Sensei Grandma: Cat Hunter

One thing that can be said about me is that, if nothing else, I am consistent. I consistently wake up late, I consistently love chocolate way more than I should and I consistently take long, unannounced breaks from writing, even after my last post promised to regularly blog. Oh well, I guess that’s what you get for reading a bad blogger’s blog and putting your faith in shady, unreliable characters. This is actually probably all your own fault and you have no one to blame but yourself, so shame on you.

You know what? I feel like to make up for my prolonged absence I probably owe you guys some embarrassing Bec stories! Yay… (why do I do this to myself for you people?)

In saying that though, this may not be the funniest post I’ve ever written or even the most interesting but it’s very important to me and pretty personal. So, with that rather dreary introduction out of the way I’d like to talk about my grandma and how she shaped who I am today.

For you see, like her, I am a crazy cat lady

My life summed up in someone else’s cartoon. Freaky. source

My whole life I’ve LOVED cats, even though they’ve never really loved me back. It’s possibly because that’s the nature of cats; always aloof and, while still affectionate, always putting their independence first. However, it’s probably much more likely that they just don’t enjoy it when squealing maniacs come running full speed at them. I’m yet to find someone who responds well to this reaction but they’re out there somewhere!
As a kid, I was the kind of girl who would spend just that little too much time luring and petting the neighbourhood cats on the way home from school, much to the chagrin of the poor girl I walked with. And when I was really young, I would often misunderstand expressions, like when Mum told me that when we got home my dad would “be having kittens.” You can imagine my disappointment.

Don’t get me wrong though, my crazy is in no way a unique occurrence. The women in my family have been carrying on the crazy cat lady tradition and terrorising cats for years.

My aunty is definitely a cat enemy number 1. My grandma used to love telling the story of when my aunt was very little (we’re talking about 3 or 4 here) and she had been playing in the front yard while Grandma kept an eye on her from the kitchen while cleaning (ahhh, the laid back nature of the 50s). After a while Grandma had noticed a rather odd pattern in my aunt’s behaviour. She kept disappearing up the street and then skulking around the bin (it was kind of more like a hutch) very suspiciously. Grandma’s keen no-nonsense instincts kicked in and she just had to go see what she was up to. When Grandma walked down to the bin my aunt was nowhere in sight. So, she casually flipped the lid, only to then jump back in shock as about three tabby cats leapt out to their desperate freedom! Luckily the cats were all fine as they had only been in there for a few minutes. My aunty had been catching them and putting them in there to keep because, according to her, finders keepers and she wanted a pet kitty. My aunty was pretty mad when she saw that all her hard work collecting her new friends had been undone and grew up to be this lady!

mmmm that low resolution. source

But no, really, she got in heaps of trouble and learned her lesson. Kids, don’t try that at home.

My mum used to experience the same problem I do, where no matter how much she loved her pet cat the feeling was in no way mutual. So she developed an elegant solution. The cat would only be nice to Mum when she thought she was going to the vets and would try to suck up to Mum in a drastic attempt to avoid the evil metal table and thermometer torture device all vets use. So, if Mum ever wanted a cuddle with her cat, she’d simply go and sit in the car with it and reap its frantic friendliness.

While writing this I’m beginning to think that myself and my family are a few screws loose of a fully working giant robotic cat and maybe I shouldn’t be letting people in our a secret shame…

Oh well, in for a penny in for a pound!

By the time I came on the scene my grandma had this beautiful, long-haired grey cat called Misty. She was the most gorgeous cat I have ever seen, and I’m pretty sure she knew it. There was nothing more I wanted than to go and play with Misty, but she just wasn’t having any of it.

Now, Grandma was probably the most generous person I knew. Every time we’d see Grandma we’d always have to be really careful not to compliment anything she owned (as awful as it sounds) because she’s then immediately offer it to us. It didn’t matter what is was, just knowing that she could make someone happy by giving it to them was enough for her; she was always looking to make her family happy.

Grandma and I loved each other very much. I’d spend school holidays with her in her flat, visit her after preschool with Mum, go on shopping trips with her (her favourite because she could spoil me rotten) and holidays up the coast to see her family; the whole shebang. Mum said there was nothing quite like watching Grandma and I greet each other. It looked something like this.

so many hugs

so many hugs

So, when Grandma knew how much I wanted to play with Misty but couldn’t, she just had to set things right. But there was just no way Grandma was going to be able to convince Misty to come out and play with me short of locking her in a room with me, and I doubt she would have been comfortable with that for, well, obvious reasons.

The cat just didn't deserve it

The cat just didn’t deserve it

However, my grandma was a very smart woman, and so she came up with a plan.

The housing complex Grandma lived in was also the home for many stray cats, which the elderly residents fawned over. So, Grandma made up a game that just she and I would play together: cat hunting.

It wasn’t long before cat hunting was my favourite part of our visits and it became really special to me. At the end of each of our visits, Mum and Dad would head up to the car while Grandma and I went a super-secret separate way. We’d trail around the different apartment blocks of the complex, our keen cat sensing abilities scouring the wilderness of the different gardens until we’d finally spot our prey, slinking through unkempt ivy and weeds. Grandma would help me call cats over with her well-practiced feline charming technique while I would marvel at her skill. This way I could play with and pet the cats all my little heart desired, although I’m sure Mum and Dad must have gotten sick of waiting for us both to come back to the car. We didn’t always spot cats and when we did they didn’t always come to us, but I always enjoyed cat hunting and it will always be my favourite game I played with Grandma. I will always love Grandma and will never forget the all the fun we had together.

Here is a bonus cat picture because, well, that’s the sort of thing that appeals to me.

ummm, YES PLEASE!! source


I’ll be back! …and now I am

This is gonna be a long arse post

Hey guys, remember the time I told you about how I’m really bad at writing regularly?

Well this would be an example of that.  It’s been a little over a week since I last posted (whoops) and I even left you with a cliff hanger! My bad guys… I’ll try to get up to date with everything here so prepare yourselves for a monster blog post. (Rawr motherfucker)

And now, to violate several copyright laws.

I have way too much time on my hands and a deep, uncompromising love for ms paint

I have way too much time on my hands and a deep, uncompromising love for ms paint

One Thursday ago, two peoples’ fantasy became a reality in a form never seen before: Shitchen Stadium, a shitty kitchen in a house shared by uni students. The motivation for spending, like, $20 on ingredients (even though we went to Aldi) was to encounter new original cuisines which could be called true artistic bacon creations (and also to rub it in the loser’s face). They named themselves possible Iron Chefs: the invincible baconeers of culinary skills. Shitchen Stadium is the arena where challengers await to do battle each other with unlimited time (because we’re lazy and slow) to tackle the theme ingredient of the day; Bacon (because we bacon erryday). Using all their senses, skill, creativity, they are to prepare dishes never tasted before. Whichever challenger wins will gain the people’s ovation and fame forever. Every battle, reputations are on the line in Shitchen Stadium. What inspiration do today’s challengers bring? And how will they fight back? The heat will be on!

And on it most certainly was, so much so that one of the hot plates started to smoke but this just added an extra element of danger/awesome smoke effects (da da daaaa!! EXTREME BACON).  The intensity of this historic event was only heightened by the hunger of our judges (well, at least honourable judge Cardak, Mr. Snicklefritz had maccas before) and the competition between Streeter and I was fierce, punctuated by only the dirtiest smack talk.  However, in the end there could be only one (imagine dramatic music playing here because I can’t be bothered to embed some. Imagined it? Good. Stirring, isn’t it?)

First of all, the menus:

Streeter actually came up with some pretty creative and somewhat intimidating dishes.

For an entrée he served up Reverse Bacon Dogs (because what can’t be improved by being put in reverse?). This consisted of a stick of tasty cheese being wrapped in ham, skewered with cabanossi and then wrapped in bacon (of course) and slightly melted and served to our judges.

To counter this, I served Bunless Bacon Dogs (sticking with the classics).  If you aren’t aware of what Bacon Dogs are then you’re a monster and I hate you and you should really probably try them.

Oh my god, so good

I took some hot dogs and boiled those puppies up. Then I fired up some bacon, then more bacon, and more bacon. I cut open my hot dogs and stuffed them full of delicious bacon then sprinkled on that melted cheese. Hungry yet? (I am and I’m the one writing this, D: now I want bacon again)

Both judges agreed that in Streeter’s dish, while the bacon was cooked to perfection, the tasty cheese stick was too overwhelming, ultimately killing the dish.  However, they also said that my Bunless Bacon Dogs, while delicious, weren’t cheesy enough.  Mr. Snicklefritz gave us equal scores for our equal work.  However, Cardak, as someone who hates the strong taste of tasty cheese, awarded me the winner and so going into the main round I was on top.

We never actually made it to desert as our judges were already really full from our entrées (whoops), but had they have been made I was making a maple syrup bacon sunday and Streeter was making bacon pancakes; both worthy and delicious dishes you should try some time.  This meant, however, that everything was left down to the mains.

Streeter was making his signature cheese stuffed chicken wrapped in bacon and oven cooked.  This meant I had to really step up my game.  That’s why I made bolognaise, bacon and sausage pie. I know, sounds awesome, right?

It was a tough cook off with many set back (Streeter’s chicken not cooking properly and my puff pastry both under and over cooking) but we did reach a result.  So, who takes it? Whose cuisine reigns supreme?


Unfortunately, (on top of my crappily cooked pasty) I had made the rookie mistake of including carrot in my pie and these judges just don’t do vegetables. Ever. Also, it turns out Mr. Snicklefritz hates mince; a fact Streeter had failed to mention to me. So he basically knew I was doomed from the get go. However, all the food we made was delicious and we both washed up the next day (because screw doing it immediately after).  One day though, now that I know my audience a little better, I shall challenge Iron Chef Bacon again and he will know my greasy wrath. One day Streeter. >.>

So, I would of written this all up much sooner expect that Friday night I had my friend’s (who I’ll call Cankerous Whore) 20th birthday party in the most indie bar in Newtown. Happy birthday, you filthy hipster! With me was Cardak, Jatz, Sny Sny, Smithers, Jack the douche, Clare (great nickname, rite?) and some of Cankerous Whore’s other friends.  These were some of my good friends from high school and it really had been too long since I saw them so shenanigans and fun times were had. I had pear cider on tap (as one does in such establishments) and all in all had a gay old time catching up with old friends.

When Saturday rolled around so did the first 21st I’ve ever attended (Yay! Cool people parties!), 19 year old me was pretty excited. However, first I had to stop off home to get changed for the evening ahead and Cardak accompanied me (you know, because I was actually his plus one, but I’m more awesome so whatev).

Now, while I got ready who should arrive home but my dear old dad? I’m not sure who was more horrified at his unexpected appearance, me or Cardak.  However, after I had left them to talk they got along like two peas in a pod; excitedly bonding over their favourite football team, the Sydney Roosters.  So all went well and we managed to get the whole “meet my dad” thing out of the way and then went to the party.

It was an awesome night filled with baby photos of someone I had met only briefly once before, too many secrets shared in never have I ever and the super exciting and unexpected appearance of one of my best friends from high school, BFG (she was someone’s plus one too).  I had a really good night and an awesomely fun sing along on the train ride home with Cardak.

The rest of my week up until now has just been work, work, work, the boring details of which I shall not tire you with although one day I may write up a rant about the vein of all my unhappiness: group projects.

So there you go, 1200 words later and all caught up. Now that my workload at uni has increased I probably won’t be blogging as regularly but I’m gonna try and keep at this because I am a committed and driven individual! (lol yea right, but I will anyway)


Ladies and gentlemen, tonight history will made. Tonight, is Ironchef, bacon addition.

He’s such a magnificent man

Basically, last Saturday I went over to Cardak’s house after a night on the town and his roommate, Streater, excitedly showed me his new kitchen creation: Chicken stuffed with cheese and wrapped with bacon. Please, try not to salivate on the computer, that’s a good reader.

Now, I’ll admit, I was pretty impressed but I’m very picky when it comes to things as important as bacon and his left something to be desired.  So, I did the only reasonable thing a bacon lover could do; I challenged him to a Bacon-off of epic proportions.

The agreement was that, like Ironchef, we each have to cook a three course meal with a not so secret main ingredient: bacon.  We must then anonymously present the dishes to our impartial judges, Cardak and Mr Snicklefritz (the other roommate). They will then rate each dish out of ten and we’ll tally up the scores to find the winner.  The winner is, of course, crowned Ironchef Bacon and the loser owes the winner a favour (an ambiguous hence somewhat concerning agreement but whatever).  I’m pretty excited and this should be damn delicious and I’ll post the results tonight or tomorrow.

Now, however, at the risk of perhaps lowering your unflinching confidence in me (its ok, I know deep down you believe I’ll kick Streater’s ass), I thought I’d share with you a couple of stories of my previous adventures into the kitchen. People, this could get ugly…

While I still retain that I am a master champion at cooking bacon it seems my culinary skills fall short in, well, all other areas of cooking.

In year 7 I took home ec with KF. Our main assignment was to create and cook a healthy muffin or something ridiculous like that (healthy muffins?! What nonsense) so of course KF and I packed ours full of sugar and chocolate.  These were the best muffin in the entire universe, you have no idea. We called them Chobby muffins because they had white chocolate, strawberries, blueberries and raspberries but I’m sure after a few our Chobby muffins you would be chubby so maybe that’s why the name was appropriate.  Anyway, we practiced making them a couple of times (we were hardcore studious students) and everything went off without a hitch.  Then came the big day where we had to make them in class and things may or may not have fallen apart.

There was a typo on our recipe that instead of saying 1/3 of a teaspoon of bi carb soda it said 3 cups. Whoops.

Within minutes in the oven the muffins had exploded to at least three times their size and were a really inedible looking shade of blue. By the end of our frivolous attempts to bake them they were charred black on the outside and still runny and raw on the inside.  Our poor teacher (sorry Mrs. Whatsyname) still had to taste test them to mark us.  Apparently they tasted like sweet soap. L

We made her makeup muffins as an apology for the Chobby muffins (she ate them rather tentatively) and all was forgiven and forgotten and that’s how I passed year 7.  However, this was not my last cooking disaster.

I’ve come to believe that I must be a rebel without a cause because I simply cannot seem to follow a recipe.  Since the Chobby disaster of 06 I have made:

  • Brownies with 4 times the water that should have been in there (they tasted like muddy water. I guess at least they lived up to their name)
  • Tuna Pasta Bake with no tuna
  • A salad dressing with twice the salt required (I mean you can never have too much salt, right? Oh, too much salt can kill you? Bummer)
  • Brownies so hard they could not be pierced by any mortal knife (I should really just give up on brownies)
  • And, somehow, I simultaneously burnt steam cooked pumpkin and turned all the water that was steaming it to ash (R.I.P. pot)

It was at this point that people stopped letting me cook altogether.

However, tonight I shall reclaim my honour.  Through bacon.  I’m still not actually sure what I’ll make yet as I’m going grocery shopping after class. It’ll be good though. And not burnt. Probably. Wish me luck!

I don’t care for trains

I like trains.

That was a lie.  I’m sorry blog, our relationship was only just starting and it’s already tainted.  Let me start again.

Trains are the scum of the earth.  Actually, it’s not the trains I hate as much as the people on the trains.  People are the scum of the earth.  Wow, that escalated quickly…

As I have mentioned previously, in order to get to university each day I must travel and hour by train.  I’ve been doing this for a little over a year now and let me tell you, in this time this trip has not improved at all.  I’m taking it right now as I type and it’s still the worst. I mean sure, the train itself is relatively new and comfortable, the scenery is beautiful but the lack of train etiquette, on not only this train but (in my experience) all city rail trains, is both astounding and disturbing.

There are several different kinds of dicks that frequent the train, the first of which I like to call douchebags (original, no?).  These are the people who insist on listening to their music aloud in trains.  Look, I like music to accompany my train trip as much as the next person but:

I don’t get on this train at pre noon every goddamn day to listen to your shitty music.  No, you are not some kind of modern day Robin Hood, bestowing the riches of your iPod on us poor, musicless folk.  You’re just a dickhead.

Without fail I regularly hear some asshole’s pop electro shit blaring away throughout the carriage, echoing in the recesses of my mind and awakening a dormant urge to murder everything.  Whoops, did I type that aloud? No, because I’m a fucking decent human being who does everything silently on the train! Seriously, why would people think this is a good idea? Are you so insecure about yourself that you’re trying to prove you can be fun through your taste in music and now you’re showing us all, whether we wanted to know or not? I didn’t think you were a cool and interesting person at the start of this trip and you certainly didn’t prove it to me with your music at the end of this trip.

I can only assume (or at least I have to assume to stop myself from unleashing my fury which burns with the passion of a thousand suns) that you are in fact an orphan who’s one sole possession is that iPod which someone cruelly filled with terrible music, but you still love it anyway because it’s the one thing your parents left you and they forgot to give you headphones.  Yea, that’s probably it. Please, please, take mine!

here’s something I prepared earlier

The second type of people that piss me off on trains are children.  Yes, I realise this is my inner grumpy old lady coming out but really, school children on trains are so bad.  They’re loud, obnoxious and inconsiderate.  I continually see them disrespect other passengers and damage the train and the back chat is atrocious.  All I can ask is why? Are you seriously this bored, in a time with this much technology and a hundred ways to entertain yourself that being destructive is the most constructive thing you can find to do? All I can hope is that I was never this bad because this poor behaviour seems to be becoming more and more common and more and more tolerated.  Well I shall never tolerate kids that piss me off!

The third kind of monsters on the train are those people who take up seats unnecessarily. You are possibly the most awful kind of people, the one’s going to:

guys, I miss Firefly

A passenger riding by themselves in a two seater seat? Acceptable.  A passenger riding by themselves in a six seater seat? You’re lucky there are too many witnesses here.

It is almost impossible to find a seat on the train despite there being more than enough fitted into carriages for the demand because you, you fiends somehow think that this kind of behaviour is acceptable.  It’s not.

Today, after walking through the entire train searching for a seat anywhere I finally found one.  A lovely three seater for my friend and me in a great location (I should go into real estate). Perfect.  That was until I realised there was already something taking up that seat.  It was a bag. Not even a person, just their suitcase. What the actual fuck. What would make you think, in a crowded train at peak hour, that you and your suitcase are so goddamn special that this is a chill move?  And god forbid I ever ask you flip over three of your six seats.  The expressions I get when I ask this seemingly reasonable question are akin to those of people who are privy to puppy decapitation: a mixture of shock, horror and bewilderment.

Are people so entitled today that train etiquette is a thing of the past? Am I being unreasonable and it’s too much to expect?  A lot of this stuff just seems so senseless and irrational.  This is their train too, why would they act this way on a service designed to help them? It just seems like really poor form to me.  Well, anyway, rant over.  The lesson for today: don’t piss me off on the train.

Spiders, zombies and ventriloquist dolls

So the last few posts have sort of been a bit self-reflexive and I thought it might be time for something a little lighter and entertaining.  That’s why today I wanted to discuss the impending zombie apocalypse and our ultimate doom. Good fun, right? 😀

First, though, irrational fears:  These have always both frustrated and fascinated me.  I mean, the obvious frustrations people have with irrational fears is the complete lack of reason behind them but at the same time this can be really interesting.

I recall I was a pretty bratty child and my wonderful Grandmother suffered from arachnophobia (a fear of spiders). That’s a bad combination.  My poor Grandma couldn’t even look at a picture of a spider without squirming, much to my evil childlike delight (Luckily, my Grandma was no push over and had no problem pulling me up).  How could someone be scarred of a picture? I wondered. It just didn’t make sense. I had a lot of fun puzzling over that, however, arachnophobia is a pretty common fear. What I find even more fascinating are the more obscure fears.  For example, my boyfriend, Cardak, has an intense fear… of ventriloquist dolls.

Ventriloquist dolls? Really, Cardak?

When he first told me I was sort of like “yea, no, I could understand how they could be creepy.  I get it.” I mean, come on:

Ok, maybe it’s not SO irrational

But even I underestimated the level of irrationality of Cardak’s fear.

I will never forget the time we watched the movie ‘Dead Silence’ together.  For those of you who are unfamiliar with this cinematic treasure here’s the IMDB link.  It was just one of those stupid horror movies that are more comedy then scary (which is saying a lot because I am a massive wuss myself).  However, here was 6ft tall, manly man Cardak cowering behind my shoulders the whole time (Cardak, please don’t kill me for writing this). Now, I still have no idea why exactly Cardak is so afraid of specifically ventriloquist dolls or why it is so ridiculously hilarious (again, sorry babe :D), it’s just one of those peculiar and unexplainable fears some people have. I myself have a crippling fear of zombies.

The thing that terrifies me most in life is not spiders, dolls or even One Direction’s cover of Blondie 😦 No, the thing I fear most is zombies.  I can’t play games with zombies in them, I can’t even watch funny movies like Shaun of the Dead comfortably because of zombies.  It’s gotten to the point where if I don’t see any humans for awhile or hear distant sirens my immediate reaction (before I shake my head and scold my stupidity) is that the zombie apocalypse has begun.

Zombies are, in my opinion, more implausible than impossible.  Maybe not the whole ‘dead rising from the grave’ thing but think about it, a disease attacking the brain, causing violent and irrational behaviour, it doesn’t sound so far fetched.  There were actually a few supposed cases of real “zombies” in Haiti. I’d heard about this before but I thought I had better do a bit of research if I was going to write it in my blog (because I’m just THAT pro, I get shit done properly).

So it turns out that this guy called Wade Davis claimed to have discovered a “zombie powder” back in 1985 (oh the 80s, you were so wacky).  I was really surprised this was that recent. I mean, shouldn’t this stuff have been happening, you know, before we learnt to science? Anyway, Davis suggested that there were two powders which would enter the blood stream (usually by a cut) and could be used to turn some Haitians into zombies.  The first powder supposedly contained tetrodotoxin which is the neurotoxin found in pufferfish and the second, a dissociative drug similar to datura.  Davis said that together these powders produced a death like state and victims would seem to die and be buried only to ‘re-awaken’ into a psychotic state.  Creepy right? Luckily, there were a lot of scientific inaccuracies in Davis’s work, so don’t head down to the bunkers just yet.  However, I do find this stuff seriously disturbing, it just sounds so plausible.

One thing that frustrates me about my fear of zombies is that there’s really no way I could ever face my fears.  They say the only way to overcome a fear is to confront that fear, right? Unlike arachnophobia or a fear of ventriloquist dolls this is not something I can simply stroll outside and confront head on. Unless the zombie apocalypse really does begin…

So, looks like my fear is here to stay but at least I’ll be the most prepared on Z-day.  You’ll see, you’ll all see!

Also, if any of you are interested this is Cardak’s blog. You should definitely check it out for an interesting read.

It’s good, trust me


Another day another post, so far so good.  I’m actually pretty impressed I’ve stuck with this.  Now to find interesting content for this post…

So, I still live at home (because free food and rent) and travel an hour on the train to university every day.  And these trains only come every half hour. And I have no other way down. And I regularly try to get a train that will get me to uni as close to when my classes start as possible. I tell you this so that when I say I almost missed my train this morning you’ll understand the gravity of the situation (da da daaa it’ssortofabigdealbutwhatever).  Now, how did I almost miss this train? Well, I didn’t sleep in, I didn’t lose track of time and I wasn’t attacked by vicious, man eating birds on my way to the station so it wasn’t any of the usual excuses.  No, I was running late today because of bubbles.

I think I must have spent at least an extra 10 minutes in my shower this morning just blowing bubbles.  And no, that is not a euphemism (you dirty, dirty people).  It just so happens that my new body wash is also the perfect bubble blowing consistency.

I realised this morning that I love bubbles just as much now, at 19, as I did when I was first introduced to them at 3.  Now, I’ll be the first to admit I’m not a very mature person but running late because of bubbles? Really?! Part of me has always been happy that I’ve never lost that younger part of myself; I still like rolling down grassy hills, still love cartoons and generally find I take a lot of enjoyment from the little things in life, like bubbles.  I’ve always prided myself on this ability because I think keeping happy and positive is important in life.  But as we know, children are gross and annoying because they have bad characteristics too.  I have been known to sulk, to name call and to generally piss people off as only a child could.  So I guess some things that remain on my mind are the questions will I ever grow up and if I do, would it even be worth the sacrifice?

Will I still be playing with bubbles in 5 years? What about 10 years?  Am I going to run late to work because of bubbles? Miss my appointment for my home loan because of bubbles? At the moment I wouldn’t write this off as that ridiculous.  Presumably we all need to ‘grow up’ at some point and take over the role of adults.  But you know what? I really love bubbles.  I’m at an age of transition as I finally leave the teenage years and become old (ew).  But I’ve been a child and teen for a very long time, actually my whole life.  How do you just go from that straight into adulthood? We live in a society that worships youth, why would I want to leave that scene? Every day I’m bombarded with the image of the adults in my life as old and weighted down by the stresses of the world.  Who would want that? It’s not something I really look forward to.

My aunty Carol, a lovely lady, has one horrible habit.  At every single family event we attend and see each other she will kindly remind me how good I have it and how it’s only a matter of time now before I have it all taken away from me.  Every time she lectures me on the horrors of becoming old and how’s there’s not much time for me now I die a little inside.  Yea, she’s a bit of a cynic.

Is adulthood really that bad? Surely there must be a way I could keep growing and mature out of some of those bad, childish habits but remain that happy child at heart.  Maybe I’ve just had a bad impression of getting older and this really is achievable. Either way, I try to take my aunt’s advice and enjoy my youth as much as possible, living more in the moment than anywhere else and trying not to worry too much about what my future might hold.  Am I just living in delusion and avoiding my problems? Probably, but I’m doing it as only a child could.

Sorry if this post wasn’t the funnest (not a word but frankly my dear I don’t give a damn) or most interesting, it was just my thoughts on a subject which seems to be pretty topical. To make up for any lack of amusement here is a step by step instructional comic on how to blow bubbles in the shower that I made earlier:

Dear Diary

When I was around about 8 or 9 I got one of these bad boys:

Because I was a motherfucking ninja spy

I’d had a few diaries before that Mum had made me keep when we went travelling (something silly about “documenting a once in a life time experience”) but these had all quickly turned into art books and really didn’t serve their original purposes at all.  But I was in 3rd grade now; I was much more mature and I could totally handle a diary.

It was the coolest thing ever. Of all time. You recorded your password (I remember mine was Leo) and only your voice would unlock it, which was of course very necessary due to all the national secrets and what not I was writing in it.  I think it even came with a radio pen and secret camera thingy or something ridiculous like that but whatever.  This was the diary. This diary was the first time I had really tried to write about myself.  Each day I would write a page recounting what I’d been doing and then another page with an original poem by yours truly (yea, I was that deep).  I did this each and every day… for about 3 weeks.

Ever so slowly the days I missed writing an entry became more and more frequent.  I began to start each entry with an apology to the diary for not writing in a while as guilt ate me up inside. It was like I had let down a really close friend, I think Toy Story gave me some weird theories about the feelings of inanimate objects, I was way too empathetic.  I had committed myself to a diary and it just wasn’t working out and despite my very best intentions I simply wasn’t holding up my end of the bargain. Eventually, I gave up on my diary and never kept one again.  I had discovered I couldn’t enter into this thing unprepared and lightheartedly.

The notion of having a blog has always been appealing to me but I was always so sure it would end the same way as my beloved, abandoned password journal.  I mean, sure I kept a couple for so assignments I had to do and even then I though yes, I can write personal posts on this, I can have a recount of my days!  But this was just never eventuated.

I guess one of the things people should learn about me is that I never learn my lessons.

Sure, I may not write on this everyday or even often but goddamnit I shall blog! I think I like blogging a lot more then the whole diary scene.  For one, typing! I don’t think this will be so much a ‘dear diary’ dealio like it used to be.  It might be more stories or a place to clear my head or even just to shake the dust off my writing after a summer of living in *shudders* facebook chat.  Well, we’ll see. I’m not really sure what I’ll post here, but I mean yolo, right? …I’ll stop now

I’ll just try to make this as entertaining as possible despite the little activity in my life at the moment.  And don’t worry, I promise no poetry.