When I was 23, I dated a guy because he had a sweet DVD collection. Like, every cool DVD you could think of, he had it – and more. In the first week of us dating, he had a house party where all his cool friends showed up (one of them had a dreadlock), and he strummed his guitar in the courtyard. I got so drunk I had to puke. Continue Reading
My butt is living its own life; I am merely its carrier. Yes, I am a person and my butt is part of me, but if you knew my butt, you would know that it merits its own life story. So here it is. In 1983, my butt was born, attached to me. It was, in many ways, a butt like many other butts, but over time it grew and grew, bigger and more rotund than the rest of me, and with the consistency of uncooked sourdough. Continue Reading
Do you remember that scene in Good Will Hunting where Robin Williams’ character, the sweet, wise psychologist, recalls how he met the love of his life? It’s the typical Hollywood bullshit in many respects: guy sees girl who captures his attention, then he pursues her with relentless obsession, which borders on harassment. Continue Reading
Like all self-respecting citizens of Melbourne, I’m an arsehole when it comes to my coffee. On average, I drink around five cups of Joe a day, and I like at least two of those Joes to be barista-made. But not made by any barista; I need my coffee made by my barista, otherwise I hate life, hate society and rue the day I was born. Continue Reading
When I’m with a guy, I tend to become addicted to his many smells. Because, of course, a man doesn’t produce just one smell. His hair produces one, his neck produces another, his armpits produce another still … and then there’s a whole symphony of smells that he directs, hopefully, towards the toilet. (Fortunately, I haven’t been with any men who pride themselves on the pungency of their farts, but I do believe they’re out there, somewhere, feasting on buckets of beans right now.) Continue Reading
I wouldn’t say I’ve “stolen” things from my boyfriends, as much as I have elected not to give certain items back. Which, yes, I know, is the same as stealing, by the letter of the law, but I doubt that the boys and girls in blue are going to nail my arse for holding onto a scratched copy of Leonard Cohen’s Songs of Love and Hate. Especially if I can explain to them why.
Everyone thinks they’re a “nice” person. Well, nearly everyone. I’ve met a few folks who knew they were rampant arseholes and were really quite at peace with that aspect of themselves. I don’t know if that makes it any better, but it’s always nice when someone isn’t deluding themselves. Continue Reading