Saturday, August 6, 2016


If you have had the pleasure/nightmare of being in my presence for the past year you will have been informed of the abhorrent and embarrassing number of months for which I have been abstinent. Apparently this happens to a lot of people. But I feel like thats what people say to you to make you feel as though you aren't some sort of sexual loser who runs around parks with their phones out catching fictional Japanese animals (topical).

I know out there somewhere that there are people like me, chewing their nails and lowering their standards by the second, so I thought I would share some things I've learnt on how to get through a drought reminiscent of the 1994 bushfires which will always play a large part of my childhood because my sassy parents gave me an actual cabbage that Christmas instead of a cabbage patch doll and that stays behind my minds like a 'Nam style flashback.

1. Don't shout out in IKEA that you are "involuntarily celibate" on a Saturday morning only to have all the husbands within earshot white knuckled clutching their yellow pencils and paper measuring tape look at you knowingly. Not only will you feel like a cunt to the kids in the room who don't need your shit, but it will make that $1 hot dog extra hard to fellate after you've made it through the beast of a check out line with the look of shame splayed across your pathetic face.

2. When you go out into social situations make sure to place a rubber band on your wrist to flick each time you want to bring it up. I find that I bring it up too much and yet I can't stop myself. Not only is it a way of laughing through the tears, but its also increasingly uncomfortable for my friends who revel in sweaty morning breath sex while I am sitting here sucking on a Butter Menthol in my undies typing this inane shite.

3. At the very least, try and compile a set list of songs that you can listen to and think of a much grander time when you were fucking absolute losers that you met over Tinder. While doing this, think of the last time you saw some action which involved a man lying face down on your bed completely naked with his finger in his mouth. As your face twists much like all the D-grade actors in The Ring who got fucked up by the little girl with the long hair, perhaps be thankful that a male version of Lena Dunham isn't wrapped up in the sheets you stole from your childhood home last time you were there eating BBQ pineapple.

4. Don't say things like "I would die to give a BJ" after a few wines. It makes everyone feel really weird especially when you say it with a Lord Gladstone burger hanging out of your mouth while simultaneously holding eye contact with a male co-worker. This is a low point. You definitely wouldn't die to do it, but you would probably supervise a day at an abattoir or the like. At the very least you would know where your burgers are coming from.

5. Quit hitting on hospitality workers. I know I reference this a lot, but jesus christ the sheer scale of bartenders who have been eye molested by me in the past year or so is disgraceful. There is just something about someone shaking your cocktail and probably the 45 beers you've had prior to rationalising that you can afford a cocktail which allows this to happen. Don't "throw shapes" at your local barista either. It is the fucking morning. You have no excuse except for watching hours of The X Files the previous night which we all know doesn't help anyone. Bloody Duchovny.

6. Don't contemplate going to Pokemon Go outings just to see if you can get some ass because statistically they would also be in the same boat as you.

7. Don't write to people on Tinder "Wanna fuq?" no matter how much you want to. Also, don't long for a dick so you can send it in a pic. I kind of get it now.

8. You may start having sex dreams about the weirdest people. Some homeless dude you saw get on a bus, your gay best friends, the guys behind Baseketball and South Park (to be fair that is a recurring one and Im not mad about it), a bottle of Aesop hand wash, some criminal you saw on a Louis Theroux documentary, Ed Sheeran, David Miscavige the leader of Scientology, the smoke stacks in Sydney Park that I can see from my bedroom balcony, a bottle of Yellowglen etc.

69. Don't stand in your yard with a milkshake crying.

10. Go to TOWN on yourself. After all, no one will love you the way you love yourself. Throw on some Chet Faker or Alanis Morissette- whatever your flavour might be. Personally, I can see the benefits of a bit of Craig David from time to time and let loose. I mean, what the fuck else are you going to do? Light a candle and enjoy that 3 minutes and 25 seconds like its the last on earth.

Remember that maybe one day:

Friday, July 8, 2016


As the wise ranga, Ronan Keating once said, "Life is a rollercoaster, just gotta ride it". Well thats all well and good for someone featured on the Notting Hill soundtrack, but for others, namely single folk it takes a rather nasty turn on the uphill slope and sooner than you know, you are careening downward into a gin and tonic fuelled shame spiral accompanied by Netflix binges and ordering $45 worth of Chinese food because Menulog is a dirty thief and you are fat, alone and fucking hungry.

After wafting through the delicate and ugg boot filled fields of a relationship, you become thrust into the stark light of single day and dear god, you do not look pretty. There are definite levels of singledom that we undesirables go through, and I am here to spell them out for you in horrendous glory.


You have broken up with your love and you are feeling bruised, battered and a little bit horny. Grief does that to people, just watch any primetime drama featuring Sigrid Thornton or the like. As a way to ease your pain, you hit the town in nothing but your kitten heels and smile on your stupid fucking face. ANYONE will be yours tonight. You hit Tinder so hard that your little thumb begins to crack the bottom half of your phone and take on whoever and whatever. Even Toby the 35 year old tradesman with reflector wrap around speed dealers and a southern cross tattoo can have a go.

You fuck losers with small dicks who have gel in their hair and they treat you like shit and you STILL want them to call you the next day so they can talk shit about how they got a flaccid promotion and how the chick at work who get her ass pinched by them is a lesbian. The dudes you fuck after your last relationship are fucking putrid and for some reason make the rejection even worse. Probably because they sleep in a king single and they talk shit to you about how amazing they are in bed only that when they go down on you they act like they are yelling the chant of their swimming carnival house. For shame.


Usually after this slew of dickheads you are feeling a little bit raw and jaded. Can't blame ya. You contemplate becoming a nun or a priest, you wonder if you can actually become a virgin again, when lets face it girl, your pussy is done. You wonder if Tinder was constructed by the devil, and therefore each time you go on some shat date that the dark underlord reaches into your soul and rips a part out to sprinkle over his fettuccine carbonara like that pre packaged rancid parmesan you get at Coles. You will be spending a shit load of time at Coles.

After many weeks of sighing and furious masturbating to Chet Faker, you finally decide to let another prick tease take you out on a watered down date only to have a measly excuse for a human being wearing a cut off denim vest insult you by calling you "unarousing". You don't know how you got here. You don't know how to get out. You go home, eat a quarter pounder, and don't make anything any better for yourself. If you aren't able to arouse a stiffy out of your male counterpart, then what fucking good are you woman? You might as well be a fucking kitchen house appliance and cook the man some fucking toast with your udder tits and big mouth.


You have now reached pinnacle single. You have come into the golden era my friend. You walk triumphantly from the shops holding a 24 pack of toilet paper, winking at the bearded gentlemen who are just trying to eat their labne coated eggs in peace. You no longer give a flying fuck about the title that is "single". Your self esteem grows like a silent STD, festering until you are glowing behind those eternally hungover eyeballs.

Fridays were once spent tying cherry stems at bars with bewildered bartenders silently calling security over, and now they are solely reserved for dancing around in your undies while simultaneously eating warhead spray and getting high off your own supply. Instead of feeling rejected, you feel sympathy for the men you have left behind and start off on your own path of discovering how to make the most perfectly timed popcorn bag as you sit down and reminisce on that time when you used to give a shit. 


Disclaimer: These levels do fluctuate and repeat constantly until the fucking end of time.

Thursday, July 7, 2016


If you're looking for a sweet pocket of sunshine to brighten up this otherwise dreary Winter month, then look no further than the new wave of country music coming out of Sydney.

Nikita Karmen has taken Nashville by the neck and just seems to be rising higher and higher in the girl-next-door who will break your heart and write about it stakes. She has recently released her first single 'Out Of The Park' on iTunes, Spotify and the like and it really speaks to those who ready to give up after one too many horrible dates.

Dedicated to her twin sister, the tune is soulful yet sweet. Laden with punchy pop riffs, a warm twang rings out underneath the top notch production and her fun lyrics shine as the star.

She isn't just one to watch, you won't have a choice very soon, when her music takes over the airwaves, but most of all, thaws even the most frosty of hearts.


Friday, January 29, 2016


People always go on about heart break and all that jazz. How you can't get out of bed, and how it hurts to even begin to order your cronut at the local bakery. How you dream about that person over and over again until you buy yourself some dreamcatcher off Ebay and have it flown express from Nimbin straight to your door. But not many people chat about what its like to be just cut. 

You haven't had your heart broken, but you can definitely feel somewhat rattled by catching feelings like a fucking idiot. Being cut doesn't extend to those who had a dalliance with someone either. You could be cut because you got to Medicare a couple of minutes late, or maybe you stubbed your toe, or maybe you're cut because you texted someone at 3am and have never received a response back, or you could be at a cafe and all of your mates ordered something incredible and you got stuck with yoghurt and muesli because you read the health section of the Sunday paper and regretted it immediately. Everyone gets cut, i think at least each week of their lives, and there needs to be a definitive guide in how to deal with feeling like shit but not to the point where you'll care in a couple of days.

1. Start smoking. Hell, theres no better way than to have an existential moment and contemplate your life while listening to 'Regulate' than with a smooth rillo in your hand. You can assess your life while simultaneously ending it at the same time! Two birds, one stone and all that. Start asking strangers for a light as if you're some sort of 1986 video vixen and begin talking about how VHS will eventually make a comeback in an old timey accent until you are asked to the leave the premises by a security guard. Hit on said security guard and then go the fuck home.

2. Start exercising. But do all those stupid niche trendy classes that come and go like thunderstorms in Sydney. Tell anyone who will listen about your dancing in the dark class, or how you spent the last half an hour in gym tights balancing on bollards down The Rocks while some dude who actually looks like a human shit screamed at you to FEEL DA BURN. Or maybe you could start your own class where you gather all of the council pick up rubbish and run over it on a motorised scooter. I heard thats great for the core. Make sure you mention this to all of your friends who are stinging to get away from you as you smell like pilates mats and old hair.

3. Get drunk. Get drunk everywhere and make sure that at least one person sees your undies per evening on the tins. Whether it be a cheeky slip of the jeans while making eye contact with a 78 year old across the local RSL, or if you actually go A over T while trying to create good karma for yourself by picking up the 5 cents that someone dropped in the line for fuel at the local Caltex. You haven't driven to the Caltex as you will be drunk, you've just walked there to get a family sized packet of M and Ms which you can eat naked in your bed in around 15 minutes while spooning your laptop and wanking to old episodes you've downloaded of The Secret Life Of Us.

4. Take a Thai food cooking class because why not just make shit worse for yourself? If you are the self destructive type, then I suggest the following:
- Thai cooking class.
- Download Tinder
- Tell your nan to fuck off.
- Order a Nicoise Salad at the pub on schnitzel night.
- See a dog and don't pat it.
- Corner a stranger at the pub and lecture them on The Doors.
- Drink Sambucca.
- Listen to Jewel.
- Write slam poetry and actually perform it somewhere in Zetland on a Tuesday night in front of actual people.
- Start wearing your swimmers as underwear and tell people about it with a sad look on your face.
- Cook a cheesecake and bring it into work to share with everyone, and then when people give you a piece say "Nah, im watching my figure".
- Cough a bit for a day and then Web MD it.
- Talk to your friends about taking down and putting up your Christmas tree.
- Masturbate to Justin Bieber.
- Watch the new Point Break.
- Write Yelp reviews.
- Buy a packet of scotch fingers and then throw it to pigeons.

5. Once you've come out of the initial shock of stubbing your toe etc, you will realise that you're no longer cut, you're a bit of alright. Once this has set in, you my friend have begun the healing process and its time to rip that band aid off. Hit up a club night that you used to go to when you were 20, demand free entry to the 19 year old door bitch and then once you're in there take a pill like you used to, dance like no one is watching, and then begin the process all over again the following day as you have just cut your own self and you now know that life is just a giant spinning wheel of bullshit of your own making.

Sunday, January 24, 2016


Im known for misinformed judgements, and this will be no different. A little while ago I made some comments about the men who frequent the harbourside city of Sydney and now its the girls turn. What you may not know is that I am indeed a woman who resides in the luxurious city of Sydney and in my travels I have met many a man and woman who fall into certain categories. I do love me some categories, so here goes.


So you will definitely know at least one of these girls. They drink their kale juices, and buy their Lorna Jane, and run their Bondi to Bronte but what they also do is take pingaz from Friday-Sunday. Their insatiable appetite for house music and railing off of a toilet bowl at The Bucket List will always top their need for overpriced pilates and rating dudes on Tinder according to their radius to Chris Brown aka The Bondi Vet. They usually reside somewhere east, but would go to Frankie's after work on a Friday to keep up with what the kewl people do. Fuck you if you think they are going to order some pizza though. They are gluten and skateboard intolerant and will not speak to you if you don't have the latest Free Runs in your closet. They love fluro but only on their feet, and almost definitely have some sort of skin care idea in their pipeline. #cleaneating is their mantra, however if you need a dealer at 4am, this chick is your girl. Fuck they froth on acai.


The complete opposite of the Clean Chix. They have the beginning stages of emphysema but know the cousin of the dog's uncles bassist of the band who played at the Lansdowne last year. They can direct you to the best prosciutto in the city, while if you fucking think they are going to shuffle their Doc Martens anywhere past Waterloo then you my friend are sorely mistaken. They date absolute fuckwits who they think they can change, but really he just wants a bed spread from Urban Outfitters to cover his skinny legs before he has to get up and bump in the latest mini festival at a bowling club. They refuse to play by the rules, sneaking Beach Burrito into the Enmore for a Courtney Love show (true story) while finding it hard to leave the warm and sweaty embrace of Clem's chicken shop on King Street. Their air of mystery is always lost somewhere into the third hour at The Courthouse as they fall gracefully down the stairs into a full ashtray and think to themselves "I am home".


You know the type. They are breaking balls and cracking through that glass ceiling all day while at night will be tripping over their patent nude heels in a pencil skirt while ordering a mojito at Barrio Cellar. They trot through the city in the morning with hope in their hearts and John Mayer through their headphones, while hoping that their ass doesn't get pinched by some yuppie on their way through Wynyard station. They are immune to the beauty of Circular Quay as they have been coerced into attending WAY too many Vivid Festivals that they now have to wear glasses in order to not be colourblind. They know the bouncer at The Glenmore and can get you a free shot at Opera Bar with one flick of their security pass. They wear shimmer tights but don't let the glittery limbs of this chick fool you, she will fucking ruin you if you try and get in her the crossing on George Street. Each morning she should be holding the fucking Olympic torch for she can out run Cathy Freeman with the speediness in her trot and a spirit that can't be broken by the money on her Opal card stalling.


So this has turned into a bit of a blight on suburbs. Soz. Oh fuck me. They are always embroiled in some sort of Hens night situation. You will find them on Oxford Street complaining about how Shark Bar in Manly was a way better option and thats where they would be if their boyfriend of 12 years would finally propose. Nah, but its coming hey. Im sure of it, we spoke about it in 2009 and he said he was not really into it, but boys are just scared! On the aforementioned street, they will be yelling things such as "EW!" to humble passers by who just happen to be sick in the street. Its not that big of a deal. Their dad knows the police commissioner so don't even think you can upstream her in a cab line. She mourns the closing down of Hugo's everyday by lighting a salted caramel candle and rubbing Aesop products on her bikini line. You think you know her, but you never will. Just look up her fashion blog if you want to get a better idea though.


They are always the one at the bar buying the first round of VBs. She is ushering in the group of LADS who are stinging to get to Porkys so they can throw their wads of fives around while trying to think of an excuse to tell their mums the next day as Macca tagged them there when he was in the toilet. Fuck you Macca! She doesn't get along with other girls, she tells fucking everyone this. She knows the latest deals on at Lowes (so do I to be fair) she doesn't give a shit about calling you a cunt in front of your grandmother. She calls all her mates cunts, its a term of endearment, fucking Buzzfeed told me so!  She posts quotes on Instagram because she wants to reveal her true feelings, but hates feminists with a fiery passion as they are just man haters and she loves her bros because they will beat the shit out of anyone who orders a hot dog from the servo before her.

Lets be honest but, if you ever have the pleasure of having a vagina in your face count your fucking lucky stars as all women are beautiful, mystical creatures who will steal your heart and your wallet if you're not careful.

Friday, November 6, 2015


You would not believe the amount of penises I had to sift through on Tumblr to get the photograph above. SO MANY. Impressive looking ones, but still- christ Tumblr. You can literally look up the word "flowers" on it and still be turkey slapped with a huge dong on a Saturday morning. Get your shit together.

So its been about a year and a half that Ive been single in the picturesque city of Sydney and I have come to know very well or very little the calibre of dude that lurks around these parts with their buns in the sky and their heads facing down into their Tinder accounts. I thought I would make some brash assumptions and generalisations about the men that frequent the suburbs of Sydney and place them all here so you my delicate women can be aware of the range of bloke they are dealing with.


He listens to Hip Hop but not in a way that means he will be stalking Drapht and Downside's Instagram account. He only listens to it when he is at Freda's on a Saturday evening sipping a Mojito at the back of the bar and refusing to dance. He is scattered into literally every single area of Sydney- you are never safe from an aggressive amount of facial hair. He mainly reserves his time in the inner west, Redfern and Surry Hills though. Sometimes he wears a tiny beard and an ironic necklace around his neck (an iron or a pineapple or some shit). He almost always is nursing a weak jawline or weak personality. He will talk to you about his beard until you feel like some kind of fucked up Cinderella from chugging so many wines to get through the evening that you run off and leave your Wittner heel somewhere on platform 3 at Redfern Station. He probably plays an instrument...badly. He thinks he can do better than you anyway so you shouldn't put too much stock into this one as he will always have one eyeball on your tits and the other on the chick who looks like she may have a septum piercing whos standing at the bar behind you but he can't tell because the bar is too dark and his whiskey is too strong and it hurts his tummy.


He is misunderstood. He is neurotic in a charming yet irritating way. He is manipulative because he tries to be but its so obvious that its hard to be manipulated by him. He is intelligent. He will almost always send you a dick pic not for sexual reasons but in the genuine interest to see if you think he has a pretty dick. He doesn't. Referencing himself to a character on Curb Your Enthusiasm shows that he watches too much television after softly masturbating himself to sleep after perusing through some interesting Reddit AMA's. He refuses to do things by the book as he feels this makes him more interesting but it doesn't, it makes him difficult and a cushioned anarchist. He likes it when you tell him this as it allows for the inevitable transition of him travelling to Thailand when he is 45 and paying someone to step on his balls for him.


You know the type. He is probably still arguing with the bouncer at The Sheaf right now about how he has only had 3 glasses of Veuve champagne down at Rose Bay wharf with some work colleagues before heading into Double Bay. He has three large concerns that take up his entire brain:
1. What the fuck is going on with Australia's dollar right now?
2. Fuck I hope Turnbull isn't going to ruin the incredible work Abbott just put in.
3. Who's getting bags tonight?
If you are after an ill fitting pastel shirt, this is your guy and if you are after someone calling you a peasant slut once you reject them, then you have found your soulmate. They listen to Triple J to keep up with the kids but would actually have an aneurysm if faced with Splendour In The Grass. Who the fuck is going to clean that fucking mud off their Hunter gumboots in time for winter wonderland at Mrs.Sippy? 


There are so many of these out and about these days. Usually aged from 18-23, they are long haired Bart Simpson looking characters who will almost always skid just a little too close to you on their skatey as they fang up King Street. They love pingers. They listen to punchy garage rock and feel like they are the new wave Nirvana. You know, taking grunge into 2015 and just fucking chilling with it ay. Those chicks with chokers on have to have someone to fuck yeah? Its like a crazy hybrid of relationship where the guy resembles Eddie Vedder on opium and the chick is a goth Cher from Clueless. Theres no judgement here, I love to see this shit and just feel the "kewl" emanate off them. Sometimes I just bask in it myself and feel infinitely cooler and for that I thank them, because without them Id be some dork running around the streets with a pony tail and glasses and carrying text books even though I don't attend any type of school and clearly don't have the money to buy text books- but almost certainly karate kicked someone waiting at the bus stop outside Sydney University. Those people are always running for buses- fuck university doesn't need to be so dramatic...relax.


My personal favourites. I identify with them the most as I would consider myself a 2 thousand and sick girl (this type of post about girls will be coming eventually). They are the ones who are most pissed about the lockouts as they tasted the fruit that was Sydney and now that fruit is gone and why. Fucking why. They went to BDO when JUSTICE played running into the Boiler Room screaming "WE ! ARE ! YOUR ! FRIENDS! YOU'LL NEVER BE ALONE AGAIN NOW COME ON!" and they know how to mix a house party. Honestly, if there is anyone you would want at your house party, invite the 2 thousand and sick dude. He almost always has a set of decks that he tends to like the rose bud of a woman. They can identify the opening 3 seconds of any Cut Copy track even if it has just been mixed with Tina Arena. They have seen every Presets tour date that occured from 2007-2010 and probably have some sort of Bag Raiders shirt. You will have 2 outcomes of the 2 thousand and sick- they are either drug fucked or heaps successful. Either way, they rule.

Friday, September 4, 2015


People have become officially lazy.

One common sentence that has been thrown around recently by single girlfriends of mine is, "Men don't pick up girls anymore". With the rising yet empty star Tinder taking over our love, life and loins- the art of picking up has fallen by the wayside. Its an epidemic and its time we took a stand and changed what we now know as our dwindling love lives. This is where I come in. Not to say I am an expert on this, but if I had a penis I am 84% sure that I would have some bombshell lying between my legs and sheets about now.

But alas, a penis I have not. However, I do have some handy tips that will hopefully help the men of Sydney get off their asses and phones, and face their fears head on in the hopes of at least a gobbie.


Chicks LOVE this shit. "Oh hey Shirley, did you hear about the latest pop up bar in Hyde Park?", "Yeah I sure did Tiffany, they are selling elderflower and semen flavoured gin martinis in tiny tiny jars down there for only $26 a pop, we should totally go". Well then boys, what are you doing just standing around? Head down to your local pop up, which we know in Sydney, there is always one happening every single day all throughout the year and try your hardest at scoring some tail. Throw on your nicest slacks from Factorie or Bonds or wherever you get your jeans and sit in the corner making prolonged eye contact with the babe of your choice until she is forced to say, "What the fuck are you looking at?"


Now in Australia, we are becoming known for our off the cuff directing skills and there being some form of racist fuckwit on board your local train, bus or ferry. Not only will you have the balls (right?) to stand up to someone while simultaneously filming them, but the gals on board will admire your hutzpah. If this fails and everyone on your bus seems to be a respectful and well rounded person (yawn), you will have to go to your local optometrist, cross your fingers that you don't have 20/20 and get yourself some spectacles. Put on said spectacles and read a book. This will win over all of the chicks who follow that NYC based Instagram called 'Hot dudes reading' or some shit and you will soon be reading all of the curves of her supple body. You're welcome. Whatever you do though, make sure your fly is done up all the way before throwing down some moves, or you will just be that weirdo on the 308.


All of us Inner West fuck lords know about Black Star Pastry. Not only does it hold host to one of the best cakes in the universe (Watermelon cake), but there is always at least a 30 metre line spilling out of there at all times on a weekend. Utilise this boys. You look like you give a shit about sweet things, and you look like you have patience, money, and a taste for carrot cake. Chicks love carrot cake. Use this time to softly gaze beyond your knock off Ray Ban clubmasters and stroke your inevitable beard as you genuinely decide between the brownie and walking away to save 25 minutes of your precious life.


Fuck me. Chicks love dogs. Get yourself some form of Oodle, Bulldog or squished face hound and wait. In fact, if you can find a way to traipse about the city while walking said mutt, all the better. But in a dog park you can not only be the hero if some massive doberman goes a girl's pug, you can also seductively bend down while picking up your dog's business while looking back at your woman of choice and giving the slowest wink you could possibly muster. This will remind her of how she always wanted a man who knows how to stack the dishwasher, and she will go home and put some more cut outs from Woman's Day on her positivity board and think of you while touching herself to Ed Sheeran's latest album.


This is for people who live East of Moore Park Road. All you people who right now are yogging around Centennial Park while listening to a Spotify Playlist of 'RUNNING TRAX' which mainly consist of poorly mashed up dance songs from the early 2000's. I always hear on Z-List dating shows about how a man wants a woman who can "take care of herself", don't fucking bullshit anyone dude- you want a chick who will "eat a steak with your mates" while going on juice cleanses on the days she doesn't see you so she can uphold that Jessica Rowe body you've been frothing on since you were 13. If this is the kind of girl you're after, head to Bondi to Bronte beach walk and weirdly work out on those things that are dotted along the coastline as you check out the local talent and the INSANE amount of Lorna Jane sports bras that bounce up and down, up and down and the girl in question has a silent monologue running through her head about whether or not quinoa is a super food, or whether The Project has lied to her that week. Fuck you Carrie Bickmore.

Just give up, ay.