COD Sandwiches

~Viewer Discretion~


If you are a male : pause your game of COD and continue reading.
If you a not a male (AKA female, the inferior race) : get back into the kitchen, women can't read anyway.


Does that sound familiar?

We are so immersed into casual sexism these days, that we barely notice it, and if we did, we probably would think nothing of it. You may just think it's all fun and games, but when does it become more than just a joke? Do we really live in a world where it is acceptable for men to play video games all day whilst their female significant others slave away in the kitchen (often making sandwiches), and only leave the vicinity of the kitchen to perform blow jobs and/or other various activities? Seriously, I know a girl, two years older than me, who does all the housework, cleaning, everything and gives a boyfriend a blow job everyday. And what does he do in return? He pays the rent, of course.
Even Facebook is sexist, groups like this:
"All Women Are Equal And Deserve Respect LOL jk Get Back In The Kitchen!"

"Women cant drive? Its okay, theres no road between the kitchen and bedroom"

"Thanks to Julia Gillard, women now believe they can leave the kitchen."

"I love you,...LOL Jks get on your knees"

and it goes on and on.

So maybe the first few times it was funny, but now it is becoming tiring and slightly insulting. And I don't get the association with women and "the kitchen", I'm pretty sure a lot of men go into the kitchen too. You know, to eat? Snack, rummage in cupboards, make a mess. My brother only abandons his game of Halo to go into the kitchen and cook food. Yes, he can cook. Not very well, but he can. My father is regularly in the kitchen, most of the time he is searching for chocolate, but he should have learnt by now that my stepmum hides it in the laundry or in the liquor cabinet. And guess what? My stepdad makes his OWN sandwiches. OMG.

I think there was supposed to be some sort of moral in this blog, but I lost track of my rambling awhile ago.

Just remember, women were destined for a life outside the kitchen, but the kitchen is also where the knives, scissors and various chemicals are stored. Just keep that in mind girls.

Tis' the season to be jolly

When I created this blog, it was with the intention of posting amusing (I hope) events that occur in my life. Which is why, I guess, I have to write about Christmas.

Now Christmas is a season of mixed blessings for me. Of course the presents appeal, but the rampant consumerism, the awkward first hour of family get-togethers where children annoyingly hover for food and parents hastily drown their first glass of wine do not. But when did Christmas suddenly loose its magic? What happened to the Christmas eve nerves, hanging the stockings and leaving cookies out for Santa? Christmas went from a festive, joyful day to a bankrupting, over eating and listening adults talking about pregnancy and work kind of day.
There are always relatives you don't know asking about school (which is a subject that you'd least like to talk about), no one else your age to converse with and the sickening smell of pork fat circulating around the house. It is ALWAYS hot, no exception and unless your blessed with a relative that owns a pool, you are going to be suffering.
I miss the Christmas carols, candy canes, simplicity, Santa and having more fun opening the presents than the actual presents themselves.

Not to end this blog on a sad, nostalgic note- 

He sees you when you're sleeping
He knows when you're awake
He knows if you've been bad or good

(is it just me or does santa sound like a stalker? it makes me feel like im on the Truman show or something...be afraid..santa is watching you!)

facebook

I have an addiction.
It is not an addiction to alcohol, drugs, cigarettes, coffee or even sex.
I have an addiction to facebook.
And the alarming reality is- I am not the only one.

Let us examine this situation for a second, from a non-biased, non-self involved point of view, shall we?
So basically, millions of people around the world, post their identity on the Internet, free for anybody to see and access information, submit photos which will become the property of an online organisation, permanently. The new profile system gives teenagers the opportunity to show what school they attend and where they work, seemingly handing information to all those pedophiles out there like giving salad to a fat kid.
It just doesn't seem right.
It is quite easy for anybody to find out your whole life story, from who your parents are, where you go to school, where you work, where you like to go, who you got drunk with last night...
I mean, if I was a pedo, I wouldn't waste my time hanging out in the bushes near the local playground next to my white van, armed with candy, ready to pick up some innocent little kids.

Hell no! I would log straight onto facebook, make my dp a hot guy/girl and add anyone I wanted to, like a kid in a candy store (ok enough with the kid analogies). Then I could stalk their albums of them in "candid" shots, only wearing underwear, the traditional standing-in-front-of-a-mirror-with-my-iphone-wow-I'm-awesome-pose, the obvious natural concealer-on-the-lips-shot and the terribly photoshoped on microsoft paint/photoshop so that you look more fake then a figurine in a wax museum.

I think you may get the message.
And I think I may need to get off facebook and stop imagining my life as a pedo.

dear girls, we did not ask you to advertise our phones in such a tacky and unattractive fashion, sincerely, phone companies.

OMG HOLIDAYSSS

AAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
the sigh of freedom/relaxation/contemplation/happiness/calmness/zen/peace/emancipation/constipation
AHEM
You get the point.
So now it's summer holidays, (yay!) which only came after:
fourteen exams
a year at school
a year of waking up at seven
a year of wearing my amish pre-eighteenth century uniform
a year of pointless accounting classes in which Sarah decided to shave off her skin using her scissors
ten days in the bush wiping my ass with a leaf
three or four compolsary events that were not attended
a year of watching Katherine be creepy with Mr Gill
a year of putting up with a certain math's teacher's PMS-ing
a term of lawn bowls
a year begging for curry in indonesian
ten minutes of being yelled at by mrs shotch for calling Ashton a ranga
ten minutes of cleaning my mouldy/infested/biohazardous locker
a year of buying nestea/lipton/springvalley tea to get me through my classes
a year of stealing food off poor unsuspecting Chanelle
a year of making things awkward
a year of putting up with Ms Cheng's useless emails filling up my inbox.
ten minutes of being yelled at by the IT guys for disrupting their recess
a bruise on the head from emma's attempted rape
a year of awkward ranga/indian/asian/slut jokes that probably were not funny.

Now, I say bring on year twelve.
LOL JKS After a year like that I'm dropping school and becoming a prostitute.
See you around.

snakes

me-"me and lucy are going to rottnest"
mum-"we'll will have to talk about that"
brother-"why? are you worried about snakes?"
mum-"it's the human snakes im worried about"

Charming.

Does this smell like procrastination to you?

Procrastination should be classified as a hobby. It is the most fullfilling thing I could do all day. Seriously, what is more enjoyable than staring at the wall, cleaning my room, rearranging my wardrobe and laying on my bedroom floor contemplating the mysterious of life?

Studying?

Wha..?

It seems that this so called "studying" is a new form of art that I am yet to master. People say, "I can't do anything this weekend, I have to study"

WHAT?

All weekend?

The total 48 hrs?

That's gotta be a world record.

I know that if I planned to study the whole weekend, my days would go like this:

Friday night- CBF studying..watch horror movies..
Saturday morning- oohh I said I planned to study today....but cleaning my room is SO much more appealing..
Saturday afternoon- Study?...I need to do my daily Wii Fitness...maybe after...
Saturday night- oohh let's watch the repeat of some movie! (Usually Mean Girls, The Notebook,...Star Wars...Bambi..) seriously, ANY movie becomes worth watching.
Sunday morning- mmm, play with my dog, roll on the floor, do some good old facebook stalking
Sunday afternoon- Wii?
Sunday night- one attempted hour of study, with the assistance of facebook.

Ahhh, and that is how you waste one good weekend, though usually I'm child-laboured into my unrewarding minimum wage job, unable to actually do anything..

Top Ten Ways To Procrastinate

1. Clean your room
2. Wash your dog
3. Stare at the wall, consider painting it and then consider watching paint dry.
4. Wait for the grass to grow
5. Become a Jehovah's Witness so you can walk around the streets all day selling your fake religion and you will not actually need to return home.
6. Look at your baby photos
7. Look at your parent's baby photos.
8. Start a new art project (This includes but is not limited to: plastering photos all over your wall, sewing sequins to a shirt, painting a tree/fruit or re-arranging your room)
9. Take up prostitution (hey, if you don't pass your exams at least you will have a back-up plan)
10. FACEBOOK, FACEBOOK, FACESTALK, FACEBOOK.

Happy studying people!



(no offence to Jehovahs witnesses Btw)

(its better than Scientology)

(im just saying)

sour cream

Today I did something I'd never thought I would do.


I bought a bottle of self-tanning lotion.


You see, my skin, as I like to put it is "whiter than sour cream." Don't you hate it when you sit in the sun and you are blinded by the whiteness of your own skin?
Is it just me?
It seems that I have just began an epic mission, the unachievable conquest of tanning my legs. Now, people are usually one of two types, ones that burn and then tan or the ones that just tan.
I'm neither, I guess you could describe me as - the one who burns, stays red, and then the skin returns to the pre-roasted state. Sun does not seem to affect my legs. Once I sun-baked in my backyard for the whole afternoon and the colour of my skin did not alter in the slightest. And it was a hot day.

Except there was this one time when I got extremely burnt. So burnt that my skin was warm long after I had actually been in the sun. I felt like I was in a daze, my head was light and fuzzy. But that was the least of my worries. You see, that morning I had gotten up early to go crabbing with my stepdad and brother. I covered myself in suncream and thought I was adequately protected. But I was wrong. I had forgotten about the gap between my shirt and my shoulders, as the shirt dipped at the back. To put it lightly, my skin looked horrific, like someone had literately painted my back with red paint or had covered me in paprika like I was some sort of tandoori chicken.

Ouch.

But, I am not the type of person who learns from experience, so let the roasting begin!

Hair.

I am always apprehensive to return to school after the holidays.
This may be due to my fear of teachers/inability to do homework/the messiness of my locker.

Plus, I left my hair straightener in a motel in New Zealand.
So now my hair is a complete mess. Most of the time. Just don't ask me to take it out of its hair tie. I wish it was artistically messy or somewhat interesting. I wish I had an afro.
I am also painfully aware I need a haircut. I mean, the last time I had one was...in January?
Apart from the hilarious times I decided to cut my own fringe.
But I have an aversion of going to the hairdressers. How can I trust some platinum blonde make-up clad high-school drop out with something at important as my hair? They ALWAYS manage to talk me into some layering (Um..So you have singed half your hair off, so I'll have to cut 10cm off) and somehow I agree. If you have naturally dry/unruly and frizzy-in-summer-hair, you DO NOT agree to layering. Or a fringe.
My split ends are so bad I have made a hobby of pulling the ends apart when I am bored. Any hairdresser would die at the sight.
What's wrong with split ends anyway? They are only noticeable up close.
And the one thing I don't trust hairdresses about is how much they cut. I say 2cm. They cut 6cm. I say 4cm they cut 12cm. I say 5cm, they cut 48939483220589cm.

So I am still undecided. I can always dream.

Home

(taken from within a moving car)
-road from Te Anau.

isn't it peculiar how childhood memory hardly ever fails?
It's not just sight, but smells, sounds, the feeling of pebbles beneath your feet and the smell of freshly mown grass.
One never truely forgets their home.

have you ever been so cold it hurts?

Anyways, to cut the sentimental crap, I present to you a film of sheep stalking me.

its funny, the day after I get back from New Zealand, work calls and asks me if I can work. I thought I had escaped from my laborious, unrewarding job. I was wrong.

 

Stuck In A Laundromat (but i have no laundry)

Hello There.
The timer on this public computer says 12.33.
And I decided to do a nice blogpost.
About what?
Well I don't really know.
Unfortunately, this post will not be witty/satirical or of a humorous nature.
I am in a place called New Zealand.
And since I am in a public terminal, uploading of pictures is not possible. *sigh*
So you will not see a picture of me being extremely freezing in snow/rolling down a mountain while attempting to ski/being ambushed by hungry sheep/being attacked my grandparents for "borrowing chocolate"/sneaking a barcardi lemon lime and bitters while parentals are not watching or any other shenanigans.
And now the timer says 7.27 and I have run out of money.
Things are weird in New Zealand.
Showers don't have taps.
Thongs are called "Jandals"
Sheep outnumber people.
Laundromats are everywhere.
I have not seen any hot maoris.

So, if you would like a postcard, kindly leave your address as I forgot to collect any.
:)
Cheers, Bro.

Parental Frustration.

I've been in a bad mood lately. 

Although you may like to attribute these mood swings to something as trivial as PMS, I am inclined to think otherwise.

The enemy comes in the form of two adults, male & female, 41 and 42, Caucasian and both hopelessly self-absorbed in their own opinions.

My mum and my stepdad.

You may think the purpose of this post is to bitch about them...you may be right.

Hey, I need to vent somehow.

But not without good reason.

Last night at the dinner table, my mum told me I had mail from a friend of mine. Naturally, I was pleased, although I little suspicious from the knowing way my mum had stated it and then grandly announced, "You have mail from your boyfriend!"
(Fuck you, mother dearest, stop acting like a 12 year old and making up things that arent true)
"You read it, didn't you?" I responded with narrowed eyes.
She laughed, and said ,"Well yeah."
Suddenly, I felt very irritated. I put my fork down and retorted, "Why would you read my mail?"
My mum laughed again and said,"Well, I just wanted to see what it said, normally postcards just say hi."
"So what? That doesn't give you the excuse to read my private mail, and I don't think you should be laughing, it's not funny."
By then my lovely stepdad decided to interject with, "You say we can't read your mail, you can't just make up rules which only apply to you."
"Yeah, it's not like I read your or mum's mail."
"Yes but you have a messy room."
Um...WTF?
"Whats that got to do with anything?" I demanded.
"Well if you want us to respect you, than you have to respect the house."
Hey, don't bring the house into this
"This has nothing to do with you anyway, just stay out of it."

Anyways, I'd rather not elaborate.

Another grand example was this weekend when my mum said I could not go to my friend's party as she did not trust me to go home. Hey, what else did she think I would do, sleep in a homeless shelter? Find a nice looking box?

Ever since my adolescence I have been blatantly honest with my parents (excluding the occasional "Was there drinking at the party? No mum, the horror! underage drinking! what is the world coming to?), in the hope that when I reached this age they would not question me. My efforts have been in vain, all those times I gave her the leftover change were for nothing.

So I questioned, in my frustrated state, "Why don't you trust me?!"

And she replied, "Because your sixteen. All teenagers lie, all teenagers do this."

Well thankyou for explaining mother...

Oh and to my stepdad , "Fuck you."

He called me a dickhead, I just refrained from responding the previous.


And you all thought it was PMS...

summer suffering.

Contrary to the rest of the Australian population, I hate summer. It is my least favorite season.
I can't stand to be near anyone who launches into a nostalgic discussion of how much they can't wait for summer, I want to smash a brick in your head, just quietly.

I present to you, 10 Things I hate about summer:

10. I hate the way I can't sleep at night because I'm too hot.
9. I hate the way I can't wear stockings, scarves and boots.
8. I hate NOT falling asleep to the sound of rain.
7. I hate my hair being sticky with sweat.
6. I hate having to re-apply deodorant 10 times a day
5. I hate wearing shorts.
4. I hate headaches, dehydration and dizziness
3. I hate humidity, blinding blue skies and non-existent wind.
2. I hate the prickles in the grass
1. I hate sunburn.

See, when you think about it, summer is pretty shit.
R.I.P Winter.

How Can I Help You?

Diverting from the original plan of posting a blog about the alleged charges placed against one ________<-------(insert name) for the possession of__________<--------(insert controversial object here) and risking subsequent defamation (OMFG) , I decided to post an entry about my work: Conveyors of Fine Quality Chicken LOL jks Red Rooster.

Its gotta be red, but in my opinion it has to be dead. Because if it was red, doesn't it mean that it's raw? I am willing to risk salmonella (strange that it has the word salmon?) just because I wanna eat some raw non-dead chicken? Did you know that chickens delivered to Red Rooster still have heads? Or at least I think so...it could be their butts...
Moving on...

I witness a strange and fascinating array of customers, from my position of Cashier (prestigious, I know), from the violent, deaf and hyperactive just to name a few.
And then there is the just plain stupid who order things like : A bacon burger without the bacon, or the opposite: a fillet burger with bacon. And people who come in drive threw, waiting over 5 minutes just to buy a drink, when they could have walked into the store, bought a drink and then left...

And last night, I fell victim to a con-artist. A woman, early twenties ordered a nugget quickfix (3 nuggets, bag of chips and a small drink, $4.95). Somehow the kitchenhands forgot her order and in their haste, took 3 nuggets from a kids meal and put them in the quickfix box instead. I handed the woman her quickfix and she drove off.

Approximately five minutes later the woman returned, stating that she only got one nugget. Of course, this was not true, as I, another cashier and the kitchenhand all saw three nuggets go into the quickfix box. Obviously the woman was unsatisfied with only three nuggets and decided to return for more. WTF
Anyways it is an unspoken rule that one does not argue with the customer, the customer is always right, even if it is blatantly obvious that they are not. So much to my displeasure the woman left with fresh chips and more nuggets.

I hope it goes straight to her thighs.

Oh and by the way, did you know that the tropicana has a whopping 4000kjs?

Yum...

Head Girl?

Head Girl, it is the dilemma we face, as young and impressionable year eleven students.  Many of us are asking the question, "Should I try for head girl?". Me, on the other hand, sitting in the pavillion, while Jac mindlessly scrawled on my leg with black pen and Jasmine decided to use me as an arm chair, considered, "Wouldn't it be funny if I was head girl?". Alas, it most likely would be. I form my speech in my mind, as I would address the senior school, "Why should I be head girl? Well, because, I have a head and I am a girl. Everybody wins."

Im pretty sure by this stage, Mrs Ethell would have hastily ushered me off stage, while Mrs Mac would be giving me evils.

But, what really makes a head girl? Grades? Attitude? Teacher-student relations? Asianess? The ability to use large words and perfectly timed pauses?

Curly Hair?

Nobody really knows.

I believe it should be based on what the Head Girl can do for the school. Seeing how many students you can put in detention for wearing scarfs in assembly is not an example. It's about making changes, or as Gillard puts it "Moving Forward". Which we as Perth College students, hindered by the amish-style uniform, stockings and hair regulations and regular chapel, could not be anymore backwards. Maybe Gillard is on to something afterall.

Yes, it's about the policies.

If I was head girl, there would definately be some changes.

Policy One: I would bring cash back to the canteen. Who came up with the hideous card idea anyway? Here I am, a private school student without lunch. I have a few $100 notes in my pocket (Thankyou daddy!) and yet I cannot spend them. What else am I susposed to do with this money? Give it to homeless people? Save some puppies?

What is the world coming to?

Policy Two: Supply tissue boxes to every classroom! Here I am, sniffing away, sounding like a complete retard, resisting tempation to wipe the snot on my jumper because I have no tissues! Seriously, I pay $15,000 every year, I think I have the right to tissues! (Don't even get me started on the toilet paper!)

Policy three: Get rid of Open Day! I mean seriously, is it even legal? I couldn't think of a more stupid idea! Being forced to come to school on a sweltering hot day when your family get to party at home (Literally in my case, Open Day often falls on my Dad's birthday). And the year 10s get to show complete randoms around the school. What if they were pedos? or rapists? or Bible Bashers? And who in their right mind would trust year tens with strangers?

That would not end well.

In conclusion, these are my main policies, but of cource I have more, the genious brain I have is flourishing with wonderous ideas. Vote for me!.. or not.

No Seriously.