HollyWoodn’t: Sucker Punch

Take a look at the Rotten Tomatoes review aggregation for Sucker Punch. Go on.

I’ll wait.

Done? See that Rotten Tomato icon, accompanied by a lousy 21% overall score? Yeah, add at LEAST another 50% to that – and then some. Now we’re beginning to close in on a more accurate representation of Sucker Punch’s rightful rating. ‘Fuck da haterz’, says I!

Okay, I’m being overzealous and reek of unrequited fanboyism for this film. I admit, I have carried a long standing appreciation and (perhaps prematurely) sung the Sucker Punch praises for some time now, hyping the shit out of Zach Snyder’s latest project (300, The Watchmen), ever since it was a twinkle in the ball sack of his mind. Snyder is one of ‘those’ directors; notorious in Hollywood for taking risks and pissing off the masses who, after being fooled by teasers and trailers promising mainstream masturbatory mayhem, skulk out of local cinemateques with sore wallets and the Snyder name at the top of many a ‘To Kill’ list.

UNF.

His latest outing, SUCKER PUNCH (CAN’T SAY THIS ENOUGH), has delivered everything I expected, wanted and dreamed – all packaged in an awe-inspiring videogame-esque dreamland with brave and bashful beauties to boot.

The story of Sucker Punch is probably the least promising aspect of the entire dealio. Remember Emily Browing as Violet Baudelaire in (my favorite movie about orphans ever!) A Series Of Unfortunate Events? Take away Klaus and Sunny and replace them with four Violet clones, warp Count Olaf and his posse from mostly harmless and unhygienic villains to lobotomy loving larakins with a nasty habit of raping barely legal lovelies, AFTER losing their minds, no less and you have the basic premise to Sucker Punch. Except it’s TOTALLY FUCKING CONFUSING.

Baby-Doll (Browning) gets thrown in the nut house because her Step-Father totally killed her Sister and blamed it all on her. What’s a girl to do in a warped version of the Sixties? That’s right! Cry and look terrified all the time instead of asking forensics why they’re so fucking incompetent. To cope, Baby and the other doomed bitches hive mind imagine they are actually high class, high in demand burlesque performers. Because, it’s easier to get raped when you’re in sequins ladies!

Baby finally stops crying and proposes she and the girls get their damseled behinds out of the asylum before shit gets real. Thankfully, shit never gets real. In fact, shit goes in the complete opposite direction. A sage appears. Items are required. Nazi-zombies, dragons, iRobots and enemies from Shenmue? are required to be ass-kicked before a map, a knife, and a key can be had: ESCAPE ESSENTIALS, YA’ DEAL? Sucker Punch is like the result of America being allowed to remake Pan’s Labyrinth. Except it appeals less to the Richard Roeper’s of the world and more to awesome people like me and you.

The CGI is incredible. I cannot stress this enough. It’s tacky, yes, but film grains aplenty, accompanied by an absolute bangin’ soundtrack (Queen, Eurythmics, The Beatles – oh my!) help make the entire experience entirely digestible. The girl power is palpable throughout, if a little nauseatingly over-sexualised. If I wasn’t so gay, I’d probably feel super dirty watching Browning and co. perform a multitude of flips and kicks… in slow motion. Up-skirt slow-motion. All. The. Damn. Time.

Snyder has expressed in interviews it was his intention to use Sucker Punch as a vessel to make accountable Geek Culture’s obsession with scantily clad female characters, and he has done so remarkably. It’s not all up in your face mind you. Nevertheless, throughout the two hour epic, it hovers in your subconscious menacingly – like an overbearing, Christian Mother making you feel dirty and unnatural for asking about the birds and bees.

So if you like pretty girls, robots, zombies, insane people, breasts, fire, ice, Asians, pseudo-Asians, awkward gyrations, embarrassingly cliched pet-names and rapists in eyeliner – you get it all in Sucker Punch. It’s the best sucker punch you will ever have…

…and one more thing – ‘Don’t write any checks with your mouths that your ass can’t cover… And don’t wake the dragon.’

The Groom Gloom

Let’s establish a few things before I continue.

Firstly, if you’re the Mother of a gay teenager, you need to be aware that it’s not just innocent, hair-in-braids Mary-Sure over the road that is at risk of being groomed/stalked/Facebook-friended online.

Secondly: To the… ‘matured’ homosexual gentlemen on the Internet, and in particular -Facebook- you may think you’ve gone unnoticed and undetected by those around you in your not-so-innocent quest for befriending as many underage and barely consenting ‘boi’s’ as possible. Truth is, to many who trust your apparent intentions to be a mentor, to guide the naive and the unaware to better place or even to be there to offer guidance and assistance where possible – your fallacies and deceptions are still there and are most certainly being monitored. Be warned.

DON’T CLICK IT, YOU’LL DIE IN SEVEN DAYS!

Online grooming of minors and minorly legal girls by creepy old men seems have become a running trend as of late. Especially via social networking websites and especially-especially via Facebook. Kidnappings, murders and just general stalkerish tendencies have reared their unavoidable heads over the past few years. But while the world, the media, and the concerned parent’s of Mary-Sues everywhere work in unison to put a stop to the pedophile outrage sweeping our fair nations; a far more sinister, more dangerous type of groomer carries on his handiwork with nary a suspicious glance.

Don’t think for one second your gay son, teenage or otherwise, is somehow exempt from the dangers faced by girls online. In fact, I’d say one would be wise to take extra precaution when allowing fun lovin’ Billy-Joe the tap-dancing gay kid on Facebook to accept his friend requests, post on walls and accept pokes. Parent’s need to be aware that it’s equally not okay and not acceptable for teenage homosexuals to be chatting to/engaging in contact with/knowing gay men in their forties and fifties and so on.

Pardons can be made on a case by case basis. But the general perception is, dear readers; Billy Joe’s forty-five year old ‘friend’ is not interested in helping him get a foot in the tap-dancing door, or hearing about his boyfriend troubles, or the taunts at school. He’s interested in what other assets the unassuming minor has to offer, and will groom and groom and groom until the opportunity arises for the pervert to take action.

I’ve seen far too much shady-ass business occurring on Facebook where the gay world is concerned. And quite frankly, I’ve had a damn ’nuff. You OLD men know who you are. You know what you are doing and if you don’t curtail your obsessions now, you will end up in prison eventually. Having more teenage friends than friends your own age on Facebook, or in real life – is abhorrent and bothersome.

I can guarantee in most circumstances the parents either don’t have a clue (teenagers are SUPER at lying, I was recently one), or are led to believe the relationship is mentor based. If the latter, well done you old perve, you’ve been given an even better foot in that kids door than you might have anticipated.

Keep an eye out parents, because next it could be Billy-Joe who in therapy for the rest of his life.

 

Honey and The Intimidating It: Chapter 2

Things were evidently not as they were just a second before. For one, little Honey no longer had in her possession the books by literary greats, or the freshly buttered honey sandwich given to her by her dear Mother. Furthermore, excuse the very overused saying, she was definitely NOT in Kansas anymore. Honey wasn’t even in the United States, or (as she gathered her bearings she came to this conclusion) quite possibly – planet Earth itself. Whatever place, or time, or dimension, or faraway land Katch had abruptly swept her off to was without a sliver of a doubt NOT of Honey’s own world.

At first, it seemed difficult for her eyes and feet and senses to make sense of where it was she was -or wasn’t as the case could have been. She wasn’t certain. Just like the confused, and hungry child wasn’t certain why, out of all the unremarkable specimens, it had to fall her to be the unwilling participant in this It’s agenda. Whatever that was. Honey was so preoccupied with her own questions that she paid no attention to Katch skulking off in to the shadows behind her. When she turned around to interrogate the It, Honey found herself staring at something far more shocking and awe-inspiring than the It was able to muster. The frame was nothing extraordinary, made of some sort of polished metal (Honey was never too fond of Chemistry). It wasn’t even worth noting the absence of a suitable vertical surface for which to hang such an object. The life-size, framed portrait just hung there, off its own accord, as if it wished to introduce itself as a living, breathing, feeling… thing. Everything about the picture was remarkable. The lips turned up at the right corner. The hair, gold like honey, was parted in just the right place. This Honey was even wearing the same gun-metal grey school dress and the accompanying black lace up shoes. The only difference between her portrait, and herself, was the painting looked quite pleased with itself, whereas real Honey wore a look of increased displeasure and confusion.

‘This is all too much for one morning,’ Honey said aloud breaking the eerie silence. ‘Katch, I demand you come back at once and take me home!’ She hoped holding a firm tone would cause the It to come out of hiding and admit defeat in his absurd quest. Alas, no It came, and the silence continued. Honey scowled, and tapped her foot on the dull, bright blue tiled floor. The darkness shrouded her with such ferocity that Honey believed it was closing in her inch by inch. Little did she know at the time, the darkness was doing just that. From every corner, smothering the dull blue tiles, ever so slightly. Honey slumped to the floor, burying her hands in her face, and sobbed. She was not one to sob frequently.

The last time this had occurred was during the carnival day at her school. She attempted the long jump event, not in an attempt to win at something (sport was never Honey’s calling) – rather in an attempt to win the heart of the dreamy Colin Stubbs. He was a year older, and he was on raking duty. Colin raked the sand flat after a very dismal effort by Cornelia Jameson, and motioned for Honey to approach her starting position. Honey smiled sheepishly at him, her heart beating more rapidly with every passing second. The shrill sound of a whistle came to her ears, and off she shot. She ran faster than she ever thought her little legs could manage, determination to succeed at long jump and gaining the attention of Stubbs the only things on her mind. She glanced over one last time at Colin, just before launching herself with all her might in to the air. Well, that was the intention. Her left foot, poised to lead her body to victory, stepped on a lace that had come loose on her right running shoe.

It all happened in a sickening slow motion, as these happenings tend to do. Both Honey’s legs snapped straight instead of bending at the launch mark, sending Honey’s face and her flailing hands straight in to Colin’s freshly raked sand. Honey, although unharmed, did not want to remove her face from its shallow sand grave. She wanted to lie there until everyone left and she could leave with her dignity in tact. Honey hoped that by burying her head in her face and sobbing, that all the peculiarities that had followed her that morning would simply disappear and she would once again find herself with her sandwich and books, on her way to school.

‘It’s no use you sobbing like a baby,’ came an instantly familiar voice. ‘It serves no purpose in this place but to give you red eyes and a swollen schnoz.’ Honey looked up to where the voice, her voice, was coming from; unless she had indeed gone absolutely mad – it was the Honey portrait speaking. Real Honey was FED UP. She stomped to her feet, walked up to Honey the portrait and poked her square in the chest. Portrait Honey gasped. ‘Now you listen, you, you… ME,’ Honey snapped, visibly irritated at the whole thing. ‘You have no idea the sorts of things I’ve been through in a very short amount of time. Now would you please lend me some sort of assistance, or at the very least – tell me where I am?!’ Portrait Honey returned to her ‘pleased with herself’ expression, and looked through Real Honey to the blackness which was now lapping at the girl’s heels. ‘You’re in the same place I am, Honey,’ Portrait Honey hummed cryptically. ‘And unless you want to die of ingesting too much of that hideous dark gunk, I suggest you take my hand and step on through.’

This comment alerted Real Honey to her now dire predicament. Portrait Honey was right, the darkness was now up past her ankles, and had swallowed the blue tiles completely. Real Honey looked up at the outstretched hand that was hers, and grasped it firmly, feeling it odd to do so. With a swift tug, both Honeys were catapulted in to the depths of the peculiar portrait, now lost forever in the murky darkness.

Honey and The Intimidating It – Chapter 1

Once upon a time there was a charming little girl who went by the name of Honey. Honey was given her name because she always carried a honey like scent with her, and her hair was gold like honey. She also liked bees and ate honey too. She had it on toast, pancakes and even chicken. Little did she know over in the Orientals, honey on chicken was already a commonly eaten dish and was probably a little tastier than the dish her Mother made from scratch every Friday evening.

This particular Friday evening was different from the others. This Friday landed on that ominous date: the thirteenth. Honey lived in a very quaint, very poultry littered village in the middle of a place no-one cared to chart on any map you may have seen. Except, of course, the map the village leader scribed himself. There was of course other villages on this map, but they only went as far as the village leader had encountered on his travels.

He, like many of the villagers, believed home was where the heart lay and therefore decreed it illegal to travel beyond the furthest reaching village, Underwell, which had been colonized right on the edge of a very ominous and foreboding forest which was so uninviting that the villagers in Underwell decided it did not deserve a proper title. So Honey, her Mother, the village leader and every one else simply referred to it as Trees. Or ‘Don’t go in there’. Whichever was considered at the time.

As I was saying, this particular Friday was Friday the thirteenth. To those of you reading, you are undoubtedly aware this particular date on this particular day carries with it a certain amount of dis-creditability. I could delve deeper in why this is so, but then I would bore you all with an unnecessary lecture on mundane events in history. Alas, little Honey was not privy to this information; she began her day with a bounce and an optimistic outlook, poor dear. Her Mother waved her off as she skipped her way down the garden path and off to school, honey sandwich and books by literary greats in her enthusiastic hands.

This would be the last time her Mother, and the people in the village would see of the unfortunate Honey.

I hope I haven’t frightened you away. You see, although this would be the last time Honey’s Mother, and the villagers would ever see her, Honey was not lost to a terrible fate. Rather a remarkable turn of events that propelled the little girl’s ordinary existence to a place of unimaginable wonder. You see, as Honey blissfully skipped her dainty little feet off to school, there was a force surrounding her. A force so powerful and potent that even the most distinguished scholar could never unravel its mysteries.

The force went by the name of Katch, and when it wasn’t following around the ‘Destined Ones’ as it liked to call them, it loved nothing better than a roasting fire and the latest Reader’s Digest. Don’t confuse my referring to Katch as an ‘it’ to imply I think less of the entity, more-so than he’s and she’s; rather Katch refused to be put in a box like that – it liked to keep those around it guessing. Which is why, on discovering she was indeed being followed, little Honey didn’t scream, or flail, or faint dramatically. She cocked an eyebrow, lowered her books to the ground and asked innocently, ‘Are you a he, or a she?’ Katch was completely dumbfounded. He expected theatrics, tears and even a beg for mercy. After all, he was unusual looking, especially to the untrained eye of such a small girl. Katch scoffed. ‘I,’ he began. ‘I am far too otherworldly to be given such… ordinary titles.’ Honey was no stranger to sulking, she had seen this sort of behaviour many a time in the school yard and was well versed in the art of appeasing. ‘Oh, I do beg your pardon,’ she said, curtseying. Honey wasn’t too sure how to curtsey, or when it was appropriate to do so. All she knew was that it was a mark of respect, and she was in no position to get off on the wrong foot with an it. There was a moment’s pause between the two, and then Katch spoke, the curtsey seemingly sufficient for the occasionally ill-tempered sprite.

‘Don’t you find it the least bit odd,’ Katch continued dryly (and possibly with a hint of boredom) ,’that an it like me happens to be following you, of all people?’ Honey took slight offence to this. ‘Me of all people? What is that supposed to mean?!’
‘What it means is exactly what I meant it to,’ Katch sniffed. ‘Here you happen to be, a simple lass on her way to academia, not a care in the world – no expectations of sinister happenings.’ Honey was no completely confused. ‘You shouldn’t bother explaining yourself if you can’t do yourself justice,’ Honey picked her books off of the ground, ‘it’s a waste of time, and quite frankly… it, I must be on my way as the Headmaster will surely punish me if I am tardy once more.’ Honey considered her retort a job well done, and turned on her heel. Alas, there it was again, staring at her incredulously.

Honey frowned, realizing it pointless to continue on her way, and sat herself, her books and her honey sandwich down upon the low wall that encompassed the lane leading the centre of the village. ‘I suppose there must be a reason for you following me without an invitation,’ Honey began. ‘I suppose too that it would be pointless in ignoring you, as you seem to be the sort of it that would pester one to the point of madness.’ Katch puffed what you could call his chest out proudly, before quickly frowning once more. ‘You go by the name of Honey, I do believe?’ Honey bit in to her sandwich.
‘Mmmm. Who wants to know?’ Honey was unusually brash with her words on this morning. It seemed necessary, she thought, considering her new-found circumstance. It’s only natural to tread carefully and bare your ground when contending with Its and similar beings. Katch appeared behind her left ear. ‘Someone of great importance and someone who will be quite irate if you choose to deny a meeting with him.’

‘So it’s not an It, like you are – rather a he?’ Honey was quietly elated at the mystery becoming a little less mysterious. Katch, however, was kicking itself. Proverbially of course, as Katch had no legs with which to kick itself with. ‘I did NOT say he, I said them,’ Katch spat back, ‘or they, or something along that line.’ Honey leaped down from the wall, to face Katch. But it was quicker, and she again found him breathing harshly in her ear, which was as irritating as a mosquito in the Summertime. Katch spoke once more, gentler this time. ‘Honey dearest, this is no time for your childish antics and questions – I come to you now for you have been called upon by an it far greater than I. An It who tells me you are more than just a simple village child.’ Katch paused. ‘You are a ‘Destined One’.’ Once more Katch’s expectations fell short. He expectated a gasp, wide eyes and a lump in the throat.

Honey was different. She smiled, then grinned, then burst in to a silence shattering laughter that caused a murder of crows on a nearby perch to take flight. ‘Sir It, you have mistaken me for a buffoon. I have heard you out, now I simply must go.’ Honey picked up her books for a second time. I should say, tried to. Before she could react, Katch enveloped the unaware child in an ominous black cloud, blacker than even the most rain filled cloud that passed over the previous Winter. Then? There was nothing. No sign of a little girl and an It ever being there, except for the half eaten honey sandwich perched atop the stone wall.

Oh, the crow has it now. So sorry.

Hi, And Dry

I have returned, after a seemingly lengthy hiatus.

Let me re-introduce myself to my own blog, in the offchance it has indeed forgotten about it’s own creator, and to you – the readers that stretch in to the tens of… tens.

My name is Sephiano, last name withheld or, in some instances, fabricated for ones own sense of spontaneity. I enjoy the Internet and her many hidden riches. I possess this here blog to voice my opinions about mostly trivial subjects, ranging from rants about those dreaded homosexuals, to socially taboo issues (‘Lindsay: why is she so god damn orange?’). Mostly, I’m a harmless entity that lives only to serve his Internet overlord.

Phew, now that’s out-of-the-way, let us continue on to pressing matters. The upcoming Australian Federal election, number 2010. Redheaded feminazi Vs. Speedo flaunting conservative fuddy duddy. As Aliens Vs. Predators once eloquently put it: ‘Whoever wins, we lose’. Or, as my new favorite .gif puts it:

This election was doomed from the start. The choices either lie ultimately with a Labor bobblehead placed at the head of the pack because her predecessor wasn’t OMGPPLR enough (because, that’s democracy for you, right!) in the eyes of the ALP overlords. Or… we have… the Liberal party. Opposition leader Tony Abbot is no spring chicken, and neither are his policies. I feel myself prematurely aging by simply looking at him.

I don’t profess to be a fountain of knowledge about Australian politics, mostly because NO1CURR, but I’m not stupid. Without even religiously following the campaign trails of the warring parties it has come to my attention that the oh so lackluster lead up to election day has been wrought with controversy, laziness and more hysterical media influence than you can poke Gillard’s nose at.

Unfortunately, politics and policies need to be at the forefront of the parties, otherwise it’s purely judged on entertainment value – certainly nothing to become legitimately passionate about. Not at this point in time anyway.

The one saving grace of this entire HOT MESS is the pleasure of knowing, whichever party flukes its way into power, gay marriage

(and its passing), will not be on the forseeable agenda. Can I get a WIT-NESS?!

The Anti-IRL Movement

I’m a little ill as of late. Nothing life threatening, although I am certain my throat has literally inherited some sort of throat demon which is currently wreaking havoc on my esophagus.

Suffice to say I am not in the most ideal of moods. However, this has given me an opportunity to reflect on my somewhat… unhealthy relationship with the Internet and, to be more precise, my Facebook ‘habit’.

When I wake up, the first thing I do is check Facebook.

When I’m at work, my left hand is constantly on the refresh button on my Facebook iPhone app.

If I am anywhere near any sort of electronics device that carries Internet capabilities, Facebook is my first port of call.

My name is Seph – and I am a Facebook addict.

At first, I used Facebook as an entertaining outlet, an online playground to exorcise my immature, sarcastic and downright disapproving behaviour on my unsuspecting demographic: the gays. Unfortunately, unlike Liza and Cher, the gays HATE me. I mean HATE with a capital HOMO. I also found Facebook an ideal website to put across opinions, make judgement and pave the way for all the rogue homosexuals in this world.

Now? I’m glad to see the back of it. As of half an hour ago, my account is no longer active. My profile image is probably a sad silhouette of its former self, and all online evidence of me has been placed in social networking limbo. Indefinitely. Facebook is no longer an enjoyable, time passing experience.

Not only is the company itself continuing forth in a direction that I am uncomfortable being apart of (privacy exploits, web monopolisation and jewgold – oh my!) , the ever increasing Facebook population has become nothing more than a blur of incessant LIKES, yawn inducing updates (cool, hate your job: no need to tell me daily) and the worst change of all: the obvious and disturbing decline in the (ab)use of the English language.

Facebook has become high school, without having to endure early starts and (real quick, I just went to click my Facebook link. PURELY HABITUAL) uniform standards. The childish harassment is alive and kicking, the ganging up on those whose opinions and ideals differ from the majority is an ever-present evil and the unnecessary emotional attachment to something so insignificant to one’s life in the grand scheme of things is irrefutable.

Facebook is evil, and needs to die now. It will eventually die like every fad that has come and gone, but for now? Get out while you’re still sane.

What have I learnt from my experience with Facebook? People can be extremely stupid and heavily reliant on others to make themselves feel important or needed. Facebook is also a fantastic channel for uncovering the primitive personality traits people usually try to suppress within a real world setting. Saying ‘You can’t judge me, you don’t know me’, does not apply when you are a blatant sociopath, friends.

On a positive, Facebook has gained me a fair few new (real life) friends, so I have to thank the social networking giant for that. I might come back eventually, who knows. Next time around, bitches, you will not know what hit you.

Peace the fuck out.

Guys And Dolls

I’m sure anyone old enough to remember the birth of a sibling, holds it close to their heart. Once the screaming has subsided and the child is wiped of all placental unpleasantness, it is one of the most amazing experiences for a young child.

In my case, the day of my sister’s birth could not come fast enough. I was seven at the time, and the prospect of inheriting a baby sister was simply too overwhelming. I had already planned a ‘my first wardrobe’ for her and had drawn up a rough outline of what her room should look like. Mum insisted on an aqua theme, but I assured her this child would not accept anything other than hot pink, or a variation of that color. ‘I can compromise,’ I told her.

I didn’t sleep well, my diet went to shit and seeing my Mothers stomach rapidly balloon was extremely concerning. She noticed my sudden onset of anxiety, and to my surprise promised me a special something on the day of my sister’s birth if I behaved and stopped being so dramatic. I didn’t know exactly what she meant by dramatic, but it is a word that has been used to describe me many times since then.

Even at that age, being bribed was too tempting to pass up. I assured her I would be on my best behavior, and even went so far as to brush and style her hair, even without being asked. I was nice like that. It wasn’t long after the day finally arrived. The situation in the car on the way to the hospital was a sight to behold. My Mother, being unsuccessfully calmed by her Mother, looked as though she was filming the sequel to Alien. I would have added a number, but I lost count after ‘Aliens’. In between screaming obscenities that I never knew existed, she would as calmly as possible tell me everything was alright and that she was not giving birth to the antichrist.

I wanted to offer her a moist towel and possibly a foot massage, but I could see the time for that had passed. ‘Ashley,’ My Nanny panted. ‘Open the door on Mum’s side.’ We had arrived at the hospital and minutes later we had Mum sedated and in her hospital gown. I always wondered why hospitals referred to it as a ‘gown’. Sure, it could have passed for one at the Brownlow’s, but I wouldn’t call something that resembled an anorexic ghost, a ‘gown’. I smiled lovingly at my panting Mother, trying in vain to cover up her hoo-ha and other unmentionables. After some time the doctor motioned for me and my Mums friend to wait outside as she began writhing and grunting once more. I made a mental note to have her checked for rabies post pregnancy.

‘Are you excited, Ash?’ Lene asked me, rubbing her face where a pregnant woman’s wayward hand had connected moments prior. ‘Your own little sister!’ I knew she expected me to be overjoyed. I was, of course. But I kept my cool. ‘Well, I suppose a girl will be o-kay. ‘I replied as blasé as possible. ‘We’ll need to go over a few things of course-’ I held up my fingers ‘-making sure there is equal alone time with Mum, what clothes are off limits for borrowing…that kind of stuff.’

‘I’m getting water,’ she said after a minute of silence. ‘Want one?’ I shook my head and she wandered off down the sterile hospital hallway. I remember suddenly the promise my Mum had made of a special something for all my help. This made the wait even longer as I pondered what I could be. Just as I began dreaming about the possibility of a Fisher Price Kitchen – the one with an actual rotating microwave – the doctor shuffled into the hall and beckoned for me to enter.

My Mum looked worse than ever. I was however pleased to see her stomach had for the most part returned to its normal size. I didn’t know how much longer I could defend her weight issue to my friends at school. Before I could linger anymore of her current physical shortcomings, I noticed a small bundle of blanket in her arms. I peered over her shoulder and was met with the small, yawning face of my new baby sister, a.k.a test pilot. She was cuter than most babies I had seen, whether this was because she shared my baby faced looks (I had been frequently told I looked no older than five) or because she was already starting to grow on me, I couldn’t be sure.

‘What’s her name?’ I asked Mum. This was the one thing I left up to her to decide.

‘Tayla,’ she said, smiling as she spoke the name. ‘Tayla Jay’.

‘That is a good name,’ I complimented. Mum looked up at me.

‘I haven’t forgotten about the present I promised you,’ she announced as my eyes lit up. She reached over to the night stand and handed me a bundle – just like the one that contained my sister.

‘Oh. My. God.’ I spoke. ‘TWINS?!’ She and everyone else in the room laughed.

‘No silly. Go ahead and open it.’ I breathed a sigh of internal relief; I had not planned for twins, although I had touched upon it briefly in my notes. I unwrapped the layers of hospital cloth and nearly collapsed. Staring back at me was the most beautiful thing I had seen since seeing The Wizard of Oz for the first time. It was an Aladdin doll.

I could now die happy.

Careless Caress

It’s become apparent to me that relationships of a romantic nature, or the lacking of in people’s lives are topics that arise far too often. If it’s not water cooler talk about the latest fling, it’s a song on the radio, a plot in a film or the reason behind the birth of a book (TWILIGHT). For a subject that is so unavoidable, so nauseating in its repetition – you’d think society would’ve tired of love and its failings by now.

If it’s  not me talking about my love life, it’s someone else returning the (not-so) favour. It’s a game of show and tell – in exchange for feigning interest in the love and lust lives of others, the unspoken law is they must do the same in return. Neither party particularly cares about the matters at hand in most cases; talking to yourself in the mirror whilst nodding emphatically would bring about the same desired result. Society is naturally inclined to remind us constantly how important having someone romantically linked to us is – and this is why the subject, whether wanted or unwanted, is an unfortunate constant in our daily lives.

It’s a case of ‘I want what she’s having’. I believe we force ourselves to believe the pursuit of love is more important to make a reality than need be. Unfortunately, love is not a real-life romance novel – we do not all have ‘The One’ out there for us, and there is no happily ever after. These are just some of the absurd and unrealistic ideations we not only impose on ourselves, but on others by either sugar-coating their not-so-hot relationship, or shitting all over it in the hope they snap out of the love-lull that deceives them.

Short, but sweet. That’s how it should be next time you decide to discuss your relationship with someone. What’s important to you will undoubtedly be the opposite for anyone NOT having sex with you. I feel we have so many other more interesting things to discuss about the world other than how annoying it is when your boyfriend forgets to call you for the umpteenth time for no essential reason other than to remind you that you exist to him. Although being IN a relationship is usually pleasant and removes the single woes, it brings with it a whole avalanche of new issues, concerns and unnecessary paranoia about the future.

‘When will I find someone?’ becomes ‘When will I lose this someone – and will I cope?’ I wonder, after more failed relationships in the coming years, if the fear of losing what I have will subside, and I will come to accept that it’s best just to enjoy the time you have with the person and part ways amicably. All too often you see nasty breakups that could have been avoided if both parties just accepted that the relationship was no longer meant to be. Once you reach a point where you feel like you need to WORK to save a relationship – you have passed the point of no return. It’s wise to reside yourself to the reality of the situation; what once was is no more and that is just the way it is.

Stand outside of yourself and evaluate your situation instead of relying on others who couldn’t care less to do it for you. You know that one friend who has been there through thick and thin and has been the final say on every relationship you’ve had thus far? She’s secretly a lesbian and wants to get with you, and will say and do anything to ensure you’re alone.

Trust only yourself when it comes to matters of the heart.

Eat Your Cake, And Hers – And His

To have one’s cake and eat it too is a popular English idiomatic proverb or figure of speech, sometimes stated as eat one’s cake and have it too or simply have one’s cake and eat it. It is most often used negatively, meaning an individual having or wanting more than one can handle or deserve, or trying to have two incompatible things.

-Trusty Wikipedia

Bisexuality: like 9/11, Illuminati and Miley Cyrus’ virginity – it’s a big, fat crock of conspiratorial tripe. It does exist, this much I can support. However, its existence is founded on a purely superficial level. Bisexuality is not an orientation, it’s a trial run for the inevitable leap toward homosexual territory. Those too afraid of having a definite label upon themselves, or those too afraid of ostracism from a familiar crowd will commonly use the ‘lolol I’m bisexual’ excuse as a way to avoid having to man up and face the gay chorus.

The proof is in the pudding, folks. How many ‘bisexuals’ do you know that sailed along this faux moniker, only to end up permanently switching teams after finally coming to terms with coming out?

Scenario: you follow your bestie (now FULLY gay) to the gay club, hold his drink while he gets nasty with a twink or two, left feeling obligated to remind yourself that just a week before, this guy was involved in steady relationship with a lovely lass, only to suddenly and without hesitation – cut her out of his life completely as though she didn’t belong in the first place.

Posing as a heterosexual, dating woman (or men) and ditching them following a homosexual epiphany is a foul practice that should not be happening in this day and age – yet it continues to occur with no sign of slowing down. What’s worse is, instead of coming out, to have certain types of individual refusing to just be honest with those around them (they needn’t be honest with themselves, they know exactly what they’re doing). Instead of embracing a solid hetero or homo orientation – they choose to sit with a smug expression upon the off-white bisexuality fence; swinging their legs, tongues poked, middle fingers raised – idealistic representations of what the bisexual ‘orientation’ signifies.

Nothing is more amusing than meeting homosexuals with more camp in them than the entire cast and crew of Glee, to then have them inform me that they are indeed identifying themselves as bisexual. Puh-lease, girlfriends – you ain’t fooling nobody with your allusions to ‘beef curtain poking’ exploits. I get why this is STILL happening though.

It comes down to personality.

It comes down to being unable to find comfort in ones own skin. No matter how fabulously free you appear to be on the outside – you’re still haunted by the primary school taunts, the GAY IS BAD lectures drummed in to you at a young age. You know which crowd is a prominent abuser of the bisexual label? The scene kids. Not only is your LIEsexuality a walking mockery, it’s also your local teen posse’s new fashion accessory. All you need is a Twilight t-shirt and you’d fit right in.

So yeah, fine, you’re a little damaged. Sort your shit out within yourself before alerting everyone to your orientation. Because, good intentions aside – you don’t like girls, little Jimmy. You may think you do because you saw Debbie Does Dallas and popped a woody over it, but you would be wrong. It was Dallas that had you sexually riled, not Debbie and, and - a vagina on-screen is very different to a vagina on your face. Have you seen the movie Alien, Jimmy? That’s what having sex with a girl is like.

Please, tell me now you’re still bisexual. Bi is a lie, deal with it.

Little Bubble

I’m only updating ’cause I haven’t for a few days and I’m sick of Christina taking up the latest post. Bitch has a big enough head as it is. Besides the chronicles I add to my blog on the odd occasion, I rarely talk about myself because -as certain bloggers have yet to learn- unless you’re famous, or live an equally enthralling existence – people don’t really care about your day-to-day goings on. Furthermore, making video blogs to explain what’s ‘been happening’ only establishes you as more of a narcissistic so and so. You went to work? Oh my lord, so did I!