Apparently, for both me and Butt Cheek Girl, it is very hard.

 

When Dolce & Gabbana recently debuted their new collection of pyjama-inspired evening wear, I finally forgave the fashion world for inventing Donatella Versace and pleather pants.

“Imagine!” I exclaimed. “Flannel and high heels!”

I immediately started actually washing my tracksuit pants in the laundry, anticipating an upcoming formal event where I will want to be both fashion forward and ready for nap time.

“Does one wear underpants or go commando when sexing-up fleece?” boy friend enquired.

“Oh sweetheart,” I winked. “I am bringing sexy back.”

He rolled his eyes until they landed on a genuine army girl in all of her glory.

 

With both fashion and dignity on my side, I put on my commando tracksuit pants and went out in public to buy my morning hot chocolate.

“People in the neighborhood must think you are homeless,” AM scoffed after observing my tracksuit-pants-dinner-jacket-mismatched-socks-aviator-sunglasses ensemble. I grabbed my hat to create a diversion and dress for my body type.

I strolled past the girls in bikinis and the guys staring at them. I sauntered past the runners and the surfers mocking them. I walked past a beautiful male aberration of nature and tripped on the footpath and dropped my cigarette. I bent over to pick it up.

“RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIP,” I heard something. I walked a little further. I felt something. Air. On my butt cheeks. I did one of those smooth-yet-subtle-turns – much like one a runway – to investigate what had happened: My favorite, ten-year-old, thinning but beloved tracksuit pants had split. Right down the middle. Five hundred meters from my house.

 

When I was little, I never had the nightmares of arriving to school naked. I just always knew that I wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave the house without pants on.

But the feeling of standing beside a highway, in front of a coffee house that my sexual past inexplicitly frequents, with wind blowing over my bare ass, would have benefited from some mental preparation.

Shocked at the new reality of walking home wearing assless chaps, I stood against a wall, gathered my thoughts, desperately tried to stop tears of laughter and wondered What The Fuck I Was Going To Do.

Suicide, frankly, was the only option. I lit two cigarettes in a row in the hope of an immediate oxygen deficiency.

“Sall!” Onceuponaneveragain called out from across the path. “I haven’t seen you in ages!” He observed my outfit and my butt cheeks pressed against the concrete wall. “So…You look well.”

“My pants have split open and my bottom is on display,” I wailed. I figured that I was pantless the last time I saw him. There are no secret.

He gave me the same look he gave me months ago: “Were you dropped as an infant or are you just naturally stupid?”

 

Finally alone, I put my thinking hat to good use. I lit [another] cigarette, took off my Fedora and held it against my butt.

And then I shuffled for five hundred meters like a penguin.

 

Back home, I mourned the death of my favorite pants, decided that I need a new goal and put on my new uniform of jeans.

It really wasn’t that hard.

All Day I Dream About Sex.

I had a dream that I was in a lesbian relationship.

“What the fuck?” My Friend exclaimed. “You were in a relationship?”

But when it came down to going down, I couldn’t do it and the relationship ended.

“It may be the first time that sex has ever stopped me from doing something,” I pondered.

And then I woke up.

Friend ignored me. “Do you want to go get sushi for lunch?”

 

I kissed a girl once out of eighteen-year-old innocent curiosity. But I didn’t like it. It happened in a toilet cubical of a nightclub bathroom, our boyfriends were waiting outside drinking beer and possibly hypothesizing why girls always need to go to public restrooms together and we were interrupted by someone requesting toilet paper. 

When I told my then-boyfriend that his fantasies were a reality, he wasn’t mad.

“Would it have bothered you if I had been making out with a guy in the bathroom?” I enquired.

“Of course!”

If nothing else, it is nice to know that there is a loophole in monogamy.

 

I have never been interested in bisexuality. Part of me thinks that it would be too confusing to bare and the other part of me thinks that it is just one step away from bestiality. A very big step, but a step none the less.

One small step for man, but a giant leap from mankind.

So to speak. 

 

“The closest I have ever come to real bisexuality was when I was attracted to a grown man dressed as a pussy cat while I was watching “Cats” the musical.”

“When was the last time you had sex?” Friend was flabbergasted over the sushi lunch. “Sdfkjsldfkjlsdf,” I mumbled.

“Pardon?”

“Over A Month Ago.”

“A dream about lesbians, attraction to felines and now no sex for a month. Who the Hell are you?”

“Numb.”

 

After one hasn’t had sex for a long time (Aside: Long Time = Three Weeks Plus), everything starts to appear attractive. Twenty-year-olds, thirty-year-olds, redheads…

“Sometimes it really bothers me that I have standards,” I said in between mouthfuls of fish. “Sometimes I just want to be that fire-breathing whore that I am often perceived to be. It would certainly make life a lot easier.”

“What about Him?” My friend turned into My Pimp, pointing to anyone in the restaurant with a penis. “Or him? He looks starving and artist-like. Or him? Oh him?”

“No. No. No. No. No. And Hell No.”

“Ok then Miss-Suddenly-I-Have-Run-Out-Of-Men-And-Like-Men-In-Leotards. What about her?”

I stared at the girl in question. I took another bite of sushi and swallowed.  

 

When I gave up alcohol for a month, I learnt so many important lessons, felt liberated by the process and considered staying sober for the next seventy years. Over thirty days without sex, however, is a little bit different. For one thing, smoking a joint is actually going to work in the opposite way. Ironically, sex was my distraction from alcohol. And, right now, there isn’t enough scotch in the world. 

I am [obviously] a huge advocate for the importance of sex. I think it is fun, refreshing, appealing, lovely, exciting, enjoyable, hot, interesting, challenging, intense, aerobic, joyful, energetic, romantic, hilarious, educational, fun, fun, fun, fun and anything else that is even remotely an adjective for Fun. As far as I am concerned, everyone should be having sex all the time.

Why not? No one questions if someone watches television for three hours every night. Why would anyone have the audacity to question the act of [very frequent] sex? 

 

But with absolutely no sex in sight (sound, touch or taste), I went for a run.

 “If NASA gave me a good iPod playlist and a pair of ADIDAS, I swear I could run to the moon right about now.”

“So…What is stopping you?”

It would be one small step for man. But a giant leap for mankind.

So to speak. 

Full Of Shit.

I was standing in a public bathroom surrounded by naked girls for thirty minutes and no one had spoken.

“Can you please help me put on my shirt?” A pair of Double-D’s politely spoke up. I obliged.

After she had broken the ice, I realized that it was my turn to make conversation. And maybe a friend.

“I just can’t get the smell of manure off of me,” I offered. “I think I am going to perpetually smell like cow poo for the remainder of my natural life.”

I waited for a response. A, “Yes, me to”. A giggle.  A, “I use soap.” Anything, really.

She left, a mute, and I stood alone, naked, smelling like shit.

 

I don’t know how to make Small Talk. Big Talk I am fine with.

“How are you?” someone may ask.

“Did you know that the collective term for tadpoles is a Cloud of Tadpoles?” I may inexplicitly reply.

I can even do Sex Talk rather well, as I have found that both “Yes” and “I can put my leg behind my head” (Read: I can’t) work exceptionally well during the initial meeting of a fellow person.

 

But Small Talk – the need to fill the air with sound to avoid an awkward silence – is lost on me. But I see other people do it successfully all of the time.

“Hi!”

“Hello.”

“How are you?”

“Fine. And you?”

“Fantastic. I just had a bottle of vodka for breakfast and feel like I could take over the world…”

I observe these types of people (Read: normal people) and I am envious at their ease of communicating with a stranger. And enjoying vodka for breakfast.

 

I am often referred to as an Ice Queen in new social situations. It is an apt description, really, and if I actually spoke in these instances I would possibly try and dispute it. But, instead, I sit back, observe, and wait for the conversation to turn to politics, philosophy or, well, sex before I decide to speak.

 

“Why don’t you just practice asking little questions when you are faced with new people?” My mother offered as advice.

“Because I just don’t care,” I responded.

“Just a simple ‘How are you’ or a ‘What did you do today’ is all it takes.”

“But I just don’t care.”

I am not lying. As unpopular is it may (Read: does) make me, Small Talk signifies pleasantries that I really could not care less about. I completely understand that a stranger does not care that I spent forty-five minutes trying to scrub the smell of cow poop off my leg, just like I don’t care that He/She bought strawberry jam and then had a picnic at lunch time. I am much more interested in Their opinion on the period of Enlightenment. Or how They would stop Japanese whaling. Or if they want tomorrows breakfast scrambled or sunny-side-up.

 

I don’t have anyone in my life I would call an acquaintance. I have friends, people I have sat and observed silently for forty-five minutes and people I have slept with. I ask my friends big questions and try to get to know them as best I can. I listen to the ones I observe [and possibly become friends/sleep with them at a later date]. But I don’t waste conversation on people I am not interested in. Nor do I want it in return.

 

The way I see it, there are [currently] six billion people on the planet. The average person lives for eighty years. These types of numbers do not bode well for anyone attempting to acquaint with an enviable portion of the population. So, instead of fighting nature, mathematics and my own personality, I focus on the five, six, ten or twenty people I do love and respect and dedicate my conversation [and Big Talk] to them.

Of course, there is a need to meet people, but I have found that people who want to Really get to know each other forgo small talk anyway.

 

Small Talk, therefore, was merely invented for people who simply need to fill the air with sound to avoid an awkward silence. Because asking, “How are you?” and not caring is far more acceptable and polite than ignoring and focusing on the person you actually are interested in.

 

I sat in my favorite bar In The World enjoying a scotch for breakfast.

“That seems like a very big meal for such a small girl,” a boy asserted as he sashayed past me carrying beers.

I smiled, nodded and returned back to my book.

“What are you doing later?” He enquired.

 

I wanted to tell him that I would be investigating the staying powers of manure scents. But, like everyone else, I figured that he just wouldn’t give a shit.

 

Welcome to the Third Dimension

My ex-boyfriend called me emotionally withholding. I didn’t dispute him.
“Maybe you can tell someone everything about yourself in three months,” I retorted. “I can not.”
I always wondered what he wanted to find out[?].
Would he have been satisfied if I had let him in on my secret life as a David-Letterman-guest-as-i-sit-in-the-shower?
Did he want to know that I once read “How To Make Love Like A Porn Star” and finished it feeling deflated because it didn’t tell me how to make love like a porn star?
Or was he curious about the deep, dark and often secret twitches that make me (read: all of us) tick?

Whether we let people in on it or not, we are all three dimensional creatures. Technically, to get to know all dimensions, it takes a life time. We don’t even know them ourselves for a significant portion of our existence. Intead, we choose the parts that we know/are comfortable with and wrap it in to a sweet little package that results in Social Interaction.
For example, when you are trying to pick up a guy/girl, you don’t talk about your much-thought-out-theory on the economic reforms of corn farmers. And, if you do…hopefully you enjoy stretching out in a bed while you sleep. Alone.
Similarly, if you are trying to get a job reforming the economic climate of corn farmers, you don’t tell Old McDonald about the time you skipped the bill on a Thai prostitute. And, if you do…hopefully you enjoying stretching out on a bed of nails. As it will be all you will be able to afford to sleep on as unemployment sinks in.

My point is that as honest as we want (or try) to be, we all (should) understand the social construct of what is appropriate to talk about and what isn’t.
I didn’t feel that it was appropriate to tell my then-boyfriend that my biggest fear is decpetion by ignorance.
Similarly, he didn’t feel that it was appropriate to tell me that he had another girlfriend.
Which is ironic, really.

Instead, we each put out a two-dimensional version of ourselves – which was enough to serve the immediate purpose we individually had, and we both got what we wanted.
Me: Sex.
Him: Lots of sex with different people.

The actual and realistic premise isn’t negative. If everyone just offered everything of themselves initially, Social Interaction would be boring. And ignorant. Because people are complex. And it is impossible to get a perfect interpretation of an individual in any graspable amount of time. I firmly believe that there are two types of people in the world: those who ignore their complexities and those whoindulge them. The latter have the benefit of being aware of how far They need to dig when in contact with anyone else.

This whole concept makes all initial contact a clean slate.

I once sat in a bar and talked to a middle-aged man who eventually revealed that he had done time for murder.
“An exboyfriend?” I inquired.
FYI: Don’t make inappropriate jokes to someone who has admitted to having no issue with ending life.

Going into the conversation – which started with each of us sitting in the bar alone and then discovering a common interest of laughing at drunk people trying to walk – I had no idea that He had killed a human. Evidently, he didn’t come with a warning. I had no pretense that he may have killed a man. And it was never in my reality to think of it until he said it.
After I found out the piece of trivia, I [politely] ended the conversation and run to the hills flapping my arms (Read: Caught a cab home and stretched across my bed. Alone). I don’t know if that was a right or a wrong reaction. But I do know that as soon as I found out that He was a three-dimensional person, I decided that the third dimension wasn’t for me.

And this is why we hold ourselves back: for fear of rejection over who we really are. We test people, sometimes for years, before Really letting them in and allowing them to discover who we are.
Some people, like, apparently murderers, work on a different time frame. But every killers thirty minutes is a commitment-phobes three months. Right?

I encourage honesty because I think that it will eradicate judgement and instigate real discussions, perceptions and relationships. But I also encourage mystery. It is the weird paradox that probably helps make me into athree dimensional human being. Because complex things don’t always make sense. And we don’t always embrace them. But to ignore the complexities of human nature makes us ignorant by deception.

I stood in a bar drinking a scotch by myself, waiting for the next Blues & Roots band to begin.
“I saw you from across the grass,” a boy approached, “and I looked at you wearing your aviator sunglasses and I thought ‘she looks like Tom Cruise’.”
“Oh.” I had no reply. I have never been compared to a scientologist before.
“Tell me something about yourself,” he insisted.
“I sit in my shower pretending to be interviewed by David Letterman,” I offered.
“Really?” He seemed satisfied. “I watch porn seven times a day. At least.”

Maybe I didn’t give him enough information. Apparently, it takes a lot to satisfy him.

But, in reality, it should take a lot to satisfy any complex person.

You just have to choose who to let into round three.

The Ghosts Of Boyfriends Past.

Remember the times when the hills were alive with the sound of music? This was before MTV resurrected them and made them walk around like zombies carrying Marc Jacobs totes.

It was kind of an innocent time. But, then again, I was seven-years-old the first time I saw “The Sound Of Music” and everything feels innocent by comparison.

 

At this point I swear I even drink water in a sexually suggestive manner.

 

I don’t like to blame pop culture for destroying Generation X, Y, Z or anything else born at the same time as the Tamagochie. I am rooted much more on the thought of, what came first? The chicken or the MTV?

To say that Madonna, a music channel and those crazy kids at that 90210 zip-code had the power to inspire the lives and lingo of generations is giving them far too much power, in my opinion. And African orphans aside, why does Madonna need any more power?

 

Songwriters and screenwriters are inspired by something, anything. Mostly, life. And so what we see on the screen must be a direct influence of something in real life. Right?

To say that songwriters and screenwriters are creative enough to pull puns and lesbian dramas out of thin air is giving them far too much power, in my opinion. And does anyone who wrote the lyric “Hit Me Baby One More Time” deserve any more power? I think Rihanna would say No.

 

While I was raised on a nun babysitting 845566 (or similar) kids and some other children being saved by the bell (or similar), I am joining in the post-Tamagochie generation and allowing myself to be educated (and raised) by MTV. A channel that, ironically, isn’t alive with music.

 

I tried to resist it as long as possible. But then I noticed that I had no idea what everyone was saying at the playground (read: bar). The lingo and puns sounded so foreign to me. I assume there was a similar problem when the dictionary was invented.

 

My ex-boyfriend features on the new season of “The Hills”.

Sometimes I think that there is a pod in a basement breeding things for me to date. But that could just be the plot of a movie. Or a line from a song. I am not sure. Who knows at this point?

 

I didn’t see His debut into Generation Z-list stardom personally. But every living thing I have ever met on the West Coast of America (Estimate: 845566 boys. And two girls.) contacted me to inform me of his appearance.

“Did you see [Mr. LA]?”

“He has a molestastache!”

“He is drinking shots with just one boy in a bar.” I hope that was my influence.

Over fifteen people were excited that someone infamous in my life was having His fifteen minutes of fame.

 

My last boyfriend turned out to be so horrible that I often brainstormed ways to get him deported. It turned out that he did it himself and, thus, exceeded the only expectation I ever set for him. But Mr. LA has always been different. I have often said, “Everyone in the world should get to meet him, if only for fifteen minutes.” And now, thanks to a Warholian prediction, that just may be the case.

 

But the medium does concern me. Once upon a time there were screenwriters to make people appear intelligent or act like fools. Now, with reality TV left to its own devices, and we have real people coming up with real material.

Can we get an apt description of who are person really is when they are the ones telling the story?

Do we really want to give Regular People credit for what happens next in this crazy little thing we call society?

 

Imagine putting a monkey in charge of a puppet…

 

Now we are on the same page.

 

Some people spend years trying to escape the sight of their loves of the past. Other people never want to forget them. After finding out that I could actually see what Mr. LA looks like these days, I did what any normal girl would do.

 

I YouTubed him.

 

Maybe the chicken did come before the MTV, and the evolution from monkey to puppet is still in progress, but either way, we are all now living in an age where Facebook stalking is acceptable and your sexual history debuting on cable television isn’t shocking.

And it isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

 

Because Madonna just claimed to be sexually suggestive. But I happen to know one MTV cast member who is actually good in bed.

 

 

The Friend Vs The Girlfriend.

There are some downsides to spending ninety percent of ones time with males.

Conversations are littered with references to naked girls/porn/Jessica Alba.

You become too much of a friend for sex to ever be referenced in relation to you.

And a girlfriend eventually gets in the way.

 

There are many upsides. Obviously. Mostly in the literal sense. And every hot boy friend has another hot friend – one who You have absolutely no interest in getting to know in the platonic sense.

 

It is, ultimately, an almost perfect relationship. Which, if I were to be really objective, does make me question what the Hell sex does to a relationship[?].

 

I have lost many boy friends to The Girlfriend. I am at the point where I dread that “It’s not you, I found someone who fucks me” conversation. As soon as The Girlfriend arrives on the scene, the token female friend essentially becomes dispensable and/or obsolete.

 

Someone else is around who will give fashion advice while giving a blowjob. How do I compete with that?

 

“I can’t come out drinking tonight. I’m going to a movie with [The Girlfriend].”

“We can’t come to the movie tonight. We are going out drinking together.”

“She hates you. But, you know, have fun playing Monopoly with the guys who aren’t getting laid.”

 

As the female friend of a male, it is very difficult to convince The Girlfriend that I am not the one she should be wary of.

“I just want him to help me with my thesis/pour scotch directly down my throat/brighten my day with his presence,” I want to explain to the New But Better Version of me. “I am actually the one girl who doesn’t want to fuck your boyfriend.”

But girls, in case know one was aware, are jealous creatures. And having another girl around can be worrying. Unless one decides to look at the evidence and make a decision based in reality.

 

But who does that?

 

Dramatic Fantasy Land is often much more interesting than The Real World. I should know. I spend twenty-three hours of my day trying to get in there. But when one is cursed with a rational mind, trying to think like The Girlfriend can be like trying to get into the Chateau Marmont on Oscar night.

 

Friendships are interesting relationships in our lives. Especially in our twenties, when everything is changing and evolving at such a rapid speed. I often wonder why We let friends get away with things we would never let our boyfriend/girlfriend get away with. And then I stop and wonder why we let our boyfriends/girlfriends get away with things we would never let our friends get away with.

 

Which, if I were to be really objective, does make me question what the Hell sex does to a relationship[?].

 

Three of my boy friends have fallen [victim] for The Girlfriend in the past year. I fear that I am about to loose one more.

“Can she please get to know me before she hates me?” I begged my favourite boy friend.

“She won’t hate you.”

“Pfft. Actual friends of mine hate me. Can I please just articulate to her that I have no interest in seeing you naked?”

“Oh, can I please be present for that conversation?!”

 

As we get older, and boyfriend/girlfriend relationships inevitably become increasingly serious [for those of You willing to have them], the reality of a female friend existing is bound to become a prominent issue. There has to be a solution. I should know. My boy friends are the only relationships I have that have lasted longer than my boyfriends. And I plan on making it stay that way.

 

I would never let a boyfriend tell me who I can and cannot spend my time with. 

“I really don’t like Charles Manson,” he could say. 

“He gets drunk and his wang falls out of his pants,” he may complain. 

“There isn’t a single cell of estrogen sitting with you at lunch,” he could observe. 

I would take all of his ramblings into consideration, of course, that is what being in a relationship is [apparently] about. But I would never forget that No One has the right to tell me who I can and cannot spend my time with. I am under no apprehension that That is the problem The Girlfriends has. But the unappealing fact is that it all comes down to a trust issue. If one does not trust their boyfriend spending time with someone who does not have a penis, then it isn’t actually my problem. The problem is, possibly, that Your boyfriend has thought too much with his aforementioned penis and not with his other head. 

Friendships were around long before The Girlfriend. And, if they are worth it, they will last a long time after The Girlfriend. There is no need to choose. Everyone can, actually, live in harmony. 

 

With no one daring to put their latest love in my presence, I decided to take myself out for a drink [of hot chocolate] and see what new boy friends were around.

It is kind of like cruising. For the relationship-challenged. 

Sitting at Starbucks, I noticed a very cute boy who I had no interest in seeing naked. The Perfect Candidate for a boy friend.

“I also ordered a Venti Green Tea,” he smiled.

“Oh. You like Green Tea?” I stupidly replied. Because I moonlight as a functioning retard.

“No, It is for my girlfriend.”

 

I spent the remainder of the afternoon trying to pretend like I wasn’t loosing all of my favourite people to Better Versions Of Me.

But I can’t live in Dramatic Fantasy Land.

I just have to accept the reality that It’s not me. They have just found someone who fucks them.

 

 

 

[Untitled].

Sometimes I don’t know whether I have woken up smarter or the world has woken up stupider.

“They will be ready in ninety minutes,” the cashier said after I handed him film to be developed.

“Ok. I will see you in exactly an hour and a half!”

“No, ninety minutes.”

I spent almost two hours buying myself a beanie, a present for not being as obtuse as the man entrusted to turn negatives into…pictures.

 

After a morning of errands, I was eager at the prospect of spending an entire night in a house on my own. I spent the whole afternoon preparing for it.

“What the Hell are you doing?” AM was startled when she walked in on me mid-way through performing a Down-Dog pose while I waited for chicken to cook.

“I am stretching.”

“Why?”

“Because as soon as you leave, I am going to dance around the house to Michael Jackson music. Naked.”

“That is just what Michael would want,” she scoffed as she rescued my burning bird. “Someone who looks like an eight-year-old boy throwing themselves around a lounge room to Thriller.”

 

As I get older (metaphorically), I enjoy spending more and more time by myself. It stems from a combination of tiring of the stupid people (unless they are naked) and wanting to make myself smarter (so I don’t have to get naked).

 

The evening began with research books and coordinating my beanie to my tracksuit pants. With no attractive offer of entertainment for the night, I dedicated the moonlit hours to writing my thesis before I moon-walked around a couch.

“What are you doing?” A friend called me.

I was mid-way through coordinating my beanie to my birthday suit.

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

“I am about to light up. Do you want to come and smoke?”

I looked over to the reference books that I had spent the better part of five hours engrossed in, in a vain attempt to reignite the brain cells I have so foolishly killed over the past twenty-four years. I then looked down at my nakedness and up to my beanie. 

I declined and turned up Black Or White.

 

It was a smart decision, as after two hours of frolicking around the kitchen/hallway/lounge room to MJ, I felt as liberated and free as I had in weeks. I am a huge advocate for spending as much time as possible naked (Aside: Isn’t that obvious?), as I firmly believe that it makes you more comfortable with the reality that someone else is going to see you in That light. And, I figure, I have to accept that I have the body of an eight-year-old boy before anyone else does.

 

Any negative (having the body of an eight year old boy) can be turned into a positive.

“Boobs. Boobs. Boobs. Boobs. Boobs. Boobs. Boobs,” I hear my males friends chant for ninety percent of the time I spend with them. They are not looking at me. They are gawking at the hundreds of girls passing by who, are, ostensibly my competition.

“You wouldn’t understand,” they constantly remind me.

“I know,” I remind them. “I am not looked at in such a manner.”
I don’t think I have ever dated a Boob Guy. Or, if I have, he must have been severely disappointed. Or retarded. (Aside: …)

But when you live in a locale where girls forgo honesty to embrace the appearance of fake boobs as opposed to none, you are left with few options to win Them over. I look at my situation with a positive attitude: There is very little gratuitous sexual pretence about me. So my intellect can do the talking. And, if all else fails, there is always naked dancing with the knowledge that nothing jiggles.

“Yes, talking about the philosophy of existence will have men lining up at the door,” another friend scoffed.

“Just continue practicing your Down-Dog pose,” AM advised. 

 

By Sunday, my house was full of family members again and I had returned to wearing tracksuit pants, oversized t-shirts and the beanie.

“You look like a heroin addict,” RG so kindly informed me. I searched desperately for a visible syringe I didn’t know existed. “Can you please take off that ridiculous hat?”

“No.”

“You have been wearing it all weekend.”

“That isn’t true. I have only been wearing it since Friday.”

“…”

 

I returned to my reference books. While pretend boobs can be installed in just ninety minutes or an hour and a half, I was reminded that gaining intelligence takes longevity. Even for the most eager of us.

 

Zero Coke For Me

In one month I have to get my tonsils out. Which I have heard does wonders for oral excitement…

“I get to eat ice-cream for two whole weeks!”

I skipped out of the doctors surgery: I get to lay in bed, wear only pyjamas, watch The Hills guilt-free and bathe in Baskin & Robbins if I so want to. And, on top of all that brilliance, I get morphine! Hurrah!

 

Why the Hell have I kept the bastards in my throat for so long?

 

I am rarely excited about drug taking (but always excited about ice-cream). OnceuponalivingonLondon, my roommates and I had a Drug Delivery Man.

“Does anyone else think it is wrong that you can’t get legitimate doctors to make house calls anymore but someone will bring cocaine to your home?” I posed to my Urban Family.

When the Big Black Teddy Bear Of A Drug Dealer would pull up in our street, my friends made me go and finalize the transaction.

“No one shoots the little blonde girl,” they reasoned.

“Actually, that is exactly who they shoot.”

But I went anyway, chanting, “My parents spent thousands of dollars on my education and it appears to have made no impact,” as I skipped to the car.

We were always very friendly to each other. I treated him with manners and respect, as I assumed few people who had sat in the same seat contained the capacity to. There was always a man sitting in the back seat. He was quite obviously armed. I treated him to manners, respect and a cookie.

 

My short-lived curiosity with drugs finished after I spent an entire post-party work day silently debating the logistics of throwing myself in front of a car. The only thing that stoped me was sheer laziness. There was at least eight meters between me sitting at my MacBook in Starbucks and an oncoming Volvo.

“Did anyone else seriously contemplate killing themselves today?” I asked when I returned home and started fantasizing about putting my head in the oven. If only I could cook…

“Yes,” My Urban Brother sulked.

“I’m a nurse. I am surrounded by sedatives,” My BFF frowned.

After twenty-four hours, I finally noticed that my desk looked like a cross-country ski field. The reason behind our Gen-X-filled-angst was suddenly crystal [meth] clear.

“Guys,” I yelled out to my suicide cult members. “I think we are having a massive come down!”

 

For the next forty-eight hours we had to work through genuine depression while knowing exactly what got us into the position in the first place. There isn’t enough Baskin & Robbins in the world to deal with such a situation.

“I don’t know what is more mortifying,” I announced. “The fact that I am wondering if a noose is tied with figure-eight knot or that I actually paid money to feel like this.”

“My new drug of choice is going to be grams of cookies,” My Urban Brother insisted.

“I’m going to get addicted to eight balls of Ice-cream,” the chocoholic evolved.

I, personally, chose scotch. Baby steps.

 

I haven’t done drugs since. The realization that five hours of relative fun will be followed of a week of unnecessary uncertainty made me feel like the stupidest human being on the planet for entertaining the notion in the first place.

The education paid off. Hurrah!

 

I have recently heard half a dozen stories about people openly buying drugs, selling drugs or doing drugs in broad daylight at my university.

“Doesn’t anyone make house calls in this country?” 

“It is for studying,” someone defended.

“I’m sorry,” I took a sip of my Coke. The one followed by Zero. And best served with natural Ice and hard liquor. “But if you need drugs at midday on a Wednesday in order to study, maybe you should reconsider if university is the place for you. There are always tolls that need boothing…”

 

One equally shocked fellow bystander informed me that she witnessed a girl snorting lines in the bathroom.

“I won’t even sit my ass on the seat in that place!” I frowned.

“She is stressed. She is studying medicine.”

Somehow this was supposed to be soothing to me.

“She doesn’t remove tonsils as an intern, does she?”

 

I have many drugs of choice: Scotch. Cigarettes. Ice-cream. Twenty Year Olds. Californian Surfers. Shoes. The Hills. Zac Efron. Eating Frozen Bread (Shut up. It’s my thing. Let it go). Scotch.

But if I needed thousands of dollars worth of illegal drugs to get through my thousands of dollars worth of education, I would probably take the easy way out…and just ask the professor for an extension on my assignment.

I would even treat Him with manners and respect.  

 

Fearing that I could get arrested if I spent too much time in the university bathroom, I decided to forgo my own version of Coke for the day. By the time I returned home, I had a Caffeine Withdrawal Headache so bad that all the Baskin & Robbins in the world couldn’t help the situation.

I put on my pyjamas, lay down on my bed, turned on The Hills and started rehearsing for my own version of a two-week drug binge.

 

I felt brilliant the next morning.