Monthly Archives: September 2012

1. I still live at home.

2. I ask my parents for money on a daily/weekly basis.

3. I love sleeping.

4. I love my bedroom.

5. I must have my DDCT (Dedicated Daily Computer Time). Don’t talk to me if I haven’t.

6. I own a smartphone.

7. I’m addicted/physically sewn to it.

8. I love Snapchat.

9. I have a gym membership.

10. I use Soundcloud to download dance/trance/soundscapes.

11. I have illegally downloaded music for many years.

12. I have multiple HDs in procrastination.

13. I complain about #firstworldproblems.

14. I loved Arthur as a kid.

15. I see white headphones and regard them as a necessity, not a luxury.

16. I utilise and whinge about Melbourne’s Myki system.

17. I’ve stalked someone on Facebook/Instragram and have Liked something accidentally.

18. I chew gum like the world’ll end if I don’t.

19. I believe the right friends can be your chosen family.

20. I knew about the Dark Knight shootings before my parents did due to social media.

21. I know the value of a Selfie as a social currency.

22. I want to travel the world.

23. I don’t do my own washing.

24. I dress inappropriately for the (Melbourne) weather.

25. I use emojis excessively to the point of no return. (Thanks you iOS 6) 🙂 😦 😛 😀


1. I don’t like getting drunk.

2. I don’t like clubbing.

3. I don’t think drugs are cool.

4. I like jazz music, musical theatre, RnB, acoustic music AND dance tracks.

5. I like learning and the educational process.

6. I hated school.

7. I like being alone.

8. I am an introvert.

9. I love reading.

10. I tend not to follow fashion trends and dress in androgynous/not particularly feminine clothing.

11. I am an only child.

12. I have a close relationship with my father.

13. Most of my grandparents are still alive.

14. I know all of my first cousins and some of my second/third/distant ones, too.

15. I have never been to the United States of America.

16. My family does not have Foxtel.

17. I would rather be home on a Saturday night that out with friends.

18. I am comfortable interacting with adults.

19. I am bad with kids.

20. I am quietly opinionated but tend not to shove it in everyone’s faces.

21. I respect people’s privacy.

22. I believe friendships really must be based on something more than going out and getting drunk.

23. I’d rather have a few good friends than a million ‘friends’.

24. I love Twitter.

25. I haven’t dropped out of/deferred my university degree this year.

Sitting. Listening. Not really listening.

Hearing voices, sound coming from someone, somewhere or other

“Governing the complex society of China…”

Mass population. Economic elites. Two dollars a day.

Neo-liberalism is a political technology

Peripheral vision see hands moving with vocal levels rising and falling, synchronised

Planned or innate, one or the other, or both at times, I’m making a rhyme

Unable to concentrate, ideas are running

But I’m planning for tonight and stressing about events, friends, family, things I must do

How to fit it all in?

The weather’s been warm, windy, sunny

I’m wearing a big sports jumper and leggings, I don’t know how to dress for summer

I hate planing what to wear, but I hate waking up in the morning without this planning even more

It must be suitable, but I also don’t care if it’s not because I need to feel okay

I need to feel comfortable ‘in my own skin’ or that covering it all up.

“In Germany, it’s to rebuild the nation after the second world war. In China…”

The tutor continues to talk as I tune in and out, more out than in

Phones vibrate on the table and people get distracted

But my distraction is constant

I don’t even know what the inversion of distracted is

“A vastly more delicate and complex task”

What is delicate and complex?

My thoughts, my brain

No, something to do with neo-liberalism and rationality

“How do you manage your population?”

The Numerati. Baker. Google it.

Micro-targetting. Rambling. Not listening but hearing through one ear and pushing it out of the other.

Learning through other senses. Touching my keyboard, smell – average, nothing, zilch, a bit hot if anything at all

Is it possible for something to smell hot? I’m going to say so.

“This is how I govern you, with another rhetoric… socialism.”

Doodling, pens running wild, Facebook accounts open and running hot.

Chat, photo albums, Hotmail and Gmail. I see them all.

Big and small. Small and big. Open your windows and you too, will see.

Two tests down today, can’t. keep. concentrating.

Break time, five minutes.

No one’s listening anyway. What’s the point of staying?

I wouldn’t do anything at home either though, but I have so much to get through before slipping into bed tonight.



“Okay, I want to continue… Neo-liberalism is. a. political technology…”

Back to reality. Or dreaming. A land I never really left.


Spearmint or peppermint? Green or blue? Or maybe you’re more adventurous… moving on to the level of strawberries and sweetmint, or even orange-mango. The soothing feeling of ripping open the ‘open here’-marked plastic that surround its coloured contents, you can already taste the minty freshness in your mouth. I love the way that the temporary seal is not in use when you first open it – it’s a way of liberating the individual, putting you in the driver’s seat and leaving you in control. You open the back flap and see those little green soldiers, little men and women, aligned side by side, ready for action. They are prone to manipulation and are very malleable and with only a short lifespan, they’re ready for action as soon as you are. I tend to admire a full packed for a couple of seconds, taking in the experience and the scents, going meticulously through the process I’ve just outlined like I’ll never have the change to run through it again. You see the Breakfast soldiers, the Lunch women and the men there ready already, for Dinner. There are also Snacks. Their brothers and sisters await in a straight line behind them. They are doing their job and I like to think their inherent qualities prepare them for the life of a gum piece. They do not get attached to their box-relations. They are there, militia-style, priorities set and in tact from day one at the Wrigley’s factory. They are pilled in there, portioned out and carefully stacked and placed in rows to perfection. I commend Wrigley’s on their fine artisan practice. It has been well planned and each soldier is always equal.

I get an uneasy feeling alongside one of pure ecstasy as I pull out the first little man and sense his presence in between my knobbly fingers. I see the slight shift in the other soldiers – it is almost like they are takning a moment to pay their respects to their fallen brother or sister. They shift awkwardly and it is not uncommon for one or two soldiers to wriggle out of their place in line, an act of rebellion, speaking and standing out, for their rights and their liberation.

After sliding the opening tab into its perfect slot (well perfect before the dainty little box gets mauled in amongst my handbag where water bottles, wallets, phones and other worldly possessions tackle it to the ground, the bottom of the bag and leave it disabled and quite literally out of shape), my focus shifts onto the piece lying in my hands. It’s perfect. For me, he’s usually in green camouflage, always Recommended by Dentists and reminding me to dispose of his jacket properly.

Eat Drink Chew Extra

I do.

Little Mr A Lunch’s jacket is unravelled and pulled off of his flexible body. As we engage in a dance of desire, he gets naked while my mouth begins to water. It’s all a bit sexual, but it is child’s play – naive, placid, harmless foreplay.

Then he enters my mouth with the help of two or three of my most dexterous fingers and thumb. And then our relationship takes off to another level. Out of this world. Into my mouth. He rides next to my teeth and I demand he change shape. Showing me his acrobatic skills, he moulds into whatever I command of him, his flexibility incredibly impressive. I stretch him out, turn him in tumbles and pull him across my tongue to attempt blowing a bubble. I never was taught this skill as a child, so really, our duet is a one man show.

We remain together for a period of time, sometimes longer than others. But I am so grateful to each and every little man and woman I’ve had a relationship with as it builds my confidence, my calm and gets me collected and ready for the next stage of my day.

I might be on the train to uni, I might be sitting at home writing a post (very similar to this one). Sometimes one can get frustrated though because gum is notoriously flirtatious. And everyone’s after a little piece of it, all the time. You can’t get your own men out when you’re with friends or you’ll lose them all before you’ve established a proper relationship. You’ve earned for and bought your way with these pieces, you owe it to them and to yourself to engage in something above-par before ratting them off to somewhere or someone external.

Don’t lie. That was not your last piece of gum.

It’s a refrain so common it is like a tweet constantly getting RT (retweeted) by friends and strangers across the globe.

So like others, my soldiers make me selfish. I want them. They are mine, and no one else’s. But once your engagement is out and on the table, you can’t decline without coming across as a completely self-centred bitch. So I keep our relationship pretty closeted at most occasions. We don’t like to sport our love for each other with big chews or obvious bubbles in public places. We like our intimacy. Remember, although these soldiers are always on the sly lookout for potential partners, they adjust well, and once your relationship is confirmed, you know you’re going to be going pretty steady until you decide it’s time to part.

So don’t put a ring on it. But know that once you’re together, you are in for a moment of fresh, minty bliss. And the flavour will last, so you’ve always got the upper hand. You call the shots. And when you do, Please dispose of all litter properly. Honour your fallen soldier. Put it in the bin.

Last night and into the wee hours of this morning, a friend and I were chatting away on Facebook.

He’s a partygoer. I’m a homebody. But each for reasons of our own, we found ourselves at inside and alone, online, on a Saturday. Social suicide, if you will.

His “first sober weekend in an eternity” (unsure as to whether that is grammatically correct, but I digress) came about as he found himself in a Victorian country town called Shepparton on a work trip. He’s Ranger Roo. Oh yes, he’s that guy.

Tiredness, boredom and feeling sorry for each other for committing social suicide (even though I was doing so quite willingly), we entered a mutual state of delirium. Despite never having been to Shepparton myself, it seemed to be a relevant topic of conversation due to my friend’s placement, with hilarity ensuing to the point that we both were giggling and dorkishly smiling at our computers. I’m very conscious that this may not be amusing to many (or any) others but he’s a fan of countingletters so read on with a grain of salt, taking it as a tribute, friend to friend.

A key point to this conversation was our completely random use of hashtags (#) in a context where they have no meaning. Unlike other social media platforms like Twitter and Instagram, Facebook currently has no place for hashtags, and thus, our hash-tagging is as irrelevant as it is relevant; we are a product of a digital generation. If we want to put a hashtag somewhere, we’re going to do it. Generation Y – we do what we want.

Have you been aware of the trend particularly occurring on social media where a word replaces another word in a sentence, creating a whole lot of stuff and nonsense? It is a fad that is hard to explain. So I think it’s best I just copy and paste the general conversation into this post to explain my point. Again, remember the time of day, our mental and bodily states of exhaustion, and the fact that he was in a country town while he’d much rather have been getting his booze on in Melbourne’s CBD.

I’ve provided some translation in italics in the hope that our silly conversation may resonate some laughs in the outside world.


“Me: You are drunk of life. On Sheppy (Shepparton) life.

Him: Oh my God, you are so hilarious right now. Such a comedian :). Sheppy! I like it. The townsfolk can be called “the shepsters”.

Me: Haha, you are seriously f***ked. Go to bed.

Him: #becoingashepster

Me: YES!!!! (<—– an indication of how poor my sense of humour can get)

Him: Hahaha. #shepsterlyf

Me: Hahaha. (Insert his name here) #becomesashepster. Living the #shepsterlyf.

Him: #sheppingabout. #windowshepper. window shopper

Me: #shepperholic. shopaholic 

Him: #gettingsheppy.

Me: The creation of #theultimeshepster. the ultimate hipster

Him: #likeashep. like a boss

Me: #Mastershep. Masterchef

Him: You sunk my #battleshep. battleship

Me: #queereyefortheshepguy. queer eye for the straight guy

Him: #shepatmebro. come at me, bro

Me: #shepmanstyle. #can’tshepthis. Gangnam style. Can’t touch this.

Him: Hahaha we have to stop, I’m dying.

Me: dis is actuli so funi. (<—- how older generations think we speak all the time)

Him: i noooooo! hahahahahah. F**k. I’m leaving. I need to sleep. We need to #shepthef**kup. #Shepthis. Alright stop. #sheppertime. 

Me: Hahahaha. #STOPDISSHEP.

Him: #SHEPPPPPP. Alright. I’m crying. Sweet dreams. Don’t let the #shepbugsbite. #Shep!

Me: Alright. I’ll #shtop. I should write a blog post about dis #shep.

Him: Hahaha. Please!

Me: Maybe tomorrow.

Him: Alright. #Shepnight.

Me: #Shweeptight.

(transfer conversation to text messaging)

Me: Go to bed #shepster

Him: To the window, to the wall, to the #shep drop down my…

Me: Duck off.

Him: Hahaha #can’tshep

Me: …when the sun goes down.

Him: Ducking off. #Shep you soon. We need to stop this shepxting.

Me: (insert emoji of a sheep) Hahaha.

Him: xxxxx kisses”


So that was my Saturday night. If you hover your mouse over the type I’ve provided some links to cultural and musical references we speak of… if you are interested to understand our immature humour. This is possibly the most irrelevant and un-stilumating post I’ve written thus far. But remember, it pays to be a good friend and friendship is worth embarrassing yourself for. Even in a public domain.


Goldfish Aquariums.


Click the link Watch the clip Don’t you think It’s worth the trip?

A visit to a country So far from home A plane flight, compression, high blood pressure, obsession

The arts bring about Such wonderful things From windows into worlds And crazy other scenes

But this one, I think Is a happy opening To a world underwater A foreign understanding

Of what is normal And what is common And what really makes A life worth living

So be a part Of something new Excite your senses Through and true

Abundant pleasure Will head your way As you play with your hands And master a trade

The fish will emerge A dozen, a hundred And setting them free Helps you cope with the thunder

Of not knowing where To start, to begin Your body leans one way Your gut sinking in

Trusting your instincts Easier said than done But no one can tell you What you could become

So take a chance On what is unknown You’ll always been safe Within your own home

And then you shall venture A wild tumble-turn Into the tank A place to learn

Of love of hate Of sun of rain Of opportunities abound Of men and their dame

Cultures diverse The world will diverge While unifying together Against the urge

To destroy and discourage To harm and to fight Instead using goldfish To show us the light

Time goes by, so slowly. Until it doesn’t. And it just speeds up, faster and faster. Faster pasta. Pasta faster.

How can 24 hours change in ways beyond their capabilities. It is not possible for time to change. Time is a constant. It is what keeps us in line, working to the clock, knowing when to stop. Knowing when to start, to arrive, how to survive.

TIme cannot change. But it does. All the time. Good days pass quickly, they say. Others are long and draining, not a bright indication of what has been and gone. But it’s not always the case.

When I watch a clock, as you know, the kettle will never boil. But sometimes you look once, then look again “ten minutes later” and half of a whole hour has gone. I want someone to explain to be how our perception can be marred by reality and what we are conscious of at the time.

And it happens to everyone. Repeatedly. Time monitoring is not something you can learn, a skill you can acquire. There are occasions when it is nice to be ‘free of’ time. Unaware, without a care. Take a dare, fight the scare.

But I’m always racing the clock and the clock wins, every time. It has the upper hand – or two. It is above and beyond me. It is so steady yet so fast, its timing in each race it enters, impeccable. Who could craft such an exacting presence in the human life. Human life isn’t supposed to be perfect. In fact, I thought all aspects of life on planet Earth were inherently (or at least meant to be), imperfect. There is a kind of reassurance in knowing that you/one/it/he/she cannot be perfect. It is an unattainable desire. A quest that cannot be won, a test not passed, a cul-de-sac, or a road that only leads to a dead end. Or maybe not quite a dead end, but one that doesn’t get you to the place you’d hoped. It leads you on, like a rabbit chasing a carrot. Hanging by your every move. Above you. Always winning.

Then there are moments you think you’re on top of it all. The clock and time itself cannot beat you. You are winning the race against time. You will finish before it strikes, you will challenge its ticks and the way its heart beats. You have deadlines but you have determination that will see you finish before the come. And maybe you do. But then you relax and time catches up with you again. Always a race, a chase, a scientific pace, foreign to the human space. It is mechanical. We are organic. Mechanics and organics do not meet peacefully. The reject one another, there is a magnetic field effect, repellent, anti-bug spray, mosquito bites, bushman creams, indigenous dreams, broken seams, sports teams, internet memes.

Clocks don’t stop, the human heart must. One gives in to lust, to love, to might, to fight, to give, to receive, to Genevieve.

How can one know what to do, how to manage, how to get through?

Ephemeral. Deceiving. State-bound. Every changing, ever stable. It can fly and it will. It can stall and be stalled. A creation of the mind yet a device so exacting and mechanical. Again. Repetition. Say it again. See it again. Do it all again.

It’s a battle that will never end. Me against the clock. And you don’t have to ponder who will win. Time.