February 15, 2010 § Leave a comment
Ostensibly, I have quite a lot of friends. If one were to take a quick squiz at my facebook, for example, I have almost two hundred contemporaries primed for the count. Considering I don’t just add any Joe-just met drunkenly on a bus home one night and became instant bff’s because we both liked Eminem in grade 7 and still know all the words to The Real Slim Shady-Schmoe to my list, this is, in my opinion, a fairly substantial number.
But then, of course, there are the few Primary School bestie’s who I’d lost touch with long ago, that one girl who I made cry in 9th grade, the few boys I crushed on in High School and added simply for nostalgia purposes (and, admittedly, because I was so flattered they even bothered to add me) and those amassed many who, like that ill-advised pair of hot-pants I bought last summer, seemed like a good idea, yet after some time spent alone in front of the (proverbial) mirror, I realised just don’t fit.
Once I scrutinise the list down to, at the very least, those I see or speak to with any kind of regularity, that expansive two hundred dwindles to a number that anyone would be gravely humbled to publish. When I get depressingly introspective, I realise that that number is made ever smaller when considering those I would outwardly label ‘friends’.
February 7, 2010 § Leave a comment
Today an extraordinary thing happened. My own personal God stretched his languid, ink stained hand down from the formidable heavens to type three words to me; ‘You are welcome’.
Allow me to clarify. This morning I received word that my most favoured of all authors, Neil Gaiman, has penned an episode for Stephen Moffat’s Doctor Who to be aired in 2011. In my complete and unbound exhilaration, I did something I customarily lay reserve for those very rare occasions I feel I have something worthwhile to contribute to a conversation, and tweeted a loving, sincere and admittedly fangirl-esque thank you to him for doing such an incredible thing.
Today I’m thinking about…Australian Internet Censorship; or why I hope my future children will be able to google porn
February 2, 2010 § 6 Comments
The first time I saw a naked penis beyond the age of being oblivious to them was when I was 8 years old. A boy with the last name Johnson decided to show me his johnson down the back of the school oval during a bout of boredom at a parent teacher night. The next time was a over a year later when stumbling upon a very intriguing game on my older brothers computer which consisted mostly of making naked Hentai women masturbate furiously. Both these experiences were bewildering, mildly disturbing and yet slightly provocative.
This all happened in ‘pre-internet’ days. The days when most homes had yet to purchase a dial-up package and the speeds made it about as useful as the handy Encarta CD which astoundingly summed up big nuggets of history in 50 words or less. These were those primitive times when downloading a pornographic image took a mind numbing, cock softening 3 minutes and purchasing a magazine or renting a video tape was the easy choice. Yet even at this time, my brother, at the tender age of 12, still had a vast catalogue of porn on his computer slipped to him by his year 7 cohorts. Before you condemn my brother to the virtues of a pervert, cast your mind back to that curious age, an age where girls first begin to develop and boys finally discover what their penises are really there for.
February 1, 2010 § 2 Comments
The brutality of holding onto a deep secret is a powerful one. The reality of secrets is that they are by their very name things we wish not to share, yet for whatever reason, feel compelled to do so simultaneously. This is, plainly put, because if they were simply things others need not know, they would lay dormant within us with no strict regiment or rule keeping them in place. Secrets however, like being sickeningly in love with someone you haven’t told, or desperately wanting to become a porn star, must be bound and tied to your self, given unwavering restriction. This may well be because they invade one’s mind with a great and complex mixture of emotions like shame, guilt, fear, lust, excitement, power and whimsy; emotions that define that caged, vulnerable side of us society does not deem acceptable.
I myself can not keep secrets. Though, to those lamenting friends reading my blog, I am well equipped at keeping other’s secrets with even a lingering fame for having done so quite effectively. But as for my own, well, I’m just awful at it. In ‘Mean Girls’, Lindsay Lohan’s character calls it ‘word vomit’, that heaving impulse to dispense what’s at the forefront of one’s mind to the closest confidant (normally the exact person you are trying to keep the secret from). I often come down with a foul case of word vomit, particularly when around people I care deeply about. In the past if I had a crush on somebody, for example, it wouldn’t take ten minutes of alone time with said person before I was vomiting love sonnets down the front of their shirt.