The Virgin Chronicles: Part 2

I was around the age of ten when I faced my first psychological meltdown. I was never really sure why it happened; I suppose when you’re dealing with matters of the mind there is always an element of uncertainty and mystery. One day I was a semi normal pre-pubescent boy, the next? A neurotic mental case who thought a mosquito bite was going to give him AIDS, and had only one week to say farewell to his loved ones. I believe the official diagnosis is hypochondria, aka Attention Whore Syndrome. My Mum had finally had enough of my dramatics after a particularly bad case of indigestion led me to believe I was suffering a mild heart attack. She dragged me, my hand clenched firmly over my heart Romeo and Juliet style, to the car. I had an appointment with the family GP for what I hoped would result in a referral to the nearest emergency room for a triple bypass. ‘It’s all in your mind, child,’ my Mother said reassuringly. ‘There is NOTHING wrong with you.’

I was lying across the back seat of the car, gasping for breath like a fish out of water. ‘Hurry…up!……I’m….going to…….die’.

‘The only way you’ll die today is if I clobber you to death, Ashley.’ My Mother declared, her voice deadly serious. ‘Now sit up and stop being such a pansy.’ I rolled my eyes. I had been called pansy, and other names like it, more than I cared to remember. Even my younger sister had started calling me pansy. People at school were calling me other names. ‘Gay’ and sometimes ‘faggot’. At first I assumed they were compliments, but then when began laughing at me and not with me, I grew concerned. I had asked my Mum what these words meant and she shook her head, visibly disappointed. ‘Didn’t I tell you your song and dance shenanigans at assembly were a bad idea?’ She would answer.

I guess I should explain. It was during the second to last year of primary school I decided to make everyone fully aware that I was in fact, a screaming homosexual.

Before this occurred I was still picked on every now and then. It was school, and it was inescapable. Most kids with half a brain would realize the best way to avoid a continuation of said harassment into high school would be to blend in and be as normal as possible. I guess I missed that vital bit of advice. See, this particular year happened to be the year the girls of my school were absolutely obsessed with the Spice Girls. Well guess who begged and pleaded his Mother to demand Santa bring him a CD player complete with the Spice Girls CD? Yeah. That Summer I spent the entirety of my Christmas break in my bedroom, lyrics in hand, getting my ‘Wannabe’ on. I could flatly deny this, but unfortunately my Mum was smart enough to record it for future embarrassment and evidence in the event of me calling bullshit on the whole thing. Thus year six began in Spice mania, and I was no exception.

Alas, I wasn’t content with simply discussing the reason Posh never changed her pose and whether or not the one black dress she always, always wore was a result of budget cuts. I wanted everyone to know just how devoted I was to this group. Bad. Fucking. Idea.

I proposed to one of my fellow Spice slaves during recess one day, that it would be a fabulous idea to do one of their many hits at an upcoming assembly. This discussion piqued the interest of others around us, and they crowded around to listen. ‘I dunno,’ a bystander interjected, mouth filled with crinkle cut barbeque chips. ‘What if people tease us?’ I turned to this very ignorant girl, smiling a wide smile. ‘No way would we get teased,’ I said convincingly. ‘Everyone would be totally jealous!’ My amazing confidence worked effectively on the girls, and so we began deliberating on who of us would be in the momentous dance number. After we had agreed on Posh, Baby, Ginger, Scary and Sporty (only one could do a karate kick), I suddenly had another brilliant idea. ‘What if,’ I began ‘, we did our own version and included a boy Spice?’ I paused to let that bombshell settle in. ‘I could be that boy Spice!’ This idea didn’t go down well with the others. ‘It’s Spice Girls… you idiot,’ said one girl with a bad case of mono brow. ‘You are a boy.’

‘Exactly!’ I said excitedly. ‘Nobody would see it coming! Everyone will remember it and we’d be totally popular.’ The gaggle of girls continued murmuring disapprovingly, so I attempted a compromise. ‘I’ll make a deal, I’ll teach the dance moves and bring my CD player – complete with bass booster.’ They stopped their apprehensive whispers instantly. I knew I’d pull them in with bass booster. So it was official, I would be the new Spice. Boy Spice.

Over the next month, myself and the mini Spices would congregate in the music room at lunch time every day, and I would work them till they cried. ‘I said raise one arm and then the other, not both at the same time!’ Trying to teach these talentless hacks to dance was about as easy as fitting Ginger Spice into a size two. Sure I was tough, but I wanted the routine to be perfect. We had decided to perform to their newest single STOP and unlike the rest of the hot mess members of my impromptu tribute band, I had done my homework. I had secretly taken the tape that had my sisters favorite movie recorded on it, Beethoven II, and had used it one Saturday morning to record the music video of the song. I would watch it over and over whilst taking notes and making rough sketches. I also took this time to make images of the outfits and think up interesting ways I could incorporate these into our own routine. After all, we were on a budget; as it was I had to omit my plans for backup dancers, strobe lights and a smoke machine. So here we were, the week before our world wide premier the act, and I was simply bursting with anticipation. ‘It’s just the school,’ said Sporty dryly. ‘No need to get all misty eyed about it.’

‘I can dream, can’t I?’ At that moment the teacher in charge of assembly pushed open the music room door with a spare hand, a coffee stained mug in the other. ‘Let’s see it then,’ she said to me with an absolutely bored tone. I quickly gathered the group into their respective positions and hit play on the CD player, remembering to turn on bass booster. I took my place front and centre and we began. Somewhere along the way, I had decided it would be an added bonus to the audience if I also sang. Not all the song of course, it was a girl’s song after all. Scary sounded the most like a boy, so I decided to do her line leading into the chorus. The others were skeptical of course; this was to be expected – they didn’t know how to handle a boy with so much talent, completely understandable. I was also under the suspicion they were envious of my waistline, something I was never sure about. The song ended after what seemed like forever as I finished with my trademark smile and starfish pose. I hoped the teacher at least partly enjoyed it and prayed the girls had managed to stay in sync. This was a huge problem for me as the choreographer during rehearsals, but I was confident in my abilities and judging by the teacher’s expression, I had pulled it off.

‘Okay, ‘she said as she checked her watch. ‘I’ll put you on at end of next week’s assembly.’ We all screamed excitedly and I went to thank the teacher, but she had already left.

‘This is our time to shine girls,’ I said encouragingly. ‘Don’t forget I have us booked in here the same time next week for a dress rehearsal. Don’t forget to work on your peace signs.’

The day of the big event had finally arrived, and I had hardly slept the night before. I dragged myself to the kitchen and managed to fix a bowl of cereal without too much spillage. My Mum shuffled in and began preparing her usual morning coffee. ‘Mum, at least fix your hair a little before coming in here looking like a neanderthal.’ I suggested.

‘Mmmhmm,’ she mumbled in a zombie like tone.

‘So, don’t forget after lunch today we have assembly.’

‘Oh.’

‘…We have our performance, remember?’ I reminded shaking a milky spoon at her. She nodded her head and I took that as my confirmation.

‘You’re gonna be laughed at,’ came a squeaky voice from behind me. My sister. I dumped my bowl in the kitchen sink and turned to her. ‘You,’ I began haughtily, ‘are jealous of my talents.’ With that I grabbed my bag and did my best dramatic exit.

After a mundane morning of maths, P.E and English, the entire school piled in to the tiny ass auditorium for the weekly assembly. It dragged on forever. Announcements, a teacher going on holiday (we all knew it was really prison)… more announcements. Then the announcement I had anticipated for a month. ‘Now, we have a special performance by a group of year six students,’ said the principal. ‘They will be dancing to a…’ she squinted at her cue card ‘… Spice Curls song?’

‘Girls!’ I snapped, correcting her. I motioned furiously for the incompetent woman to leave the stage and practically yanked the girls into their respective positions on the floor. ‘Remember to smile!’ I hissed at them. I took my place and it was SHOWTIME. Being up there on stage, I was in my element. It was positively exhilarating. I was sure the crowd loved every second, I certainly did. That was until I started hearing the whispers and laughter, and it only increased in volume as the performance continued. Why are they laughing? I wondered. I had done everything right, I even made sure to check each outfit so we would have no on stage costume disasters. I bet it’s Baby, we should have gone with the natural blonde! But I was a professional so I sang and I danced and I made it through those three minutes and thirty seconds with a smile. The song finished but I heard no applause, no requests for an encore. Not even a single bouquet at my feet. I suddenly felt dirty up there, like I had been naked the entire time. My face became a tomato shade of red as I hurried to the side of the stage, followed by a very angry mob of faux Spices. ‘I TOLD you,’ Ginger scowled at me. ‘You are so going to regret this.’ And regret it I did. Faggot had never been used on one person so much.

We had finally reached the GP. I waited for my Mum to physically yank me from the car, and I hobbled up the disability ramp to the entrance of the building still clutching my heart with one hand and leaning against my Mum for support. I looked at her, my eyes welling up with tears. ‘Tell… Tayla she can… have… my bunk beds,’ I said breathlessly. Choosing to ignore me, my Mother spoke to the receptionist who looked over her very eighties inspired reading glasses at me. She took one look at the condition I was in, and motioned for us to follow her to the doctor’s office. I nudged my Mum’s side and whispered ‘If she reports you for neglect, I’ll say you tried your best Maaam.’ She smirked, as if the entire ordeal had been an elaborate joke.

We followed the receptionist’s pointed arm and entered the office. The doctor had his back to us, seemingly unaware of our presence. I groaned loudly, breaking his attention away from a very serious game of Minesweeper. He swiveled around to face us as the words GAME OVER flashed across the computer monitor. ‘How nice to see you, Liz,’ the doctor said with a feigned warmth in his voice. He looked at me, the way Mum looked at me when I asked to be rushed to hospital. ‘You say you’re experiencing pain in you chest?’ He said, flipping open my impressively bulky medical file. I nodded weakly, collapsing next to the doctor in the chair next to his. He placed his ice cold stethoscope under my shirt and began to do the basic checkup routine, scribbling nonsensical notations in my file. ‘So,’ I started, yanking down my shirt. ‘How long do I have?’

He, and my Mum , both choked back laughter. You can always tell me when my Mum tries not to laugh because it sounds like gas escaping from a cat’s butt. I was shocked. I felt as if the entire medical profession was a bit, fat phony and had just slapped me in the face. The doctor apologized and said, ‘There is absolutely nothing wrong with your heart, Ashley.’ I started to protest. ’But,’ he continued, ‘I can book you to see a specialist at the local hospital for further testing.’ My faith in this doctor was instantly restored.

‘Yes! Let’s do that!’

‘I’ll just need your Mum to sign a consent form, giving permission for a piece of your heart tissue to be extracted and examined.’ He handed my Mum a form and a pen. Before she could sign anything, I tore it from her hands and scrunched it as tight as I could into a ball. ‘You will do no such thing,’ I said, horrified. I grabbed my Mum’s hand and led her quickly out the room, down the corridor and towards the car park. To freedom. My Mum was still making her cat-butt noise as I strapped on my seat belt. ‘You are so getting reported to child services.’

The Virgin Chronicles: Part 1

I’m not going to begin on a terrible cliché and say I always knew I was a homosexual. Because, who the fuck knows what a homosexual even is before the age of ten? I always knew I was different, however. Not a bad different, but a special different. A difference I felt I had been gifted with – or that could just be my homosexual narcissism talking. I was the typical gay child: I preferred giving Barbie a makeover to playing pretend with my rather mundane Mighty Max play sets. I loved to dress up, not in drag – I was not and still am not that in touch my homosexuality to dabble in the drag ‘thing’.  My Aladdin two piece costume was my pride and joy. I played in it so much my white satin pants turned a browner shade of brown. It’s funny, I used to pretend my trampoline was actually a magic carpet and I would-

I’m getting off topic.

The point is I didn’t attempt to embrace the ‘sexual’ side of my homosexuality until just before my seventeenth birthday. I was in my second to last year of high school, and was for the most part, surviving.  The typical taunts and immature backlash that one with my level of peculiarity is bound to receive had died down since my first year, and my prevalence within the arts department as a singer had caused many to instead compliment and befriend me. I was happy. But, being sixteen and a virgin, there was a part of me that was aching for release. Low resolution, ass to ass images on dial-up internet were simply not as enticing as they once were. So I thought. Surely there must be a way to find others like myself on this World Wide Web? After all, it is World Wide. Any further investigation would have to wait until I could visit the local library as my Mum was and still is, a complete psycho who guarded the computer like a Doberman at a car yard.

Eventually I found myself on an ancient library computer one busy Saturday morning. As every other computer was occupied I was forced to poke around online via one of the irritatingly huge, visually impaired friendly monitors, with text so huge It could see into my soul. As I was then a complete and utter NUB at navigating the Internet, I performed my search on the little search engine that never could, Alta Vista. Remember Alta Vista? Didn’t think so. After many dead ends and a close call involving questionable pop-up advertisements and a curious eighty something woman, I stepped off search engine hell to a website that would inevitably change my life. A little website called ‘Queergenix’.

I was a kid (literally) in a candy store. If the candy was instead a veritable smorgasbord of willing youngsters like me showing off nipples, butt cracks and eyebrow raising underwear yanking. I immediately created a profile, and keyboard bashed my way down the form – until I reached the user name box. ‘Hmm,’ I thought to myself. ‘What user name would be appropriate for a website such as this?’ I looked around the fairly desolate library as though its contents would somehow aid me in my decision. Fortunately, it did. I spotted a fiveish year old child with chocolate coated fingers holding up a Greek mythology text-book – upside down.

ZEUS_101. I typed it out slowly into the user name box: it had not been used before. I hit submit and instead of the expected successful registration message, I was met with yet another form. Apparently I had a better chancing of finding a ‘friend’ if I included a suggestive self-portrait in my profile. ‘Shit!’ This time my reaction was audible to everyone in the library, including the disheveled junior who had by this point transferred the chocolate from his fingers to the library book; it now read Geek mythology. I frantically logged out of the freakishly huge computer and skulked out of the library, red-faced. Things were not going to plan, but I was not about to give up and become a potential permanent resident of Singlesville. If I could just get my hands on Mum’s camera.

I did eventually. Get my Mum’s camera, that is. It’s as though she knew I would use it for something sinister, so every time she left the house I would be sent on a self-inflicted scavenger hunt to find the piece of shit. Under beds, under the sleeping cat; I even went as far as to delve into her underwear drawer. After repeating this process, over many afternoons, I finally came upon it by chance. It was on the highest shelf of a cabinet that my Mum had filled with her much-loved model horses. Yeah, I told you she was nuts. Somewhere along the line, her love for real life horses and the lack of them in her now offspring filled life caused her to fall back on the second (or third) best thing. That’s right, resin horses.

You could be forgiven for mistaking them as a collection of intricately designed Barbie horses. Except you wouldn’t find these at your nearest Toys R Us. They were expensive, stupidly so. Also Americans were fucking obsessed with them. My  Mother had made a name for herself over in the US of A for…get this…designing ‘costumes’ for them. Apparently America housed people equally obsessed with miniature fake horses and would hand over wads of cash, sometimes reaching quadruple digits, for what was basically a poncho for a plastic horse. Don’t get me wrong, I was impressed at how she started a mini empire off of pandering to city slickers missing Pinecone the pony back at…Golden Acres Ranch or some shit, but these horses still freaked me out. They were also in the way of that damn Pentax, which had been strategically placed in between my Mum’s two favourite models. They stared down at me, as though they were amused at my predicament.

I pondered a plan of action for a moment, and then made my way to the dining room for a chair. I was not short. I’ve been six foot something since before high school, and I could have easily reached the camera on my own two feet. But there was no way I was risking even a scratch on those things. I open the doors to the cabinet as wide as they could go, and propped the chair against the middle shelf. I prayed for a safe journey to my God Britney, and stepped cautiously  off the floor and on to the unstable chair.

I focused my sight straight on the camera, beckoning for me from its lofty place in between the beloved ponies. Without another moments hesitation, I removed one hand from the back of the chair and catapulted it above my head, seizing the camera in my sweaty palm. For a moment, I rejoiced. Then the chair began to fucking bend. It was one of those chairs that only had two legs on it, bent under the chair in a frighteningly unsafe fashion. Before I had time to properly react the fuckery I was experiencing, the legs snapped, sending me and the Pentax flying backwards. I landed hard on the dining room carpet, narrowly missing the entertainment unit with its precariously positioned TV at its top. The Pentax soon followed, landing directly on top of my nose. ‘FUCK!’ I swore loudly, rolling on to my side and clutching my already swelling nose. I threw the camera angrily to the side and limped down the hall toward the bathroom, as if I had broken my leg and not my fucking nose.

My nose was a goddamn mess. It looked like Grimace had faced fucked Barbara Streisand four times over, although she would have enjoyed it. I clamped my nostrils together as blood began flowing quickly, and tilted back my head dramatically. This was before I was told it’s better to leave you nose running and tilt your head forward. So I stayed in that position for at least a half an hour, passing the time by having pleasurable visions of horses donned in their finest threads out for a cocktail or two. I would gatecrash their little shindig with a swift kick to one horse’s neck, then break out my nun-chuck made of Pentax’s tied together and take the rest down in an Oscar worthy showdown.

After I was sure the bleeding had subsided, I went to my room to check the time. It was quarter past five, which meant I had less than fifteen minutes to take some slutty snaps for my profile, upload them to the Internet, erase all evidence and put back the camera before my Mother came home. She would shitty from a long day at her shittier job, and I would be the one to get the grunt of it. I checked my reflection once more in the bathroom mirror. The swelling wasn’t as bad as I had anticipated, but it was definitely not hookup website worthy. I admitted defeat and returned to the dining room. My photo-op would have to wait, I decided. I picked up the camera and checked it for any signs of damage. Of course, it was fine. The thing was stronger than a straight man’s anus; I was the one who took the most damage I thought as I looked over at the cabinet. Oh, besides the goddamn chair that was now on it’s back, its legs separated clean from the body. ‘FUCK!’ I said aloud once more, this time more ferociously.

What excuse could I make about why a rather expensive and might I add, fashionable chair, was now in pieces on the floor? I had no time to think of something convincing, her car was already pulling into the drive way. I pulled the chair and it’s legs back to its place at the dining table, and closed the cabinet doors. I heard the jingle of keys and the front door open. I heard it close, I heard boots being removed and the hard steps of a woman coming down the hall after a shit day of work.

‘What, the fuck is this?!’ Came the expected response as my Mother entered the dining room. ‘Ashley!!’

I shuffled nonchalantly from the kitchen, peanut butter sandwich in hand. I looked sheepishly at her livid expression and then to the deceased chair. Then back to her now homicidal glare.

‘WELL?!’ She barked.

‘I told you to buy normal chairs,’ was all I could think to say. ‘Who ever thought a chair with two legs was physically possible?’ I knew I was in a world of trouble, but I couldn’t help myself. ‘And really Mum, think of the bad feng shui they bring.’

Public Service Denouncement

I think Facebook is really showing its age. That, or I am just so tried of the pokes, the friend requests from people I do not know in any capacity, the wall messages with about as much substance and thought as a public toilet wall sex ad and worst of all – the constant reminder that people in general really are stupid and cliché ridden.

Sure it would take the cake, if there was an award for best implementation of the e-social networking idea. However, as with any well executed idea, the yearn for that something new is always hovering like a menacing shadow on the sidelines: and it is ready to strike. Although I would not shed a tear if Facebook happened to vanish overnight, I will openly admit a large chunk of my spare time has been squandered lurking, rolling my eyes and causing as much mayhem as possible.

Facebook: You Fucking Love Yourself

There is no way in fucking hell I take Facebook seriously and neither should anyone else with one iota of brain cell. It’s the people who live, breathe and swear by their status in the social networking world that I find utterly amusing and an easy target for my antics. Antics that have led to countless death threats, friend request from ‘haterz’ and…wait for it…my very own Facebook group dedicated to hating me. That’s right folks, it’s the classic angry farmers with pitchforks hunting the ogre for being different and intimidating story, and I could not be more overjoyed at my albeit small slice of e-(in)fame.

My target demographic is the gays. Not in the Judy Garlandesque way, mind you. This adoration, or lack thereof, is far more bask worthy. A close second is the fag hags; they will without fail race to the defense of their beloved homosexuals like crazed Gaga stans. The reason  my  ’friends’ are mostly faggots are because…I’m…not sure. I’m not gay, of course. How absurd of you to assume, friend. Gay people are so fucking easy to antagonize, they posses  the collective mentality of a pre pubescent little girl. The world revolves around them, are loved by everyone, and nothing they say or do is stupid, retarded or attention whoring.

My hate group is admittedly small at the moment: thirty something. But I am determined, in my quest for e-fame and eventual fame fame, to increase this number tenfold. One hundredfold even. You have the gay icons that shot to fame purely because they pandered to the fabulous queers, then you have me. My way is way cooler, bitches.

And now, some kind words from my followers:

??? I dont think you understand what im getting at… You run your mouth this whole time, but I’d like to meet up with you off of fb so i can kick your butt ugly head in.

I just thought a cold bitter little bitch like you may need some e-luvvin. But tis OK.. I’m sure I’ll catch ya trolling around.

MAN UR FUCKED… UR ARE SO FUCKED IN TEH HEAD, I SWEAR U WILL GO DOWN… NA DIF ITS LAST THING I DO BEFORE I DIE, IT WILL BE SO WORTH SPILLIN UR BLOOD ON THE STREETS U FUCKING LOW LIFE

Everyone hates you matey. Even people that don’t know you. You’re life isn’t worth living, have fun!

hey sephiano. You would want to stop giving my step daughter shit or i have plenty of people who want your head. If i hear you give her crap or call her anything other than her name you will be getting a rather unfriendly visit. Got it fag boy

What I have learnt is that people don’t like you saying the truth, it makes them very nasty, very quickly.

Giving Head To Get Ahead

So, it’s 2010. Two years from now the world will end and unless I sharpen the fuck up, I will meet a sorry fate; facing the apocalypse having achieved nothing. Well, nothing that might be worthy of a place within the history books or in my very own Wiki page. You may wonder why, if I believe the world is to end, I feel the need to cement my place in the history of everything ever? Well, on the off-chance that these treasured chapters find their way to another planet, I want those greasy E.T. fuckers to fawn over my fabulous Photoshop free picture and marvel at all that I accomplished before Doomsday ended my reign.

I have creative ADD. I want to fucking dance, sing, act and write my way to stardom. I switch between these crafts like I would underwear and besides singing (which comes naturally), I have yet to do anything noteworthy in the other fields. Sure, I have this blog which is visited by…myself and my Mother, but I must. Have. More. Since standing up in front of my entire primary school like a dumb ass to dance AND sing a Spice Girls song, I have made it clear I will do anything, and fuck anything, to get what I want. I used to regret that début stage appearance, since it cemented me as a certified faggot for the rest of my primary and high school days, but now? Now I applaud my youthful bravery and like I unknowingly did back then, crave notoriety and celebrity more than ever.

Ugly tranny redheads. Climbing up the celeb food chain since the 90's.

I refuse to become like the rest of you, sitting behind your CRT monitor at your mundane desk job, tapping away with a robotic rythum…tapping away your fucking boring ass life. I think I planned the gay thing before I was born. I like to think I bet Jesus if my paper plane went further than his I would be the one to decide my orientation, not him. What he didn’t realise is that sticky tape does wonders to turn the obituary section of the paper into an aerodynamic piece of greatness. Anyway, I think I decided homo was the go-go not only because being gay means I get molested by men instead of women, but because the homosexual orientation rules out any pressure of marriage and having filthy, money whoring children. It also means I need no car to drive around said money whoring pieces of shit, and no lavish house to store said pieces of shit. Instead, my life is solely for me – ME ME ME.

What’s that, save for a deposit on a first home? Fuck no, bitches. More like, start writing my first collection of memoirs or edit my own Wikipedia page. Don’t you dare label me as selfish; just because you choose to spend YOUR life constantly living for others does not mean I shall follow suit. See, you’ll have tragically hung yourself via erotic asphyxiation on the eve of your 49th birthday where I will be relaxing by the pool watching reruns of my very own E! True Hollywood Story on my iPhonePIXELZ+.

2010 is the year Sephiano steps into the limelight and says goodbye to the lamelight. 2010 is the year of great success. 2010 is the year I start getting some major sex on with some big wig execs. Let’s be honest.

Six Degress Of Procrastination

I find it a pleasant experience to walk down the Mall on a weekday. Being alone more often than not is a blessing in disguise. It allows more time to drink things in, so to speak. It’s nice just to listen to the hum of people… being people, and take a passing glance at the uncouth buskers, trying their best despite the miserable earnings.

Clothing store, mobile phone outlet, fast food restaurant. The stores soon become one giant blur if you happen to walk at a brisk pace. Far too many people are shopping; it makes me wonder. Do they have jobs? Which is silly to presume unemployment when I too am indulging in a little retail therapy. The sky is a perfect blue and I feel a pang of guilt being out in the fresh air and the warm breeze – an all day lunch break for the lucky few who escape the trappings of a 9-5 job.

I pass a child dressed as Michael Jackson doing his best crotch grab. Commendable, really, as the onlookers tried with little success to suppress their laughter. The melodic sound of a violin plays; as I come upon its source I spot an unenthused girl in a flowing white summer dress, playing with as much passion and vigour as the Supre sales girl across from her had in her pitch to a cluster of eerily similar looking teenager wearing matching Twilight outfits.

People are very strange. They dress funny and behave in odd ways and will sometimes surprise you with an unprovoked outburst – I’m looking at you elderly drunkard with no shirt. The mall is veritable smorgasbord of ethnicities, cultures and personalities. One could simply lay against the iconic balls and observe every person that happens by, and make an entire day of it. Or I could find myself a microphone and amplifier and let the passers-by know what I observed. This could either make me incredibly wealthy or earn me a one way trip to the infirmary.

No you may not put that in your sushi

Mostly, I would like to know where all the people go once they leave the confines of the mall. Will they simply walk a few metres to another destination close by, or possible to their car which will take them to a secret lover at a hotel across town? Perhaps to catch the J1 bus to the airport – off on a fact-finding mission to the deepest jungles of Brazil? Will the set of steak knives being carried at a furious pace by the frazzled, once beautiful brunette be used to cube the casserole her husband demanded of her for the evenings dinner, or will they end her life? Possibly both.

In any case, the paths these shoppers choose to embark upon are undoubtedly more riveting than my own. Just for kicks, I’ll fill you in. I hailed down a bus with my new(ish) video game. Got home. Opened it. Put it in my video game system. Found it didn’t work. Found the hugest crack since Jennifer Lopez abandoned low-cut jeans. Cursed the high heavens and the train wreck home entertainment chain I purchased it from, and made a beeline for the nearest shopping complex for an exchange.

Now that, my friends, is a story for another day.

Hollywoodn’t: The Lovely Bones

So, after much deliberation and procrastination, I finally dragged my ass to a showing of The Lovely Bones last night. The night started off great; being that I went on a Tuesday, the admission fee was substantially lower than expected. I also got to poke fun at an overly camp, big breasted homosexual out with a gaggle of adoring fag hags. As soon as the lights dimmed, and that dreaded Dreamworks montage reared its ugly head – I knew shit was about to get bad.

I should mention, I had read the source material before deciding to see the film adaption and as anyone who has read the novel knows – the chances of a successful translation to the big screen had about as much hope as Avatar bombing within the furry community.  The story is far too complex to cram into a two-hour long feature; the book was at it’s finest when exploring the evolving relationships and emotions of the characters.

Basically, the film is a CGI clusterfuck.

Instead of concentrating on the family and how they deal with the girl’s death, director Peter Jackson decided the final product should consist of the most cutting and pasting I have ever witnessed in modern cinema. The novel handled the mish mash of narration between the land of limbo and Earth with splendour; I fear those who saw this film without first reading its source would have undoubtedly left the theatre with a puzzled expression and probably slapped their other half silly upon reaching the car. Initially, the CG was visually appealing, and was a competent imagining of the author’s idea of a heaven.

Then it became relentless. Jackson managed to smother the entire production in this dreamlike CG, even during Earth scenes. The murdered girl was left gallivanting about in her stupid ass limbo, shouting NO! whenever her fucking lifeless family did something stupid. Lifeless. Lifeless doesn’t even begin to describe how little charisma and feeling the actors possessed.

Granny: 'Check out that fine ass JB over yonder.'

Rachel Weisz as the Mother deserves a pardon – she is deliciously fantastic, and therefore deserves one shitty film in her career. ONE. RACHEL. Sarandon was deplorable as the Granny shoved in as unnecessary and unfunny comic relief, Ronan as girlwhotookcandyfromastrangerandnowsheisdead worked with what she had, Tucci as the pedo/rapist/killer/dollhouse artiste was by far the standout performance – and that is saying very little.

Then we have Mark WHYberg as the Father. HOLLYWOOD! DO NOT EMPLOY MARK WAHLBERG HENCEFORTH. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED. This is all I have to say about… that.

Jackson’s next scheduled release is another fucking adaption, The Hobbit. I will admit, he executed the Rings trilogy as best he could, and all three films were definitely passable. I’d say stick to old school fantasy, Jackson. Or sign on to direct Breaking Dawn; you would make that CG vampire sparkle look positively orgasmic.

I am just so fucking disappointed in The Lovely Bones: The Movie: The Abomination, and on behalf of Jackson and his team, I apologise to author Alice Sebold for the massacre of her work. Hollywood, but Hollyshouldn’t.

Where Art Thou, Romehomo?

Witnessing my sister slowly but surely make her fumbled entrance into the world of boys brings a queer tear to my eye. I think it is cute, and is in many ways indicative of an almost overnight shedding of the ‘child’ skin she held on to longer than most her age; curiosity of what lies beyond the innocence and security of the well-worn skin gave way to an entirely new experience. For better, or for worse, it is here to stay. At least for now.

So, boys.

I am simply fascinated at her approach to them, and them to her. I was not long ago her age. Granted, I am male and she is female – but being that I am homosexual, I can relate to her on certain levels. First it was boys from school that piqued her interest, but she (and I) discovered with a swift realisation that the school-yard harbours an absolute pittance for potential boyfriend material.

The next logical progression for a teenager is the after school job, or in my sister’s case – her literal second home. For reasons unclear, she holds each and every one of her work colleagues in a position of unabashed admiration and praise. One could say she found more success romantically within the confines of the supermarket walls. One could also be cynical and say the place was no better than her school, moreso even. Presently, well – the world is my sister’s oyster. She may show interest, flirt with, and be doted on by any eligible bachelor that she happens to cross paths with.

I on the other hand… well, it was over for me before it could even begin. While you gather the tiny, tiny orchestra for me, I will elaborate. I will never be able to experience what it is like to be courted, not in a way that could be perceived as natural. Because, even though my homosexuality is something I could never hate on – it is unnatural. Not in the way that is perpetuated by those who seek to humiliate and destroy gay people, mind you. Take away the opinions, the reasonings and the bias goggles and what remains is without question, an unnatural and backwards phenomenon.

I wish I could hold hands with someone I think is nice in a shopping mall. I will never do this. Not because I am afraid of persecution or ridicule – but because it is wrong. Until that inevitable moment in time comes when h0mosexuality is viewed as an everyday normality, I shall keep my hand holding under wraps. I must contend with the same sex shortcomings, of which there are many.

I am jealous of my sister on one hand, and the other I wish her well whilst observing her shaky evolution into womanhood with a foreign fascination from the sidelines. Girls who like boys and boys who like girls, take heed. Never squander a romantic oppurtunity. Because for you lucky bitches, oppurtunity is as bountiful as Lisa Rinner’s lips.

Insane In The Membrane

I don’t know if it’s to do with lack of social life, or merely a sign of ever-increasing insanity – but my mind is always abuzz. Not abuzz with ideas and inspirational quotes accompanied by a gentle melody; rather erratic disembodied voices of concern, uncertainty, pessimism and questioning.

I would like to reach a goal, overcome an obstacle or tackle a difficult task without hesitating, debating and fighting constant mental battles with the mini-me’s inside my head for a moment’s peace.  Don’t get it twisted – this is not an admission for admittance to a psych ward. I’m not insane. At least… I hope not.

I suppose it’s all about willpower. If one desires change bad enough, all it takes is a little hopin’ and wishin’.

I say screw that.

Willpower is far too entrenched and intertwined within the mind to be of any use to me. If -like me- you already have a brain gone bonkers, then the willpower that once existed will have more than likely devolved into an ugly, twisted shell of its former glory. For me, it’s all about hurdles. Every hurdle that I manage to scrape over is a great success in my books; only then can I continue along the path to serenity, and hope that hurdle remains toppled.

I would like to be able to look at something, feel something and envelope myself in something without a screaming choir of voices swooping down from the neuron rafters to claim another moment where what was could just be what it was, and nothing more.

NO

what if..

..but

….will go wrong

don’t even think …that will happen

just look at yourself

he is…

she is…

how will i?

what will i?

reaction?

result?

retort?

think of a plan!

think of a way out!

i can’t…

I like writing, like I am now. Thinking up pleasant words that I may string together like a child with beads and a string, is like a pack of intangible ice on a swollen brain. Please don’t confuse swollen to mean I regard myself as an academic or an intelligent being. I am far from this; I am not intellectually swollen. I am neurotically enriched.

P.S. Apologies to the word ‘enriched’ for abusing you so.

Cinderella Loves Her Fella

I overheard a portion of banter going on between a couple I live with, and their also coupled pals. One sentence has been on my mind, albeit  briefly. ‘She gets up early to make my lunch‘.

Hold the fuck up.

Your lunch? YOUR LUNCH?! Make your own goddamn lunch, you pig. Seriously, it’s the noughties – and we’re nearing its end, at that. This kind of shit should not be happening, even if the uber bimbo is gleefully willing to drag her ass out of bed for the sole purpose of sandwich making. Having to endure a heterosexual couple as housemates has opened my eyes to an entire new world: where the man still controls the barbeque, and the woman scours the shower floor.

A typical, sexy housewife being sexy.

It’s not the simple act of playing 21st century Cinderella that irks me about this girl; rather the very firm belief that had she asked her boyfriend to ’swap jobs’ (she toss burgers and he get on his knees like a house wench), would have resulted in the boyfriend going totally catatonic.

‘What is this EZY OFF BAM you speak of, babe? And how…does….I butter bread??’

It’s always man before woman on invitations. Always the main dish being male and the side dish – female. The only time woman came before man was on the Titanic, and that was purely so those designer gowns could be refunded for water damage. We can fool ourselves into a false sense of equality, but this could not further from the truth. The truth, at it stands; no matter how many bras are burnt, or how many feminazis join together in protest – males will always dominate you in some way or another.

Why this is, I do not know for sure. Possibly deep down in the core of every Eve is a yearning for that unobtainable Knight in Shining Armour to rescue them from a life of uncertainty… and every Adam would like his socks hand washed. These two yearnings go together like soggy chalk and cheese to create a bond that is downright unsavoury and eye rolling for those who are alone and miserable, or alone and wisened to such contrived behaviours.

The latter is totally me. Not even shitting.

Monotony: The Bored Game

We are born. We breathe our first breath. We flail, then crawl, and will cautiously walk. We cry, we babble and with time we learn to speak the language enforced upon us.

Kindergarten, primary, middle and high school are all on the agenda – and must be followed through with. After that? Well, you would think the rest is up to you. Your life is what YOU choose to make of it, after all. So why are the lives we ‘choose’ to lead so similar in so many ways. You must work. You must study hard to create a successful career pathway. You must find a mate, marry and procreate until you are successfully with child, and so on. Everything must have a reason, and a goal.

Newsflash: you are squandering your fucking lives. It may have escaped your narrow thinking, but you only have one god damn life, you know. The idea that so many individuals in this society who knowingly join the daily grind, whatever that may be, is so utterly depressing. For those who go against the social grain and willingly opt out of a higher education, steady job, or pursuing someone of the opposite sex, they are destined to become  serial disappointments.

There is no real moral or conclusion to this rant, it’s just something that has really irked me as of late. I find myself rolling my eyes at almost everything. Everything is so dull, repetitive, monotonous and unbearably ordinary. I shaved my head yesterday; an experiment of sorts. I wanted to see how people who knew me reacted to such a drastic change in physical appearance. Why did you do it? Was question of the day. Forgive me for answering a question with a question, but why the fuck does everything need a reason?

TAKA-TAKA-TAKA-ZING!

I had no legitimate or logical reasoning for my actions, and this seemed to agitate some people. Society is much too focused on ‘getting to the bottom of things’ – thus creating a collective, neurotic nightmare.

Hold the fuck up – don’t be so hasty to shove your albums filled to the brim with holiday happy snaps in my face. You travelled to China, and what did you do? You visited every historical Chinese location possible. Well, you are doing it all wrong. You are still colouring in the lines. You went to a travel agency, and they held your hand through every point on your itinerary. An itinerary that is undoubtedly eerily similar for many tourists of China.

Granted, I have never been to China and it is highly unlikely that I will – what with eating cute puppies and all. I can safely assume however, there is more to China than a huge statue of a fat monk for you to stand next to so you can stick it on Facebook or show it to someone who is green with envy at your once in a lifetime holiday experience. Vacation with a clear mind and a clear plan of actions; if you go somewhere you are not meant to and your itinerary becomes a ten-year stint as a high-class hooker in Hong Kong…

….well it’s all an experience, no?

To expand upon the taking of pictures issue. Yeah, stop doing that so much. Social networking has made it easier to share memories online for your e-buddies to fawn over, but how ’bout putting down the Pentax and enjoying the moment instead of going crazed paparazzi on the evenings events just to get more ‘likes‘ than your last image abusing update.