So here it is, proof that I am indeed filled with the Christmas spirit. As you can see I pulled out all the stops when decorating my room.
I had to cut off the head of a small stuffed toy to get the Santa hat for my artist's dummy.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Proof
Numerous people have recently accused me of having no Christmas cheer. In an effort to disprove this misguided assumption I decided to decorate my bedroom.
So here it is, proof that I am indeed filled with the Christmas spirit. As you can see I pulled out all the stops when decorating my room.
So here it is, proof that I am indeed filled with the Christmas spirit. As you can see I pulled out all the stops when decorating my room.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Excludes Albinos
Being the whitest person on the face of the earth* is not easy. Especially when you are not blessed with a ‘milky’ white complexion like the flawless Cate Blanchett. Rather you are bespeckled with odd clumps of freckles, bags under your eyes and blotchy red patches of skin. My mother is Italian and was blessed with olive skin, a blessing that she passed on to my two siblings. On the other hand I tend to look I’ve just been rescued from a child predator who kept me locked in a basement away from sunlight for the past 11 years.
This all changed recently. I accepted a last minute invite to the Derby Day races with a group of friends. Having retained at least part of the ‘Slip, Slop, Slap’ message taught to me by Sid the cartoon seagull in the late 80’s, I applied what I thought was sunscreen before heading outdoors. Clearly the campaign, and more specifically Sid himself, did not care about people with poor eyesight. Having to remove my glasses to ensure effective application of sunscreen to my entire face had disastrous results. What I actually applied liberally to my face was in fact moisturiser, not being the type of guy who uses moisturiser or sunscreen regularly it was an easy mistake to make. I blame Sid the seagull. Instead of ‘Slip, Slop, Slap’ the catchphrase should have said:
Slip on a shirt, Slop on some sunscreen- but if you wear glasses make sure to check what you are actually applying before you smear moisturiser all over your face, and slap on a hat.
In the hours that followed I basically fried my face in the sun, all those pigs that I have fried up over the years to provide my breakfast plate with tasty tasty bacon must have been looking up from piggy hell laughing hysterically- but I suppose my face frying in the sun is hardly as bad as frying them up and eating them… I digress.
My face was so sun-burned that I had to visit a doctor, who prescribed me medication to combat possible skin infections, recommended an ointment to reduce the redness once the skin had healed and actually had to place a dressing over my nose because it had shed so many layers of flesh. Having an important event coming up four days later increased my stress levels dramatically and my anger towards Sid the Seagull grew each morning as I looked in the mirror and was confronted with a face that looked like a Spanish omelette.
As time passed my face healed and the burns left me with a slightly darker complexion which seems to have lingered for the past month. Just the other day three different people commented on my ‘healthy’ complexion. Each time I replied, “Thanks, I have a great moisturiser.”
*Whitest person on earth claim excludes albinos.
Sid The Seagull: The ugly face of eyesight prejudice.
Friday, December 08, 2006
The Heart Of The Matter
It was my first time so I was a little nervous about it all, I suppose everyone is a bit scared of the unknown. She dimmed the lights and gently guided me through the whole process and before I knew it we were finished.
"How are you?", she said as she stood up and slowly walked away from the bed.
I replied, "Great. You did all the work and I just had to lay back and relax."
She smiled politely, threw me a box of tissues and told me to get cleaned up and put my clothes back on. As soon as I was dressed she put her arm around my shoulder and ushered me into the brightly lit room next door.
When my eyes finally adjusted to bright white light I scanned the room and realised she was gone, I was in an office and a grubby little man was asking me for payment. I handed over the cash and left quickly.
"How are you?", she said as she stood up and slowly walked away from the bed.
I replied, "Great. You did all the work and I just had to lay back and relax."
She smiled politely, threw me a box of tissues and told me to get cleaned up and put my clothes back on. As soon as I was dressed she put her arm around my shoulder and ushered me into the brightly lit room next door.
When my eyes finally adjusted to bright white light I scanned the room and realised she was gone, I was in an office and a grubby little man was asking me for payment. I handed over the cash and left quickly.
Slightly dazed and confused I strolled back to my car- feeling every beat of my heart more than ever before.
I suppose now is an appropriate time to point out that I had an Echocardiogram (ECG) this morning.
My test today involved a woman, who I can only assume was a doctor, squirting some gel on my chest and prodding my ribs with an ultrasound camera. Clearly this isn't as interesting as my initial description may have led you to believe.
Despite my melodramatic self diagnosis of a broken heart I have been assured everything is fine.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Lesson #3: Don't Ignore Chest Pains
When I decided to stop blogging back in September I had no idea that life was about to get so interesting. Had I realised that the next few months would present me with endless opportunities to exploit myself for other peoples entertainment I would never have shut down the blog.
So where did I leave off?
Oh that's right, I left with the promise that when I eventually returned to the blog I would no longer be censoring myself. Clearly that was a lie, partly because I dont want to incriminate anyone who happens to stumble into my life, and partly because I'm lazy. One hundred percent honesty is too much work.
This post was supposed to be full of all the hilarious stories about the events of the past few months but after eating enough pasta to feed a family of four I'm feeling bloated and lazy. So instead I'll follow the tradition of the 'MichaelWho Blog' and summarise. Here are some of the lessons I have learned recently.
Lesson #1: No one likes a drunken skank.
After three solid months of frequenting 'A Bar Called Barry's' on Thursday nights for their Queer & Alternative night I felt myself turning into someone I didn't like. That sounds pretty deep but actually its quite simple, I was beginning to act like a skank. Which is just like being a skank but without all the sex. Anyway, I took a break from the Q&A scene and spent some time tormenting myself for being an idiot, soon thereafter I vowed not to be an idiot ever again.
Lesson #2: When the going gets tough, I become a towel throwing expert.
For those of you can't translate my odd mixed metaphor, let me explain. Since leaving high school I have taken up numerous academic pursuits, but every time the pressure became too much, like when I actually had to do something besides drink coffee and have pretentious conversations, I would quit and move on to something else. Through the latter half of this year I was faced with an unrelenting workload that beat me down like a polar bear bitch-slapping a penguin. After seriously contemplating faking a nervous breakdown to get out of yet another course I decided to burry myself in study and actually finish the year. When I finished I proceeded to pat myself on the back, it wasn't as rewarding as I had hoped.
Lesson #3: Don't Ignore Chest Pains
I'm not going to turn this into a lung related complain'a'thon. I'll break it down- my lung spontaneously collapsed, the doctor yelled at me for not taking it seriously and the nurses thought I had an eating disorder. I spent 5 days in hospital, the lung was fixed, I feel fine and people continue to subject me to random seemingly unrelated tests which are sending me bankrupt. Stupid lung.
I haven't spent this much time typing since completing my last assignment- I'm having unwelcome flashbacks so I'm going to stop here. Please enjoy this completely random photo of me with a helmet stuck on my head.
So where did I leave off?
Oh that's right, I left with the promise that when I eventually returned to the blog I would no longer be censoring myself. Clearly that was a lie, partly because I dont want to incriminate anyone who happens to stumble into my life, and partly because I'm lazy. One hundred percent honesty is too much work.
This post was supposed to be full of all the hilarious stories about the events of the past few months but after eating enough pasta to feed a family of four I'm feeling bloated and lazy. So instead I'll follow the tradition of the 'MichaelWho Blog' and summarise. Here are some of the lessons I have learned recently.
Lesson #1: No one likes a drunken skank.
After three solid months of frequenting 'A Bar Called Barry's' on Thursday nights for their Queer & Alternative night I felt myself turning into someone I didn't like. That sounds pretty deep but actually its quite simple, I was beginning to act like a skank. Which is just like being a skank but without all the sex. Anyway, I took a break from the Q&A scene and spent some time tormenting myself for being an idiot, soon thereafter I vowed not to be an idiot ever again.
Lesson #2: When the going gets tough, I become a towel throwing expert.
For those of you can't translate my odd mixed metaphor, let me explain. Since leaving high school I have taken up numerous academic pursuits, but every time the pressure became too much, like when I actually had to do something besides drink coffee and have pretentious conversations, I would quit and move on to something else. Through the latter half of this year I was faced with an unrelenting workload that beat me down like a polar bear bitch-slapping a penguin. After seriously contemplating faking a nervous breakdown to get out of yet another course I decided to burry myself in study and actually finish the year. When I finished I proceeded to pat myself on the back, it wasn't as rewarding as I had hoped.
Lesson #3: Don't Ignore Chest Pains
I'm not going to turn this into a lung related complain'a'thon. I'll break it down- my lung spontaneously collapsed, the doctor yelled at me for not taking it seriously and the nurses thought I had an eating disorder. I spent 5 days in hospital, the lung was fixed, I feel fine and people continue to subject me to random seemingly unrelated tests which are sending me bankrupt. Stupid lung.
I haven't spent this much time typing since completing my last assignment- I'm having unwelcome flashbacks so I'm going to stop here. Please enjoy this completely random photo of me with a helmet stuck on my head.
(PHOTO REMOVED 2012 - WHAT WAS I THINKING?)
Sunday, September 17, 2006
Thursday
I think that the time has come to give the blog a rest and start a pen on paper journal again.
I have really enjoyed writing about the insignificant tales of my daily existence and posting all of it here. There is something oddly therapeutic about putting my thoughts out there to be read by anyone who cares to look. Some people might say that my blog is an egotistical exercise- and to some degree I have to agree. Now I just want to have a record of my life that can be 100% honest.
I'll return to the blog at some stage, and when that time comes I won't be censoring myself or leaving out any details. Then shit will really get entertaining.
As I sign off I will leave you with the beginning of my new journal.
Hey Journal,
Long time no speak mother fucker!
Where do I begin? Thursday- that's a good place to start...
I have really enjoyed writing about the insignificant tales of my daily existence and posting all of it here. There is something oddly therapeutic about putting my thoughts out there to be read by anyone who cares to look. Some people might say that my blog is an egotistical exercise- and to some degree I have to agree. Now I just want to have a record of my life that can be 100% honest.
I'll return to the blog at some stage, and when that time comes I won't be censoring myself or leaving out any details. Then shit will really get entertaining.
As I sign off I will leave you with the beginning of my new journal.
Hey Journal,
Long time no speak mother fucker!
Where do I begin? Thursday- that's a good place to start...
Monday, September 11, 2006
Something Stinks
Today I found myself in a place I like to call "The Last Minute Twilight Zone".
It's a strange but familiar place, I find myself here on the eve of every major deadline in my life. Today is the day before yet another giant assessment task is due. I awoke this morning with a headache that could have tranquilized an elephant and I realised I was headed for another journey into the twilight zone, filled with caffeine hallucinations and piles of notes that seem to be written in a language that only Mel Gibson could understand.
Every day that I stumble into school to hand in a piece of assessment that is the result of frantic last minute keyboard bashing I promise myself that next time I wont let this happen, next time I'll start working on the project earlier, next time I'll remember how horrible I felt, next time I won't waste time downloading the Paris Hilton sex tape instead of doing my work. But just like my New Years resolution to volunteer at a shelter for blind cats, it just never seems to happen.
Last time I found myself on a 20 hour assignment marathon in the last minute twilight zone I managed to craft quite a convincing string of bulls***. With the assistance of numerous 'Energy Drinks' and approximately 19 freddo frogs I put together a 33 page document that I'm proud to admit wasn't bad- in fact I got my highest mark all year for that last minute piece of work. This time I don't think there will be a happy ending.
Today I got so desperate to generate some content that I resorted to 'reworking' pieces of old assignments into this one. While digging through my old work I discovered a interesting trend. A lot of my assignments this year have been plans and proposals of some type, and a lot of times I've had to come up with fictitious staff names to put in these documents, if you look at the names as they appear in chronological order you get a concise list of all the people I've wanted to 'get to know better' over the last 8 months- interesting list.
I also discovered that jamming pieces of old work together and tacking on some new bulls*** is probably not the smartest idea, but I sit here now looking at a 24 pages of work neatly stacked on the desk in front of me. Although the quality is questionable to say the least. My mother just entered the room to say goodnight and as she left she turned back screwed up her face and blurted out-
'Something stinks in here!'
Good observation Mum, what you can smell is the steaming pile of s*** that I'm handing in tomorrow. It's either that or the pungent stench of a man who has just spent a day in the personal hygiene free world of the last minute twilight zone.
It's a strange but familiar place, I find myself here on the eve of every major deadline in my life. Today is the day before yet another giant assessment task is due. I awoke this morning with a headache that could have tranquilized an elephant and I realised I was headed for another journey into the twilight zone, filled with caffeine hallucinations and piles of notes that seem to be written in a language that only Mel Gibson could understand.
Every day that I stumble into school to hand in a piece of assessment that is the result of frantic last minute keyboard bashing I promise myself that next time I wont let this happen, next time I'll start working on the project earlier, next time I'll remember how horrible I felt, next time I won't waste time downloading the Paris Hilton sex tape instead of doing my work. But just like my New Years resolution to volunteer at a shelter for blind cats, it just never seems to happen.
Last time I found myself on a 20 hour assignment marathon in the last minute twilight zone I managed to craft quite a convincing string of bulls***. With the assistance of numerous 'Energy Drinks' and approximately 19 freddo frogs I put together a 33 page document that I'm proud to admit wasn't bad- in fact I got my highest mark all year for that last minute piece of work. This time I don't think there will be a happy ending.
Today I got so desperate to generate some content that I resorted to 'reworking' pieces of old assignments into this one. While digging through my old work I discovered a interesting trend. A lot of my assignments this year have been plans and proposals of some type, and a lot of times I've had to come up with fictitious staff names to put in these documents, if you look at the names as they appear in chronological order you get a concise list of all the people I've wanted to 'get to know better' over the last 8 months- interesting list.
I also discovered that jamming pieces of old work together and tacking on some new bulls*** is probably not the smartest idea, but I sit here now looking at a 24 pages of work neatly stacked on the desk in front of me. Although the quality is questionable to say the least. My mother just entered the room to say goodnight and as she left she turned back screwed up her face and blurted out-
'Something stinks in here!'
Good observation Mum, what you can smell is the steaming pile of s*** that I'm handing in tomorrow. It's either that or the pungent stench of a man who has just spent a day in the personal hygiene free world of the last minute twilight zone.
Help me Mel!
Sunday, September 03, 2006
Sex On A Plate
Today I had the best pancakes of my life.
Buckwheat pancakes with sugar coated strawberries, fresh cream, and drizzled with honey- sex on a plate. What made them even better was the cute waiter that served them to me, actually the cute waiter/restaurant owner that served them to me.
I have recently become obsessed with a new restaurant in my area called 'Dimples'. It's a rare to find a well designed restaurant with reasonably priced interesting food and a cute waiter/owner.
My obsession began by chance, while falling asleep on the early morning tram ride to school. I was rudely elbowed by a witch like woman attempting to apply her eighth layer of makeup, as I repressed the urge to punch her in the face I looked past her out the window and noticed a funky new addition to the otherwise familiar streetscape.
'Dimples: A Suburban Eatery'
After one visit I was hooked, and let me state for the record that cute waiter/owner was not there on this first trip. However he was there for five subsequent visits and on all occasions he has been just responsive enough to my flirting to guarantee my repeat business.
This morning I was there for a Father’s Day brunch and he managed to subtly charm me, while being careful not to draw any unwanted, (Oh My God Michael is flirting with a male waiter) attention from my oblivious family, that’s impressive.
I’m not stupid, I’m sure that the charming smile he flashes is simply a well refined skill. I don’t actually believe that there is any chance of living happily ever after and adopting Cambodian children together. Nonetheless, I’ll no doubt be back there soon for another serve of Dimples’ fantastic gnocchi with meatballs and ricotta, served with a side of the cutest waiter /owner on earth.
Buckwheat pancakes with sugar coated strawberries, fresh cream, and drizzled with honey- sex on a plate. What made them even better was the cute waiter that served them to me, actually the cute waiter/restaurant owner that served them to me.
I have recently become obsessed with a new restaurant in my area called 'Dimples'. It's a rare to find a well designed restaurant with reasonably priced interesting food and a cute waiter/owner.
My obsession began by chance, while falling asleep on the early morning tram ride to school. I was rudely elbowed by a witch like woman attempting to apply her eighth layer of makeup, as I repressed the urge to punch her in the face I looked past her out the window and noticed a funky new addition to the otherwise familiar streetscape.
'Dimples: A Suburban Eatery'
After one visit I was hooked, and let me state for the record that cute waiter/owner was not there on this first trip. However he was there for five subsequent visits and on all occasions he has been just responsive enough to my flirting to guarantee my repeat business.
This morning I was there for a Father’s Day brunch and he managed to subtly charm me, while being careful not to draw any unwanted, (Oh My God Michael is flirting with a male waiter) attention from my oblivious family, that’s impressive.
I’m not stupid, I’m sure that the charming smile he flashes is simply a well refined skill. I don’t actually believe that there is any chance of living happily ever after and adopting Cambodian children together. Nonetheless, I’ll no doubt be back there soon for another serve of Dimples’ fantastic gnocchi with meatballs and ricotta, served with a side of the cutest waiter /owner on earth.
Mmm.
Saturday, September 02, 2006
Rinse and Repeat
It's been 3 long months of looking like a redneck hillbilly and sounding like a mentally challenged child with a lisp the gap between my teeth has finally closed.
Braces are incredible. Don't get me wrong I still hate everything that is going on in my mouth but at least now I can see some kind of positive progress.
The downside to all this progress is that now I have become obsessed with my teeth, more specifically brushing my teeth. At first I was paranoid about having food stuck in my metal so I would brush after every meal. It then developed to brushing after every meal and then again half an hour later. Now I'm at the point where I stop for a quick brush of the teeth every time I walk past the bathroom.
The actual brushing routine has also become way more involved. I start with a rinse , then I brush with fluoride toothpaste, then I rinse with Listerine, then I brush with whitening toothpaste, then I with water again.
I know I'm a little bit manic. There is nothing wrong with wanting to maintain good dental hygiene.
I'm off to buy some more toothpaste but before I go let me share something with you.
I can post it now because the trauma associated with seeing this photo has disappeared along with the gap.
Braces are incredible. Don't get me wrong I still hate everything that is going on in my mouth but at least now I can see some kind of positive progress.
The downside to all this progress is that now I have become obsessed with my teeth, more specifically brushing my teeth. At first I was paranoid about having food stuck in my metal so I would brush after every meal. It then developed to brushing after every meal and then again half an hour later. Now I'm at the point where I stop for a quick brush of the teeth every time I walk past the bathroom.
The actual brushing routine has also become way more involved. I start with a rinse , then I brush with fluoride toothpaste, then I rinse with Listerine, then I brush with whitening toothpaste, then I with water again.
I know I'm a little bit manic. There is nothing wrong with wanting to maintain good dental hygiene.
I'm off to buy some more toothpaste but before I go let me share something with you.
I can post it now because the trauma associated with seeing this photo has disappeared along with the gap.
No trick photography- no photoshop- just gap.
Don't Be Jealous
Last Friday after a day which of feeling sorry for myself, avoiding homework, and eating every sugar based foodstuff in my house, I decided to start my weekend in spectacular fashion. I attended a trivia night- with my parents.
Don’t be jealous, I know that it must crush you to know that at the age of 22 I have such a thriving social life. I’m a lucky man.
The local community centre was decked out in the best decorations $2.50 can buy and the crowd of middle aged trivia enthusiasts was buzzing with anticipation- on second thought the buzzing could have been coming from the 1970’s PA system.
I was thrilled to learn that my team would not only include my parents but also an esteemed member of the local council who, I am honoured to say, sat next to me. Due to her constant twitching, inability to maintain eye contact, and the fact that she was having a conversation with herself for most of the night I drew the conclusion that she had probably lived under a staircase for the first 20 years of her life, but she sure came in handy for those questions about Stockholm syndrome.
A professional trivia company was hired to run the event; they specialized in adding a multimedia component to the night. During the ‘Guess That Song’ portion of the evening the host, dressed in his best parachute pants, pressed play on the portable boom box and held his microphone to the speaker- very high tech.
I never got bored because there was always someone new and interesting to chat to. It was refreshing to meet such an honest group of people, not afraid to ask me if I had any ‘special friends’, and more than happy point out how strange it is to see someone my age with braces.
Unfortunately my esteemed team didn’t with the trivia night, but that’s ok. It’s far more important to have a good time. My parents sure enjoyed themselves; I was designated driver for the evening so they were free to have few drinks. It was good to see them relax, it’s not every night you get to hear the story of your accidental conception- they are such a funny pair.
It’s hard to put into words just how much fun I had that night. The memories will stay with me... FOREVER!!!
I just broke the ‘!’ button on my keyboard.
Don’t be jealous, I know that it must crush you to know that at the age of 22 I have such a thriving social life. I’m a lucky man.
The local community centre was decked out in the best decorations $2.50 can buy and the crowd of middle aged trivia enthusiasts was buzzing with anticipation- on second thought the buzzing could have been coming from the 1970’s PA system.
I was thrilled to learn that my team would not only include my parents but also an esteemed member of the local council who, I am honoured to say, sat next to me. Due to her constant twitching, inability to maintain eye contact, and the fact that she was having a conversation with herself for most of the night I drew the conclusion that she had probably lived under a staircase for the first 20 years of her life, but she sure came in handy for those questions about Stockholm syndrome.
A professional trivia company was hired to run the event; they specialized in adding a multimedia component to the night. During the ‘Guess That Song’ portion of the evening the host, dressed in his best parachute pants, pressed play on the portable boom box and held his microphone to the speaker- very high tech.
I never got bored because there was always someone new and interesting to chat to. It was refreshing to meet such an honest group of people, not afraid to ask me if I had any ‘special friends’, and more than happy point out how strange it is to see someone my age with braces.
Unfortunately my esteemed team didn’t with the trivia night, but that’s ok. It’s far more important to have a good time. My parents sure enjoyed themselves; I was designated driver for the evening so they were free to have few drinks. It was good to see them relax, it’s not every night you get to hear the story of your accidental conception- they are such a funny pair.
It’s hard to put into words just how much fun I had that night. The memories will stay with me... FOREVER!!!
I just broke the ‘!’ button on my keyboard.
Friday, August 25, 2006
Put Down The Chicken Wing
Let me begin by stating the obvious- I'm a thin guy.
I need to take a moment to address the ugly-slut-salesgirl who recently told me,
"...if a size 28 pair of jeans are too big you must be anorexic..."
I hope you choke on a chicken bone, I hope the bone cuts into your throat, I hope the ambulance called for you breaks down, and I hope you die a slow painful death on your kitchen floor surrounded by the KFC Family Feast you were eating all by yourself.
Its not ok for me to tell an overweight person to "Put down the chicken wing", and I would never dream of doing that. So why do people feel that's its ok to tell me that I look sick and should be eating more. I eat plenty you nosy c***s.
The only person who can tell me to eat more is my Nonna because she carries a flick knife and I really don't want to mess with her.
I just needed to get that out of my system.
I need to take a moment to address the ugly-slut-salesgirl who recently told me,
"...if a size 28 pair of jeans are too big you must be anorexic..."
I hope you choke on a chicken bone, I hope the bone cuts into your throat, I hope the ambulance called for you breaks down, and I hope you die a slow painful death on your kitchen floor surrounded by the KFC Family Feast you were eating all by yourself.
Its not ok for me to tell an overweight person to "Put down the chicken wing", and I would never dream of doing that. So why do people feel that's its ok to tell me that I look sick and should be eating more. I eat plenty you nosy c***s.
The only person who can tell me to eat more is my Nonna because she carries a flick knife and I really don't want to mess with her.
I just needed to get that out of my system.
"I'll take the large bucket of cholesterol and a small diet coke."
Sunday, August 20, 2006
Numbers Don't Lie, But I Do
After much deliberation I decided to install a web counter on my blog today.
I had to fight back the urge to set the initial reading on the counter at 678. Why 678? Well I thought it was a number that would make it appear as if I was popular- but still be somewhat realistic. Instead I settled on 21 as a starting point, it's my favorite number and a much more conservative lie.
While I'm on the topic of lies let me address one other issue. A few reader may have had the opportunity to read a post that I wrote after returning home traumatized on Friday night. This post has since been removed. It involved me being stalked by an 'interesting' character on Friday night which resulted in me weaving a tangled web of lies to avoid having to be blunt and honest with the 'interesting' young man who was very eager to 'have coffee' with me.
I just wanted to point out that the post was not removed to spare myself any complications relating to the web of lies I told. I removed it because I got a sudden case of the guilts, I had posted the real name and image of someone without their permission- and although this 'interesting' character would probably never have seen the blog it just didn't seem right.
For those of you who missed the post don't feel left out- many stories are sure to emerge as a result of my 'truth interpretation' that night. Stay tuned.
I had to fight back the urge to set the initial reading on the counter at 678. Why 678? Well I thought it was a number that would make it appear as if I was popular- but still be somewhat realistic. Instead I settled on 21 as a starting point, it's my favorite number and a much more conservative lie.
While I'm on the topic of lies let me address one other issue. A few reader may have had the opportunity to read a post that I wrote after returning home traumatized on Friday night. This post has since been removed. It involved me being stalked by an 'interesting' character on Friday night which resulted in me weaving a tangled web of lies to avoid having to be blunt and honest with the 'interesting' young man who was very eager to 'have coffee' with me.
I just wanted to point out that the post was not removed to spare myself any complications relating to the web of lies I told. I removed it because I got a sudden case of the guilts, I had posted the real name and image of someone without their permission- and although this 'interesting' character would probably never have seen the blog it just didn't seem right.
For those of you who missed the post don't feel left out- many stories are sure to emerge as a result of my 'truth interpretation' that night. Stay tuned.
This is not a great photo of me. Bad lighting.
Friday, August 18, 2006
Strange Obsession With Vests
I often find myself thinking, at what point did Disney stop making good cartoons?
There was a golden era during my childhood- The Little Mermaid, Aladdin, Beauty & The Beast, The Lion King. So many good memories. I actually think seeing Aladdin shirtless made me realize I was gay, it also started my strange obsession with vests- but that's a whole other story. These four movies in particular still stand up today as classics, sure they are crude and watered down versions of classic stories, but they are classics none the less.
In recent years there has been the obvious success of the Disney/Pixar films and I'll admit that I have enjoyed some of these movies, but lets get one thing straight they are not Disney movies. Disney made a very clever decision and paid a s***load of money to put their name on some cutting edge kids movies that weren't steaming piles of c***.
It is possible that my ill feelings towards the Disney corporation soured during the time when it was being run by arrogant conservative moron Michael Eisner, but putting that aside has anyone seen a good Disney cartoon in the last 5 years? Did anyone actually watch 'The Emperor's New Grove' or 'Treasure Planet'?
I rest my case.
The most entertaining Disney related cartoon I've seen in recent times is posted below.
And finally, there is no way I could finish this post without a picture of my perfect man.
There was a golden era during my childhood- The Little Mermaid, Aladdin, Beauty & The Beast, The Lion King. So many good memories. I actually think seeing Aladdin shirtless made me realize I was gay, it also started my strange obsession with vests- but that's a whole other story. These four movies in particular still stand up today as classics, sure they are crude and watered down versions of classic stories, but they are classics none the less.
In recent years there has been the obvious success of the Disney/Pixar films and I'll admit that I have enjoyed some of these movies, but lets get one thing straight they are not Disney movies. Disney made a very clever decision and paid a s***load of money to put their name on some cutting edge kids movies that weren't steaming piles of c***.
It is possible that my ill feelings towards the Disney corporation soured during the time when it was being run by arrogant conservative moron Michael Eisner, but putting that aside has anyone seen a good Disney cartoon in the last 5 years? Did anyone actually watch 'The Emperor's New Grove' or 'Treasure Planet'?
I rest my case.
The most entertaining Disney related cartoon I've seen in recent times is posted below.
And finally, there is no way I could finish this post without a picture of my perfect man.
It is perfectly normal to be in love with a cartoon character.
Don't Drink The Water
Can someone lend me some self-esteem? I seem to have run out.
On three separate occasions today I have been beaten down/insulted. If it happens one more time there may be an unfortunate incident involving me poisoning Melbourne's water supply.
#1 The optometrist:
If I were to show you a picture of me standing with my older brother and sister it would be blindingly obvious that I got the left over DNA from my family. I'm basically the defective child, case in point- my eye sight. To quote my optometrist, I have the eyesight of a 60 year old woman, which considering I'm a 22 year old man- is quite distressing. This fact is not new to me, so when I went to get my glasses updated today I was expecting the usual eyesight related insults. However I didn't expect to hear this,
"You should probably get some thick rimmed glasses to help cover those dark bags under your eyes."
#2 The Workmate:
Later in the day I thought I'd stop past my old workplace to see what was going on. I bumped into to Larraine, the slightly deranged woman who works on Fridays. As I approached the counter I was greeted with this,
"Hi Michael, wow you look thin. I mean you were always skinny but you look really sickly. How are you feeling?"
#3 The Hairdresser:
In other genetic defect related news I was also blessed with an unattractive receding hairline as well as having many grey hairs at the age of 22. It's something I am aware of, and I'm used to hairdressers commenting on it, I'm accustomed to their complete and utter lack of tact. Today the lovely young lady cutting my hair went one step further,
"Ooo, look at all your grey hairs, I've never seen this many on someone so young before! Candice- come over here and look at how many grey hairs this guy has!"
Why do people feel the need to put others down to make themselves feel better?
...
The optometrist can barely walk upright, she has these little stumpy legs that struggle to support her bodyweight so she waddles around like a drunken penguin bumping into everything in her path.
Nice work Larraine, lets state the obvious, I'm thin- and your a f***ing loser. At 50 years of age I hope my life involves more that serving popcorn to senior citizens. No one likes you.
As for the hairdresser how is she supposed to know right from wrong? She obviously spent all her time at school giving $2 blowjobs behind the canteen until dropping out at the age of 16 to pursue a lucrative hairdressing career in the western suburbs.
...
That didn't make me feel any better.
UPDATE!
After this fantiastic trio of insults I honestly thought I had reached my quota for the day. How wrong I was.
Enter Nonna.
Within 30 seconds of my dear old Nonna arriving at my house she had managed to reiterate all three insults in her own special brand of aggressive broken English.
"Ah Michello, why you look so tired and sick, you no eat enough skinny! Ahh- what is this ugly hair?"
This warm greeting was accompanied by a sharp blow to the back of my head.
I love you too Nonna.
On three separate occasions today I have been beaten down/insulted. If it happens one more time there may be an unfortunate incident involving me poisoning Melbourne's water supply.
#1 The optometrist:
If I were to show you a picture of me standing with my older brother and sister it would be blindingly obvious that I got the left over DNA from my family. I'm basically the defective child, case in point- my eye sight. To quote my optometrist, I have the eyesight of a 60 year old woman, which considering I'm a 22 year old man- is quite distressing. This fact is not new to me, so when I went to get my glasses updated today I was expecting the usual eyesight related insults. However I didn't expect to hear this,
"You should probably get some thick rimmed glasses to help cover those dark bags under your eyes."
#2 The Workmate:
Later in the day I thought I'd stop past my old workplace to see what was going on. I bumped into to Larraine, the slightly deranged woman who works on Fridays. As I approached the counter I was greeted with this,
"Hi Michael, wow you look thin. I mean you were always skinny but you look really sickly. How are you feeling?"
#3 The Hairdresser:
In other genetic defect related news I was also blessed with an unattractive receding hairline as well as having many grey hairs at the age of 22. It's something I am aware of, and I'm used to hairdressers commenting on it, I'm accustomed to their complete and utter lack of tact. Today the lovely young lady cutting my hair went one step further,
"Ooo, look at all your grey hairs, I've never seen this many on someone so young before! Candice- come over here and look at how many grey hairs this guy has!"
Why do people feel the need to put others down to make themselves feel better?
...
The optometrist can barely walk upright, she has these little stumpy legs that struggle to support her bodyweight so she waddles around like a drunken penguin bumping into everything in her path.
Nice work Larraine, lets state the obvious, I'm thin- and your a f***ing loser. At 50 years of age I hope my life involves more that serving popcorn to senior citizens. No one likes you.
As for the hairdresser how is she supposed to know right from wrong? She obviously spent all her time at school giving $2 blowjobs behind the canteen until dropping out at the age of 16 to pursue a lucrative hairdressing career in the western suburbs.
...
That didn't make me feel any better.
Thirsty?
UPDATE!
After this fantiastic trio of insults I honestly thought I had reached my quota for the day. How wrong I was.
Enter Nonna.
Within 30 seconds of my dear old Nonna arriving at my house she had managed to reiterate all three insults in her own special brand of aggressive broken English.
"Ah Michello, why you look so tired and sick, you no eat enough skinny! Ahh- what is this ugly hair?"
This warm greeting was accompanied by a sharp blow to the back of my head.
I love you too Nonna.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
(Brackets)
Approximately 5 - 10 times a day I find myself on the phone to my friend Mona, we tend to chat about everything, ranging from the ignorance of the Howard government to the latest Happy Meal Toy available at McDonalds.
One evening last week while engrossed in a conversation about the importance of sushi in modern Australasian cuisine my focus temporarily shifted away from our discussion and I realised that I was sitting in my wardrobe, with the doors closed. In other words I was literally in the closet.
When I interrupted the sushi debate to tell Mona that throughout our phone conversation I had unconsciously wandered into the 'closet' sat down and pulled the door closed she reminded me that I actually did this all the time. As I sat there and thought about it I realised that she was right. I often hang up the phone and crawl out of my closet without giving it a moments thought.
This habit started back when I was living at my previous residence. For 2 years I enjoyed the luxury of a walk in closet. It had enough room for all my clothes and shoes, a chest of drawers, a lamp and a bean bag- so it was actually a mini dressing room. I began taking phone calls in the closet because it was so cozy and it was more insulated and private- this was during the time when I was too scared to say the word gay in my house for fear of my family hearing me. So from that point on I have been spending a lot of time in the closet, despite the fact that it is much more cramped in my new house.
So that brings me to an interesting question. Am I simply in the closet (sitting next to my shoes,) because I'm still in the closet (not out to my family)? Or am I in the closet (not out) because I like being in the closet (with the shoes)?
Any thoughts or comments- besides telling me I used too many brackets- are welcome.
For authenticity purposes I wrote this while sitting in the closet with my laptop. I think I may have discovered the reason for the constant dull pain in my left hip... but on the bright side I found a set of cufflinks that have been missing for six months.
One evening last week while engrossed in a conversation about the importance of sushi in modern Australasian cuisine my focus temporarily shifted away from our discussion and I realised that I was sitting in my wardrobe, with the doors closed. In other words I was literally in the closet.
When I interrupted the sushi debate to tell Mona that throughout our phone conversation I had unconsciously wandered into the 'closet' sat down and pulled the door closed she reminded me that I actually did this all the time. As I sat there and thought about it I realised that she was right. I often hang up the phone and crawl out of my closet without giving it a moments thought.
This habit started back when I was living at my previous residence. For 2 years I enjoyed the luxury of a walk in closet. It had enough room for all my clothes and shoes, a chest of drawers, a lamp and a bean bag- so it was actually a mini dressing room. I began taking phone calls in the closet because it was so cozy and it was more insulated and private- this was during the time when I was too scared to say the word gay in my house for fear of my family hearing me. So from that point on I have been spending a lot of time in the closet, despite the fact that it is much more cramped in my new house.
So that brings me to an interesting question. Am I simply in the closet (sitting next to my shoes,) because I'm still in the closet (not out to my family)? Or am I in the closet (not out) because I like being in the closet (with the shoes)?
Any thoughts or comments- besides telling me I used too many brackets- are welcome.
For authenticity purposes I wrote this while sitting in the closet with my laptop. I think I may have discovered the reason for the constant dull pain in my left hip... but on the bright side I found a set of cufflinks that have been missing for six months.
Oprah's closet. Money can buy happiness.
Monday, August 14, 2006
Everyone Dies
A am a changed man. I managed to keep away from the blog during my critical assignment period.
I resisted the urge to write about numerous things, like the fact that my mobile phone is a piece of s*** (never buy a phone from e-bay), and the joys of cutting my toenails (I think I actually wore out a set of nail clippers.) Don't be fooled, I still did a lot of procrastinating- it just didn't involve any blogging.
Those of you who know me well will be aware of my love for 'stuff', and more specifically my love for 'free stuff'. This weekend I was lucky enough to be given free tickets to the theatre, which provided me the perfect opportunity to abandon my studies for a couple of hours and still feel like I was being intellectual, how is this possible you ask? I saw me some Shakespeare on the Saturday! I went to see the Bell Shakespeare Company's production of 'The Tempest' and I loved it, but more importantly I actually understood it without having to read the idiots guide.
I've always liked Shakespeare, the stories are so juicy. Take for example Macbeth, its basically The Bold & The Beautiful without the daytime censorship. Hamlet is even better, everyone dies! Death is so much better when its happens repeatedly and in quick succession.
After seeing 'The Tempest' I was telling a friend (loose interpretation of the word) about my love for the juicy/slutty/violent nature of Shakespeare and suddenly he began to berate me for my, and I quote;
"...Over simplified uneducated interpretation of classic literature..."
He went on that I,
"...Only appreciate the lowest common denominator in humour."
Then added that,
"Being crass and childish wouldn't get me through life."
and finished with,
"Ner ner ne ner ner," ...or something like that.
I didn't reply. I just smiled and nodded, poor guy is obviously suffering the crippling after effects of having and incestuous relationship with his father.
So in the spirit of that conversation I present to you the following clip entitled,
"Grandma Teaches Us How To Give Head."
Enjoy.
I resisted the urge to write about numerous things, like the fact that my mobile phone is a piece of s*** (never buy a phone from e-bay), and the joys of cutting my toenails (I think I actually wore out a set of nail clippers.) Don't be fooled, I still did a lot of procrastinating- it just didn't involve any blogging.
Those of you who know me well will be aware of my love for 'stuff', and more specifically my love for 'free stuff'. This weekend I was lucky enough to be given free tickets to the theatre, which provided me the perfect opportunity to abandon my studies for a couple of hours and still feel like I was being intellectual, how is this possible you ask? I saw me some Shakespeare on the Saturday! I went to see the Bell Shakespeare Company's production of 'The Tempest' and I loved it, but more importantly I actually understood it without having to read the idiots guide.
I've always liked Shakespeare, the stories are so juicy. Take for example Macbeth, its basically The Bold & The Beautiful without the daytime censorship. Hamlet is even better, everyone dies! Death is so much better when its happens repeatedly and in quick succession.
After seeing 'The Tempest' I was telling a friend (loose interpretation of the word) about my love for the juicy/slutty/violent nature of Shakespeare and suddenly he began to berate me for my, and I quote;
"...Over simplified uneducated interpretation of classic literature..."
He went on that I,
"...Only appreciate the lowest common denominator in humour."
Then added that,
"Being crass and childish wouldn't get me through life."
and finished with,
"Ner ner ne ner ner," ...or something like that.
I didn't reply. I just smiled and nodded, poor guy is obviously suffering the crippling after effects of having and incestuous relationship with his father.
So in the spirit of that conversation I present to you the following clip entitled,
"Grandma Teaches Us How To Give Head."
Enjoy.
'Great quantities of saliva'. That was educational.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
3.2 Lucky Readers
So I haven't Blogged in a while.
It's not like my life has stopped providing me with endless moronic stories and random thoughts to share with you, it's just that living in the real world temporarily distracted me from the blog.
It will never happen again. Ok that's a lie it definitely will happen again at some stage.
I suppose that in this instance I'm using the "busy life" excuse just like when I bump into friends that I have neglected for months. Sure life is busy, it's always busy, but the bigger issue is my (sometimes socially crippling) laziness.
Luckily for the 3.2 people who now read this blog my laziness has been overtaken by a much more powerful force- procrastination. I have an assignment due in a couple of days so stay tuned for lots of posts written in the time I should be spending putting together a major piece of assessment.
Peace Out.
It's not like my life has stopped providing me with endless moronic stories and random thoughts to share with you, it's just that living in the real world temporarily distracted me from the blog.
It will never happen again. Ok that's a lie it definitely will happen again at some stage.
I suppose that in this instance I'm using the "busy life" excuse just like when I bump into friends that I have neglected for months. Sure life is busy, it's always busy, but the bigger issue is my (sometimes socially crippling) laziness.
Luckily for the 3.2 people who now read this blog my laziness has been overtaken by a much more powerful force- procrastination. I have an assignment due in a couple of days so stay tuned for lots of posts written in the time I should be spending putting together a major piece of assessment.
Peace Out.
Looking at this picture makes me want to sit down and do some serious thinking about where my life is headed. It also makes me want to sit down and eat a large bowl of potato salad- go figure?
Friday, July 28, 2006
Violent Hand Gestures
I have a propensity to constantly describe myself as crazy, mentally unbalanced, emotionally unstable etc- all of which I believe are accurate descriptions depending what time of day you talk to me. However, from this moment forth I shall refer to craziness as "Beyonce and Celine" moments.
REASON #1: Beyonce Video Clip
I actually love this clip, its like a promotional video for lunatics. Who would have thought that a record company would agree to such a fantastically erratic video clip for a major international pop star like Beyonce. When I heard her new single 'Deja Vu' I was expecting the typical booty busting dance clip, I severely underestimated Ms.B. This clip has it all- some crazy Shakira'esque re-growth, running aimlessly through a field, the ugliest couture clothing I have ever seen, dance moves that replicate an epileptic fit, and general Beyonce lunacy. Perfect.
REASON #2: Celine Dion Interview.
Celine Dion is f***ing bonkers. I totally agree with the point she is trying to make in this interview- and I just love her even more for the melodramatic and incoherent delivery. Watch out for the violent hand gestures. Crazy b****.
In summary, insanity is the new black.
REASON #1: Beyonce Video Clip
I actually love this clip, its like a promotional video for lunatics. Who would have thought that a record company would agree to such a fantastically erratic video clip for a major international pop star like Beyonce. When I heard her new single 'Deja Vu' I was expecting the typical booty busting dance clip, I severely underestimated Ms.B. This clip has it all- some crazy Shakira'esque re-growth, running aimlessly through a field, the ugliest couture clothing I have ever seen, dance moves that replicate an epileptic fit, and general Beyonce lunacy. Perfect.
REASON #2: Celine Dion Interview.
Celine Dion is f***ing bonkers. I totally agree with the point she is trying to make in this interview- and I just love her even more for the melodramatic and incoherent delivery. Watch out for the violent hand gestures. Crazy b****.
In summary, insanity is the new black.
Monday, July 24, 2006
S.eeking M.ore S.anity
As you may or may not have noticed I have added a fancy image to the top of my blog. I hope you appreciate the effort I went to- I'll have you know that I actually scanned in a screwed up piece of paper to create that graphic.
The more observant readers will also note that the image has changed slightly as of today. In my first attempt to upload the new heading I subconsciously left out the 'mental illness' section of the tag line, this was purely a coincidence however one reader pointed out my omission- and demanded that it be added immediately. I was offended at first, but then I realised that my dear friend had a good point, let me explain.
So fragile are my emotions that when I accidentally deleted my all the stored SMS messages from my mobile phone yesterday I actually shed a tear. Not the best indication of a strong grip on ones sanity- I mean the cure for cancer wasn't embedded in a bunch of 4 line text messages, there is no cultural significance in the way I choose substitute the @ symbol for the word 'at', and there were no moments of literary brilliance contained within drunken messages sent at 3am. So what was the real loss? Sadly, now there is no concrete evidence that I actually have friends, but I'll get over that. As a result of this self analysis the 'mental illness' tag has returned to the top of the blog and I have decided to work on my issues- by work on my issues I mean stop acting like a frekkin' lunatic.
Luckily I didn't delete the video of the funny little hampster that screams profanity, that would have been a real tragedy.
The more observant readers will also note that the image has changed slightly as of today. In my first attempt to upload the new heading I subconsciously left out the 'mental illness' section of the tag line, this was purely a coincidence however one reader pointed out my omission- and demanded that it be added immediately. I was offended at first, but then I realised that my dear friend had a good point, let me explain.
So fragile are my emotions that when I accidentally deleted my all the stored SMS messages from my mobile phone yesterday I actually shed a tear. Not the best indication of a strong grip on ones sanity- I mean the cure for cancer wasn't embedded in a bunch of 4 line text messages, there is no cultural significance in the way I choose substitute the @ symbol for the word 'at', and there were no moments of literary brilliance contained within drunken messages sent at 3am. So what was the real loss? Sadly, now there is no concrete evidence that I actually have friends, but I'll get over that. As a result of this self analysis the 'mental illness' tag has returned to the top of the blog and I have decided to work on my issues- by work on my issues I mean stop acting like a frekkin' lunatic.
Luckily I didn't delete the video of the funny little hampster that screams profanity, that would have been a real tragedy.
I Googled 'Crazy Guy' - to find this picture. Sometimes they get it so right its scary... very scary.
Sunday, July 23, 2006
Is Jesus A Small Minded Fool?
What do I have in common with Batman, Superman and Spiderman? I don’t have the desire to wear tights in public and unfortunately I don't have any of those nifty superhuman abilities, otherwise I’d be doing something more exciting than sitting here blogging. However I do have a secret identity, well sort of... it’s actually just a secret... so I suppose the superhero connection is a bit of a stretch.
Over the past few years I have gone through the process of ‘coming out’ to all of my friends I have not yet had that awkward conversation with my family. I’ve played the conversation out in my head numerous times and it just never seems to end well, in fact it often ends with police knocking at the door. For me its just one of those annoying things I keep putting off, like untangling the wires behind your television- which reminds me I have an electrical hazard behind my TV at the moment, I must get round to fixing that.
Though I do feel guilty about keeping this a secret I try to maintain some kind of honesty policy; in the last 6 years I have never lied to anyone who has asked me if I was gay, I don’t make up girlfriends, I don’t intentionally do anything to lead people to believe I’m straight- I just don’t feel the need to. Nor do I feel the need to announce my gayness,
“Hi. I’m gay. Did I mention I was gay? My name is Michael. I’m a gay gay man.”
The truth is I’m just too lazy to have the ‘gay’ discussion with people, especially with my family. If all goes well and I don’t get kicked out of home or sent to a weird church camp to ‘un-gay’ me I predict many painful hours of discussion, my family tends to get into these marathon debates that have no real end. It would be a lot easier if I could just get it all over and done with a couple of pointed sentences,
“I’m gay. You didn’t do anything wrong when I was a child. It’s not unnatural. Jesus can suck my c*** if he doesn’t agree.”
(Attention Religious People: Don’t get your knickers in a twist… notice how I said ‘If he doesn’t agree’, so it’s not actually offensive unless Jesus is a small minded fool who doesn’t agree with me.)
However I just can’t see this happening. So until I have built up the stamina required to endure the marathon conversation with my family I continue to live somewhat of a double life.
My two worlds almost collided on Thursday night. As far as my family knew I was out having dinner with some friends in the city, I was actually having ‘pre-drinks’ at a friends house before heading out to a gay club. Unbeknownst to me as I strolled down Sydney road alone my sister was enjoying herself at a bar on the very same street. Later in the evening I had an awkward conversation with her that went something like this.
SISTER: Hey Michael where are you?
ME: Out with friends. Where are you? (Notice how I haven’t yet lied.)
SISTER: I’m just leaving The Spot on Sydney road. Where exactly are you? (The interrogation begins.)
ME: In the city. (So now I’m stretching the truth a little.)
SISTER: Are you sure? (Typical older sister.)
ME: Yeah. (Lie. At this point I’m slightly intoxicated and failing to make the obvious connection that she saw me on Sydney Road.)
SISTER: Ok then. Have fun in the city. (The lie has been observed and saved in her memory bank for future interrogation.)
When my brain finally put the pieces together about an hour later I began to get an uneasy feeling in my stomach. I know that I wasn’t spotted having sex in an alleyway, but I know my sister well- she has caught me on a lie, she will want to get the real story.
Looks like I may be having ‘the conversation’ sooner than expected. But for now I have more important things to worry about- I’m off to untangle the cables behind my television. If you don’t see another post for a few days I’ve either been electrocuted to death- or sent to ‘Father Hetero’s Camp for the Sexually Unclean.’
Over the past few years I have gone through the process of ‘coming out’ to all of my friends I have not yet had that awkward conversation with my family. I’ve played the conversation out in my head numerous times and it just never seems to end well, in fact it often ends with police knocking at the door. For me its just one of those annoying things I keep putting off, like untangling the wires behind your television- which reminds me I have an electrical hazard behind my TV at the moment, I must get round to fixing that.
Though I do feel guilty about keeping this a secret I try to maintain some kind of honesty policy; in the last 6 years I have never lied to anyone who has asked me if I was gay, I don’t make up girlfriends, I don’t intentionally do anything to lead people to believe I’m straight- I just don’t feel the need to. Nor do I feel the need to announce my gayness,
“Hi. I’m gay. Did I mention I was gay? My name is Michael. I’m a gay gay man.”
The truth is I’m just too lazy to have the ‘gay’ discussion with people, especially with my family. If all goes well and I don’t get kicked out of home or sent to a weird church camp to ‘un-gay’ me I predict many painful hours of discussion, my family tends to get into these marathon debates that have no real end. It would be a lot easier if I could just get it all over and done with a couple of pointed sentences,
“I’m gay. You didn’t do anything wrong when I was a child. It’s not unnatural. Jesus can suck my c*** if he doesn’t agree.”
(Attention Religious People: Don’t get your knickers in a twist… notice how I said ‘If he doesn’t agree’, so it’s not actually offensive unless Jesus is a small minded fool who doesn’t agree with me.)
However I just can’t see this happening. So until I have built up the stamina required to endure the marathon conversation with my family I continue to live somewhat of a double life.
My two worlds almost collided on Thursday night. As far as my family knew I was out having dinner with some friends in the city, I was actually having ‘pre-drinks’ at a friends house before heading out to a gay club. Unbeknownst to me as I strolled down Sydney road alone my sister was enjoying herself at a bar on the very same street. Later in the evening I had an awkward conversation with her that went something like this.
SISTER: Hey Michael where are you?
ME: Out with friends. Where are you? (Notice how I haven’t yet lied.)
SISTER: I’m just leaving The Spot on Sydney road. Where exactly are you? (The interrogation begins.)
ME: In the city. (So now I’m stretching the truth a little.)
SISTER: Are you sure? (Typical older sister.)
ME: Yeah. (Lie. At this point I’m slightly intoxicated and failing to make the obvious connection that she saw me on Sydney Road.)
SISTER: Ok then. Have fun in the city. (The lie has been observed and saved in her memory bank for future interrogation.)
When my brain finally put the pieces together about an hour later I began to get an uneasy feeling in my stomach. I know that I wasn’t spotted having sex in an alleyway, but I know my sister well- she has caught me on a lie, she will want to get the real story.
Looks like I may be having ‘the conversation’ sooner than expected. But for now I have more important things to worry about- I’m off to untangle the cables behind my television. If you don’t see another post for a few days I’ve either been electrocuted to death- or sent to ‘Father Hetero’s Camp for the Sexually Unclean.’
Jesus/Fool ?Friday, July 21, 2006
Mariah Carey On Crack
Something that you may not know about my blog is that I actually write a lot more than you actually see posted here. I have at least ten complete posts that have never sent the light of day, for various reasons. The main reason for withholding these phantom posts- besides the fact that they are boring and unfunny- is the constant changes in my mood.
I have more moodswings than Mariah Carey on crack. The changes my seem subtle to the untrained eye but I have learned that my outlook can change dramatically from one minute to the next. Sounds complicated and a bit disconcerting I know, but actually it just makes my days more interesting.
So how does this affect the blogging process you might be wondering... (if at this point you are not 'wondering' in the least you might want to return to doing something productive because I'm about to start rambling.) Well what happens is, I spend twenty minutes writing a post about something that has annoyed me or made me laugh and when I go back to read through it I no longer feel that way. This has happened numerous times when I've written something and not posted it straight away. For example, I got my braces fitted two days ago, below is an excerpt of the post I wrote soon after.
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned- not true. Hell, and Earth for that matter, has bigger problems- 22 year olds who have just had braces fitted.
Today was the big day, the braces went on. Knowing that I still have the metal jaw stretching device in my mouth, it has been there since the operation in May, just imagine how metallic my mouth is at the moment. All jokes aside I'm confident that I would actually set off metal detectors, which is the only fun thing I can associate with the current f***ed up state of my mouth.
etc... (Its started to get a bit graphic and violent at this point.)
I was too tired to finish the blog that night so I saved it, when I returned to post it the next day I just didn't feel so angry about the whole situation anymore. Actually I felt a bit embarrassed for complaining about braces, I mean children have braces without being so melodramatic. I distinctly recall having a conversation with a 12 year old girl in the orthodontists office (don't judge me, I'm just a friendly person,) she was about to have braces put on and much to the disgust of her mother I was telling the girl how much I hated the idea of having braces. She responded simply,
I have more moodswings than Mariah Carey on crack. The changes my seem subtle to the untrained eye but I have learned that my outlook can change dramatically from one minute to the next. Sounds complicated and a bit disconcerting I know, but actually it just makes my days more interesting.
So how does this affect the blogging process you might be wondering... (if at this point you are not 'wondering' in the least you might want to return to doing something productive because I'm about to start rambling.) Well what happens is, I spend twenty minutes writing a post about something that has annoyed me or made me laugh and when I go back to read through it I no longer feel that way. This has happened numerous times when I've written something and not posted it straight away. For example, I got my braces fitted two days ago, below is an excerpt of the post I wrote soon after.
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned- not true. Hell, and Earth for that matter, has bigger problems- 22 year olds who have just had braces fitted.
Today was the big day, the braces went on. Knowing that I still have the metal jaw stretching device in my mouth, it has been there since the operation in May, just imagine how metallic my mouth is at the moment. All jokes aside I'm confident that I would actually set off metal detectors, which is the only fun thing I can associate with the current f***ed up state of my mouth.
etc... (Its started to get a bit graphic and violent at this point.)
I was too tired to finish the blog that night so I saved it, when I returned to post it the next day I just didn't feel so angry about the whole situation anymore. Actually I felt a bit embarrassed for complaining about braces, I mean children have braces without being so melodramatic. I distinctly recall having a conversation with a 12 year old girl in the orthodontists office (don't judge me, I'm just a friendly person,) she was about to have braces put on and much to the disgust of her mother I was telling the girl how much I hated the idea of having braces. She responded simply,
'Get over it. They don't stay on forever.'
She has a good point, and her shrill little voice echoed in my head as I decided to refrain from posting yet another bitter story.
So there you go, because of my moodswings you miss out on some great rants and even some interesting declarations of love (sorry Mona), because I just cant seem to maintain any kind of emotional stability.
It's hard work being this unstable. Time to go, one of the voices in my head wants a green tea and a new pair of pants.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Platinum Sunday
My Sunday morning typically begins with me looking for ways to delay getting out of bed for as long as possible. I will read anything I can get my hands on- including the payment instructions on my credit card bill. I'll call and SMS everyone I know, including people I actually dislike. I sometimes count the freckles on each forearm in an attempt to discover which is the more speckled arm.
This past Sunday morning I turned to my trusty friend, television, in the hope that some quality music videos would provide the perfect excuse to spend another hour wrapped up in my doona like a kebab in tinfoil- ok bad analogy. Unfortunately, due to a long night of partying I had slept through all the music video shows. It appeared I would have no choice but to drag my lazy a** out of bed, change out of my cowboy pajamas into some respectable 'real world' clothes and face another day- but then suddenly my luck changed.
Every once in a while the television God's smile on you, offering up programming perfection. At midday today I had my miracle, a fantastically terrible movie called 'Double Platinum.' Let me set the scene- the movie was made in 1999 and stars Diana Ross and Brandy, this alone is more than enough to satisfy me- but let me give you the rundown on the mostly irrelevant storyline. Olivia (Diana Ross) leaves her unsupportive husband and newborn baby girl to pursue a her dream of being a singer. Years later a mega-successful Olivia returns to find her daughter Kayla (Brandy) and to reveal herself as the mother she never knew. Surprise, surprise-Kayla (Brandy) is an aspiring singer- you do the math, that's right lots of singing, or should I say terrible lip-synching.
The film was a 'Television Movie Event' that was screened around the time of Brandy's rise to fame. Her song 'Have You Ever' is featured at least 7 times throughout the film, I'm not exaggerating- just when you think you have seen it for the last time the film clip pops up in the background or the song plays on a nearby radio. The interesting 'behind the scenes' fact is that the sappiest song in the history of recorded music, a duet called 'Love Is All That Matters', was supposed to be the big single from the film, this never happened. At the film's climactic conclusion there is an emotional mother daughter performance of the song, but all I could think was, get off stage Diana I want to hear Brandy sing 'Have You Ever' for the 22nd time!
Poor Ms.Ross, she really comes off second best in this one. Although Brandy's acting is as wooden as...well...wood, you just cant help but love her! Hell, she's Brandy-and Moesha- and that dumb chick from 'I Still Know What You Did Last Summer.' Diana just cant compete with that, maybe I'm being too critical of her, after all the giant hair was very entertaining, it deserved a credit all of its own- as do Queen Latifa's breasts in the movie 'Chicago'.
'Double Platinum' took me on an emotional rollercoaster- joy, sadness, laughter, tears and laughter with tears. Some may criticise the terrible acting, the lower than low production values and the countless holes in what was supposed to be a plot- I on the other hand give it three thumbs up for sheer C-Grade brilliance.
The 90's never looked so 80's.
This past Sunday morning I turned to my trusty friend, television, in the hope that some quality music videos would provide the perfect excuse to spend another hour wrapped up in my doona like a kebab in tinfoil- ok bad analogy. Unfortunately, due to a long night of partying I had slept through all the music video shows. It appeared I would have no choice but to drag my lazy a** out of bed, change out of my cowboy pajamas into some respectable 'real world' clothes and face another day- but then suddenly my luck changed.
Every once in a while the television God's smile on you, offering up programming perfection. At midday today I had my miracle, a fantastically terrible movie called 'Double Platinum.' Let me set the scene- the movie was made in 1999 and stars Diana Ross and Brandy, this alone is more than enough to satisfy me- but let me give you the rundown on the mostly irrelevant storyline. Olivia (Diana Ross) leaves her unsupportive husband and newborn baby girl to pursue a her dream of being a singer. Years later a mega-successful Olivia returns to find her daughter Kayla (Brandy) and to reveal herself as the mother she never knew. Surprise, surprise-Kayla (Brandy) is an aspiring singer- you do the math, that's right lots of singing, or should I say terrible lip-synching.
The film was a 'Television Movie Event' that was screened around the time of Brandy's rise to fame. Her song 'Have You Ever' is featured at least 7 times throughout the film, I'm not exaggerating- just when you think you have seen it for the last time the film clip pops up in the background or the song plays on a nearby radio. The interesting 'behind the scenes' fact is that the sappiest song in the history of recorded music, a duet called 'Love Is All That Matters', was supposed to be the big single from the film, this never happened. At the film's climactic conclusion there is an emotional mother daughter performance of the song, but all I could think was, get off stage Diana I want to hear Brandy sing 'Have You Ever' for the 22nd time!
Poor Ms.Ross, she really comes off second best in this one. Although Brandy's acting is as wooden as...well...wood, you just cant help but love her! Hell, she's Brandy-and Moesha- and that dumb chick from 'I Still Know What You Did Last Summer.' Diana just cant compete with that, maybe I'm being too critical of her, after all the giant hair was very entertaining, it deserved a credit all of its own- as do Queen Latifa's breasts in the movie 'Chicago'.
'Double Platinum' took me on an emotional rollercoaster- joy, sadness, laughter, tears and laughter with tears. Some may criticise the terrible acting, the lower than low production values and the countless holes in what was supposed to be a plot- I on the other hand give it three thumbs up for sheer C-Grade brilliance.
The 90's never looked so 80's. Saturday, July 15, 2006
Legal Action
I will be taking legal action against the producers of the movie 'Saw 3'. An unauthorised photo of me has somehow made its way to those responsible for creating this new promotional poster for the film.
In other tooth related news I have managed to trick my orthodontist into speeding up the process of fixing my teeth/jaws. Through some clever appointment cancellations and re-bookings I cut down the recommended 'healing' time by almost two weeks. Then last week I managed to come out of a 'check up' and squeeze myself in for my first 'braces preparation' appointment later that day, one more week cut out. My overall goal is to be on the operating table for operation number two at least a month before scheduled. So far I am on target.
Michael - 1
Othodontist - 0
Tequila?
So imagine you have a blog, you enjoy writing mildly amusing tales about the mildly amusing events of your day to day life, and then there comes a time when the events of your life seemingly urge you to tell a tale that involves real life, not quirky stupidity. When I say ‘real life’ what I’m alluding to is people problems, more specifically two people, one is you, one is a special friend, and by special I don’t mean handicapped.
What do you do when rejection inevitably rears its ugly head? In this hypothetical situation let’s say that not only does it rear its head, it leans in and takes a bite out of your ear- Mike Tyson style.
Do you blog about it and follow your first, slightly deranged, impulse, crack open a bottle of your 2nd favorite wine, crank up some Boys II Men tunes and create a post titled, ‘I Choose To Be Single, I Like It That Way, I Love Myself And I Don’t Need No Man To Complete Me: Part 1.’ Or do you do the mature thing, keep the details to yourself and post a video of a cat beating up a small child?
If you have managed to read between the blatantly obvious lines you will have realized that I presently find myself in a similar (read: the exact) situation to the one described above. I have spent a significant amount of time pondering my blog options, I’m not sure if there is any standard ‘reality:humor’ ratio for blogging- so I will attempt to find my own middle ground.
I have a poorly researched theory that in every relationship there is one person who is more emotionally invested; this is the person who feels more for their partner than the partner does for them- otherwise known as the person who ends up drinking a lot of tequila when the relationship ends. I think this is true for relationships in all the various stages, from the first date right through to marriage. I wish this wasn’t true, but I am yet to see substantial evidence to the contrary.
Luckily, I enjoy tequila.
That’s all I’m going to say.
What do you do when rejection inevitably rears its ugly head? In this hypothetical situation let’s say that not only does it rear its head, it leans in and takes a bite out of your ear- Mike Tyson style.
Do you blog about it and follow your first, slightly deranged, impulse, crack open a bottle of your 2nd favorite wine, crank up some Boys II Men tunes and create a post titled, ‘I Choose To Be Single, I Like It That Way, I Love Myself And I Don’t Need No Man To Complete Me: Part 1.’ Or do you do the mature thing, keep the details to yourself and post a video of a cat beating up a small child?
If you have managed to read between the blatantly obvious lines you will have realized that I presently find myself in a similar (read: the exact) situation to the one described above. I have spent a significant amount of time pondering my blog options, I’m not sure if there is any standard ‘reality:humor’ ratio for blogging- so I will attempt to find my own middle ground.
I have a poorly researched theory that in every relationship there is one person who is more emotionally invested; this is the person who feels more for their partner than the partner does for them- otherwise known as the person who ends up drinking a lot of tequila when the relationship ends. I think this is true for relationships in all the various stages, from the first date right through to marriage. I wish this wasn’t true, but I am yet to see substantial evidence to the contrary.
Luckily, I enjoy tequila.
That’s all I’m going to say.
The fisrt step is admitting you have a problem.
Monday, July 10, 2006
Scrabble Hallucinations
I have taken pain-killers to stop the throbbing in my mouth- that sounded like the begining of a tacky porn novel.
I should explain myself. I had to go to the fancy dentist man again today for phase two of 'Operation F*** Up Michaels Face', hence there is a significant amount of orthodontic related tenderness requiring pain medication. So once again there will be no significant blogging today as the Mersyndol Forte has started to kick in and my keyboard is starting to look like a game of scrabble- ahh hallucinations.
I have found a little video for you to enjoy in my absence.
I have found a little video for you to enjoy in my absence.
Praising Jesus never looked like so much fun- you can even enjoy this clip without sound!
It's nice to know there is always someone crazier than you.
Sunday, July 09, 2006
Dot Point Stupidity
I have just spent the last hour and a half writing the most boring and incoherent blog post ever. It's really hard to produce a follow up to my last post- unfortunately its not every day you are involved in tram related violence!
After 7 days of only getting small amounts of sleep and doing WAY to much self- indulgent thinking, (Translation: Wallowing in self pity), it seems that everything I try to write at the moment turns into an analysis of bad decisions that I've made in the past week. So rather than subjecting you to a 10,000 word essay I have edited my stupidity into to dot points.
Examples of some questionable decisions I have made in the past week include:
- Trying to give myself a haircut with a handheld mirror and kitchen scissors.
- Pointing out to my mother that she hasn't cooked a good meal in weeks.
- Attempting to complete 300 sit-ups immediately after eating approximately 2kg's of spaghetti and drinking half a bottle of wine.
- Unsuccessfully limbo-ing under a bridge made by two people's legs in a nightclub.
And most recently,
- Deciding to walk (alone) from Collingwood to Flinders St Station at 1am on a Saturday night/Sunday morning to catch a cab. (I clearly didn't learn my lesson after the Route 59 incident.)
I don't need to document the consequences that followed each of these misguided decisions- you can safely assume a high level of unpleasantness for all the examples. The sheer stupidity of each action speaks for itself.
I hope you enjoyed the idiot's guide to being an idiot. Hopefully I'll be back with a less idiotic post in the near future.
After 7 days of only getting small amounts of sleep and doing WAY to much self- indulgent thinking, (Translation: Wallowing in self pity), it seems that everything I try to write at the moment turns into an analysis of bad decisions that I've made in the past week. So rather than subjecting you to a 10,000 word essay I have edited my stupidity into to dot points.
Examples of some questionable decisions I have made in the past week include:
- Trying to give myself a haircut with a handheld mirror and kitchen scissors.
- Pointing out to my mother that she hasn't cooked a good meal in weeks.
- Attempting to complete 300 sit-ups immediately after eating approximately 2kg's of spaghetti and drinking half a bottle of wine.
- Unsuccessfully limbo-ing under a bridge made by two people's legs in a nightclub.
And most recently,
- Deciding to walk (alone) from Collingwood to Flinders St Station at 1am on a Saturday night/Sunday morning to catch a cab. (I clearly didn't learn my lesson after the Route 59 incident.)
I don't need to document the consequences that followed each of these misguided decisions- you can safely assume a high level of unpleasantness for all the examples. The sheer stupidity of each action speaks for itself.
I hope you enjoyed the idiot's guide to being an idiot. Hopefully I'll be back with a less idiotic post in the near future.
My assistant struggled to file the original un-edited version of this post.
Friday, July 07, 2006
19 Ten-Cent Pieces
Warning: The following post contains low level violence, strong language and adult themes. Parental guidance is recommended for readers under the age of 29.
Since the theft of my ever reliable 1991 Nissan Pulsar Hatchback, affectionately named Habib-Mufassa, I have been incredibly reliant on friends and family to take my lazy ass from point A to point B regularly. Recently this has become quite a heavy burden for my team of dedicated drivers as I am going through an oddly sociable faze, so I have resorted to catching public transport into the city on a couple of occasions in the past few weeks.
The trusty 59 tram has always served me well; and although its timetable is more erratic than Whitney Houston I still love it. So last night at 7.00pm I jumped on board, slinked into the least stained seat I could find and set the iPod to play my favorite mix of 90’s one hit wonders. As the tram rattled into the CBD I noticed a rather scattered young man stumbling down the tram in my direction, I foolishly hoped that the white iPod earphones would deter him from any attempt at conversation. I was wrong.
He motioned for me to take out the earphones, I begrudgingly complied. He proceeded to ask me for some spare change- not only did I not have any spare change; I had no change at all. I had paid for my 2-Hour Concession ticket with 19 ten-cent pieces that I scrounged from various sources around the house. So I apologized as politely as I could and went to put my earphones back in. Not yet content to leave me alone the boy then barked,
‘You must have money, your rich- you have an iPod!’
I desperately wanted to reply,
‘No actually I’m not rich, I won’t be buying lunch for the next six months so I can pay for this iPod. Now take a step back- you smell like crazy.’
But instead I said,
‘Sorry mate, I don’t have any money on me.’
It was at this point he got a sad look on his face and slunked down in the seat next to me. Suddenly I began to feel guilty because I couldn’t help out the poor guy, this feeling didn’t last long. He asked to have a look at my iPod, I showed him the screen and gave a nervous smile- then things began to get interesting.
He attempted to snatch the iPod out of my hand and leap out of the as we pulled up outside the Victoria Market. I think he severely underestimated my love for the iPod and the violent undercurrent that is always lurking just below my calm surface.
We struggled over the iPod for a moment, then he leaned in and grabbed me by the chain around my neck- at which point some strange 'Tram Ninja' powers were awoken within me. I managed to use one hand to free the iPod and the other to perform an arm twisting move that brought the guy to his knees. He was still holding on to my chain, and screaming,
‘Let go of my arm!’
I gave his arm an extra little twist and replied,
‘Let go of my f***ing chain!’
He let go of the chain and I let go of his arm, while giving him a shove in the direction of the door that was just closing. Next thing I hear is-
‘Tickets please!’
Ticket inspectors- great timing.
One inspector approached me, seemingly oblivious to what had just happened, I was in a bit of a daze but I managed to produce my ticket. The young man- who’s arm I hope I f***ing broke- hadn’t been able to escape the moving tram, and as I hopped off a couple of stops later he was still being harassed by three unfriendly inspectors… instant justice.
I know its daunting to get involved in these types of situations and I don’t blame people who are traveling alone for staying out of it, but to the group of four people (two adult couples) who sat there and did nothing- I hope you all get the bird flu.
Since the theft of my ever reliable 1991 Nissan Pulsar Hatchback, affectionately named Habib-Mufassa, I have been incredibly reliant on friends and family to take my lazy ass from point A to point B regularly. Recently this has become quite a heavy burden for my team of dedicated drivers as I am going through an oddly sociable faze, so I have resorted to catching public transport into the city on a couple of occasions in the past few weeks.
The trusty 59 tram has always served me well; and although its timetable is more erratic than Whitney Houston I still love it. So last night at 7.00pm I jumped on board, slinked into the least stained seat I could find and set the iPod to play my favorite mix of 90’s one hit wonders. As the tram rattled into the CBD I noticed a rather scattered young man stumbling down the tram in my direction, I foolishly hoped that the white iPod earphones would deter him from any attempt at conversation. I was wrong.
He motioned for me to take out the earphones, I begrudgingly complied. He proceeded to ask me for some spare change- not only did I not have any spare change; I had no change at all. I had paid for my 2-Hour Concession ticket with 19 ten-cent pieces that I scrounged from various sources around the house. So I apologized as politely as I could and went to put my earphones back in. Not yet content to leave me alone the boy then barked,
‘You must have money, your rich- you have an iPod!’
I desperately wanted to reply,
‘No actually I’m not rich, I won’t be buying lunch for the next six months so I can pay for this iPod. Now take a step back- you smell like crazy.’
But instead I said,
‘Sorry mate, I don’t have any money on me.’
It was at this point he got a sad look on his face and slunked down in the seat next to me. Suddenly I began to feel guilty because I couldn’t help out the poor guy, this feeling didn’t last long. He asked to have a look at my iPod, I showed him the screen and gave a nervous smile- then things began to get interesting.
He attempted to snatch the iPod out of my hand and leap out of the as we pulled up outside the Victoria Market. I think he severely underestimated my love for the iPod and the violent undercurrent that is always lurking just below my calm surface.
We struggled over the iPod for a moment, then he leaned in and grabbed me by the chain around my neck- at which point some strange 'Tram Ninja' powers were awoken within me. I managed to use one hand to free the iPod and the other to perform an arm twisting move that brought the guy to his knees. He was still holding on to my chain, and screaming,
‘Let go of my arm!’
I gave his arm an extra little twist and replied,
‘Let go of my f***ing chain!’
He let go of the chain and I let go of his arm, while giving him a shove in the direction of the door that was just closing. Next thing I hear is-
‘Tickets please!’
Ticket inspectors- great timing.
One inspector approached me, seemingly oblivious to what had just happened, I was in a bit of a daze but I managed to produce my ticket. The young man- who’s arm I hope I f***ing broke- hadn’t been able to escape the moving tram, and as I hopped off a couple of stops later he was still being harassed by three unfriendly inspectors… instant justice.
I know its daunting to get involved in these types of situations and I don’t blame people who are traveling alone for staying out of it, but to the group of four people (two adult couples) who sat there and did nothing- I hope you all get the bird flu.
There is a little bit of 'Tram Ninja' in all of us.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Michael Brody
I must send my friend Emma a basket of fruit. Her educational blog alerted me to this wonderful site where you can upload an image of yourself and use "State of the Art Face Recognition Technology" to determine which celebrity you look like. I love using complex technology for my own childish amusement.
I uploaded a photo of myself hoping that the results would give me the confidence boost I desperately needed having just seen myself in the mirror after being abruptly awoken from an afternoon nap. The results were- well- lets take a look at them one by one. Let me just say for the record that these results are not forged, "I am prepared to swear on a box of Krispy Kreme Doughnuts."
My best match, coming in at 74%, is Rachel Weisz. I'm not sure that I look much like her- and I'm not sure how I feel being told that I look like a girl, but I suppose at least I look like a hot girl. An Oscar winning hot girl!
I uploaded a photo of myself hoping that the results would give me the confidence boost I desperately needed having just seen myself in the mirror after being abruptly awoken from an afternoon nap. The results were- well- lets take a look at them one by one. Let me just say for the record that these results are not forged, "I am prepared to swear on a box of Krispy Kreme Doughnuts."
My best match, coming in at 74%, is Rachel Weisz. I'm not sure that I look much like her- and I'm not sure how I feel being told that I look like a girl, but I suppose at least I look like a hot girl. An Oscar winning hot girl!
Ahh, this is more like it, Clearly I bear a striking resemblance to former N*Sync member Justin Timberlake. Those long days spent rehearsing the dance steps to 'Bye Bye Bye' may come in handy should I ever want to join an N*Sync tribute band.
Madonna, 64%? Is this some kind of sick joke about the gap between my teeth? It's not natural ok, I had a frekkin jaw operation- the gap is closing!
Finally technology got it right. The website says I bear a 57% resemblance to Adam Brody. *Sigh* That's enough for me to walk away from this experiment with a smile on my face. For the record I would turn straight to be with Rachel Bilson.
Use the link below to try this for yourself, leave your results in the comments section.
Be honest- unless you are told you look like Paula Abdul, in that case I don't want to know about it.
FACE RECOGNITION WEBSITE
Friday, June 30, 2006
Paula Abdul Killed My iPod
Anyone who rides a train tram or bus regularly will agree with me that the main problem with public transport is in fact the ‘public’. There are obvious problems with the ‘transport’ aspect of the public transport equation- for example the published timetables are now completely fiction, I have now come to expect the randomness of my tram and I plan ahead, what I cannot prepare myself for is the sheer stupidity of the commuting public. Hence the unbelievable success of the iPod, I truly believe that the large majority of people buy iPod’s as a $400 dollar billboard that says, ‘F*** off! Don’t even think about disturbing me’. I know from experience that those little white headphones have saved me from many public transport “incidents”.
Beyond helping to remove the ‘public’ element of my daily commute to school my iPod meant so much more to me, I had named it iMichael and filled it with music spanning the musical landscape; from commercial pop to political art rock. My iPod was lovingly referred to as my child, and I loved it more than I love most people. I could rely on trusty iMichael to provide the perfect soundtrack to my mood a moments notice; this is particularly helpful for a schizophrenic like me. It went with me everywhere and helped get the party started at countless parties. Knowing all this I’m sure you will understand why I shed a tear when iMichael died.
It happened on the tram coming home from uni. It was a typical day; I was enjoying my eclectic collection of songs 3000 songs completely at random when all of a sudden iMichael presented a less than appealing track by Paula Abdul, I pressed skip… iMichael died.
The sad iPod picture appeared on the screen and no amount of resetting would fix the problem, iMichael was gone. When I took him to the service center the gargoyle working behind the desk informed me the sad iPod picture was the end of the line- he almost seemed pleased, I resisted the urge to bludgeon him to death with the cold steel of my now lifeless iPod.
And so a new chapter begins in my life, much the same as the last one but now with a shiny black Video iPod that I really can’t afford. Some may say I moved on too quickly, they might say I didn’t mourn the loss of iMichael for long enough, but I know in my heart that this is what he would have wanted- and as a final sign of respect I will bludgeon Paula Abdul to death should I ever bump into her.
Beyond helping to remove the ‘public’ element of my daily commute to school my iPod meant so much more to me, I had named it iMichael and filled it with music spanning the musical landscape; from commercial pop to political art rock. My iPod was lovingly referred to as my child, and I loved it more than I love most people. I could rely on trusty iMichael to provide the perfect soundtrack to my mood a moments notice; this is particularly helpful for a schizophrenic like me. It went with me everywhere and helped get the party started at countless parties. Knowing all this I’m sure you will understand why I shed a tear when iMichael died.
It happened on the tram coming home from uni. It was a typical day; I was enjoying my eclectic collection of songs 3000 songs completely at random when all of a sudden iMichael presented a less than appealing track by Paula Abdul, I pressed skip… iMichael died.
The sad iPod picture appeared on the screen and no amount of resetting would fix the problem, iMichael was gone. When I took him to the service center the gargoyle working behind the desk informed me the sad iPod picture was the end of the line- he almost seemed pleased, I resisted the urge to bludgeon him to death with the cold steel of my now lifeless iPod.
And so a new chapter begins in my life, much the same as the last one but now with a shiny black Video iPod that I really can’t afford. Some may say I moved on too quickly, they might say I didn’t mourn the loss of iMichael for long enough, but I know in my heart that this is what he would have wanted- and as a final sign of respect I will bludgeon Paula Abdul to death should I ever bump into her.
Monday, June 26, 2006
Sunday, June 25, 2006
It's A Miracle
It’s over.
My semester has finally finished, and I just endured what was possibly the most stressful week of my year so far. Now all that’s left to do is hand in the MASSIVE assignment that I finished literally seconds ago.
There is something so gratifying about pressing print after completing an epic 35 page assignment, the only thing I can compare it too is taking a leak after holding it in on a long car trip- although that doesn’t really encompass the joyous feeling, or highlight the significance of the occasion. As the last page slid out of the printer I felt the sudden urge to sprinkle holy water around the room- which probably wouldn’t have been out of place considering the fact that my piece of s*** printer managed to get through a whole assignment without chewing up half a ream of paper- now thats a f***ing miracle.
Now that I’m officially on holidays I’ll have time to go to church. I worship at the altar of daytime television- all kneel before out lord and savior Oprah Winfrey.
My semester has finally finished, and I just endured what was possibly the most stressful week of my year so far. Now all that’s left to do is hand in the MASSIVE assignment that I finished literally seconds ago.
There is something so gratifying about pressing print after completing an epic 35 page assignment, the only thing I can compare it too is taking a leak after holding it in on a long car trip- although that doesn’t really encompass the joyous feeling, or highlight the significance of the occasion. As the last page slid out of the printer I felt the sudden urge to sprinkle holy water around the room- which probably wouldn’t have been out of place considering the fact that my piece of s*** printer managed to get through a whole assignment without chewing up half a ream of paper- now thats a f***ing miracle.
Now that I’m officially on holidays I’ll have time to go to church. I worship at the altar of daytime television- all kneel before out lord and savior Oprah Winfrey.
You dont want to know how long I just spent looking at pictures of Oprah trying to find this.
Saturday, June 24, 2006
Tales From The Band Wagon
There is nothing Australians like more than a good sporting victory, and while I generally scoff at our nation’s obsession with all things sport I have fallen under the spell of the World Cup.
This post has no real purpose other than to invite you all to jump on the band wagon, its fun, I'm driving with one hand- and waving a flare with the other.
As a good friend of mine recently pointed out, it’s the only time I'm going to be excited about the same thing as John Howard.
This post has no real purpose other than to invite you all to jump on the band wagon, its fun, I'm driving with one hand- and waving a flare with the other.
As a good friend of mine recently pointed out, it’s the only time I'm going to be excited about the same thing as John Howard.
Kewell scores against Croatia: At this exact moment I leap out of bed, have a small seizure, and almost lose control of my bladder.
Monday, June 19, 2006
Don't Watch This Space
Due to my pending nervous breakdown I will not be posting anything for the next couple of days. I know my 2 loyal readers will be vaguely dissapointed so I felt the need to inform them about my leave of absence.
My school workload has hit an all-time high, I'm so stressed that I feel physically ill. Not only do I have a shitload of work to do but to make things more interesting I have no f***ing idea how to do any of it- I thought I was paying attention in class, clearly not enough attention.
Wish me luck, if I survive the week you may want to steer clear of me over the weekend- I'm likely to be a ball of unstable energy. Hopefully I'll be back soon to provide more opportunities for random internet losers to abuse me. (Take a look at the comments from my 'Don't Call Me Will' post.)
POSSIBLE UPCOMING POSTS-
'Why Hitler would have made a great ice dancer.'
'Pencil Sharpeners: The Silent Killer'
'Why I Love People With No Middle Names.'
My school workload has hit an all-time high, I'm so stressed that I feel physically ill. Not only do I have a shitload of work to do but to make things more interesting I have no f***ing idea how to do any of it- I thought I was paying attention in class, clearly not enough attention.
Wish me luck, if I survive the week you may want to steer clear of me over the weekend- I'm likely to be a ball of unstable energy. Hopefully I'll be back soon to provide more opportunities for random internet losers to abuse me. (Take a look at the comments from my 'Don't Call Me Will' post.)
POSSIBLE UPCOMING POSTS-
'Why Hitler would have made a great ice dancer.'
'Pencil Sharpeners: The Silent Killer'
'Why I Love People With No Middle Names.'
Ahh, the perfect answer to my stress headache.
Sunday, June 18, 2006
Cry Me A River
Back in my high school days I thought of myself as quite the creative young man, I even considered buying myself a beret. Thankfully P resisted the urge. It was during this odd phase in my life that I decided to study Art, Media Studies and Drama in my final years of high school.
The Art thing never really worked out for me, my timetable couldn’t accommodate all my creative pursuits and so Art got the chop. However that early setback hasn’t stopped me from purchasing $10.00 canvases from the local ‘Reject Shop’ and creating abstract (read: crappy) paintings that adorn my bedroom. My favourite is the brilliantly titled ‘Number 2’, which is a white number two painted on a black background- pure genius.
Media studies did make the cut; I enjoyed two years of dissecting the most trivial of details from some of the most overanalysed movies of all time. Let me say for the record that I didn’t need to watch Alfred Hitchcock’s ‘Psycho’ eleven times to figure out that Norman Bates had serious mother issues. Completing media studies has placed me well for adult life; I can now have pretentious conversations about ‘cinema’ with beret wearing experts everywhere. Nowadays I like to sip red wine and talk about ‘mise en scene’ and ‘disjointed narrative sequence’ as much as possible.
My real passion was of course, Drama. Being serious for a second here I must admit that I only grew a personality because of drama class and my fantastic teacher, before that point I was basically void of any creative thought- not the best conversationalist. Out of all the great experiences I had while studying drama and all the things I learned there is one thing that plagues me to this day. While pretending that I was a serious actor I came across a technique that I used to teach myself how to cry on cue. After only one week of practice I could sob, weep, slobber, and completely loose it on command. It was a fantastic party trick, but with a nasty side effect that I never expected, I now cry at the thought of anything that is even remotely emotional. I have long since lost the ability to cry on cue however the connection between my brain and my tear ducts seems to have suffered irreparable damage, and its making daily life a little bit embarrassing.
Most people have had the occasional TV cry when one of their favourite characters dies, I don’t know anyone who didn’t shed a tear when Molly died on ‘A Country Practice,’ that was some seriously sad shit. I, on the other hand, am moved to tears far too frequently, recent examples include:
- Felicia dying on ‘The Bold and the Beautiful.’ (But she’s not really dead.)
- Bree finding out she was adopted on ‘Neighbours’.
- Dino being evicted from ‘Big Brother.’
…the list goes on.
Even emotional commercials set me off, the other day I wept at the sight of a mother holding her baby, I don’t even know what the ad was for- I couldn’t see through my tears. In an effort to avoid anymore unnecessary crying I will always remain in control of the remote when watching television. As soon as any music featuring string instruments begins to play I will immediately change the station. Music is much harder to avoid, but I have made changes where possible. I have had my moments on the tram while playing the iPod on random, a sad song will begin and before you know it I’m welling up on public transport. To be safe I have removed all music by Toni Braxton and Babyface from my iPod- lets just say there was a nasty incident involving their duet ‘How Could An Angel Break My Heart’, I don’t want to talk about it.
I only hope that my story can act as a stern warning to all hyper-sensitive pretentious 17- year-old gay male drama students trying to teach themselves to cry. It’s a dangerous game.
The Art thing never really worked out for me, my timetable couldn’t accommodate all my creative pursuits and so Art got the chop. However that early setback hasn’t stopped me from purchasing $10.00 canvases from the local ‘Reject Shop’ and creating abstract (read: crappy) paintings that adorn my bedroom. My favourite is the brilliantly titled ‘Number 2’, which is a white number two painted on a black background- pure genius.
Media studies did make the cut; I enjoyed two years of dissecting the most trivial of details from some of the most overanalysed movies of all time. Let me say for the record that I didn’t need to watch Alfred Hitchcock’s ‘Psycho’ eleven times to figure out that Norman Bates had serious mother issues. Completing media studies has placed me well for adult life; I can now have pretentious conversations about ‘cinema’ with beret wearing experts everywhere. Nowadays I like to sip red wine and talk about ‘mise en scene’ and ‘disjointed narrative sequence’ as much as possible.
My real passion was of course, Drama. Being serious for a second here I must admit that I only grew a personality because of drama class and my fantastic teacher, before that point I was basically void of any creative thought- not the best conversationalist. Out of all the great experiences I had while studying drama and all the things I learned there is one thing that plagues me to this day. While pretending that I was a serious actor I came across a technique that I used to teach myself how to cry on cue. After only one week of practice I could sob, weep, slobber, and completely loose it on command. It was a fantastic party trick, but with a nasty side effect that I never expected, I now cry at the thought of anything that is even remotely emotional. I have long since lost the ability to cry on cue however the connection between my brain and my tear ducts seems to have suffered irreparable damage, and its making daily life a little bit embarrassing.
Most people have had the occasional TV cry when one of their favourite characters dies, I don’t know anyone who didn’t shed a tear when Molly died on ‘A Country Practice,’ that was some seriously sad shit. I, on the other hand, am moved to tears far too frequently, recent examples include:
- Felicia dying on ‘The Bold and the Beautiful.’ (But she’s not really dead.)
- Bree finding out she was adopted on ‘Neighbours’.
- Dino being evicted from ‘Big Brother.’
…the list goes on.
Even emotional commercials set me off, the other day I wept at the sight of a mother holding her baby, I don’t even know what the ad was for- I couldn’t see through my tears. In an effort to avoid anymore unnecessary crying I will always remain in control of the remote when watching television. As soon as any music featuring string instruments begins to play I will immediately change the station. Music is much harder to avoid, but I have made changes where possible. I have had my moments on the tram while playing the iPod on random, a sad song will begin and before you know it I’m welling up on public transport. To be safe I have removed all music by Toni Braxton and Babyface from my iPod- lets just say there was a nasty incident involving their duet ‘How Could An Angel Break My Heart’, I don’t want to talk about it.
I only hope that my story can act as a stern warning to all hyper-sensitive pretentious 17- year-old gay male drama students trying to teach themselves to cry. It’s a dangerous game.
Deleted: Toni Braxton
Saturday, June 17, 2006
Whiskers
Young Michael had such a bad case of the munchies that even the cat food began to look like a good option.
I would like to point out that I am not really unconscious in this photo, it was completely staged. My cousins and I thought we would take some stupid photos in an effort to make the party look more outrageous than it actually was. Little did we know that there was no need to set up crazy photos because as the night wore on we all naturally embarrassed and incriminated ourselves in various ways. And it is all captured on film.
The more outrageous photos can not be shown here due to a sacred cousin oath that was taken that evening, also I wish to avoid any legal proceedings that may arise from the publication of said photos. Quick word of advice, never try to climb into an oven when you are drunk; actually that piece of advice also applies when you are sober.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
I Have A Dream
I apologise in advance for the post you are about to read, it is a perfect example of what I fear is quickly becoming the ‘theme’ of my blog- me having a bitch about things that piss me off. Today’s topic is dreams, and I don’t mean dreams and aspirations, I’m referring to those peculiar little movies that play in our head as we sleep.
I have no problem with dreams, in fact I quite like some dreams- especially those ones where you can fly and have magical powers and are really rich and can beat up all the people you don’t like and have amazing sex with hot celebrities… ok you get the point. I have always been fascinated by the fine line between waking up and realizing thatdidn’t actually happen, however putting all that aside it is important to remember that dreams are an entirely personal experience which no one else can understand seeing as its not their brain doing the dreaming. This brings me to my point, I DON’T GIVE A F*** ABOUT YOUR DREAMS.
When was the last time you were enthralled by a person recounting their previous night’s epic dream about plucking out belly button lint? I’m going out on a limb here but I’m guessing that you don’t have treasured memories of friends telling you about their fantastic dreams. ‘Why is this?’ I hear you ask. It’s actually very simple, although you may consider yourself a great friend and an active listener you simply don’t give a f***. And why would you? Basically the person explaining the dream is trying to pour out the contents of their head onto the table for you to sift through without the proper medical training. Dreams only mean something to the person who dreamt them, except in the case of people who have dreams where Satan orders them to kill people, in these rare cases the dreams also matter to the people on the death list.
It would be nice for everyone to take a second and think twice before uttering the phrase, ‘I had a really interesting dream last night.’ I would rather be slapped in the face then hear about your dream, seriously just slap me, I’ll thank you for it.
I have no problem with dreams, in fact I quite like some dreams- especially those ones where you can fly and have magical powers and are really rich and can beat up all the people you don’t like and have amazing sex with hot celebrities… ok you get the point. I have always been fascinated by the fine line between waking up and realizing that
When was the last time you were enthralled by a person recounting their previous night’s epic dream about plucking out belly button lint? I’m going out on a limb here but I’m guessing that you don’t have treasured memories of friends telling you about their fantastic dreams. ‘Why is this?’ I hear you ask. It’s actually very simple, although you may consider yourself a great friend and an active listener you simply don’t give a f***. And why would you? Basically the person explaining the dream is trying to pour out the contents of their head onto the table for you to sift through without the proper medical training. Dreams only mean something to the person who dreamt them, except in the case of people who have dreams where Satan orders them to kill people, in these rare cases the dreams also matter to the people on the death list.
It would be nice for everyone to take a second and think twice before uttering the phrase, ‘I had a really interesting dream last night.’ I would rather be slapped in the face then hear about your dream, seriously just slap me, I’ll thank you for it.
Do twins even care about each others dreams?
Monday, June 12, 2006
Dont Call Me Will
Why do people have the obsessive need to put a label on everything? I don’t think every mother daughter living together are just like Kath and Kim, I don’t tell my solicitor cousin that she reminds me of Ally McBeal nor do I refer to my vampire slaying friend as Buffy. So why on earth do my friend Mona and I constantly get compared to Will & Grace?
I am gay and she is straight, not the most complex observation. Now I’m a tolerant person, I can smile politely and let people have their moment as they make what I’m sure they think is a perceptive and witty statement.
You and Mona are EXACTLY LIKE Will and Grace!
It’s actually quite humorous watching them as they grin and think to themselves,
Wow, I’m so gay friendly, I’m so hip, I just love those gays.
But I have recently noticed a disturbing trend, now some people have started referring to Mona as a fag hag. Correct me if I’m wrong but calling someone I love a ‘hag’ isn't very nice- and while I’m ranting let me just say that calling me a ‘fag’ isn’t a great idea either. Our relationship isn't defined by the fact that I’m gay and she is straight, just as my close friendship with my male friend Rob isn’t. In the case of my close male friends girls constantly ask me if I am secretly in love with them, the answer is obviously yes, I have a secret crush on every male that I have ever come into contact with.
To combat this issue I have come up with two options:
Option 1) I will refer to all straight couples as Brad and Angelina, all sets of girlfriends as Paris and Nicole, and constantly imply that any two people standing within 10 feet of each other are secretly in love.
Option 2) I can gather up all the ignorant people in a big canvas bag and give them the unwanted kitten treatment.
If you have never had a ‘Will and Grace’ moment with me, continue your day unencumbered.
If you are reading this and feeling guilty, don’t worry, admitting you’re an idiot is the first step, I’ll forgive you.
If you are reading this and feeling angry that I’m an oversensitive fag who can’t take a joke, watch out for strange men with canvas bags.
End of rant.
I am gay and she is straight, not the most complex observation. Now I’m a tolerant person, I can smile politely and let people have their moment as they make what I’m sure they think is a perceptive and witty statement.
You and Mona are EXACTLY LIKE Will and Grace!
It’s actually quite humorous watching them as they grin and think to themselves,
Wow, I’m so gay friendly, I’m so hip, I just love those gays.
But I have recently noticed a disturbing trend, now some people have started referring to Mona as a fag hag. Correct me if I’m wrong but calling someone I love a ‘hag’ isn't very nice- and while I’m ranting let me just say that calling me a ‘fag’ isn’t a great idea either. Our relationship isn't defined by the fact that I’m gay and she is straight, just as my close friendship with my male friend Rob isn’t. In the case of my close male friends girls constantly ask me if I am secretly in love with them, the answer is obviously yes, I have a secret crush on every male that I have ever come into contact with.
To combat this issue I have come up with two options:
Option 1) I will refer to all straight couples as Brad and Angelina, all sets of girlfriends as Paris and Nicole, and constantly imply that any two people standing within 10 feet of each other are secretly in love.
Option 2) I can gather up all the ignorant people in a big canvas bag and give them the unwanted kitten treatment.
If you have never had a ‘Will and Grace’ moment with me, continue your day unencumbered.
If you are reading this and feeling guilty, don’t worry, admitting you’re an idiot is the first step, I’ll forgive you.
If you are reading this and feeling angry that I’m an oversensitive fag who can’t take a joke, watch out for strange men with canvas bags.
End of rant.
Sunday, June 11, 2006
Cause Of Death: Drowning
I know it’s a sad cliché to write about the fantastic party you just went to, the same thing can be said about telling drunken stories to your friends... no one really cares. But this story is different, its a story about family bonding and artistic expression- well actually its just about getting drunk and doing bad karaoke.
Last night I attended the inaugural 'Cousins Night', what is 'Cousins Night' you may ask? It is a night where all my cousins (of legal drinking age) get together and partake in drinking related stupidity. A highlight of the night was the Sing Star competition, for those of you who don’t know Sing Star is a Playstation game that is basically competitive karaoke. The initial trepidation from all the cousins was short lived; the Italian blood soon took over and we became very competitive belting out each successive tune with more and more gusto. We were playing with the 'Sing Star - Rock Edition' and at the conclusion of the night we decided that what we really needed was a 'Sing Star - Wog Edition' with all the Italian classics. This brilliant idea was spawned after a 3am backyard performance of ‘That’s Amore' led by my brother, I'm not sure if I should be proud or ashamed that I know ALL the words by heart.
Being the youngest cousin present I took it upon myself to set the drinking standard for the night, after consuming 1 bottle of Vodka by myself I came to the very astute conclusion that this might not have been the best idea. Subsequently there are significant portions of my memory that are missing, however its probably for the best because I vaguely recall performing 'La Vie Boheme' from the Musical RENT to a captive audience including my sister, who I have never seen look so horrified.
After crossing the point where it is no longer appropriate to call it night time, approximately 4am, the red wine came out, and yes, I continued to drink. Unfortunately my better judgement had died earlier in the evening. Cause of death: It drowned in Vodka.
Thursday, June 08, 2006
Madonna Aint Got Nothing On Me
After years of putting up with a recurring jaw ailment which results in my jaw spontaneously locking, (Could be seen as a good thing in some peoples opinion,) I decided that it was time to break my 11 year drought and take a trip to the dentist… this was my first mistake.
It’s never a good sign when a dentist looks in your mouth and begins to chuckle, at this point I was scarred but it was when he started actually laughing I had the sudden urge to bite off his fingers and spitting them at the dental nurse. Long story short- he was laughing because my jaw was “completely and obviously out of alignment”, I personally don’t see the humor in this situation but I suppose he could he could have been laughing because he was about to screw me out of $20,000.
The treatment plan that I am currently undergoing to correct this “obvious” problem seems like a form of torture created by the Catholics back during the good old days when they were doing God’s work… with the help of a whip and a few burly guys with anger management issues.
Basically I have had my top jaw broken in three places, and now I have a metal device bolted into my mouth that I wound every day for a week to slowly ‘expand’ my upper jaw. ‘Expand’ is the dentist’s word, I like to describe the process as ‘Ripping apart things that were not designed to be ripped.’
The end result:- I have a 'temporary' gap between my two front teeth- not a good look. If one more person says to me, “It’s OK Madonna has a gap between her teeth,” I am seriously going to bite off their fingers and spit them at the nearest dental nurse. My gap is approximately 8 times bigger than Madge’s and I don’t have the consolation of international pop super stardom.
I never thought I would be looking forward to getting braces, now I say bring on the metal!
It’s never a good sign when a dentist looks in your mouth and begins to chuckle, at this point I was scarred but it was when he started actually laughing I had the sudden urge to bite off his fingers and spitting them at the dental nurse. Long story short- he was laughing because my jaw was “completely and obviously out of alignment”, I personally don’t see the humor in this situation but I suppose he could he could have been laughing because he was about to screw me out of $20,000.
The treatment plan that I am currently undergoing to correct this “obvious” problem seems like a form of torture created by the Catholics back during the good old days when they were doing God’s work… with the help of a whip and a few burly guys with anger management issues.
Basically I have had my top jaw broken in three places, and now I have a metal device bolted into my mouth that I wound every day for a week to slowly ‘expand’ my upper jaw. ‘Expand’ is the dentist’s word, I like to describe the process as ‘Ripping apart things that were not designed to be ripped.’
The end result:- I have a 'temporary' gap between my two front teeth- not a good look. If one more person says to me, “It’s OK Madonna has a gap between her teeth,” I am seriously going to bite off their fingers and spit them at the nearest dental nurse. My gap is approximately 8 times bigger than Madge’s and I don’t have the consolation of international pop super stardom.
I never thought I would be looking forward to getting braces, now I say bring on the metal!
On the left, Madonna with her gap. On the right, Madonna with my gap.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
Michael Who?
Hello fellow bloggers and internet savy friends, I have resisted the urge long enough, the time has come... it is time for Michael to blog. Hopefully that will be the last time I refer to myself in the third person, however I make no promises.
Let me begin by saying that I'm not sure what the theme of my blog will be, should there even be a theme? The majority of my posts will probably not make sense to anyone but myself... welome to the incoherient ramblings of a mentally unbalanced 22 year old.
If you are wondering where the supremely creative blog title "Michael Who?" came from allow me to elaborate. If you dont care then I suggest you stop reading here and go back to doing something more productive.
Anyway, 'Michael Who', no it's not my real name- I was blessed with a 12 letter surname that I couldn't spell until midway through Grade 5- "Michael Who?" reffers to the phrase uttered randomly throughout my primary school years due to the fact that there was an obsene number of children named Michael in my year level. One day when asked by another teacher to send 'Michael' to the office my grade three teacher replied,
Michael Who?
Upon hearing this for the 4ooth time that week I proceeded to correct my teachers grammer,
Miss, shouln't you ask 'Which Michael?' instead of saying 'Michael Who?'
To this day I'm not actually sure if I was right, but the moral of the story is dont backchat to your teacher the day of Parent - Teacher Interviews.
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