Present Day: DreamFails

I had little reason to think of such things until I had a most vivid dream. A dream that I had gone to a party at Pet0r and Eh!Steeeve!‘s place which Scam (and per­haps Fer­rero/The Old Italian Grand­mother) had atten­ded. I got drunk, crawled into the neigh­bours’ apart­ment and fell asleep. I then awoke and had to care­fully sneak out of the Italian-style mul­ti­level apart­ment with its lofty sun-soaked patio and trendy 20-something flat­mates (à la The Secret Life of Pus). When I got back to their place, it seems they were watch­ing the 90210-style comi­dram­edy Col­lege Badass: 100% All-American Gay! Fea­tur­ing this hot, rav­ish­ing young thing:

COLLEGE BADASS: 100% All-American Gay

COLLEGE BADASS: 100% All-American Gay

I was feel­ing, in this dream, quite sick of being single and I verbally assaul­ted my poor friends with poin­ted questions.

Me: Why haven’t you found me a girl­friend? What kind of gay men are you any­way?
Scam: We don’t know any les­bi­ans!
Pet0r: Weren’t you dat­ing some guy all of 2 months ago? [NB: UNTRUE– in real life, it was more like a WHOLE YEAR AGO!]
Me: Oh. Oh yeah…

I had failed at les­bi­an­ism.

It turned out that the epis­ode of COLLEGE BADASS: 100% All-American Gay was in fact this one:

College Badass: the BICURIOUS episode!

Col­lege Badass: the BICURIOUS episode!

What show is com­plete without a BICURIOUS epis­ode, usu­ally the ulti­mate in Fail­ing at Les­bi­an­ism 101, but this time a true fail­ure at almost the oppos­ite. Though it tried to show an ingénue attempt­ing a risqué liaison full of innu­endo with un peu of a fris­son of excite­ment, the res­ult­ing date between Col­lege Badass and Clarissa ended thus:

College Badass: The date with Clarissa

Col­lege Badass: The date with Clarissa

Clarissa is only there to attract the les­bian view­ers. Which is yet another fail at lesbianism.

As was said after I pos­ted such vivid depic­tions straight from my sleep­ing brain onto the Book of Faces:

Chris Medi­cine: Con­sid­er­ing it’s 100% All-American gay, I’m a bit dis­turbed his part­ner looks like the Repub­lican trans­sexual ver­sion of Tony Abbott

Eh!Steeeve!: Yuck– her breasts are all lop­sided and she looks like Court­ney Love!

It’s true, young view­ers, the pro­du­cers did in fact spend all their money on hir­ing male porn stars as the main char­ac­ters and so they could only afford a 50 year old crack-whore for Clarissa’s part. The per­son­al­ity of course was a per­fect fit for the character!

NB: Clarissa is not to be con­fused with that other soap opera star, Charissa.

Flash­back

Ways that I had failed at lesbianism:

  1. Hav­ing the fol­low­ing pick-up line used on me (by girls): “Are you plan­ning to become a gyn­ae­co­lo­gist? You should be my gynaecologist”
  2. Hav­ing that pick-up line work on me
  3. Hav­ing it work on me more than once
  4. Then going on to fail my obstet­rics & gyn­ae­co­logy exam
  5. Dat­ing men
  6. Plan­ning to become a urologist

 

Ways I’d heard that another med­ical stu­dent failed at lesbianism:

  1. Being unable to reach the cer­vix (dur­ing a ‘female’ examination)
  2. Being unable to find the cer­vix (dur­ing a pap smear)
  3. Dat­ing men

 

Sigh. Bicuri­ous­ness (bicuri­os­ity?) gets the bet­ter of us all.

Con­clu­sion

Les­bi­an­ism is just hard. Wait, did I just say hard? Did I fail again?

Heh. hehehehe. *snork*

Evid­ently it is a game where the only option is to lose.

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It was not just any pus, it was bum pus.

It was sur­pris­ingly dif­fi­cult to access bum pus, an inter­sphinc­teric abs­cess, a pel­vic abs­cess even, high up in the recesses of this poor man’s bum.

Finally the hor­rid smelling pus star­ted pour­ing out of its crevice next to the anus.

I feel like clap­ping!” said I, delighted at the result.

You feel like crap­ping?” said the sur­geon, who guf­fawed heartily.

As I was in fact retract­ing the mus­cu­lar but­tocks for some time, not long after I made the fol­low­ing pronouncement:

I need a stool.”

The dénoue­ment of course was a jet of bum pus under pres­sure that hit me square in the neck. After such a release, I did indeed require a long shower.

Is it any won­der that if one moves the space, “bum pus” becomes “bump us”- the usual response of the anaes­thet­ists to us excit­able sur­gical types who have booked the case!

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All you need is love” What a fuck­ing lie. The Beatles have more than their fair share of unhealthy mes­sages but that is one of them.

It’s not that love is not import­ant. It is. It’s the fet­ish­isa­tion that occurs in the media sur­round­ing wed­dings and babies and big houses and SUVs.

Fuck where can I start. Wed­dings and wed­ding pho­tos. What a fuck­ing waste of good money. Hon­estly what every­one wants from a wed­ding is a good time and a quick cere­mony and a few pho­tos. Not this trav­esty that a wed­ding has become where people one up each other about how much money they wasted on the fuck­ing thing while parad­ing their engage­ment, pre-engagement, pre-wedding, wed­ding, post wed­ding, hon­ey­moon, 1st anniversary, 2nd anniversary, 7th anniversary pho­tos. Well, if they ever get to the 7th one that is.

I can only ima­gine how unen­joy­able and bor­ing and tedi­ous their wed­ding day actu­ally was. Do these people even have sex? I doubt it. In fact most of these loud fuck­ers don’t even love the per­son they’re with. They’re just scared of being alone and don’t want to admit to them­selves that the reason they are mar­ry­ing is because they can’t find any­one bet­ter and this per­son seems vaguely suit­able to their par­ents. So they go on and on about how happy they are as some kind of delu­sion that they want to be con­stantly con­grat­u­lated on.

I have no desire to con­grat­u­late them on their impend­ing unhap­pi­ness.

But their delu­sion has arms that stretch far bey­ond them­selves. They then decide every­one else who is not like them must be unhappy!

Next let’s go on to the idea that a baby will make every­one happy and fix everything and make you feel loved. Here’s news– that feel­ing of empti­ness is NOT going to be solved by hav­ing a child. In fact that’s an easy recipe for post natal depres­sion. And your rela­tion­ship? If it’s crappy already, it’s going to get way crap­pier once you have a child. Hav­ing a child is stress­ful, dif­fi­cult and hard work. It is truly reward­ing if you accept this truth and are pre­pared for it but oth­er­wise, you’re kid­ding yourself.

Ooh, how about the “stay at home mum” racket? Appar­ently you are going to give up everything includ­ing your intel­lec­tual pur­suits in order to be a per­man­ent child rearer. What hap­pens after the kids go to school? Oh well, I guess that’s what soaps, knit­ting classes and SUV road rage are for.

Big houses and SUVs are firstly envir­on­ment­ally irre­spons­ible (oh but it’s only affect­ing people who live on small islands and we don’t believe in sci­ence any­way), secondly expens­ive and thirdly irrit­at­ing. People can’t afford the life­styles that they lead des­pite mak­ing a lot of money and then whinge in the media about how they want their child care benefits.

And what about the under­ly­ing idea behind this? That you can treat import­ant things as pos­ses­sions and that mater­ial pos­ses­sions are going to make you happy? Acquir­ing a spouse and a child is not the same as acquir­ing a new car. It’s a rela­tion­ship, not a pos­ses­sion. It requires work and love and strength. You can’t just chuck it in the shed or sell it when you’re sick of it.

This would all be sort of ok if it was primar­ily an upper middle class prob­lem. But it’s not. This is some­thing that deeply affects poor people who aspire to the above. No-one places value on edu­ca­tion any more. All that is import­ant is a ring on your fin­ger from someone and a baby and a house. But these things aren’t going to make you hap­pier or richer or feel bet­ter. They are going to make you poorer and if done for the wrong reas­ons, deeply unhappy. In fact they may even rob you of your abil­ity to bet­ter your­self if you’re not in a pos­i­tion to afford them.

We all won­der why we’re feel­ing unhappy and empty and lonely even though we’re sur­roun­ded by “love” of the “all you need is love” sense. Maybe it’s because no actual love went into the decision. Not even self love. And per­haps love isn’t the only thing? Per­haps con­tent­ment and peace and exer­cise and intel­lec­tual engage­ment are just as important.

It really drives me mad, read­ing those magazines that per­pet­rate this vicious cycle of social depriva­tion via “love” and “suc­cess” in ways that really have noth­ing to do with either love or success.

If and when I have a wait­ing room, all this shit is going straight into the recyc­ling bin.

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Me: Are you a fan of Djokovic?

Amma: No, I don’t like Serbs.

Me: Why not?

Amma: Because they are racist!

Ker­mit­TheFrog: It’s the same reason she doesn’t like Israel

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I have been cat­tacked- a cata­strophe. I later turned cata­tonic before resort­ing to cat­sti­tu­tion, ie mak­ing my cats into lolcats. After catrolling with cat­ti­tude, I cata­maraned onto the fol­low­ing purrrn:

Q: What do you call a com­bin­a­tion of cats?

A: A purr-mew-tation!

I next learnt, either via a trans­la­tion party or per­haps AnnieCat, of the fact that “Mao” (猫) in Man­darin in fact means “cat”, when it is not imply­ing the com­mun­ism part of “com­munal cat colony” by being  Chair­man 毛. I then dis­covered another Chair­man Mao for your view­ing pleas­ure via the lovely Kcar­ruth­ers. Must we in fact infer that the Chinese equi­val­ent of a lolcat is in fact a roflmao? Should I register rofl 猫.com?

Let me not get star­ted on the eco­nomic dif­fer­ences between Mao Cat and Rao Cat!

Cat­tastic!

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There is noth­ing that irks me more than big­ots. Is it the bad spelling? The fact that they innately have a prob­lem with people like me? Their lack of self-censorship at appro­pri­ate moments? Their lack of social mores and appro­pri­ate beha­viour at the best of times? Their love of things such as VB, XXXX , gang rape, cli­mate change denial and other bizarre pro­cliv­it­ies such as AFL, Ed Hardy and ‘dim sims’? Per­haps it is their lack of intel­li­gence, their flimsy argu­ments, their lack of evid­ence for any­thing they say?

Now we’re get­ting closer.

BUT I’M JUST TELLING IT HOW IT IS! YOU ARE THE PC POLICE BRIGADE, HOW DARE YOU DISAGREE WITH MY VIEWS” say the big­ots. And to be hon­est, it is it the obsess­ive com­puls­ive in me that reacts! They are not in fact “telling it how it is” but rather “lying for their own con­veni­ence”. And that annoys me as much as the use of “aggrav­ate” to mean “irrit­ate” (often used by such people).

My aim is to put the “cor­rect” in “polit­ical cor­rect­ness”. There is noth­ing that I love more than, well, being right. And bait­ing big­ots who think I am going to be on my side.

Big­oted Doc­tor: That doc­tor can’t even speak ENGLISH! I hate over­seas doc­tors!
Me: My mum is an over­seas doc­tor…
Awk­ward  silence ensues

Aus­tralian Bigot:  Abori­ginal people are just drunks
Me: Actu­ally the rate of drink­ing in the Abori­ginal pop­u­la­tion is the same as in the gen­eral pop­u­la­tion– 15%. Which means Aus­trali­ans are drunks!
Aus­tralian Bigot: I DON’T BELIEVE YOU
Me: Check the Aus­tralian Bur­eau of Stast­ics web­site and get back to me

Male Acquaint­ance: Appar­ently if you want to date a female doc­tor you have to be pre­pared to be a house hus­band
Me: You know, my dad is mar­ried to a female doc­tor, and he’s def­in­itely not a house hus­band, work­ing 50 hours a week or so.
Me: And the per­son he’s mar­ried to would be… my mum!

Bigot: Muslims are so back­wards! Just look at Iran and the way they treat their women!
Me: 70% of the engin­eer­ing stu­dents in Iran are women. How many are there in Aus­tralia again?

Ran­dom bogan try­ing to be nice: You speak very good Eng­lish
Me: I should hope so, it’s my first language

Idiot: That fridge is like, so gay.
Me: It’s… sexu­ally attrac­ted to… other fridges?
Idiot: You know what I meant!
Me: That it’s sexu­ally attrac­ted to other fridges?
Me: I think there’s porn of that out there!

Male Doc­tor: You know doing sur­gery and being female means you prob­ably won’t be able to have or raise kids
Me: See, that’s why I plan on the other uterus car­ry­ing the child
Awk­ward pause
Male Doc­tor: Ohhh, I get it. Yeah I guess that’d work!

And finally, the ulti­mate comeback:

Drunk bogan rid­ing in a taxi (in fake Indian Accent): I am Sachin Ten­dulkar I give you $10 to suck me off you whore
Me: I speak bet­ter Eng­lish than you!

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test

Thread: …and to a lesser extent Achebook

Me: Achebook is like Failwood?

Me: hahaha Failwood

Me: That is like if Oglaf goes down

Me: hahahahaha goes down

Thread: you enjoy­ing your­self there?

Me: My sense of humour could be con­sidered self abuse!

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Fffffffffff­fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu uuuuu

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Dear Someone,

The pre­quel is the sequel; the end is the begin­ning is the end.

I have this memory from when I was a little girl, from before the End of the World. I am 5 years old and it is the last week of my first grade. We are play­ing games about fairytales. Here is the game about the Prin­cess and the Hand­some Knight. No-one will play with me, so I play with myself. And instead of being the Prin­cess, I decide that I am the Hand­some Knight, and I am going to be the one to save my ima­gin­ary Prin­cess. This suits me just fine.

I do not know if this is a memory or a dream.

These days I dream I am being chased. Pur­sued by a tall, thun­der­ing Macbeth through a forest-like garden sur­round­ing an aban­doned castle. Or I am search­ing through the garden for the entry of this castle, for a lost Prin­cess. Or the Prin­cess is the one pur­su­ing me, with a kit­chen knife in her hand.

Some­times I dream I am not me; I am the thun­der­ing Macbeth. Except it is another time and another place.

I am tall, hand­some. Hair gelled back, wear­ing a black suit. My world is a bright, wealthy city that was never des­troyed. A world of excess. And my internal, hor­rible woe is my empti­ness… and a princess…

My home has been defiled. Torn apart. The meat shred­ded and devoured, the stench of stale urine. Someone has made their mark on my ter­rit­ory. I sus­pect the stray dogs that loiter around the city, or even– and the hair raises on the back of my neck– the wolf who I can hear howl­ing in the depths of the night. But I can­not find paw­prints. I can­not even see where my house has been entered. Could it even be an unknown human assail­ant? But who? Who would do this not once, not twice, but thrice?

A deep fear sinks into my heart.

When I sleep that night, I dream a dream of fight, flight, of less than trivial pursuits.

Yours,
Deutschy.

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