I know you want me…I know you do…


I have a confession. I’m Britney’s Bitch. I’m one of those mindless, clothingless women who jump up and down in clubs to some sugary, pre-processed bite of Britney’s auto-tuned sighing and writhing. Basically I have no music taste. At all. 

I’m very jealous of people who do have an ear for music. Especially if they can explain to me why they like a song without using the word “fusion” or “post-punk-neo-wave-rave-house-Crayola-caffeine-electro.” I admire people who are passionate and knowledgeable on a subject; music is no exception to that. Plus if they’re really passionate their eyes will sparkle and they’ll start waving their hands excitedly like they’ve seen an elephant playing the Sax. Which is fun to watch.

So I’m very jealous of genuine musos. What I’m not jealous of is people who love music, but who’s first (and often subsequently last) comment to me is “what do you listen to?” Because when I say Pussycat Dolls, and they stare at me like I said I like to pierce my underarms, they’re just being pretentious.

Yes, the lyrics of “I know you want me, I know you do” are perhaps light on literary merit, but the PCD made millions and millions. And the ability to turn a profit is a criteria we generally judge success on. So can’t we say that they’re a successful band? It’s like people who make their money in shipping; it’s not fascinating but we still revere them as businessmen. Can’t I admire them for their ability to turn scant talent, and scanter clothing into a multi million empire?

Admittedly that’s not why I like them, I genuinely just like dancing and if it’s loud, bouncy and not trying to analyse the pain of modern capitalist youth, I’m down. And sometimes, liking things which are as devoid of artistic integrity as a painting by numbers Mona Lisa, are just fun. 


I’m sorry, you’ll have to repeat that….


I thought using unnecessarily complicated words, that invariable sound like tropical diseases, in order to impress people was a teenage phenomenon.Only young people could think sounding like an arsehole is desirable. But apparently not. This is a quote from an academic I’m reading for class this week.

“Reading seemingly transparent autobiographical texts for their nuanced and subtle strategies of spectacular performativity rather than treating them as evidence means allowing for the ways in which a feminist experience itself is imbedded in the social and political. “

Couldn’t they just say they think the author was an attention whore? Or perhaps that underscores the subtle juxtaposition of inter-textual narratives on the nature of purple broccoli.


Casual Sex? But what about your life insurance policy?


I was told I over think things. Which I don’t really agree with because I’d like to think that my behavioural patterns followed a impetuous line that didn’t reflect on my neurotic tendency in my personality, stemming from am incident in early childhood with  snail….

Maybe they were right.

It’s true. I do over think things. Sometimes it’s bad. Sometimes it’s good. Sometimes it’s just plain weird. I am the master of bizarre conclusions from one comment you half implied last Wednesday.

But whenever the pressure is on, I crack. And all because I over think things. The best example is sex.

Oh I think that I can handle the pressure of seducing a stranger, having wild passionate sex, then moving on like a nymphomaniac bird in overpriced knickers. Except in reality when I got to clubs and dance with men (who whatever their age all seem to smell the same) something ticks over in my mind.

I’ll find someone vaguely attractive, they’ll ask me for a drink. I’ll say something I think is witty, they’ll laugh because they didn’t hear me and don’t care, and we’ll go and drink over priced paint stripper.

But by the time ask my name, I’ll already have  disagreed with them over where our children should go to school. I’m already angry at them for not understanding why my parents need to spend Christmas with us. And I’m livid that he ate all the chocolate biscuits but left the wrapper in the kitchen.

So I can never do casual sex. Because i’ll already have divorced him for irreconcilable differences,before he asks me what star sign I am.

But I should look on the bright side. I’ve discovered a  form of contraception that is 100% effective – over analysis!

You Lost WHAT On The Dance Floor?!


When I was 16, you could give any of my friends a few drinks and oserve the Justin Beiber phenomenon; skinny, middle class white girls under the illusion they’re black rappers. This is why after a few shots, the dance floor will fill up with girls swaggering, twerking and flipping their hands around like they’ve just touched a hot iron.

I was one of these girls. My dancing looks like a giraffe having an epileptic fit. But because self awareness and drunkenness are inversely proportional, that never bothered me at the time.

But perhaps God decided he’d had enough of teenage girls. (I understand that feeling. I, at 19, am now thoroughly disgusted with decadence and frivolity of such youths. Wasn’t like that in my day….) Anyway, there was one evening when all of my girls turned up at a blokes house. He was a thoroughly underwhelming guy, made attractive by the ownership of a house without parents home.

Up we turned. We started to drink something sugary and pink – because that was sophisticated, darling –  and dance. 

Now earlier that day, I decided that if I were to name my boobs, they would be christened ‘Disappointing.’ So I adopted the full proof plan of stuffing them with cotton wool (tissue left conspicuous crinkle marks. Rookie mistake.)  After my DIY boob job, I felt much better. So full of confidence that I danced with even more than my usual enthusiasm. 

That was until my friend pointed out I’d lost a boob. In my spirited throwing-my-hands-in -the-air -like-i’m-drowning move my bra had hoiked up. And out had come my C cup filling. 

I swore that day that I was never gonna dance again. And if someone asked, it was because these guilty feet had got no rythm. As opposed to because I’d lost a boob on the dancefloor, ironically,  dancing to “my milkshakes bring all the boys to the yard.” 


Boots of Shame: if I had a chance to go back…


If I could go back and change time

When I was 16, I had an obsession with Alex Drake from Ashes to Ashes. She was just everything I wanted to be smart, sassy, sexy …She got to flirt with Gene Hunt and travel in time. Damn. Cool.

 Now because I was 16, I decided that the best way to become said sassy, scintialting woman would be to buy the cowboy boots she wore. Perhaps they would lend my awkward, acne prone and average person some sparkle. Then my neighbourhood crush, who I had obsessed over for three years, two months and 3 days, would finally notice me.

So I asked for them for my birthday. We were on holiday in England, and my Dad and Mum drove around for hours and hours trying to find boots. Hours of internet trawling, pavement crawling, random stranger harassing, and phone calling later, we found a shop.

The boots were beautiful, they were shiny and studded and would have given a hippo a sexy swagger. My parents bought them for me, and I was so happy that I hugged the box all the way back to New Zealand.

The day came. I was going around to my crush’s house for a swimming party. I wore the boots, and I knew this was it.

As I walked in, he came up to me and said “You wear cowboy boots? They’re so tacky.”

I spent that party in the corner cursing my parents, Alex Drake and my stupid, tacky boots. I put them in the cupboard and never wore them again. Every time my Dad asked why I didn’t wear them I made up some excuse. They made my feet hurt…they were broken…they just didn’t go.

It took some years for me to realise that the guy, his opinions, and his attention weren’t worth it. And that I absolutely loved my boots. By this time I was a bit older, and no matter how hard I squashed my feet in, my boots just didn’t fit any more.

My parents still mention them occasionally, and I still don’t know what to say.

This is what I would do over. If I could go back and tell myself that they are brilliant boots. Not just because they look hot. Not  just because they suit me. But because they are bought by parents who love me enough to drive all over the country for me. And who have never shouted at me for not wearing them.

I’d also tell her don’t just change because  a guy thinks you should. Your own style is powerful and beautiful – because it’s yours. 

One of THOSE girls: a mile in her shoes


Walking a mile in the shoes of one of those girls, who used to be my best friend.

Kara is one of those girls whose name is always prefaced with ‘that.’

“She’s becoming like that Kara girl.” “I just don’t know what’s going to happen to that girl.”  “You’re friends with that Kara?”

Yes I am friends with her. Well I was.

Kara had been my friend since the days we sent each other Harry Potter parchment notes. We stayed friends through high school. But my friends were people who though Franz Ferdinand was an Archduke, and her friends thought it a band.

Eventually our differences began to crack the friendship. She thought I was insufferably stuck up and judgemental. I just didn’t understand how she could be happy with clubbing, drinking, and flunking.

I was old enough to be judgemental, and young enough to lack empathy. It was awful. Looking back I know that her lifestyle was a way of trying to escape. She turned to partying, petty drama and sleeping around to get the attention she missed out on at home.

But my 15 year old self was too young to understand that. I just thought she was lazy and possibly a bad person for me to be seen with.

So I made an effort to drift from her. But at 15 we were still close enough for me to be introduced to her new boyfriend.

If I described him as quiet, that would be misleading. Quiet implies some introspective intellectual activity. This guy didn’t talk because the only thing in his head was a grunt when he was hungry or horny. He was a petty thug, wore tasteless clothes and spoke in mono syllables because words of more than three letters were too hard.

As you can see, I thought he was divine.

And being young, and full of the moral certainty that brings, I decided he was the final proof I needed to label her A Rotten Apple. I stopped talking to her.

He cemented my belief that she was the sort of person who I shouldn’t be hanging around with. One of that crowd. That kind of girl. That Kara.

Now that I’m 19, my self-absorption has dimmed to a level that lets me think about others. I have learned to be empathetic. And now that I can put myself in her shoes, I realise what I should have known at 15.

She’s not one of those girls.

The boyfriend isn’t proof of anything, except a girl who was never loved properly. Because when I put myself in her situation, I realise that she is fundamentally scarred by the relationship she has with her Dad.

Her Dad’s attitude to her is disinterested at best; vindictive at worst. So because she needed to fill that gap where her Dad should be, she found the first man available. Ironically, he’s the mirror image of her Dad.

But at 15, instead of thinking she was someone who needed love and help, I just saw her as riffraff.

We don’t talk now, it’s been too long, but I watch her life from cyberspace.

I hate looking at it. She could have been brilliant. Instead she’s stuck with a toe rag. He’ll never realise the effect he has on her, because he thinks that self-reflection is taking a selfie.

And what’s worse, is I could have helped her. I could have stayed friends, comforted her, told her she was worth so much more than him and the life he sucked her into. But I didn’t.

I’m so sorry Kara. I’m so sorry I couldn’t put myself into your skin. I can now. But I’m afraid it’s too late…


Sri Lankan Badass


I’m in Sri Lanka, and the guy driving this wears an orange sarong, no shoes and an open striped red shirt showing off some serious ice. He has clipped nails on his right hand, talons on left, and he waves, claws the air and shouts whilst driving at break neck speed through the jungle.  He’s the definition of awesome.

Plus his name sounds like Sugar.

Apparently he’s a thug, besties with the President, and ‘broke down’ for 40 minutes, in front of a leopard eating a pregnant deer, so his safari passengers could see some action.

Basically he’s the sort of guy I’d fall in love with. If I could speak Sinhalese. And he wasn’t older than my Dad. And if my Dad’s reaction to me bringing him home would be to hide my passport.

But as such terrible obstacles lie between us, and I feel our deep love is ill fated. Plus, it may not be the most enduring love; I’ve fallen in love with everyone from the Customs official to the wild boar.

So I’m just going to have to sit in quiet reverie, nursing a bowling ball bladder and unrequited love. But it’s not a total loss. Today I have had my first brush with true badass.