Superman.

I literally ran into the bathroom and laughed for about ten minutes. Then messaged a bunch of friends, telling them about this dude. Which is mean, and horrible, but I have learned that I'm a horrible person who judges people on their love of Chad Kroeger, as well as Three Doors Down.

Sorry, universe.

What I've Been Doing Without the Internet

I've had a lot of time on my hands, so I've been doing things.

Like DRAWING SHITTY PICTURES. See what no internet drives me to? Crappy TV and crappy scribblings. I even watched The Big Bang Theory last night. Next thing you know, I'll be "upvoting" things I like in really "inappropriate" ways.

Anyway, enjoy. If anyone needs me, I'll be in (r)Adelaide for the next few days. YEAH.

Eurovision was last night and I had no internet

I've been without the internet for a few weeks now. And of all the moments of isolation, deprivation and complete and utter hopelessness I've endured over those few weeks, last night was the worst. For the 2013 Eurovision Song Contest was on TV, and I had no way to follow the Twitter stream. I had no way to contribute. My hysterical laughter and (at times) utter confusion was confined to the living room I now share with dearest Milly Bean. And while she humoured my yells and cackling laughter and couch-bound dancing (flailing), she clearly isn't as into it as I am. 

The songs! The choreography! The costumes! The crazy-ass camera movements! The absurd English-definitely-not-first-language lyrics! The narration! Oh boy oh boy oh boy, was it ever amazing. Personal highlights were (obviously) the absurdity of Romania's entry (which basically encapsulated all that is amazing/confusing about Eurovision), Greece singing about how "ALCOHOL IS FREE" (in kilts), and the GLASS CASE OF EMOTION displayed during Azerbaijan's "Hold Me". 

Side note: last night I learned Azerbaijan is a country. Is that bad? Probably. But perhaps, it's also testament to the wonder that is Eurovision - it's as educational as it is a glorious trip to a ridiculous Euro pop wonderland. Seriously though, watch Romania. It's probably the most amazing thing I've ever seen. Ever. 

If nothing else, Eurovision 2013 made it very, very clear that I need internet. And I need it soon. With each live Twitter update onscreen, with each hashtag and Facebook update, each photo posted and lol shared, I felt an actual pang of "GODDAMN IT, I WANT TO GO TO THERE". What does that say about me? I'm not sure. Probably something along the lines of "Fuck, you need to get out more" as a follow up statement to "Why do you care about these internet antics and Twitter feeds?" 

In any case, the situation is dire. I fear I'll say "hashtag" before statements, or prodding people in the forehead in an attempt to "upvote" whatever they just said. I'll start saying things like "UMAD?" or "gg" or "FTFY" in the IRL world. Maybe my face will actually turn into this: 

I'll give thumbs up to people before declaring "LIKE!" at them. I might even take to printing out my favourite hilarious pictures and sticking them up on poles along my street so I can make sure I'm filling the brains of people I don't know with images of adorable dogs and cats doing hilarious things. 

Or maybe I do a great many of those things already guys and I'm really really ashamed guys. 

I need internets

Anyway, the hunt for adequate internet (my standards have fallen) has intensified. 

Now, once more. With feeling. 

Groovin' the Moo 2013

Or: The Bronx were awesome, the crowd was shit, and the rest of it was pretty good. 

Exactly one day before we all moved out and bade farewell to Castle Mega (as our Toorak abode came to be known), Mike, Jaz and I hit up Groovin' the Moo in Bendigo. The day was gloriously sunny, then bitterly cold, and filled with music and a very young crowd. 

The day taught me three things, all of which I actually already knew:

• I fucking love The Bronx
• I despise young, obnoxious crowds
• I'm kind of getting sick of day music festivals swimming with a young, obnoxious crowd

Much of the day. 

Okay, let me rephrase and explain. I had a good time. It was an enjoyable day, and a nice way to tie up the time Mike (and Jaz) and I had spent together. After all, the first real conversation Mike and I had was basically a Bronx love-fest that became louder and louder as we discovered how damn much we each love the Bronx. There were plenty of fun times had, and at least a couple of minds blown upon seeing The Bronx. 

Unfortunately, for a disappointing portion of the day I felt like I was an angry old man, waving his cane/walking frame/wrinkly old fist at a pack of good fer nuthin' young whippersnappers intent on ruining his day/lawn. At first I put this down to the fact that I'm often very quick to anger and impatience when it comes to inanimate objects, most drivers on the road, and teens. I then became severely disappointed at myself for being so ageist and a prematurely grumpy old woman. 

Of course, it's also the first music festival in a while that I spent the entire time completely sober, so that might've been it (although I severely doubt it). 

First off - the good bits.

Saw some swell music. Frightened Rabbit were great, Alpine were an enjoyable listen, The Kooks were also a bit of fun. Regurgitator were a fucking BLAST and made me very glad indeed that I ended up going to the festival at all. And The Bronx, I'm glad to say, were well worth price of admission. The entire time they were onstage I wished I'd had the smarts to buy a ticket to their Corner Hotel sideshow ... which from all accounts, was an ear-gasm inducing sweaty pit of glorious tunes.

I'd seen them before, at Soundwave a few years ago. To give you an idea of what it was like, in a day that Iron Maiden were the headliners, The Bronx was my highlight. They blew my mind, and left my pals and I as sweaty, elated, bruised and battered messes.

What ensued at Groovin' the Moo was pretty much a repeat of that, in that it was fucking awesome. Mike and I later praised Matt Caughthran on his onstage charisma, and his ability to whip a crowd into a frenzy (but of course, that's a given). I also later expressed my desire to "shag the ever-loving snot out of Joby". By George, I wish I'd seen their sideshow. They were exciting and tight and brutal, the crowd was rowdy, moshing, circle pit-ing mess, and hell - this was a watered-down, sunny, big festival context. I can only imagine what they were like in a cramped, enclosed, sweaty Corner Hotel context full of dedicated fans. I'm pretty sure I would have died. And it would've been a most glorious way to go. Highlights were "Knifeman", "Shitty Future", "History's Stranglers".

There's just something incredibly exhilarating about bashing into a crowd of other people jumping around, yelling and sweating. And about everyone screaming as one, "MOTHERFUCKER, I WANT YOUR BLOOD!!!" while the singer sails over you on a sea of hands. I didn't want the set to end, to say the least. As Jaz and I looked for Mike afterwards, I was still jumping around wild-eyed, ripping off layers of clothing. Mike greeted us with a massive high five and a huge grin.

"THAT WAS EVERYTHING I WANTED AND MORE!" He declared.

That was the highlight of the festival, and it was about 2pm.

Now, onto the raging.

What I wanted to do most of the day

Way back when I went to Soundwave (and saw the Bronx), I made sure to make a distinction in the following blog post (which I can't be bothered finding now) between the crowd that day and the crowd I'd endured at Big Day Out just a month or so previous. I think my comments were somewhere along the lines of: 

Big Day Out Crowd: Young, obnoxious, at Big Day Out in order to "be at Big Day Out", not there for the music (yes, I'm aware of how cliched and wanky a thing to say that is), and generally kind of just rude. 

Soundwave Crowd: Not really any of those things. 

Of course, that's a gross overgeneralisation. There are dickheads in every crowd. And dickheads come in all shapes and sizes and ages, of course. However. However. However. The general feeling conveyed above was something I felt again at Groovin' the Moo, and I think that in large part it was a result of the very, very "all ages" crowd at Bendigo's showgrounds. 

It was the kind of crowd that - even if there was plenty of room around in a not-too-packed space - would make sure to shove past you on their rushed way to the stage. The kind of crowd that - upon arriving at the stage - would do everything in their power to push, bump and shove their way as close to the front as humanly possible, with no consideration given to anyone around them, or to the fact that all they'd then be seeing is someone's back. Then they'd spend the entire set watching the stage through the pixels of their phone screen.

I can't tell you how many times I saw an ocean of arms thrust above the crowd, phones clutched and recording. Oh man. Oh, man. Oh, MAN was it ever infuriating. I actually began taking photos of people taking photos. Which maybe makes me a hypocrite, but fuck you - it was intermittently and it was to prove a point. And yes, I realise I took a photo of The Bronx with my phone. But that was one photo, after which I shoved my phone back into my bag in order to continue rocking out.

To those who watch gigs through a phone screen - why? Are you really going to re-watch the fuzzy, blurry, shitty footage you've recorded ever again? Don't you think at all that actually being present in the moment might make for a better memory of the gig? Don't you think for a moment that you might be a walking millennial cliche?? FUCK. 

Take Tame Impala. This is an instance where at first I thought my enjoyment was impeded by the fact that I was stone-cold sober and sans Dane to dance like a maniac with me, until I realised it really wasn't. We positioned ourselves in the crowd, and soon began to enjoy - read: not enjoy - being constantly shoved by screeching girls and bro'd-up guys trying to get that little bit closer to the front. Why? WHY?

I really tried to get into it and have a good time, which was difficult considering Jaz was standing there, glowering. Hard to dance when your pals are fuming. It's also hard to rock out when the crowd doesn't seem to even register there being a band onstage - exactly the case during Tame Impala. It was almost as if it didn't matter whether there was music occurring at all, the crowd was just interested in taking selfies of themselves being at #GTM2013. After hearing a few songs, attempting to boogie to "Elephant" and realising the band seemed to be in the mood to jam, I admitted defeat and told the guys we could head to Flume.

Which was a terrible decision.

In fact, when I was describing all this to a friend a couple of days ago, he interjected with, "Was it the Flume crowd? Were they the worst?"

To which I replied, "Yes."

They were. So bad. Obnoxious. Awful. Trashy. With an average age of about eighteen. It was packed. I immediately regretted the fact that we were amongst the thick of it; I'm sure following my own advice of being further back with space to move and space to breathe where there wasn't someone constantly farting/shoving would've been the way to go.

Now, please know that I realise crowds like that are conducive to shoving and being in close proximity to other people. And that is more than fine with me - I love mosh pits, I love boogying up a storm in a sea of people, all that bizzo. And of course, I've been known to rock out without really registering what band was on (I forgot to notice when Flume played at Golden Plains). But oh man, what had started as irritation and exasperation earlier in the day and in the Tame Impala crowd, quickly turned into a flying rage during Flume. I turned around and saw Jaz, stony faced and looking like steam was about to burst out of her ears. So many phones in the air. A girl literally shoving people out of her way. Young dudes being complete douche canoes.

Flume's set was completely fine, enjoyable. Unfortunately, I wanted to roundhouse kick just about everyone in the crowd. We soon left (which was an exercise in "FFFFUUUUUUUU" in itself) and went over to The Kooks. I noticed how quickly my mood shifted back to "agreeable" and "cheerful" being away from the Flume crowd. Until of course, Flume's set finished and they all poured like some sort waterfall of bug larvae from a larger bug. I'm sorry, that's an awful mental image.

Later on, as the day was done and the three of us made our way back to the car, I noted how old and angry I felt throughout so much of the festival. And I was pleased to hear Mike and Jaz completely agreed with me. If I'm angry and old, then they are too. Or maybe it was just apparent how dudd-ful the general crowd was (not including the crowd at The Bronx). Was it because I was completely sober? Was it because I'm an impatient person? Was it because The Kids have no sense of "etiquette" and "not being a complete dudd"? I'm not sure.

Reading back on this, it seems like I had a shitty, shitty day apart from The Bronx. Not true! Frightened Rabbit were rad. Regurgitator were very rad. Kooks were fun. Flume would've been fun if not filled with dudds. I had a blast hanging with Mike and Jaz. It was a sunny, lovely day and I was wearing a TIE fighter t-shirt on May the Fourth.

That being said though, I'm very certain I'll be adding Groovin' the Moo to sit alongside Big Day Out in the list of "there'll have to be a fucking amazing line up for me to hit that again".

How to Be Sick

Artist's impression

Further to my guide to Getting Sick.

Wake up and feel as if you've gotten a sword to the head and face, a la Tyrion Lannister at Blackwater Bay. You can't breathe. You can't swallow. Your alarm goes off. It's 7:30am. Consider the likelihood of your being able to go to work. Audibly moan. "FUUUCK."

Sit up. As you sit up, a stream of snot literally flows out of your nose. Literally. It pours out, and lands on the bed. There's a puddle of snot on the bed. Groan. "FUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK."

Stagger to the bathroom. Have a shower. Lean your head against the wall. "FUUUUUUUUCK." Feel like this might be worse than all hangovers you've ever experienced combined. Maybe? But come on, this is no hangover. This is just another, entirely different kind of immense pain, not the result of outside forces. Wonder if a whole lot of bacon and a sneaky chunder might help. Probably not. You can never make yourself chunder anyway. And this isn't chunder-ville. This is you being Legitimately Unwell. Look at yourself in the mirror. Decide calling for an old priest and a young priest is probably the best option. You need a fucking exorcism.

Picture your head spinning around while you masturbate with a crucifix and Max von Sydow watches. Giggle hysterically at the depraved mental image, then begin coughing uncontrollably. Fuuuuck.

Stagger to your room and get half-dressed. Decide you're going to try and go to work. Screw it, you can make it to work. And work all day. Down a cup of lemsip (the strong stuff), a berocca, all the different types of cold and flu tablets you can find, every assorted vitamin you can find, eat two oranges, and take a liver detox tablet for good measure, then drink many glasses of water. Hydration, bitches. Unfortunately, all that results in is a desperate need to pee. The fluorescent kind of pee.

Go back to bed.

Have ridiculous, fever-addled dreams. Wake up. Use toilet paper to blow your nose because you don't have any tissues. Curse the fact that you didn't buy the nice toilet paper. There's snot on the pillow. Moan. Wonder if you should have a whole lot of cheese before going to sleep again. CHEESE DREAMS, MEET FEVER DREAMS. Remember you have no cheese. Fuck. Wish your mum was here to make you some soup, or a cup of tea, or to hear you moan about how shitty everything is. Or bring you cheese. Try to go back to sleep, but your face hurts too much to sleep. Your face hurts too much. Your eye sockets, your mouth, your nose.

Declare "MY FACE HURTS" to your ceiling while listening to your creepy neighbour yell indecipherable things at the universe. Look around and ponder the miraculous way a room, once miraculously clean, instantly becomes a bomb site once the owner becomes ill. This room was goddamn TIDY before the Great Illness of 2013. Maybe this is what it's like to be crazy shut-in, lying amidst a grotesque mess of clothes and used tissues (toilet paper), wearing the same clothes you were wearing two days ago. Maybe you should buy some cats? Listen to the same Barry White song for about half an hour on repeat. Disco fucking rules.

Realise you got a message from a friend. It asks, "Get lucky with any musos in Apollo Bay bro?!" Hardly. If you've done this correctly, the only thing you will have picked up is a FUCKING DOSE OF EVERYTHING HURTING.

How attractive you will be at this stage.

Thoughts don't quite make sense. Almost leave the house. Don't. Go into the kitchen and stare at the cupboard for a while. Think about lunch, then decide to drink more Lemsip. Wish your dog was here. He wouldn't care about how repulsive you are, all spluttering phlegm and snot-faced illness.

Potter around the house like a senile old man. Make a Spotify playlist called "Sickness Jamz". Groan. Watch about five episodes of My So-Called Life. Decide your snot is very angsty now. Decide Claire Danes is very good at crying. Wonder if Angela ever realised how utterly normal and un-special she is. Decide you've been awake too long. Sleep until it's dark. Wake up - your housemates are home.

Stagger into the living room, looking like an extra from The Walking Dead.

"Oh man, you are home!"
"Euurgh. Yeah. I've been here all day. COUGHCOUGH BLEURGHSOFDLSKGBSDUIHFDSKLJ."
Your housemate will definitely take several steps back. "Dude. You're really fucking sick."
Groan and retreat back to your hovel of illness.

Stay the fuck back bro.

Put pawpaw ointment on your nose, and ingest your body weight in cold and flu tablets. Decide you should wash your hair. Know you won't. Lie in bed and listen to the myriad wonderful noises that emanate from your person every time you breathe. Your chest and nostrils are making sweet, sweet, guttural and disgusting music together. Spend about ten minutes laughing and wheezing at this comment on Reddit. If nothing else, this little episode has given you a glimpse into a #foreveralone future. Decide it isn't so bad, if you take out the whole wanting-to-die thing. Watch JFK, while nearly coughing up a lung. Make sure not to actually cough up a lung however - a whole lot of phlegm is much more manageable.

Stare at Kevin Costner talking to Donald Sutherland. None of their words make sense and your nose has been ravaged in a decidedly BAD way. Decide you're going to detox. Vow to go for a run every day, and eat a healthy amount of greens. No more booze. You'll drink a litre of water and a cup of dandelion tea every day. You'll enjoy the sunshine. Decide to forever be healthy.

If you had the strength you'd flip a table in rage. But you don't, so you whimper a little and watch the rest of JFK in bed with a roll of toilet paper next to your face.

How to Get Sick

PLEASE NOTE: This is not a guide to becoming "fully sick". If you follow these instructions in the expectation that people will describe you as "so sick" in a "you got like, ten feet of air bro!" way, you will be disappointed. Because you will also feel like shit.

Hate summer. Revel in the arrival of autumn, in a cloud of happiness that manifests itself in shorts and a t-shirt in slightly chilly weather. You're just happy not to be Fucking Miserably Sweaty, so you decide to be all like, "FUCK YOU" to jumpers and pants. Whatever. Haters gon' hate.

Get sick. Then find that a series of good friends' birthdays align with being paid, with finally having enough dosh to enjoy a weekend or three. Decide that this amazing stroke of good fortune isn't about to be dampened by a stupid cold and barely being able to breathe. Throw caution to the wind. Fuck it. Buy All the Shots for All the Friends. Have a string of stupidly fun and stupidly OTT nights out with your ridiculously amazing friends, while being sick. They're awesome. Find a slew of nonsensical pictures on your phone. Still manage to get plenty of work done. Feel victorious. Then you get better, despite the absurd Bane-beating-on-a-henchman assault you're giving your body and immune system. Think, "That wasn't so bad". Enjoy more birthdays, more celebrations. Make memories for the ages. Do this for a few weeks. Then wake up feeling all like:

Vow to quit that ridiculous behaviour, because you've got a Proper Job now and if there's one thing you've learned, it's that when you get Run Down, you get Really Sick. Besides that, no one wants to be the Shame Panda. Admit it, you decide to quit that ridiculous behaviour mostly because you don't want to be Shame Panda. 

Quit that ridiculous behaviour for about a week, enjoy being healthy again. Right in time for a music festival.

Spend the morning at work just about bursting with excitement. You're about to spend the weekend with friends crammed in a house in Apollo Bay, enjoying the music festival. Fuck yeah. There's a million other things you should be doing, but the prospect of good times and good vibes with good friends by the bay is too good to refuse.

Begin the drive. Feel tired. Nearly fall asleep at the wheel. That's disconcerting, but luckily that serves to wake you up. Down some energy drink and sing along loudly to Barry White to stay awake. Arrive. Get changed, rug up - it's going to be cold. Apollo Bay Music Festival is always fucking cold. Down a few beers, and some pizza. It's awesome to be with awesome pals, in an awesome and quaint little house. Unfortunately you're volunteering (you cheap-ass), so it's time to go to your shift as stage assistant.

You soon learn that "stage assistant" effectively means "bussy". And occasionally "fetcher of toilet paper" and even less occasionally "she who introduces bands to the stage manager". It's freezing back there and you soon find that T-SHIRT is inadequate winter wear. The thrill of wearing an "Access All Areas" lanyard quickly fades; from backstage you spy your friends dancing up a storm. Still, you take some rather rad photos from your vantage point and eventually remember to put on a jacket.

Eventually your exceedingly dull shift ends in the early hours of morning and you finally meet up with your pals. You're incredibly tired. Confoundingly so. After a while of dancing you all make the trek home and you get to your bunk. Suddenly realise there's no ladder to get up to the top bunk. Stand there like an idiot for a few minutes, staring at the mattress. It stares back at you, face-level. That ain't happening you think. Drag some blankets onto the cold floor and pass out.

Replace bed with floor.

Wake up after a few hours. Wake up with a chainsaw in your throat. You can't breathe. Your nose is runny. Fuck. Damn-near shake your fist at the heavens. Bacon makes things better, but only a little bit. Push the nagging feeling of "YOU'RE GETTING SICK" out of your mind. The day is spent hanging out, laying on the grass in the surprisingly warm late-April sun, and wandering around the market. Idyllic and superb. Go to your second shift. Your throat feels like a nun chuck wielding goblin has taken up residency and is having a conniption. Or a mosh. Fffffuuuuuu. Find your nose is running and you sneeze about ten times a row backstage. "Uhh. Bless you?" says a drummer. Say thank you from behind watering eyes and a snotty nose. Please men, form an orderly queue.

Reassure yourself that you've gone harder through worse. Remind yourself of the weekend just a few weeks ago. That was harder through worse, right? What was your pal Neil's saying? Oh yes: YOUR BODY WILL ALWAYS RECOVER. Have your doubts about that. Vaguely sense that maybe your body's had enough, and is ready to flip a table in rage. A table of pure, undiluted sickness. Of snot and fever and coughing. Enjoy the rest of the weekend. Dance a little. Eat a lot. Laugh even more. Stand in the rain. That's good, right?

As you drive home, your nose begins to run non-stop. Use your tshirt to wipe it up. Spy yourself in the mirror. You look like shit. Pale, dark rings under your eyes, and wearing a snotty t-shirt. Your t-shirt is on backwards. You just used your tshirt to blow your damn nose. It's begun. Oh, god. Oh, GOD. NO. NO. NO NO NO NO NO.

IF ONLY YOU CARED MORE ABOUT YOUR HEALTH.

IF ONLY YOU WORE A JACKET MORE OFTEN.

IF ONLY YOU HAD AN ISSUE WITH SLEEPING ON THE FLOOR.

IF ONLY YOU DIDN'T FILL YOUR FACE WITH THINGS THAT MEAN YOU DON'T EVER GET A PROPER NIGHT'S SLEEP.

The race against time begins. You're Sick. Congratulations.

Fuck.

Hair

I've never been good at numbers.

I'm not even kidding. I went to put more money on my damn Myki then found myself staring blankly at the numbers. You know when something's so second nature that after a while, you don't even think about it? Like walking? I find sometimes I'll think too much about walking, and I'll end up walking funny because I'm thinking about each step. Same thing here. I had to remember what actual numbers make up my PIN and suddenly -ZILCH. Nothing. Nada. 

To make matters worse, I've somehow also managed to lose my drivers' license ... either at home, or on some sort of rampage over the weekend. 

I'm obviously really good at cards, and being a responsible adult (and penning haikus, duh). 

Adventures with Morse.

(REPRESENTATION)

Given the hood that Castle Mega is situated in, the general demographic of our neighbours can pretty accurately be described as "similarly situated young folk" or "old folk" or "wholesome families" containing at least one "very botoxed female". To the delight of my mother, it's a rather uneventful place to call home. That is of course, apart from our next door neighbour. The very same next door neighbour we've decided - after about six odd months of inhabiting the Castle - is completely and disconcertingly Weird, and MOST PROBABLY a murderer.

At a party we threw a while back (which we were very sure he was going to take issue with and maybe go on some sort of killing spree as a result of), I couldn't help but regale some friends with a handful of the creepy-ass things he's done in the past. After I'd brought my pals up to date with his antics they stood there, mouths agape. As one, they slowly turned around to stare, slightly terrified, at the wall dividing our flat from his.

Mike met him long before I did. His introduction to our neighbour was ol' Morse leaping out of the shadows to cast his creepy-ass light upon us occurred on an evening like no other. Mike was chaining his bike to the bench outside our door, when Morse burst out of his flat, truly enraged.

"WHAT'RE YA DOIN'??"
Mike, understandably flabbergasted, could only tell the truth. "I'm locking up my bike."
Morse stared him down for a moment, then disappeared as quickly as he'd barged into view. Weird, we thought. Not troubling.

A short time after that first run-in, Mike was about to leave to meet me at the ol' cinematorium when he suddenly heard banging sounds coming from right outside his window. His window's pretty secluded, so someone would have to make a specific trip there in order to bang metal on metal (which is what it sounded like). Miguel then went over to his other window, following the sound of footsteps, to see Morse storming back to his house, glaring at Mike through the window. He wasn't holding anything. Disconcerting.

The resulting conversation between Mike and I became the catalyst for the nickname that's well and truly stuck, long after we learned his actual name. In Disturbia, David Morse plays the weird-ass neighbour who wants to kill Shia Le Boef.

"Dude. He's fucking weird."
"I think he's going to kill us."
"He definitely doesn't want to be our pals."
"We're Shia LeBoef. He's David Morse."
"Fuuuuuuuuuck."

Note: I haven't actually seen Disturbia because the only thing I can tolerate LeDudd in is
this SNL sketch.

In any case, that's his name now.

A few days later, I get home from work (RIP Full Time Employment) and walk past his flat to ours, like any other day. This time though, his door is open and he's standing there, behind the screen door. Looming. Not doing anything, just looming there. Seeing him glaring and looming out of the corner, I jump in surprise and let out an involuntary yelp.

We stare at each other for a moment.

"Um. Hi?" I offer.

He continues to stare at me for a moment. Uncomfortable pause. I make a noise and rush the fuck inside.

Later that evening I decide to go for a run. I leave the house and walk up the stairs at the front of our block to the street. I look behind me, and see Morse leaning around his door, staring at the entrance to our house. I watch him for a few seconds. He's perfectly still, gaze fixated on our door. I run the fuck away.

After my run I walk back to our door, and he's loitering outside his door. I decide to take action. Maybe if he knows our names he'll decide we're worth sparing, I think to myself.

"Hi. I'm Rebecca." I held out my hand and gave him my most charming smile. "Nice to meet you!"

He shakes my hand. I'd expected him to answer with a "Hi, my name is _____" but instead he just glared at me while holding my outstretched hand. A very uncomfortable pause ensues, seemingly lasting eons.

"Uh...I live with my housemate, Michael. I think maybe you've seen him around?"

He stares at me for a moment longer.

"Yes." He says. "I have."

I rush the fuck inside and wash my hand.

Just about every run-in has been like that over the past few months. Looming, uncomfortable pauses and strange looks. It's a little disconcerting, especially when the occasional yelled expletives drift through the wall. After introducing myself to our other neighbours (all lovely), I soon found out that he must've taken some sort of a shine to me. Simply put, he yells at just about everyone in our quiet hood, and he hasn't yelled at me yet. Unless of course, the expletives heard through the wall were directed at me. Usually, they're roars of "FffffuuuuuuuuUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK." so you know, they could be anything.

No, instead he'd just glared at me.

Anyway, like I said every story since those first few have been just about as creepy or disconcerting as the last. Like when he demanded to know how many of us live at our place. Or when he loomed in FRONT of his door for a while. Or when the car crashed in front of our house and he spent the next four hours yelling about "THE ALMIGHTY CRAAAAAASH" that he'd witnessed to everybody at the scene (believe me, that is a long-winded story worth telling in its own right) and anybody who'd listen.

Amusingly, after my initial shock had worn off, I suddenly realised that watching Morse ranting and raving about seeing the horrible car crash ("WITH ME OWN EYES!!!") had been the longest I'd ever seen Morse talk, or interact with people. Or be out of his house, for that matter. By then Mike had arrived back from his weekend away and I was sitting outside, my attention divided between watching Morse yell wildly, and being intrigued by the flaming car across from our house. Suddenly, I sprinted back inside.

"DUDE. MORSE. HE'S SPEAKING. He's talking to people." 

Forget the horrible car crash, Morse was outside, talking, being a mostly functioning person. Not a looming, creepy figure that yells instead of speaking. Interesting realisation, that was. That Morse is an actual human with a name and the ability to interact with other humans. To be honest, I did become to be less creeped out by him for a while. I got a phone call from my brother when Morse was on the news yelling loudly about the car crash on the evening news, ("AN ALMIGHTY CRAAAASH!") which was pretty hilarious. Of course, the feeling that perhaps we aren't living next to a weirdo possible murderer lasted all of about a week, because before long he was back to his yelling, looming creepy-ass ways. You know, demanding to know how many people live in our flat, people knocking on the door inquiring as to his whereabouts, things like that.

Mike, Jaz and I recently compared notes on recent Morse antics while sitting at our picnic bench outside. All of a sudden someone noticed his window was open. An uncomfortable hush fell over the table. You could almost hear a wolf, or coyote, or creepy wind blow, or something equally as ominous cast a shadow over us.

Eh, we'll see how things go I guess. As long as no one tells my highly strung mother, I think we'll be okay.

Come over at your own risk.

Smooth-Talkin'

This post was whipped up at the insistence of a couple of friends. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that my awkwardness knows no bounds, and that apparently said awkwardness is almost a superpower. Such is its awesomeness. 

Here's but a select few true nuggets of smooth talkin' badassery! 

Please, ladies and gents. Form an orderly queue, and try not to get too flustered. 

Boxing Day Can Eat a Bag of Dicks or: I Didn't Enjoy the Boxing Day Sales

Firstly, I'd like to extend my warmest "MERRY CHRISTMAS!" and "HAPPY CHRIMBUS!" and "FESTIVUS FOR THE REST OF US!" to all of you who regularly send your eyes and your clicks over to this ridiculous corner of the internet. It's really heartening to hear how many of you get a genuine kick out of the very silly things that come out of my brain, so thanks for tuning in so often throughout 2012, this year of our anticlimactic apocalypse.

You guys.

My Christmas was a most enjoyable one, as it involved hanging with my family on the coast, watching a shitty Steven Seagal movie, getting a remote controlled helicopter and Neil Young tickets, and then eating so much food I could barely breathe (I'm not even exaggerating). It was a lovely, wholesome, fun-filled and flavorsome way to spend a few days. That being said though, I'd be lying if I said I didn't breathe a sigh of relief when I finally returned to a quiet Castle Mega, made myself a cup of tea, and watched a movie. By myself. Quietly. Silently. By myself. Perhaps observing this enjoyment of one's own company sheds an in-hindsight sort of light on how I handled the True Carnage that occurred the next day. Maybe that's why I was launched into rage and frustration and puzzlement so quickly upon arriving at Chadstone.

The correct reaction upon hearing someone
is going to Chadstone on Boxing Day.

Of course, I was completely aware of what I was getting myself into, so I probably completely deserved all of the pain inflicted on me. In fact, this wasn't the first time I'd braved Chadstone on Boxing Day. You read that correctly. Chadstone on Boxing Day. Last year I braved the carnage clusterfuck, and had a time that was equal parts confounding and rage-inducing. This year my attendance was due to two things:

First of all, my parents gave me a hefty Chadstone voucher along with my Neil Young tickets, claiming that I'm "too damn hard to buy for". Well shit, I wanted to get something good. Having gone to the sales last year, I was very aware of the rubbish-y stock that's left over after the screeching flailing of the first feeding frenzy. I suppose with that I can identify a hefty dose of FEAR OF MISSING OUT having bored its talons into my brain and while that's kind of disappointing, fuck it. I need new shoes.

SECONDLY, and far more stupidly, a morbid curiosity was growing inside me. I knew what I was getting myself into. I knew how angry I'd gotten last year, how I'd stumbled out of the shopping centre with a hatred for my fellow man at an all-time high. I'd seen the snatching and the crowds and the madness and the crazed MUST GET BARGAINS ON SHIT I DON'T NEED, and all I could think of was will it be as bad this year? I wanted to know. I needed to know. And I knew at the very least, I'd get some sort of blog post out of it.

So here you are. Boxing Day 2012. Again, I found a very kind family member to give me a lift to the carnage. And again, I think their generosity was motivated by morbid curiosity than actual goodwill towards their ill-fated daughter but you know, I'll take any free lift that I can get.

Even at 9am, it was packed. Packed. Knowing we'd never get to an actual entrance, I barrel-rolled out of the car and walked the rest of the way. I heard a "GOOD LUCK!" fade into the distance as my ride sped away. I took a deep breath, girded my loins, walked inside, and burst into laughter.

At the "intersection" of Tiffany, Burberry, Gucci and bunch of similarly shiny stores full of reflective surfaces, security guards and confounding prices, the lines snaked around and around and around. People were lining up around corners, past escalators, to go inside. Why? WHY? WHY? 

Of course, this was first thing in the morning. As the day wore on, the crowds grew and became more and more obnoxious, until it was necessary to do the "Music Festival Shuffle" through the crowd to get from SUPER BARGAIN point A to B. But of course, as the day wore on my sense of humour deteriorated and thus, so too did any thought to take photos. See all the space in the photos? The space for walking? GONE.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. I stood around and chuckled to myself for a while, and played "SPOT WHITEY" in the Gucci line (there were four), before heading towards Myer. I'm not entirely sure what came over me, considering the true bloodshed and brutality that I faced there me last year, but that's where I went. Maybe it was momentary bravery brought on by having a laugh, maybe it was because I was listening to The Four Tops, or maybe it's because I was super curious. Or maybe I was just overcome by momentary insanity, because I made a bee-line for the "INTIMATE APPAREL" section, a place akin to Mount Doom to me, in that it's fraught with peril and is fucking terrifying.

Yes, the time had come to brave the battlefield of bra-shopping, an activity that I find to be equal parts intimidating, confusing and demoralising. As a result, I always put it off. I sure as shit wasn't going to go to Bras n Things, because I find that to be a Truly Terrifying Place. The sales assistants swoop down upon you, it looks like a Barbie exploded everywhere, and in between all of the confusion and terror I can barely even remember what damn size I am. So I guess that left Myer. Already, there were bras all over the floor, hangars were strewn everywhere, and the line for the fitting room was something awful. It was obnoxiously crowded. Every few seconds I found myself saying "Excuuuuuuuuse me", as I literally squeezed myself between women and racks (HEH HEH) of bras. People were plonking themselves in the most inconvenient possible places, not bothering to get out of the way, shoving past each other. It's kind of as if with the dawn of Boxing Day so to comes an unspoken rule that "YOU CAN BE A DICK TODAY, BECAUSE IT'S BOXING DAY. IT'S A FREE-FOR-ALL, MOTHERFUCKERS".

I'll say this much: the next person who sees me sans shirt had better know the Saving Private Ryan-esque scene that was endured to purchase those boob-holders. I don't mean to say that there was blood and guts and khaki green everywhere, I just mean to say that it was AWFUL and it was KIND OF TRAUMATISING, and certainly after putting my headphones back on and attempting to navigate my way out of Myer (PRO-TIP: Don't go via the Cosmetics Department), I stood outside with a fair dosage of the ol' Thousand Mile Stare. Add the madness of Boxing Day to the already confusing experience that it is, and you've got yourself cause for some shopping PTSD, yo.

Returning to the massacre of Chaddy's "streets" was like attempting to get from one point to another at a music festival. I take that back. I don't get angry at music festivals. It was like walking down Swanston Street, but about ten times worse. I find that walking from one end of Swanston Street to the other is about 90% likely to make my blood boil. Too many people, not enough space, not enough people with destinations in mind. The people that walk way too slow, the groups that walk way too slow while also walking four abreast, the small children shrieking and getting in the way, the people that stop mid-walk in the middle of the path to confer about something, or take a photo, or just generally be in the way. Call me an impatient asshole, but this is what riles me up. And this time, there were trolleys involved.

I went to look at the foodcourt. It was awful. I walked down to JB Hi-Fi. The line snaked around past the bowling alley. I went down to the other foodcourt, and a disbelieving, "Oh, SHIT!" escaped my lips. I shoved my way through the crowd and into a shoe store. It was so crowded, one literally could not move without actually shoving past people. Shoes were strewn everywhere. Boyfriends stood in the corner, looking vaguely scared and clutching an array of brightly coloured bags. I left almost immediately, for fear that I'd launch into a flying rage at any moment. .

My next location was Fat, which mercifully wasn't full of yelling ladies snatching and shoving. I asked a guy working there how his day had been, and his hand immediately went to his face. "Oh god ... it's been insane. Insane. I cannot wait. Until. This is over."

I am so glad I don't work in retail anymore.

It took my ride 45 minutes to get from a carpark entrance to a centre entrance. I jumped into the car and we drove home and watched in disbelief as we whizzed past car after car after car after car banked up along Dandenong Road.

"What the actual fuck?"

The entire time I was shoving and shuffling and stumbling may way around Chadstone (I did a few laps, just to compare crowds and become ever more bemused/angry), I found myself wondering: WHY? For the love of all that is holy, why the hell BOTHER? I know that's hypocritical for me to say, because obviously I went, and obviously I used my voucher to pick up some actual savings on things I needed/wanted, but STILL. I went in the knowledge that it'd be awful, knowing it was a stupid thing to do, knowing I'd hate it, and knowing that a great deal of things wouldn't actually be on sale. I deserved all the internal pain and the barely contained rage that I had to deal with. The truly unpleasant specimens, the obnoxious children, the bitchy women, the sheer volume of duddery and jackassery and assholery.

I went in knowing that, and then spent the entire time being with one thought overwhelming all others: that this Boxing Day shopping frenzy is one of the most stupid, pointless exercises I could possibly imagine. The haggard looking shop girls, the overflowing food courts, the ruthless snatching of stock and the at times mediocre savings and the clothes strewn all over the floor. Everything I saw could only be described as a waste of time and money and effort of the highest degree of unpleasantness.

But you know, I did buy new shoes. So it can't have been all bad.

Tales from Behind the Counter #1

This might make me an unlikeable scrooge, but I feel like every Christmas I don't spend spent mostly enraged and hating on most other humans is an occasion nothing short of a miracle. After many, many years spent working in retail and hospitality, I can safely say that my faith in humanity has been eroded something terrible. No time of the year highlights this as surely as the holidays.

Last year however(and the year before, from memory), was a joy. I was working a job where I earned actual money, and one in which the office actually closed for a couple of weeks over the Chrimbus break. I was able to actually spend time with my family, I didn't have to think about KPIs, I didn't have to set up for a Boxing Day sale in place of eating tasty food, I didn't have to make up some excuse about not being able to work on New Years Day or Boxing Day. Most of all however, I didn't have to interact with the special kind of douche bag/terrible specimen/murder-worthy people that inhabit shopping centres, cafes and carparks during December.

This year is a little different. I'm currently working a bunch of odd jobs, which range from highly enjoyable to mediocre at best. I'm also job-hunting.

Please, employ me.

But you know, a girl's gotta eat right? So I'm back working at a cafe a few days a week. Just get a casual job, they said. It'll be easy money, they said. And I believed them. I'd forgotten about the screaming children, the mess, the demanding obnoxious duds, the insane requests, the fact that you're beyond exhausted after it all the shit subsides. I'd forgotten what it's like to have your soul slowly, slowly and surely crushed to the cynical, angry point of no return.

Somehow, I'd forgotten how very, very much and how very, very often I dislike people.

Anyway, ranting and raving to a friend of mine after a particularly busy shift, I was reminded of the myriad stories I have about being sent to the very edge of sanity by my fellow humans during the holiday season.

I know this isn't hospitality, but I think you might enjoy it. Certainly, I wish I could crack the absolute shits at every smartass jerk who I ever came across:

I can't tell you how satisfying that was. I spent the rest of the shift strutting around like some sort of victorious gladiator. I was just about daring people to ask me a stupid question, or to dare challenge my authority. And, for those of you playing at home, I didn't even get into any sort of trouble for my little outburst. The guy slunk away with his tail between his legs, with his shitty, shitty purchase.

If you've never yelled at an idiotic customer, I highly recommend you try it sometime.

Tram Attack.

This happened on Tuesday.

True story, guys. I began giggling hysterically when I saw the chubby, dotted culprit and immediately messaged Mitts. 

Safety on the Toilet

When I was a kid, I would wake up in the middle of the night and suddenly be convinced that I was about about to die. The reason for my certain and imminent demise would often change, but I do remember often jolting from sleep and being CONVINCED that a spider had bitten me and the poison was coursing through my veins and all I had to do was go back to sleep and BOOM, I'd be dead.

Obviously, I had it together even as a child.

My method of dealing with my predicament (imminent death) was this: I'd hang out in the bathroom. Namely, the toilet. To you, that probably makes no sense whatsoever. At the time though, I didn't think of "GO TO THE BATHROOM" as anything less than a perfectly sane thought process/safety plan.

Firstly, throughout most of my childhood I shared a room with my little brother. Even in my state of panic and anxiety I didn't want to wake him up with my ridiculous anxieties, so I'd bail from our bedroom. Basically, I was being a good sister by fleeing to the bathroom to make sure I didn't die. Bro, don't ever say I don't do anything for you.

Secondly (and more importantly), I had somehow convinced myself that if I was in the bathroom, I could not die. I'm about 70% sure this is how that particular episode of my life played out:

I vaguely remember being in the bathroom, and for some reason I was freaking about something or other. Who knows what. Something. I was freaking out about something. Next thing I remember is a responsible adult in the vicinity reassuring me that I wasn't about to die and that there was no reason for me to be freaking out so, for "you're not going to die there in the bathroom, kiddo!"

"Have you heard of anyone dying on the toilet, Rebby? You'll be fine. Now, calm down and come on out of there."

That's not the kind of thing you tell a kid with as many weird-ass idiosyncrasies as I. To me, that instantly equated to:

"NO ONE DIES IN THE BATHROOM OR ON THE TOILET, EVER." 

Which of course, is laughable.

But! I was a kid. So whenever I woke up in the middle of the night with the nagging feeling that my short life might be over very soon, I'd grab the book I'd always read to stave off imminent demise (Sense and Sensibility, weirdly enough) and I'd head to the bathroom, because I felt like I'd be safe while leaning against the bathtub, or sitting on the toilet, or lying on the floor. After an hour or so, I'd inevitably stayed alive for long enough to be convinced that I could return to bed, and sleep the rest of the night safe in the knowledge that I'd wake up in the morning.

Look, I never said I was a normal kid.

So anyway, that went on for a while, through a myriad of bathrooms through a number of years, to and fro over the border of Victoria and South Australia. Eventually, I stopped waking up in the middle night, terrified that particular night would be my last. Which was just as well, because I eventually learned how many people have in fact died on the toilet. Do you know who's died on the john? Lenny Bruce! Edmund II of England! And of course, my dearest beloved Elvis Presley. It wasn't quite as traumatic as when I learned John Lennon had been dead the entire time I'd been alive, but the mental image of Elvis Presley dying on the loo was almost too much for my still quite young mind to bear.

And you know what else I soon learned? Bathrooms are dangerous places in popular culture. Watch a few horror movie, and you're BOUND to realise very quickly that all bad things happen in the bathroom. Shit son, don't ever open a cabinet behind a mirror, because after you close it I GUARANTEE that some long-dead ghoul or monster WILL be behind you. Thinking of having a bath? BAD MOVE. As soon as you close your eyes, the bath WILL fill up with blood. Just look at Black Swan. Bad bathroom vibes all over.

Like this.

There's just something about how blood looks on clean (or dirty) bathroom tiles, and the vulnerability of a naked body about to get into a shower that has made the humble bathroom one of the more popular death locations in the horror/thriller/murder mystery genres. But for the ten-year-old Reb, it was my weird sanctuary. Sometimes I'd take a little radio in while I made sure I didn't die. Oh, and just for the record, I'm not entirely sure how I made sure I didn't die. Maybe I thought if I concentrated hard enough on being alive, I'd make it through the night.

Anyway! So it was just as well that I'd realised that there are much, much safer places than the bathroom, and it was just as well I'd grown accustomed to sleeping through a full night. Because obviously bathrooms are dangerous, dangerous places.

I continued in this way, sleeping well and only occasionally sending myself into the throes of anxiety. I kind of forgot about my nightly bubble of bathroom safety, until one slightly delirious afternoon of salmonella-induced violent vomiting.

I was in Peru, and even if it hadn't clicked in my head that I should take myself to a medical professional after a week and a half of nary a solid emerging from either end of my person, after this particular incident I immediately dragged my sorry ass to the nearest hospital.

I was sitting on the toilet, while vomiting into the shower. On a side note, you haven't hit rock bottom until you're vomiting into the shower while sitting on the toilet. I hadn't eaten a full meal in almost a week, and after barely having the strength to stagger up the hill to the Spanish school I was attending the past few days, I'd woken up that morning thinking something was about to eat its way out of my stomach. I lurched into the bathroom, and as I vomited into the shower from my vantage point on the loo, I began to giggle hysterically. In between violent chunks, I laughed and laughed and laughed and thought about bathrooms.

WASN'T THE BATHROOM SUPPOSED TO BE SAFE?

WASN'T THE BATHROOM SUPPOSED TO BE SAFE??? 

I found myself longing for any of the bathrooms from my childhood, as well as my copy of Sense and Sensibility. I wondered if I'd be found like Elvis Presley, found dead on the bathroom floor. And I cackled even harder. That would've been a ridiculous sound coming from my room. Hysterical laughter in between the "EEEUUUURGHHHHHHHHH" of epic vomiting.

But you know what? I'm pretty sure the Power of the Bathroom saved me once more, because obviously I DID NOT DIE. No horrid toilet ghoul appeared from behind me to cut my throat, no murderer jumped out of the shower, and no malevolent force that had plagued me as a kid had me convinced that I was about to cark it. Instead, I staggered to school and declared,

"I NEED A DOCTOR."

And that's how I dealt with my nightly anxieties as a kid. Pro-tip: don't tell your kid that no one ever dies on the toilet. They might just think it's true, and spend the next few years spending far too much time in there.

HAPPY FRIDAY!