Knives Are Not Toys

TO: Michael Who c/o 1991
SUBJECT: Wise words of wisdom and wiseness.
FROM: You.
DATE: 27th March 2008

Dear Michael,

This letter should be reaching you at the beginning of the 90’s and I’m sure that by now you have begun wondering if there is more to life than your treasured set of Derwent coloured pencils so I, your future self, have decided to send you some advice. My first instruction is simple: guard that tin of Derwents with your life, Felicity P is a thieving kleptomaniac bitch and she will attempt to steal them every time you turn your back.

First and foremost, don’t sit there and pretend you can’t understand what you are reading, I am acutely aware that you are much smarter than you let on. Sure you can’t spell, but that really isn’t important, here in the future we have a thing called spelchek so you wil neva need 2 worry about dat. I understand why you put a great deal of effort into trying to hide your superior intellect. I know it’s because don’t want to seem like a geek, you want to be popular and have heaps of friends like your brother and sister. I hate to break it to you but it’s not going to happen at primary school or even high school. Trust your initial judgment, the vast majority of the people you meet at school are idiots, don’t bust your balls trying to impress them.

Be yourself.

By now grown ups have probably started asking questions like, “And what do you want to be when you grow up?”. Although your answer to questions like this will evolve over the years one thing will remain the same- you will still be inventing fake aspirations to appease people. You do deserve a big pat on the back for coming up with the whole “I’m going to be a palaeontologist because I love prehistoric dinosaurs,” lie. People love that answer because it is far fetched, yet brainy and cute. Even at 7 years old you have begun to develop the manipulative skills that will serve you well in later life, one small tip. Ask to go to the movies for your 8th birthday. Otherwise you are going to end up at an exhibition of life size animatronic dinosaurs that will give you nightmares well into your teenage years and blow that ‘palaeontologist’ lie out of the water.

Don’t be talked into doing anything you don’t want to. Trust your instincts.

Ok big ears lets talk health. First and foremost, stick with your plan to get those huge ears pinned back. Mum and dad totally believe the schoolyard bullying stories you are telling so a few more months of ‘schoolyard trauma’ and those extra large flappers will be stapled to your skull and never ruin a photo again. While we’re on the subject of vanity related health concerns can you please get your jaw checked out before the age of 15? Trust me, if you don’t get this fixed before you hit 20 you’ll need operations painful enough to make a deranged masochist blush.

In more serious news can you please eat something that’s primary ingredient isn't sugar. The list of medical conditions/incidents/traumas and experiments that can be avoided by simply taking better care of your body is staggering.

Take care of yourself, stop waiting for someone else to do it for you.

Now to the big issue, it’s about boys and girls. No actually it’s just about boys.

.

On second thought, you’ll figure it out for yourself.

I’ll just leave you with a few quick tips before I sign off. Blonde hair does not suit you, knives are not toys, never get into bed with a bass player, and finally- NEVER GET INTO BED WITH A BASS PLAYER!

Lots of love,

Me.

?

If there is a heaven, it's filled with Derwent pencils.

Bag Full Of Bags

Here is a photo of me standing in front of my wardrobe. (PHOTO REMOVED 2012 DUE TO REGRET - just use your imagination) you'll immediately see the horrified expression on my face. Note the bottles of Vodka on the shelf. Read on.

Fact. Store mannequins are large inanimate objects that are often missing facial features and sometimes even missing the entire head.

Fact. Store Mannequins look far more attractive in the clothes they display than I ever will.

Possible Fact. Mannequins are probably more attractive than me when out of clothes as well but I’d rather not lead into a conversation about my genetils.

I often get told that my grip on reality isn’t too tight and that my self esteem is lower than hell’s basement but I generally just dismiss these comments with a random self deprecating joke and then proceed with my day. However even I can recognise that I’ve got problems when I get mannequin envy to the point where I’m evoking violent fantasies similar to those I experience when I meet evangelical Christians.

Out in the city on my last shopping trip I was engaging in some casual banter with a sales assistant about an ill fitting pair of jeans. It went something like this.

SALES ASSISTANT: Those jeans look totally hot on you.

ME: I’m not entirely convinced about the cut.

SALES ASSISTANT: Those jeans look totally hot on you.

ME: What are your thoughts on renewable energy sources as a means of reducing greenhouse gas emissions?

SALES ASSISTANT: Those jeans look totally...

At this point I was distracted from our riveting conversation by a mannequin that I spotted out the corner of my eye. The mannequin was faceless; its skin colour could best be described as asylum wall grey; it only managed to stand upright with the assistance of a metal pole crudely bolted to its lower back, and most notably, it was wearing the same jeans as me- and it looked hot.

So what’s the real problem with this situation? No, I don’t have sexual fantasies about mannequins, although I did have a strange obsession with that movie ‘A Mom For Christmas.’ The real problem is that I bought the overpriced jeans despite feeling completely inadequate compared to the mannequin. I bought them in what can only be described as a reactionary and spiteful gesture towards the mannequin, the shop assistant, the shop assistants sniggering friend who was not previously mentioned in this story, and anyone who happened to make eye contact with me that day.

This is just one of the many convoluted reasons I use to justify my spending. At the moment I’m basically living on credit. I don’t actually have any of that stuff you use to buy things, you know what I mean, um, you give it to the person in the shop and they give you goods and or services, oh what’s it called, money? Yeah that’s it, money! So here are some of the completely logical reasons I’ve used to justify swiping the plastic and giving my autograph to retailers all over town.

You can never have too much black in your wardrobe.
You really need some colour in your wardrobe.
That fits perfectly.
That doesn’t really fit well but it’s cool.
That does not fit you at all but it’s a good price.
That t-shirt is a piece of art don’t deny your creative side the freedom of expression.
That sales assistant has been really helpful and nice, you should buy something.
That sales assistant is a fucking bitch, you should definitely buy something.
A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.
And so on and so forth.

As I cleaned out my wardrobe recently I made a startling discovery. A large black bag, filled to the brim with bags of every shape, colour and size. I steadily filled the bag over the last year, depositing bags one by one after each stupid purchase. Standing alone in my bedroom face to face with the bag full of bags I was completely overwhelmed. The bag was a horrific reminder of my mounting credit card debt, and it also prompted a horrible realisation that I was far shallower than I’d ever care to admit, this really upset me.

I had to get it out of my house. Like a man possessed I swept up the bag, ran outside to the bin, threw it inside and before the lid had even slammed shut I was on the phone with a friend provoking an intellectual conversation to reassure myself that I was more than a retail whore.

The next morning as I attempted to finish cleaning out my wardrobe I stumbled made another shocking discovery; I found something so horrific that I can’t even write a lame joke about it in an attempt to soften my shame.

I found ANOTHER bag full of bags.

It's times like these I remember why I keep vodka in my wardrobe.

Cheers.

Marcs shirt $120.

Ksubi jeans $300.

A life of prostitution to pay off the credit card, priceless.