ENGLISH EXTENSION
CRIME FICTION - GENRE
It was the worst painting Bryan had ever seen: Pierre Swarofski's impressionist painting of the human heart. He always thought artists were a bit deluded. No wonder the left ventricle was unproportioned.
'For the fraction of you who will graduate, success will come from following your gut instinct. There are some things a good doctor can detect that a good pulse oximeter cannot. And like Swarofski, you too might end up making millions of dollars… or at least save millions of lives' bellowed his favourite professor.
The eager students, few of whom were dedicated to saving lives, and the rest of whom were dedicated to making money, were suddenly beckoned to use the right side of their brain, when it was the left that got them there.
--
'Three operations… aortic coarctation…'
Bryan raved about himself for the same amount of time it took the waitress to take their order, allot her number to a flirting customer and retrieve a bottle of red wine for the newly engaged couple on table nine.
'At least someone's getting married tonight. Hasn't this guy ever heard of open ended questions?' she wondered.
A long pause ensued. She forced a smile before excusing herself to the bathroom. They both knew she wasn't coming back.
--
Ted was Vernfield's most highly acclaimed psychologist. Marriage breakdowns, mid life crises, depression – Ted had seen them all.
'Dr Bryan Kobe'. Ted turned the name over and over in his head, rubbing his cleft chin as he often did when deep in thought. The receding hairline and the slightly hunched back that accentuated his slim build all struck a chord of familiarity.
'Oh yes, that's right!' The newspaper image of Dr Bryan Kobe lurched its way into his memory. The article read something about a new clinical trial. In a follow up story, Ted was certain the baby did not live long. The see-saw-ing of guilt and bliss at losing and saving a patient often took its toll on doctors.
'How can I get a woman to marry me?'
A long pause ensued. He felt like he was on a date again.
'This is Ted's office, right?'
Most clients liked to introduce themselves, talk about their friends, family and pets before delving into why they were there. Taken aback by Bryan's straightforwardness, Ted concluded he was 43, a medical surgeon, and believed himself overdue to start a family. STAT.
--
The Stanbourg University which Bryan attended was absorbed in racist upheaval. Not a day was he spared racial insults. 'Low life Nigger' 'Black Bastard'
'Study now. Revenge later' was his mantra. Peers and lecturers would catch him mumbling incoherently down the hallway, and laugh. He always seemed a social outcast anyway.
Like a star shining against a polluted western sky, Professor Cromblin was proof that the dream of a black man making something respectable out of himself was possible.
In his final year of study, Professor Cromblin was shot dead. Three of Bryan's white peers were charged with murder a week later.
The events above were delivered to Ted methodically and in sparing detail.
--
Ted lay flicking channels, as his wife romped into the bedroom sporting new lace underwear. She began kissing at his neck. He could feel himself go hard.
'Next in breaking news, Hollywood heartthrob Ryan Harppe dies due to a drug overdose. Dr Bryan Kobe said there was little hope by the time he arrived…'
'Hold on honey'
'But-'
'Shh!'
By the end of the report Ted had lost his erection. Patients died all the time, but this was the second headline in the past month featuring the death of one of Dr Bryan Kobe's patients. Ted started rubbing his cleft chin.
--
Bryan met with Ted for their usual 5:00 Friday appointment. The real Bryan came out on their last session.
'So, tell me about your childhood'
'CHILDHOOD? I'm paying you good money to help me find a wife, not talk about my bloody childhood. Any bet you're just out to pump money out of me. Typical white bastard. You're all the same. BETTER OFF DEAD, I SAY!' shouted Bryan vexedly and stormed out.
Finding a wife became the least of his problems, Ted made note to help Bryan through his racial issues. But something about the way he said 'BETTER OFF DEAD!' unsettled Ted. The words clung to him like a foul stench.
In his hurried exit, Bryan left his folder behind. Picking it up, Bryan's Stanbourg Yearbook fell onto the floor. Flipping quickly through the black and white pages, hints of red caught Ted's eye. Fingering back through the pages, Ted found that Bryan had violently crossed the faces of three individuals. He started rubbing his cleft chin.
--
'Thank God it's Friday'
Bryan had one more operation to perform. He skimmed the patient profile: John O'Timmons. 64. Caucasian. Fatal condition. Requires cardiomyopathy.
'Perfect, easy as pi' chuckled Bryan to himself. He made note to share the pun on his next date. After all, Ted said that women were attracted to humour.
Within minutes John O'Timmons was declared dead. In theory his body had rejected the donated heart. But in practice Bryan had left a 3mm gap in reconnecting the aorta.
Revenge is a dish best served cold, and under the façade of a good willed doctor, Bryan was a cold blooded murderer.
Every white patient that died on his operating table resembled someone who called him a 'Low Life Nigger' a 'Black Bastard', or someone who murdered Professor Cromblin. Only the black patients died from genuine medical conditions.
'Shit' Bryan almost forgot his appointment with Ted, as he reached his pocket for the car keys.
'DR KOBE! EMERGENCY!' From the rear view mirror, Bryan could see one of the interns running short breathed after him.
--
Ted suffered a stroke while at work. He could not move, but could see and hear everything around him. The secretary. The ambulance. The hospital. The nurse. The Doctor.
'Not to worry Ted, it's me, Dr Bryan Kobe'. As the morphine kicked in, Bryan's wink was anything but reassuring. ©
Saturday, 3 November 2007
Tuesday, 25 September 2007
Halfway to K.J.
A few hours ago I was at my high school graduation ceremony. It was meant to be a 'magical moment.'
Yet, I was not overcome with emotion like many of my teary eyed peers. With all the screaming and jumping around, you'd think we were a geeky uniform clad mosh pit… And I was the one who accidentally bought tickets to the wrong concert.
For my own reasons, the fact that I will never see most of these people again delivered me relief rather than dismay. There was a time when, and place where I felt a sense of belonging with my immediate friends and the school body as a whole –which was lost somewhere between the transition from an all girls school to a co-ed (combined education) one.
And it's not that the thought of graduation hasn't 'fully sunk in', because I've been feeling like this for a while now.
I just don't think high school was my scene. Hello world.
Third Eye Blind - Jumper
I wish you would step back from that ledge my friend
You could cut ties with all the lies that you've been living in
And if you do not want to see me again I would understand
I would understand
The angry boy a bit too insane
Icing over a secret pain
You know you don't belong
Youre the first to fight
Youre way too loud
Youre the flash of light on a burial shroud
I know somethings wrong
Well everyone I know has got a reason
To say put the past away
I wish you would step back from that ledge my friend
You could cut ties with all the lies that youve been living in
And if you do not want to see me again I would understand
I would understand
Well hes on the table and hes gone to code
And I do not think anyone knows
What theyre doing here
And your friends have left you
Youve been dismissed
I never thought it would come to this
And I, I want you to know
Everyones got to face down the demons
Maybe today
You could put the past away
Yet, I was not overcome with emotion like many of my teary eyed peers. With all the screaming and jumping around, you'd think we were a geeky uniform clad mosh pit… And I was the one who accidentally bought tickets to the wrong concert.
For my own reasons, the fact that I will never see most of these people again delivered me relief rather than dismay. There was a time when, and place where I felt a sense of belonging with my immediate friends and the school body as a whole –which was lost somewhere between the transition from an all girls school to a co-ed (combined education) one.
And it's not that the thought of graduation hasn't 'fully sunk in', because I've been feeling like this for a while now.
I just don't think high school was my scene. Hello world.
Third Eye Blind - Jumper
I wish you would step back from that ledge my friend
You could cut ties with all the lies that you've been living in
And if you do not want to see me again I would understand
I would understand
The angry boy a bit too insane
Icing over a secret pain
You know you don't belong
Youre the first to fight
Youre way too loud
Youre the flash of light on a burial shroud
I know somethings wrong
Well everyone I know has got a reason
To say put the past away
I wish you would step back from that ledge my friend
You could cut ties with all the lies that youve been living in
And if you do not want to see me again I would understand
I would understand
Well hes on the table and hes gone to code
And I do not think anyone knows
What theyre doing here
And your friends have left you
Youve been dismissed
I never thought it would come to this
And I, I want you to know
Everyones got to face down the demons
Maybe today
You could put the past away
Wednesday, 19 September 2007
When I was 8 I wanted to be a paleontologist.
Like that life defining moment when you can turn the lights on without standing on your tip toes. Like that life defining moment when you first did your own shoelaces.
I have recently experienced another one of these life defining moments. The one where friendships are put to the test and the people you most expected to be there for you, were the first ones to bolt.
I don't know what hurts more. The fact that they didn't mean to hurt me. Or the fact that it came naturally to them.
And yet, I still have the strength to say "It's okay". Because like the paleontologist sifting through dirt, this experience has revealed to me the friendships actually worth their weight in gold, or should I say skeletal remains, or is that fossil traces? … you know what I mean!
So to all the people who supported me over the past few days: THANKYOU! THANKYOU! THANKYOU! You all know who you are.
I have recently experienced another one of these life defining moments. The one where friendships are put to the test and the people you most expected to be there for you, were the first ones to bolt.
I don't know what hurts more. The fact that they didn't mean to hurt me. Or the fact that it came naturally to them.
And yet, I still have the strength to say "It's okay". Because like the paleontologist sifting through dirt, this experience has revealed to me the friendships actually worth their weight in gold, or should I say skeletal remains, or is that fossil traces? … you know what I mean!
So to all the people who supported me over the past few days: THANKYOU! THANKYOU! THANKYOU! You all know who you are.
Monday, 17 September 2007
Ode to Old
Without history there would be no such thing as mystery: it casts shadows in broad daylight that cannot be seen; and even when you're grasping it in the palm of your hand - you can never really hold all of it.
Growing up, my first dictionary was a battered old thing. The edges were worn, the paper was creased, the pages were yellowed and the cover was fading. I don't know where it came from, my whole life it was just there. Even my parents couldn't comfort me with an explanation. It looked less like something you'd find in Angus & Robertson, Borders and Dymocks – and more like something you'd find on the bookshelf of a haunted castle.
Adding to this already stoic quality, the first page bore the words 'This book belongs to Amelia Butler'. The words were of an untamed, messy quality – kind of like mine at that age.
The name haunts me – and yet only a part of me wants to know who Amelia Butler is. The rest of me is addicted to the mystery. And I think this is what gave birth to my fascination with op-shopping.
Where other people see smelly, cheap old things – I see beautiful vintage just waiting to be bought, begging me to add my own history. And to think, some of these things have probably been around longer than I have been alive.
I love knowing that I can never really own the old books, jewellery, clothing or handbags that I buy. Rather, I am sharing it with the ones that came before me, and the ones that will hopefully come after. I feel connected to the past through strangers who share my taste.
I am lucky to have a friend who shares in my sentiment, and we have vowed not to make the same mistake of our mothers by throwing old stuff away. Now, or should I say later, our kids will be the coolest!
If the best things are life are free, op-shopping comes second, with capitalism in third place.
Growing up, my first dictionary was a battered old thing. The edges were worn, the paper was creased, the pages were yellowed and the cover was fading. I don't know where it came from, my whole life it was just there. Even my parents couldn't comfort me with an explanation. It looked less like something you'd find in Angus & Robertson, Borders and Dymocks – and more like something you'd find on the bookshelf of a haunted castle.
Adding to this already stoic quality, the first page bore the words 'This book belongs to Amelia Butler'. The words were of an untamed, messy quality – kind of like mine at that age.
The name haunts me – and yet only a part of me wants to know who Amelia Butler is. The rest of me is addicted to the mystery. And I think this is what gave birth to my fascination with op-shopping.
Where other people see smelly, cheap old things – I see beautiful vintage just waiting to be bought, begging me to add my own history. And to think, some of these things have probably been around longer than I have been alive.
I love knowing that I can never really own the old books, jewellery, clothing or handbags that I buy. Rather, I am sharing it with the ones that came before me, and the ones that will hopefully come after. I feel connected to the past through strangers who share my taste.
I am lucky to have a friend who shares in my sentiment, and we have vowed not to make the same mistake of our mothers by throwing old stuff away. Now, or should I say later, our kids will be the coolest!
If the best things are life are free, op-shopping comes second, with capitalism in third place.
Wednesday, 5 September 2007
Long Term Monogamy vs. Short Term Polygamy
So like, here I am writing from my pre-birthday present – THE Macbook. Thanks Mum. I feel so Carrie Bradshaw – with relationship dilemmas to match.
For me, my first long term relationship signified a personal 'coming of age'. I learned that with love comes an element of surrender. I experienced how it felt to be a part of someone else's life, so much that I even have my own spot at his family dinner table. Moreover, I also know how it feels to slip into the routine of things. When things stop being spontaneous, is one supposed to feel a sense of security – or is it an indication that the relationship has developed into a habit harder to break than your thumb sucking, nose picking and bed wetting days put together?
In one of those rare occasions where I watch a movie from start to finish, a particular line from Kinsey (2004) burned itself into my memory. It made the point that the only absolute truth concerning sexually producing creatures is that man + woman = baby. Anything other than that – including homosexuality and bisexuality is relative. Therefore making relationship etiquette and 'normal' sexual practices a socially - not universally constructed ideal.
From a scientific perspective, we're supposed to lose interest and/or attraction in our significant other after about nine months – just enough time to bear a child. Our body reduces the release of a feel good chemical, serotinin. Not feeling the butterflies anymore? That's probably why. Coincidence? I think not. Perhaps humanity's primal penchant for sexual satisfaction, via numerous sexual partners is only beginning to be recognised, practiced and normalised through media portrayal; accommodating the rise for such shows as Sex & the City, Californication, and how could I forget? Brokeback Mountain.
Long term? For me, it's just a label. Sometimes a couple that just got together are better suited than the pair bordering on three years. So whether you're a fornicator or saving it till marriage, whether you've mastered the art of monogamy or addicted to the exhilaration of polygamy – who's to criticise? If enough people do something, does that make it normal?
I believe that relationships should be rejuvenating and challenging, with an element of spontaneity; which I take as signs of growth, maturity and stickability (ability to stick together) against different pressures. And until it starts feeling more like a chore and less like a roller coaster with its ups and downs, will I consider setting south with the butterflies.
For me, my first long term relationship signified a personal 'coming of age'. I learned that with love comes an element of surrender. I experienced how it felt to be a part of someone else's life, so much that I even have my own spot at his family dinner table. Moreover, I also know how it feels to slip into the routine of things. When things stop being spontaneous, is one supposed to feel a sense of security – or is it an indication that the relationship has developed into a habit harder to break than your thumb sucking, nose picking and bed wetting days put together?
In one of those rare occasions where I watch a movie from start to finish, a particular line from Kinsey (2004) burned itself into my memory. It made the point that the only absolute truth concerning sexually producing creatures is that man + woman = baby. Anything other than that – including homosexuality and bisexuality is relative. Therefore making relationship etiquette and 'normal' sexual practices a socially - not universally constructed ideal.
From a scientific perspective, we're supposed to lose interest and/or attraction in our significant other after about nine months – just enough time to bear a child. Our body reduces the release of a feel good chemical, serotinin. Not feeling the butterflies anymore? That's probably why. Coincidence? I think not. Perhaps humanity's primal penchant for sexual satisfaction, via numerous sexual partners is only beginning to be recognised, practiced and normalised through media portrayal; accommodating the rise for such shows as Sex & the City, Californication, and how could I forget? Brokeback Mountain.
Long term? For me, it's just a label. Sometimes a couple that just got together are better suited than the pair bordering on three years. So whether you're a fornicator or saving it till marriage, whether you've mastered the art of monogamy or addicted to the exhilaration of polygamy – who's to criticise? If enough people do something, does that make it normal?
I believe that relationships should be rejuvenating and challenging, with an element of spontaneity; which I take as signs of growth, maturity and stickability (ability to stick together) against different pressures. And until it starts feeling more like a chore and less like a roller coaster with its ups and downs, will I consider setting south with the butterflies.
Thursday, 16 August 2007
Give and Take
Both optimists and pessimists contribute to our society. The optimist invents the aeroplane and the pessimist the parachute - Gil Stern
I love the dynamics between my group of girlfriends, because we're bonded less by what we share in common and more by the things that set us apart. Some of us have loved every boyfriend we've ever had, some of us are loving for the first time, and some us have yet to love. While some of us have planned wedding days, children's names and dream homes with our significant other - some of us have taken a vow of chastity against it. As you can see, you have your mix of femme-fatales and femme-inists.
In confronting them with a relationship dilemma, I can predict who will tell me that the fat lady is singing, and who will tell me it's only the intermission.
Gabrielle* came down from Perth to Sydney to live for a few years. During that time she met Adam*. Every day of their relationship brought them a day closer to her due departure for Perth. Deciding against a break up due to circumstances beyond their control and the pangs of a long distance relationship; it was decided that Adam would leave his family, his friends, everything he had ever known - and go with her.
Flabbergasted by the news, I was left speechless. And the words that did eventually surface were not all the optimistic:
ME: I could never do that. I'm too selfish.
BF: Ok. I'll talk to you later selfish girl.
ME: laughs. Hey! You wouldn't do that for me either.
BF: Yeah, I know.
My boyfriends honesty comforted more than offended me; because although the degree of our love did not meet that of Gabrielle and Adam, ours was just as mutual. And that's what matters.
Some people are just naturally more giving than others. Some people are just naturally more taking than others.
Have you ever seen two people accidentally approach the end of a line at the same time? Only to watch them spend ten minutes insisting that the other person go ahead? Or maybe you witnessed a debacle of two people claiming to have been there first.
Well at the end of the day it doesn't matter who's doing more of the giving and taking - as long as Adam's need to give is balanced with Gabrielle's need to take.
Monday, 6 August 2007
Black Cat Killed the Curiosity
I was never scared of clowns. I loved them.
I don't believe in ghosts or monsters. I believe in the power of imagination.
I don't have a fear of heights. I want to go skydiving.
I think sharp shoots of pain are fun. You name it: needles, piercings, waxing and stitches. I love them.
I walk under ladders and in between double poled road signs, I think black cats are equal to white cats, and to me Friday the 13th is good as any other day.
For these, people might call me brave (maybe even so far as stupid). But I have a confession: I fear people. I fear my family. I fear my friends. And I probably fear you.
Why? Because it's mortal, tangible, visible creatures like you that have the most ability to hurt me, and each other.
I fear betrayal, only people like you can do that to me. I fear being jealous of other people; because I indicate to myself that I am not being grateful for what I do have. I fear loss: of trust and of respect.
You can have as many fears as you want. But I've learnt that after seeing a black cat and winding up abducted by aliens… after walking under a ladder to find a zombie waiting for you on the other side… after encountering a giant moth and having a sook…
Make sure you have people, or maybe just one person who's sure to either
(a) save you, or
(b) comfort you after you've saved yourself
They're better than band aids, Panadols and cough syrup put together.
P.S. Yes, I am dreadfully scared of moths!
I don't believe in ghosts or monsters. I believe in the power of imagination.
I don't have a fear of heights. I want to go skydiving.
I think sharp shoots of pain are fun. You name it: needles, piercings, waxing and stitches. I love them.
I walk under ladders and in between double poled road signs, I think black cats are equal to white cats, and to me Friday the 13th is good as any other day.
For these, people might call me brave (maybe even so far as stupid). But I have a confession: I fear people. I fear my family. I fear my friends. And I probably fear you.
Why? Because it's mortal, tangible, visible creatures like you that have the most ability to hurt me, and each other.
I fear betrayal, only people like you can do that to me. I fear being jealous of other people; because I indicate to myself that I am not being grateful for what I do have. I fear loss: of trust and of respect.
You can have as many fears as you want. But I've learnt that after seeing a black cat and winding up abducted by aliens… after walking under a ladder to find a zombie waiting for you on the other side… after encountering a giant moth and having a sook…
Make sure you have people, or maybe just one person who's sure to either
(a) save you, or
(b) comfort you after you've saved yourself
They're better than band aids, Panadols and cough syrup put together.
P.S. Yes, I am dreadfully scared of moths!
Friday, 13 July 2007
Four seasons of reasons
People come into our lives; some for a reason, some for a season and some for a lifetime… it is important to know the difference - Linda Oprica
I've comforted enough friends after fallouts with their ex boyfriend, ex girlfriend or ex best friend to tire of a certain excuse.
'If you know you deserve better, then why are you still with him?'
'Because we've been through so much together'
'If you know she's manipulating you then why do you put up with it?'
'Because we've been through so much together'
'If you don't love him then why are you still with him?'
'Because we've been through so much together'
So you get the drift - but I get the tidal wave. Is it just me, or was I sleeping under a rock when it became an unspoken rule that
Thou shall put up with people and their shite if 365 suns hath set.
If you think you're the only one suffering mistreatment, think again. As supportive friends, we suffer with you. It hurts us to see that someone we love can't stand on their own two feet, and use them to walk away. A sane person wouldn't jump in a pool of piranhas, and nor would a sane person allow someone to drain them mentally, emotionally and spiritually. Just because he/she has been doing it for the past year doesn't mean that it 'might as well' keep going for more.
Some people hoard rubbish, some people hoard people. Just because you've escaped the headlines on A Current Affair and Today Tonight, doesn't make you any better than they are. So before you ask yourself why people suffering from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder hoard broken furniture, food scraps and old newspapers - what kind of skeletons are you hiding in your closet?
Letting go of someone does not make you a user-abuser. It's realising that some relationships weren't meant to last forever. Sometimes the best gift anyone can give you is a lesson - and not the hanging around.
Thankyou to my primary school friend Jessica Tearal, who taught me in kindergarten that you're allowed to play with the people in year two, and that your best friend can also be a boy. Thankyou to Emma Grabowski who gave me the opportunity of going on a holiday to Terrigal, and the memory of mastering a dance routine from Bring It On. Thankyou to Brooke Clarke who continually reminded me that I was skinny - no matter how fat I thought I was in year eight, who showed me how interesting the deaf community can be, and the memory of buying identical glittery gypsy tops of a different colour from Supre. Thankyou to Orathine Gaybian (I forgot your real last name) who taught me that timing can determine everything. I no longer, or barely talk to all of these people.
Who remembers doing clay work back in art class? I remember my teacher telling me that over working the clay can cause it to become 'tired'. There comes a point when it will crack in places you try to smooth down, no matter how much water you add. A good artist knows when to stop playing with the same piece of clay and move on. The same goes for people.
Friday, 6 July 2007
Celebrate Singledom
I love writing. But it has its limitations. If words could say it all, there would be no need for art, no need for music. It could be the crescendo or diminuendo of a song, a particular drum line, the syncopation of a jazz beat… that tug at our heartstrings and bring to life a montage of graveyard memories; with a movie like quality, and yet recognised as our own. Yet the songs that conjure up such memories are proof that just because we buried them, doesn't mean they're dead.
Take the song All My Life by KC and JoJo. It reminds me of those teeny bopper relationships back in junior high school. All my life I prayed for someone like you. And I thank God that I finally found you. At this stage the boys were just sprouting their first underarm hairs, and the girls were still giggling about the pros and cons of tampons. I think that for the sake of adolescence, someone should compose a rendition titled All My Infancy.
Then I have the songs that remind me of ex/boyfriends and their ex girlfriends. Just because the song was ruined by you and your failed relationship with her, why should I stop belting it out on karaoke, as I sing in the shower, as I walk around the house looking for the remote? And that's when I promised myself that come future relationships, I will not deprive my partner the joy of singing randomly. Because to speak of it would give the song an importance that it should no longer have.
You know you've moved on when you can listen to the song without setting fire to the stereo, bash your head against the wall, or dart to the other side of the world. So before deeming yourself ready for a new relationship and burying the old one (and the songs associated) - please make sure it's dead. Because new girlfriends don't appreciate zombies calling you in the middle of the night, bawling their eyes out claiming they still love you.
I've heard of boyfriends that refuse to have their girlfriends listen to Irreplaceable by Beyonce. Are you that insecure that she'll gain the confidence to leave you? It speaks volumes about the trust of your relationship, sorry - I mean relationSHIT.
So you get my point. But I bring this up because listening to Never Again by Kelly Clarkson made me wonder why songs like that aren't released just when I need them most. It's just my luck that my breaks up periods are filled with the chart release of lovey dovey anthems. Hence, I struggled during my Seven Stages of Grief - especially when it came to the Anger stage.
So not to miss out on an important life experience, (the one where you build a strong connection between break up experience and Australian music chart) would you believe that I considered breaking up with my boyfriend? As I considered myself a lunatic over the next couple of days, I found comfort in a statistic while listening to the radio:
After listening to a song, 1 in 10 people surveyed ended their current relationship.
And you know what I thought? Good. On. Them. I'm sure that it was not the catchy tune that caused them to break up with their partner, but because the song externalised everything that was already on their mind.
Maybe I was taking Nelly Furtado's All Good Things too personally or too literally - the line 'lovers to friends, why do all good things come to an end?' angering me. What if they're better off as friends anyway? What if the guy was violent? What if the girl didn't appreciate him?
Upon bumping into old friends and inquiring about their love life, my immediate response to the news of a break up was always 'Awww' - purely because I didn't know any other way to react. Why aren't we congratulated for ending relationSHITS with Queen Bitch or Sir-Sex-A-Lot? Why are break ups treated as a tragedy? Surely half of them should be the cause for celebration.
So, today I am turning over a new leaf. And to anyone whose experienced a recent break up, or embracing singledom with open arms…
CONGRATULATIONS!
Take the song All My Life by KC and JoJo. It reminds me of those teeny bopper relationships back in junior high school. All my life I prayed for someone like you. And I thank God that I finally found you. At this stage the boys were just sprouting their first underarm hairs, and the girls were still giggling about the pros and cons of tampons. I think that for the sake of adolescence, someone should compose a rendition titled All My Infancy.
Then I have the songs that remind me of ex/boyfriends and their ex girlfriends. Just because the song was ruined by you and your failed relationship with her, why should I stop belting it out on karaoke, as I sing in the shower, as I walk around the house looking for the remote? And that's when I promised myself that come future relationships, I will not deprive my partner the joy of singing randomly. Because to speak of it would give the song an importance that it should no longer have.
You know you've moved on when you can listen to the song without setting fire to the stereo, bash your head against the wall, or dart to the other side of the world. So before deeming yourself ready for a new relationship and burying the old one (and the songs associated) - please make sure it's dead. Because new girlfriends don't appreciate zombies calling you in the middle of the night, bawling their eyes out claiming they still love you.
I've heard of boyfriends that refuse to have their girlfriends listen to Irreplaceable by Beyonce. Are you that insecure that she'll gain the confidence to leave you? It speaks volumes about the trust of your relationship, sorry - I mean relationSHIT.
So you get my point. But I bring this up because listening to Never Again by Kelly Clarkson made me wonder why songs like that aren't released just when I need them most. It's just my luck that my breaks up periods are filled with the chart release of lovey dovey anthems. Hence, I struggled during my Seven Stages of Grief - especially when it came to the Anger stage.
So not to miss out on an important life experience, (the one where you build a strong connection between break up experience and Australian music chart) would you believe that I considered breaking up with my boyfriend? As I considered myself a lunatic over the next couple of days, I found comfort in a statistic while listening to the radio:
After listening to a song, 1 in 10 people surveyed ended their current relationship.
And you know what I thought? Good. On. Them. I'm sure that it was not the catchy tune that caused them to break up with their partner, but because the song externalised everything that was already on their mind.
Maybe I was taking Nelly Furtado's All Good Things too personally or too literally - the line 'lovers to friends, why do all good things come to an end?' angering me. What if they're better off as friends anyway? What if the guy was violent? What if the girl didn't appreciate him?
Upon bumping into old friends and inquiring about their love life, my immediate response to the news of a break up was always 'Awww' - purely because I didn't know any other way to react. Why aren't we congratulated for ending relationSHITS with Queen Bitch or Sir-Sex-A-Lot? Why are break ups treated as a tragedy? Surely half of them should be the cause for celebration.
So, today I am turning over a new leaf. And to anyone whose experienced a recent break up, or embracing singledom with open arms…
CONGRATULATIONS!
Tuesday, 19 June 2007
Self validation
SINCE WHEN did it become acceptable for bright, young girls to portray themselves so proudly in a negative light?
Let's get one embarrassing fact out of the way. We're all suckers for Myspace. Even the people who don't have an account, either…
* had one and deleted it
* use a friend's password to get in
* restrict themselves to browsing public profiles
Is it just me, or is there a growing trend of girls degrading themselves conceitedly on Myspace profiles? Things such as…
"I'm a quarter Filo, half Spanish, an eighth German, two thirds of one sixteenth Chinese…half a fifth Peurto Rican"
(If only you spent half as much energy doing your maths homework, as you do concocting a very creative family history. You've just redefined the term lowest common denominator in my books!)
"I enjoy the simple things in life; by the way here's my wish list…
$43789658643 Tsubi frying pan… $4534576 Gucci toothpaste…"
(I think the word you were looking for is materialistic!)
"I love God… so who's ready to get Smashed at Joe's 21st on Saturday night, anyone know where I can get fake ID's?"
(Which God? I'm sure the other lowest common denominators are just dying to know!)
"Ewww I'm so ugly!"
(Yep, that explains why you've posted forty photographs of yourself, thirty nine with cleavage. Nice job!)
It seems as though self respect was lost somewhere between logging in and personalising one's profile for the first time. Who are they trying to please? Claiming to be the 'life of the party' and 'queen of the dance floor' doesn't stand too firmly when there's another million girls declaring the same title. And if so, my dream scenario would be hosting 'The Annual Life of the Party and Queen of the Dance Floor Party' – and watch all these female ego maniacs fight for attention with one another.
And then there are the people who literally name their friends like a shopping list, with a little dedication to add some sense of credibility. There's a girl I know. Let's name her Tammie*. She was a few grades above me. She was polite and shy – to the extent that I had never seen her face produce more than three facial expressions. That was then. Now she hangs around party goers, clubbers, luvos, drinkers, smokers, druggers. Which makes me wonder, was she always like that, and just dominated by other girls in her group? Or has Tammie transformed herself, and befriended herself with people who don't know the girl she was, or secretly is? What does it say about someone's loyalty to their new best friend of two weeks, having recently forsaken their high school bestie of six years?
After our clubbing years are over; and by the time our grandkids have managed to produce a style of unheard of music; by the time wrinkles have gotten the best of us; after realising that Insight doesn't stock sleeping gowns for the elderly…
While the nerds have billion dollar companies, investment homes, and a good credit history - let me ask you this: where will you be?
Still chasing for the latest runway trends? Still partying? I wonder if the young ones would approve of Piss-Ups-For-Pensions.
I believe that for every criticism, the individual is compensating for at least two insecurities of their own. I am not criticising – but merely sharing observations. I'm not the dance floor diva, and I'm not the self confessed bitch… so someone's got to be the observant wallflower, right? And in this instance, that person is me.
For all you know, panning people on Myspace is the only thing that gets me through my struggle for identity – wanting to go to the very parties that the lowest common denominators go to, and angry at myself for lacking the willpower to stop reading eight hundred page novels.
Let's get one embarrassing fact out of the way. We're all suckers for Myspace. Even the people who don't have an account, either…
* had one and deleted it
* use a friend's password to get in
* restrict themselves to browsing public profiles
Is it just me, or is there a growing trend of girls degrading themselves conceitedly on Myspace profiles? Things such as…
"I'm a quarter Filo, half Spanish, an eighth German, two thirds of one sixteenth Chinese…half a fifth Peurto Rican"
(If only you spent half as much energy doing your maths homework, as you do concocting a very creative family history. You've just redefined the term lowest common denominator in my books!)
"I enjoy the simple things in life; by the way here's my wish list…
$43789658643 Tsubi frying pan… $4534576 Gucci toothpaste…"
(I think the word you were looking for is materialistic!)
"I love God… so who's ready to get Smashed at Joe's 21st on Saturday night, anyone know where I can get fake ID's?"
(Which God? I'm sure the other lowest common denominators are just dying to know!)
"Ewww I'm so ugly!"
(Yep, that explains why you've posted forty photographs of yourself, thirty nine with cleavage. Nice job!)
It seems as though self respect was lost somewhere between logging in and personalising one's profile for the first time. Who are they trying to please? Claiming to be the 'life of the party' and 'queen of the dance floor' doesn't stand too firmly when there's another million girls declaring the same title. And if so, my dream scenario would be hosting 'The Annual Life of the Party and Queen of the Dance Floor Party' – and watch all these female ego maniacs fight for attention with one another.
And then there are the people who literally name their friends like a shopping list, with a little dedication to add some sense of credibility. There's a girl I know. Let's name her Tammie*. She was a few grades above me. She was polite and shy – to the extent that I had never seen her face produce more than three facial expressions. That was then. Now she hangs around party goers, clubbers, luvos, drinkers, smokers, druggers. Which makes me wonder, was she always like that, and just dominated by other girls in her group? Or has Tammie transformed herself, and befriended herself with people who don't know the girl she was, or secretly is? What does it say about someone's loyalty to their new best friend of two weeks, having recently forsaken their high school bestie of six years?
After our clubbing years are over; and by the time our grandkids have managed to produce a style of unheard of music; by the time wrinkles have gotten the best of us; after realising that Insight doesn't stock sleeping gowns for the elderly…
While the nerds have billion dollar companies, investment homes, and a good credit history - let me ask you this: where will you be?
Still chasing for the latest runway trends? Still partying? I wonder if the young ones would approve of Piss-Ups-For-Pensions.
I believe that for every criticism, the individual is compensating for at least two insecurities of their own. I am not criticising – but merely sharing observations. I'm not the dance floor diva, and I'm not the self confessed bitch… so someone's got to be the observant wallflower, right? And in this instance, that person is me.
For all you know, panning people on Myspace is the only thing that gets me through my struggle for identity – wanting to go to the very parties that the lowest common denominators go to, and angry at myself for lacking the willpower to stop reading eight hundred page novels.
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