That Awkward Moment When You Think Your Boyfriend May Be Retarded

   Look, boyfriend’s not that mentally challenged. (Although he’s injured himself enough times that it is entirely possible- I blame the bikes.) But occasionally he has moments where I wonder about him. Yes, he did consent to be written about in this blog post. Which almost says enough. Good god I love him.


   We regularly bicker like an old married couple. This may be just as well considering we will never be an old married couple. This is mainly because his surname is Bell, which is rather unfortunate when you take my first name into account. Annabel Bell. Oh god.

   But sometimes, he just does weird things.

   One day he was at mine, and he just casually wandered up to my dresser- upon which I keep my makeup.
“What’s this stuff?” he enquired.
“Oh, those ones are eyeshadows, that one is blusher, and those are- OH MY GOD WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” He turned around and I discovered he had applied sparkly blue eyeshadow to his cheeks like war paint. He looked like a homosexual Red Indian drag queen.
“Oh Jordan. Look at you. Come here, let me do it properly,” I insisted. I reached for the eyeshadows.
“No, no! Not the purple one!” he cried out. I giggled and attacked him with it.
“Why not? Will it insult your masculinity?” I asked. He turned to look at me with a face full of glittery makeup.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, it will.”

   He stayed the other night, and got all excited about my new iPod. (I have to keep an eye on it in case he steals it/breaks it, which unfortunately makes me feel as though I am babysitting my twenty-five year old boyfriend. Great.) He was actually quite impressed to find music on it that he didn’t hate.
“Oooh! Nirvana! You know, I have a box set at home. All the obscure songs.” It was now my turn to be seriously impressed. Nirvana happens to be my true love. I even offered to marry him, provided I didn’t have to have Bell as a surname. He continued flicking through my iPod.
“Oh wow. You have good music. For a girl.” Ah, just when I thought we were making progress…

   The other night, he was also excited to discover AFI on my iPod, because as far as he was concerned, they sounded exactly like The Bleeders. And he happened to be wearing a Bleeders t-shirt. Well. Actually it was lying on the floor because it was stinking hot and I wouldn’t let him open the window in case some creep came in and got us. Yes, I am that paranoid. Really? Anyway. If there is anything I associate with AFI, its Davey Havok in sparkly blue eyeshadow. Where have we seen sparkly blue eyeshadow before?

   That same night he also tried to convince me that “alot” (which Word just auto-corrected!) was actually a word, and that it always has been. I tried to direct him to Hyperbole and a Half but he wouldn’t believe me.
“Look Annabel, I didn’t drop out of high school in year 12 only to find out that “a lot” is two words,” he protested. Oh dear.

   Recently, he has also decided that I should become a lesbian. This is a brilliant idea, except for my lack of sexual attraction for women, and the fact that I like men. Nevertheless, he persists in his plan, mostly by threatening to give me a lesbian haircut. I don’t let him near scissors anymore.

   Also, he’s in a relationship with me. He’s clearly retarded.



Somehow I find this sexually appealing.

Just Some Pretty Pictures

I've been uploading a few things to Paint Avant-Garde lately, mostly because I've been ill the past couple of days and it gives me something to do. I also thought I'd upload the pictures to here, because sharing is caring. Enjoy!

(PS- I promise there will be a proper new blog post soon.)

The Washing Machine

Yesterday, I attended the Dan Davin creative writing workshop provided through my high school. We had Helen Lowe, a fantasy and sci-fi author talk to us about writing, and take us through a few exercises to develop our skills. The first exercise was to remember back to a time when we were young and experienced fear, and to write about our experience. This is the earliest clear memory I have of being afraid, perhaps when I was three or four, and terrified of a washing machine. Also, she had us writing in stream of consciousness (where we just keep writing, do not take our pen off the page and do not edit it as we write, which is useful for getting emotions and ideas out) so I apologise for any errors or rambling.

   I don’t remember how old I was. Let’s just say, very young. I had some unusual fears- almost to the point of being ridiculously OCD about some things, like making sure I never ate the red M&Ms before any of the other colours, for instance. I wasn’t afraid of dogs or the older boys who lived down the street. I didn’t have many rational fears. However, as far as irrational fears went, well… I was deathly afraid of our washing machine.

   The thing was probably ancient, but I just remember it being gleaming and white, and when I sat my petite self at its base, it appeared to stretch up forever. Not that I’d sit anywhere near it if it was on. It was noisy and grumpy, and would thump thump thump as it cleaned our clothes.


I was 98% sure that the washing machine was put in our house with the sole purpose of murdering me. I hated it. I’d run outside and hide in my sandpit and hope that the damn thing never became capable of moving from place to place.


Its method of murder? I hadn’t really thought that far ahead, but I think I believed that it would somehow intentionally fall on me and crush me, and hours later my poor mother would come into the laundry and see the murderous machine on its side, with little evidence of me but for my tiny legs sticking out from underneath. It was not a pleasant thought.


   Later on, I began to have nightmares about the washing machine. These tied in with the other nightmares I’d been having- about the monkey bars at the Fernhill Road playground (my father had encouraged me to play on them when I was very young and I fell off and decided they were also part of a plot to murder me) and of the dragonmonster that lived at the bottom of the garden. (Where it most likely still resides- although as I moved from that house a good ten years ago now, I can’t confirm this.) I used to have nightmares about sitting outside, at the other end of the garden (where the dragonmonster wasn’t) and hearing the sound of the washing machine starting. The panic would rise in my throat and I would look around for my mother or my father or some form of comfort, but I was alone. Once it got to the thump thump thump stage of the washing cycle, all chance of escape had been lost. The nightmare would always end the same way. My father would come and ask me if I wanted to go play on the monkey bars, and just as I was thinking about how ineffective his persuasive technique was, the washing machine would slowly fall out of the sky to crush us both.


   Of course, it never quite reached us by the time I awoke from this nightmare. But the horror of seeing a gigantic appliance falling out of the sky to attempt to murder you by crushing is in itself a purely horrific experience. However, the utter joy of my situation was that I had the absolute pleasure of this nightmare being a recurring dream. Night after night after night, I was nearly murdered by a piece of whiteware.

Skanks

   I strongly dislike the word “slut”- it is often misused, and I don’t like the idea of labelling someone- especially a woman, promiscuous. It is none of my business what she does with her vagina. After all, if she’s not being called a whore, she’s being called a frigid prude. Seems like you can’t win either way. However, as far as the “s-word” goes, there is one case in which I find it to be applicable: the extremely sexually active thirteen year old girl.

   Oh god. Look, I’ve grown up in Queenstown. At New Years and Winter Festival, I’ve witnessed these kids (lets not kid ourselves and call them “young ladies”) and their unusual… er… courtship rituals. The epitome of what they are all striving to be is this: the attention whore. In fact, out of the goodness of my heart, I shall now provide you with a simple guide to being a young, teenaged, (attention) whore.

1. Don’t wash for a bit. You want your multicoloured hair and cheap extensions to look really ratty and greasy and gross. This shows that you are shunning the mainstream idea of sanitation and are thus edgy, cool, and unique, just like all of your friends.


2. Clothing. Ideally, this should cover as little of you as possible. In order to reveal more skin, why not add a few strategically placed rips, tears and holes (i.e. all the way up the legs of your obnoxiously bright skinny jeans) or even forgo pants altogether and just wear an oversized t-shirt that references some social movement that you neither understand nor care about. Ripped tights are also a great way to flash more flesh- the hottest look is to have your cellulite oozing through a pair of fishnets. Keep it classy, yo.

3. Makeup. This is hugely important, as it offers a way to cover your flaws (and everything else, with a one inch thick cake of crap on your face) and also express your personality with yet more bright, obnoxious colours.
   First start with discount dollar store false lashes. Don’t worry if you fail sticking them on and get eyelash glue all over your eyelids, it will soon all be covered by makeup anyway.
   Now apply eyeshadow. I recommend a fluorescent pink- that way, its not only awfully bright, but it has the added advantage of making you look stoned, too.
   Now for eyeliner. The look you’re after is “panda.” Don’t worry, if you think you’ve overdone it, you just probably haven’t applied nearly enough. Add more.
   Now finish with some bronzer for a “healthy glow.” Except after you’ve paid $59.95 for Thin Lizzy, it better give you a lot more than a healthy glow. Your skin ought to be a good five to six shades darker than usual.
   Lipgloss is optional, but if you wear it, make sure it’s a classy shade of Barbie pink and a lovely, sticky texture like industrial strength glue.




Your makeup inspiration.


4. Accessories. The following are suitable:

• Gum. Lots of it. The louder you chew, the more attention you will receive.
• A cellphone, preferably with a camera. (For sexting.)
• Dozens of brightly coloured hair clips/bows. Wear all of these at once to show how revolutionary and original you are by breaking fashion rules.
• Jelly bracelets. Encourage others to snap them.
• Heels that you can’t quite walk in, so that when you do, you’ll be forced to wobble everywhere. This brings attention to your ass and thighs.
• Lots of tampons. Keep them in your handbag and regularly drop it in public so they spill out everywhere in full view. This will make it clear to everyone that you have a vagina.
• A poorly covered up lovebite. Or three.

   Congratulations. You now look the part of the young, teenaged, (attention) whore. Of course, you still need the attitude to match, but this shall be dealt with at a later date.
   Get whoring!

Rachel is freaking awesome

My adoption buddy and fellow mural painter (she's the "healthily obssessed with Michael Jackson" one) has decided to do the right thing and follow my blog because, let's face it, she's obviously a bit of a smart cookie there. As such, I would like to point out that she is freaking amazing and deserves some kind of MS Paint picture or something, which I will get onto asap.

I'm actually starting to get the hang of this using Paint on a laptop thing, mostly out of necessity. You see, I've written a very exciting article for an upcoming issue of The Leaky Biro and, without giving too much away, it may be entitled The Cynic's Guide to Horoscopes and of course it required a picture for each of the twelve signs of the zodiac. Thus it has given me a lot of practice so you can expect to see more pretty pictures in future blog posts. Yay!

Anyway Rachel, for making such a wonderful decision, I would like to tell you and the rest of my readers that you are rather sweetbix and I love you in a matey way, not a mating way. Pretty pictures coming soon!

What Do Wasps Contribute to Society? (Nothing)

   When I was eleven, my mother used to give me little fruit jellies to take to school in my lunchbox. My favourite was raspberry and pear, mostly because red was my favourite colour and pears were my favourite fruit. Raspberries have never been a favourite of mine however. There is a raspberry bush just outside my rapisty bedroom window and sometimes when boyfriend comes to see me, he’s far more interested in leaning out the window and picking berries than he is in me. Anyway, I’m rambling again.
   When I was eleven, I used to sit outside the primary school library because it was in the sun, and after I’d eaten I could easily dash inside and pretend to be engrossed in a book because I had no friends. The unfortunate aspect of the library, however, was that it was where the wasps also liked to hang out. Gah.

   Raspberry and pear jelly, libraries, wasps, and me. You can already see where this is going, can’t you?

   I was stung on the face. Twice. Thus began my utter phobia of wasps.

   In Year 11 (when I was around 15 or 16, for our international readers) my maths class was the place where all the wasps wanted to be in the summer months. The teacher very kindly sat me by the window, which, unbeknownst to her, did not help the matter at all. Anyway, the bloody things insisted on flying around my head. And yeah. Yeah I screamed. Loudly. And everyone laughed at me and made buzzing noises for the next two weeks. Yeah. Thanks guys.

   Just yesterday, when trying to put a plastic bag in an “alfresco waste receptacle” (rubbish bin) a bloody wasp came out and chased me for a solid five minutes. This incident, naturally, got me wondering.

   Well, I’d like to start off by saying I take biology at school. Actually, I do so by correspondence now, because it clashed with Drama, and I didn’t want to drop either subject. But, due to my biology background (ha!) I figured I could provide a decent investigation.

   My Second (Non) Scientific Investigation: Are Wasps Useful?

   No. No they are not. That is all.

   No, that was not scientific, but damnit, do we really need science to tell us those bastards are evil and after our soul?

Advice For Men: Valentines Day Gift Guide

(How to exchange cash for loving, without mucking about on street corners)


What Not To Get Her

• A Hallmark card. Because it’s lazy. You don’t have to be artistic to make her a card. If boyfriend gave me a card he made with a crudely drawn stick figure and a heart, I’d be impressed. Mostly at him noticing my undying love for Pak ‘n’ Save man.

• Condoms. For an acquaintance. No matter how optimistic you are. If you’re single on Valentine’s Day, don’t even think you’re going to get any action from the other lonely single people out there. They’re too busy drowning themselves in cheap wine to care about you showering them in affections. (And protection. Still, better safe than sorry!)

• Flowers that you stole from the neighbours garden, you cheapskate.

• Those tacky “this coupon entitles the bearer to one free kiss” type things. BAN THESE PLEASE. Besides, I own a vivid. So if I don’t like you, I will edit it until it says “this coupon entitles the bearer to one free smack in the face with a phonebook” and then I will regift it to you, with the smack provided.

• Dead kittens. This almost speaks for itself. But a couple of years ago I was in a long distance relationship, and my boyfriend at the time got me a kitten for Valentine’s Day, mostly because it was free. (His neighbour’s cat had just had kittens.) Aside from being a cheap present, this was also a really poorly thought out idea. Mostly because the kitten died of cat flu before he ever got to Queenstown to give it to me, and I never let him forget the incident. We didn’t make it to the next Valentines Day. I wonder why.


Further Bad Ideas

• Nothing at all

• Oral sex when she doesn’t know your name. PEPPER SPRAY TIME!

• Chocolates, while you tell her you love how fat her thighs are getting. On second thoughts, perhaps just chocolates and an “I love you” will suffice, unless you want your present from her to be a phonebook to the face. (See above.)

• You could tell her she’s almost as pretty as I am. She ought to be flattered by this.

• A pair of pink, fur lined handcuffs.

• Or, better yet, knee pads! (Boyfriend recently purchased some because he had utterly destroyed his knee on a rock. He suggested they could be my Valentines present. I was unimpressed.)


What You Should Get Her

• Something

• A bottle of tequila. Why? It turns everyone into a nymphomaniac. So win for you!

• Roses. Red ones. If she doesn’t like clichés, get her a dead kitten.

• Take her on a date somewhere, how hard is tha- NOT THE FISH AND CHIP SHOP. SOMEWHERE NICE.

• Last Valentine’s Day, I hung out with two backpackers from England. They had a campfire, and I provided the marshmallows. If you’re going to do this, call your local council to see if you can get a fire permit. (It turns out they didn’t, and could have got in a lot of trouble, especially if they’d lost control of the fire.) Oh, also. Try not to set your date on fire. It tends to end badly when that happens.

• Been together a year or more? Why not get her some jewellery? But if you went and bought it from The $2 Shop, whatever you do, don’t let her find out, or she will never let you forget it. Its practically asking her to smack you in the face with an aforementioned phonebook- and no one wants violence on Valentines Day.


Notable Mentions

• Washing, deodorant, clean clothes. Really. Try not to use excessive hair product either. Just imagine her running her finger through your hair- and them coming out all stuck together from the excess product you used. It’s not very romantic.

• Valentine’s Day is February 14th, just so you remember.

• I have a boyfriend, but I will totally accept any gifts you wish to give me.

• For those who say its an over-commercialised holiday that you will not be celebrating this year… let me know when you finally get laid.