you and me could write a bad romance.

I'm not sure what it is but for some reason I only ever attract boys who aren't good for me.  By the same token I'm only ever attracted to boys I can never have; boys with girlfriends, boys with emotional baggage, boys with criminal records.

If I believed in all that "The Secret" hocus pocus, I could conclude that I'm getting back the result of what I give out.  I'm going to hope like hell that's not the case.  Not that my signal-reading skills are anything to go by, but I'm pretty sure I don't give out "I'm an emotional retard - please let me cheat on you or take your everything then change my mind".

I don't get what it is though.  I never like the good guys.  The good dependable guys that I'm supposed to want to build my forever with.

I think I just get bored too easily.  I need it to be dramatic or risky or exciting or I don't feel like it's real.  Something in my subconscious has decided it's just not worth my time if I'm not going home to cry myself to sleep.


It's like I only know how to flit between two extremes - silent agonising boredom complete with hay bales on one end and over-the-top crazy jerry springer drama at the other. Anything indecipherably between the two and I'm completely at a loss with what to do with myself.


I think my heart operates on a bit of a reverse-psychology basis.  I can't love him if he's good because that makes me a conformist.  It's too neat, too clean, too perfect.  Tell me he wants me back and I'm suddenly creeped out that he's too keen, too needy; worried that he'll smother me to death with affection.


But tell me I can't have him - that it won't work - that he doesn't even know I'm alive and suddenly I want him bad.


One of these days I will learn my lesson.  Promise. Til then it's a work in progress.


Lesson Sixteen: Know your worth. 

she's so dangeroussssss.

Sometimes when I look at certain people in my life, I wonder: why the hell am I friends with you?  I don't mean to be judgy (even though, clearly, I am) it's just that sometimes, when I see the things they do/ hear the things they say, I'm not sure who I want to stab more - myself or them.  I genuinely can't figure out which of us has changed - whether they've turned into completely socially-retarded selfish morons overnight or whether they were always that way and at some point along the road I just became numb to it?  If it's the latter, someone just plunged me into an ice bath (not unlike an Inception "kick") because I am officially awake and I don't like what I see.

I get that it's kind of a self-preservation/ survival tactic type thing to be a strong, independent, no-nonsense woman but it's a fine line between that and just being a downright b*tch.  I'm okay with strong.  Sassy I can even admire.  But I will never understand why people go out of their way to hurt each other.  While I am often impressed by the lengths some girls (or people in general) will go to simply to feel better about themselves at someone else's expense, mainly it's uncalled for and juvenile.  More than that it's just not classy.  

Reckon it's time for some friendship re-thinks. Social purges. Life deletion.


Lesson Fifteen : Treat others as you wish to be treated. Failing that, just stop being a dick. 

wasted days & wasted nights.

I wrote this a couple of weeks ago after a particularly drunken venture.  I didn't post it at the time because I was (of course) curled in a ball on my floor waiting for the room to stop spinning and hating my life.  
I read it the other night as I was getting ready and as a result got back into my pyjamas and went to sleep early.  
Let's hope it has a long-lasting effect...
 
My head is pounding.  I have random bruises everywhere, my throat feels like I swallowed razor blades and I'm almost convinced I was beaten in the lower back by tiny ninja fists in my sleep. 

Any kid between 18 (16 if you're one of those eager types) and 23 knows that means I went out last night but for anyone outside of that range who has forgotten what this feels like, is in denial about their own alcoholic heyday or is of the opinion that generation Y is a lot worse than they were, these are classic symptoms of a hangover.

It always starts the same.

It's someone's birthday - "I don't usually go out but tonight I have to" - Just one drink okay? I'll be home early.

Lies, lies, lies.

The night always starts with "we'll just go out for a little bit" and typically ends in "I think I'm going to be sick".

Even my recovery session is predictable; I take the legal limit of pain killers that I'm allowed for the day, drink several litres of water, pretend to look like I'm doing something useful so Mum won't look at me with her "I told you so" eyes while feeling sorry for myself and then I make myself a promise that this is the last time.

Which is what I said last time.

And also the time before that.
So what is it that keeps us coming back?  Because the night's analysis always concludes that the club was gross, the music lame, the boys unimpressive and my new outfit wasted on yet another forgettable night.
But surely, it must be something.  Or are we just gluttons for punishment?  Personally, I think we're addicted to the lie of it all.  The hope that tonight will erase the week's pain, heartbreak, disappointment.  That tonight will make us forget everything that happened before it. 

Wrong again.

From experience I've learned not only does the night out do nothing of the sort, it also tends to make things worse. In my drunken stupor I'm more likely to make a fool of myself railing against the injustices of my lot in life.  And in the morning all I have to show for it is a headache, an empty bank account and a feeling something akin to regret.

I've come to realise that my life is slowly spiralling into something reminiscent of an absolutely fabulous episode but less amusing sans the english accent. And despite the fresh promises I make myself as I get ready each time, every post-big-night-out I die a little inside.

I have to admit, I am slightly horrified that at 22 I no longer have the stamina or elasticity I had at 18.  In my glory days we'd go out three nights in a row, drink the bar clean each time and still get up for class at 8am.  Now if I venture into the city on a Friday, I'm still hating my life come Tuesday. By Thursday I'm still promising myself my drinking days are over and then just when I'm starting to feel a little like my normal self, it's so-and-so's birthday all over again and I'm back to where I started.

My mum has always said that 'nothing good ever happens after 2am' and as much as I hate to admit it, I think she might be right.  Between 12 and 2 I'm having the time of my life. After that I'm throwing up in an alley way, crying in a potplant, reassuring her that the new girlfriend is ugly or doing something else I am sure to regret come morning.  Something else foolish that I hope my grandkids never find out about and blackmail me with. 

I am on a mission to change this pattern - to go home early while the night's still amazing - before it becomes just another link in my chain of regret.

I'll let you know how it goes.

For now though, unsurprisingly, today's lesson is an easy one. 

Lesson Fourteen:  Nothing good ever happens after 2am.

Wish me luck!
Have a great week xx

homeward bound.

It has been a rough couple of weeks so I'm off to the homeland to get some sun.  After five law exams, being cooped up in the library squished between rows of dusty old books no-one will ever read and people who refuse to shower regularly, I need it.  I plan to use this time for reflection and detoxing.  To achieve this I'm going to commit to a much better diet: fish, fresh fruit, vegies and lots of water (all the things I aim to eat at home but always find better tasting, sugary and carb-loaded alternatives for).  I might even channel some 80's Olivia Newton John and get physical  by going for a run along the sea wall every morning, climbing the highest mountain a few times, or by  swimming every single day.
Failing that I might just lie on the beach and drink until life makes sense again.
Enjoy your week. 
xx

have no regrets; make no apologies.

Sometimes I feel like this life wasn't meant for me.  Granted, that thought usually strikes at about 4am when I've lost all my faith in humanity because I'm 1000 words short on my essay or I'm trying to teach myself legal principles because I didn't go to class but you get the point.

Sometimes it just makes me wonder - how powerful one single moment can be to move you from one path to the next.  What is it about my yesterday that brought me to this tomorrow?  And is there a way back?  A way to undo this reality and replace it with a different one?

I mean I get it.  After high school I made sensible choices; ones that some people aren't lucky enough to even consider.  I should be grateful.  And I am - really.  I just wonder where I would be - who I would be - if I'd done things differently.  If I'd been brave enough to say then what I feel now, I wonder what my forever would have been like.

Because in my daydreams I'm flatting in 1960s Soho with chain-smoking artists wearing my black beret and hippy scarf and jewellery I handmade out of bits of melted-down cutlery, staging protests against the man through art and poetry, oozing rebellion from my every pore.

I always wanted to be the tortured soul who wrote amazingly painful lyrics and painted deep emotional water colours kinda like Monet's "Water Lilies" except dark and broody.  Imagine my dismay when I found I completely lack any remote artistic or musical talent so thus ends that dream. Woe is me.

For now I guess I'm still figuring it all out but I hope when I get there I'll be satisfied I didn't move mountains only to sell myself short.


Lesson Thirteen: Be brave. Be bold. Be you.
xx

stupid cupid stop picking on me.

How do you get to contentment without having to go through the awkwardness of dating?  I'm not sure if I'm just missing the gene that makes you want to embark on that whole expedition or if I'm just lazy but quite frankly, it’s exhausting.  The little white lies and the mind-games that no-one ever wins and the unspoken codes that you're not supposed to violate and the invisible scorecard you're marking his qualities up against the minute he opens your door; memorising every detail, hoping he'll come across good enough in the compulsory post-date debrief with the girls.

It's kind of like a test you can't study for but worse because you never know how you did or if you're even on the right track. In fact, I'm tired just thinking about it. And to make it worse, the whole time you're having this inner monologue - about whether or not you should say the funny thing that just popped into your head in case he thinks you're weird coz you're talking to yourself - you're supposed to be effortlessly witty and charming and seductive all at once.

Am I the only one who obviously slept right through "Human Interactions: Romantic Relationships 101" at birth?   Because most other people seem to get through it with relative ease and some even manage to do it with enviable flair. But me? I'm still trying to figure out where the rules are written. The ones that say I'm supposed to be his everything without losing 'me' in the process. The unwritten code of conduct that tells you to smile at his jokes, flit effortlessly between intelligence and naivete and still toe the line of enthusiasm without falling into an abyss of desperation.

It's a complicated little dance that everyone else seems to know the steps to - the 'making less of things so you don’t seem petty'.  The 'making more of things so he seems impressive'.  Trying to reach that happy medium of cool and vulnerable.  So that it doesn’t look like you need a man.  Or even that you want  one.  Just that he should work hard if he wants to be yours.  All that seems to be inbuilt in the average person but mostly, it just grates on me.

I'm hoping some day I'll have this whole game figured out.
Otherwise, I had better get to liking cats.

Lesson Twelve: Play to win.

Have a lovely week. xx

i feel pretty. oh so pretty.

When I see people wearing clothes that don't fit on really important days - weddings, 21st birthdays, fridays - I always ask myself one question:   


don't you have anyone in your life who loves you?  

 My mother would never let me leave the house in half the atrocities I see violating the town strip at 3am on a Sunday morning and yet for some reason, you in your ten-sizes-too-small excuse for a town dress looking akin to 'champagne-strangled ham' and your similarly clad chronies are bumping and grinding on the dancefloor, sneering down your nose at me like I'm the weird one.

To be fair though, it's possible that in my judging, maybe I missed something.  Perhaps you are the only person in your family gifted with sight?  Or perhaps you belong to that culture that believes mirrors steal a part of your soul?  Or perhaps you wear a giant onesie over your ensemble and then change on the way to the nightclub?

Whatever it is I hope one day we find a cure for these avoidable crimes & stop allowing the ones we love to fool themselves into making fools of themselves.  Because it really isn't about being size zero with legs for days and a million dollar wardrobe.  I think it's just about realising not every trend is for everyone - that how you feel is not synonymous with what they think is cool - that it's okay to just be you.

My loved ones never hesitate to let me know when I'm making a real dick of myself and though it is sometimes hard to hear, I'm always thankful in hindsight. I hope you have someone who loves you just as much.

Lesson Eleven: Real love means telling the truth.
 

"up to?": unravelling centuries of courting tradition in two words or less.

I am not a fan of mass texts. Similarly, I am not a fan of email forwards.
In fact, I am not a fan of any type of communication that isn't personally addressed to me for a specific and succinct purpose.

I, for example, would never text someone - let alone my entire cellphone contacts list - "up to?" motivated by boredom, in a bid to start conversation. I would also never initiate this conversation at 3am (unless I'm drunk, then obviously all bets are off) and expect a reply that doesn't start with a swear word and end in 'off'.

It's not that I think I'm too cool - I do not suffer from delusions that I am above the basic social practices of wider society. I just don't get it. Why do you care what I'm doing when I never see you, we rarely talk and to be honest, I really don't care what you're doing? It's completely beyond me that this is how you would choose to spend your free time (as opposed to anonymously ranting to your imaginary fanbase via blogger - point taken).

So you can imagine how disgruntled I am at the prospect of text messages being used as invites for something less than innocent. Talk about eliminating all remnants of chivalry and common decency. Not too long ago, before cellphone use was socially mandatory, the humble 'up to' text could have a breadth of meanings: What are you doing? Wanna hang out? Wanna get some food? Let's do something.

Social evolution however has seen it translated in many cases into meaning "Let's do something I'm too lazy to make an effort to have a relationship with you for" or in plain English as the booty call of the 00's - "Let's have sex". But how did we get from there to here? How did something so completely innocent become something so completely...not?

I mean I realise that this new tech era has encouraged communication that is all about efficacy and minimum effort but quite frankly I'm offended by it. As any girl who's ever known a boy with a cellphone knows, "Up to?" does not just mean "Hi what are you doing?" Nor does it mean "This is a sign that I'm thinking about you" as so many girls like to tell themselves. It's not even really a conversation starter anymore. As we've found (through extensive research) this phrase has now become synonymous with "I'm bored and probably drunk, if you're alone want to come over?"

Even less flattering is the mass 'up to' commonly received in the early hours of Sunday morning in the dying embers of a boys drink up at so-and-so's house and directed to any and all female members of their cellular phone book.

I'm not sure what kind of girl is dumb enough to respond to these messages but I know for a fact there are those who do. And while I'm all for the power of free choice, you can't answer an 'up to?' and then act surprised that all he wants from you is exactly what you just gave him. I dunno, I guess I'm just more for boys showing at least a little effort when it comes to the romantic sector of my life. I know it's going a little far to expect you to send a letter to my father (by horse, naturally) asking permission to call on me but surely a phone call at a decent hour or a trip to the movies hasn't become completely obsolete yet?  
If it has I'm joining the convent tomorrow.

Lesson Ten:  Show some pride.

Happy Sunday x

femme fatale.

I watched the movie 'Obsessed' the other night. If you don't know it I wouldn't bother looking it up. It was pretty intense to say the very least. The basic storyline is that a slutty little office temp falls for a handsome married guy and because he's happily married (let's take note that it is in this case to Beyonce which I personally think makes a difference here) and when he's not having a bar of it she creates an affair in her head and goes all Fatal Attraction stalker on him, breaking into his home, wearing his clothes, sending herself flowers and casually cradling his young child while he's out etc.

Though I admired her unwavering commitment to the cause, she really started to annoy me after awhile. I hate to sound perverted but I got a sick kind of satisfaction when she ended up smooshed between the glass table and the chandelier.

It's all a little far fetched for everyday life but I did feel kinda sorry for the poor guy. Somehow I don't think it's because he has two gorgeous women throwing themselves at him. I think it might just be that he was too good looking to be in such a predicament. Between the crazy death threats and kidnappings and suicide attempts it got me thinking about relationships.

I enjoyed the fact that he remained completely faithful to his wife the entire time (because the temptress was mass pretty - played by actress Ali Larter) despite the obvious and somewhat aggressive temptation. These days, where 1 in 4 marriages ends in divorce and over 40% of these are due to infidelity, I liked the fact that his marriage vows still meant something to him - that he was willing to do whatever it took to protect them.

I think every girl wants a love like that. Maybe not to have it tested by a suicidal maniac with homicidal tendencies but the general idea of forever meaning forever with no lame excuses about temptation or mistakes.

It also made me wonder a little about the power of women. Now I am not, nor will I ever be a staunch bra-burning, man-hating feminist type but I really do believe being a woman is a very powerful thing Complicated? Yes. Heavy burdened? Yes.  But there is something - grace? power? humility? determination? pride? - bubbling under the surface of every woman that makes you think, her smile has a thousand meanings and that maybe this one means "If you keep doing that, I know where I'm going to hide your body".

Lesson Nine: Never assume.  Especially where women are concerned.

[Now go and say thank you to all the special women you love and hope never to get on the wrong side of. xx]

selling your soul to the book of face.

Sometimes I wish I'd never asked.

Sometimes knowing a little, is knowing too much.
And once you know something, there is no going back.

I think that's why I have such an antipathy to sites like Facebook - because they tell me all the things I never wanted to know before I even knew I didn't want to know them.

They tell me she had a baby - he's got a new girlfriend- they finally got married - things that don't necessarily impact my life anymore in any way whatsoever and yet here I am, clicking my way through your family holiday album learning all these things we'll never actually talk about in person - things I'll shelve away in the dark corners of my sub-conscious until I see you next when we'll both ask "how are you?" like we don't already know.

I must admit some of the things I learn are amusing. Some of the tidbits are often just day-makers and re-appear in text messages to my friends who I know will also appreciate the giggle. But mostly? I just want to click undo in my mind and go back to wondrous oblivion. It's much safer there; it's not filled with reminders that tell me to regret that I let you into my life, that I walked into yours, or that there are still even remnants of our paths colliding embedded forever in my conscience or alternatively, your facebook.

But as I've learnt, there are no erasers - no 'delete all' option - no way to get back the innocence that you offered up so freely for a taste of curiosity. Nothing to undo the new pain that comes with knowing too much.

I think the answer is simple. Maybe I should take five minutes before the next time to assess the consequences this decision might bring - big, bad or otherwise.

I should just say to myself - "Self, ten years - three months - hell; a week from now: Am I going to regret this?"

Lesson Eight: Make better choices.

Better living everyone. xx

growing pains.

Recently I turned 22. I always thought that was still pretty young.

Apparently not.

I used to think "So what are you up to these days?" was a genuine inquiry into how I'm doing. Again - I missed the day they explained it's actually a test.

I dread any conversation that begins with the above phrase because I never have anything remotely interesting to tell them and more often then not, it's a trick. It's a way for whatshername's mum to harass me in the supermarket so she can feel that little bit more smug about her angel offspring who has life plans and job offers and grown up stuff galore.

More and more I notice "Oh I'm still at uni" never really gets more than a polite "Oh I see..." and a swift but none-too-subtle subject change.

I always feel like they expect me to say something impressive and even I'm slightly disappointed when I give my answer and it's not.

I can't say I'm honestly surprised though. It doesn't sound all that interesting. I belong too a none-too-elite club of undecided twenty-somethings not old enough to command the workforce and not young enough to avoid it.

I never realised that my "figuring it out" phase had an expiry date and that sooner or later I would have to choose. It's more than that though - more than just being undecided - I feel disappointing. I'm just not sure who's expectations were bigger to start with - theirs or mine.

Though not a huge fan of the show, I did catch an episode of the ever vulgar Sex & the City the other day and in one of her ramblings, Carrie did actually make a point I identified with. She said -

“When you're young, your whole life is about the pursuit of fun. Then, you grow up and learn to be cautious. You could break a bone or a heart. You look before you leap and sometimes you don't leap at all because there's not always someone there to catch you. And in life, there's no safety net. When did it stop being fun and start being scary?”

I often wonder that.

It really does seem like at 18 the world is your oyster - all possibilities. All opportunities. All infinite hope.

Then at 21 it's a slightly smaller crustacean - not as tempting but still with a spark of determination that tomorrow you'll be amazing.

But after that? Most days you're not even the main event on the specials board. Even the #2 combo seems to have more on you. You're a disappointment because you're not completely decided on where you're going, how you're going to get there or why and in the end it seems like every decision you've made up til then has been the wrong one and no amount of justifying can take you back.

I just want to know where it's written that I was supposed to have it figured out by now? I mean, in some civilisations, going to university is the dream. Unfortunately not this one.

Okay the pity party stops here. I do realise that an undecided career path is hardly reason for a hunger strike but sometimes it really does feel all that hopeless.

I promise to be amazing somewhere along the line.
Just give me a minute more to figure it all out.

Lesson Seven: To be old and wise, you must first be young and stupid.

Let's enjoy it while it lasts. xx

it's raining.

"hold my heart, don't break it - it's yours."

I just got home from a much needed weekend away. When I spend a few days away from the city, I always return in a much better frame of mind: batteries recharged, soul replenished, sanity restored.

While I'm away (and often even when I'm at home), there's nothing I enjoy more than a bit of people-watching. I've lost count of the hours I have spent watching people; simply observing people as they go about their lives. My favourites are those I see in airports.

I like to imagine their life stories. The lonely cowboy catching a flight to New York to see the big city & maybe meet a lady. The pensioner knitting scarves while she waits for her flight to Sydney to see her youngest grandson graduate. The recent divorcee heading to Wellington to meet her internet lover, giggling like a schoolgirl full of nerves and untapped hope.

Of all the people I saw this weekend, two married couples on my flight stuck with me. The first was a young inter-racial couple. The other couple were in their early 70s at least. The younger couple were seated in front of the older couple and I sat directly across the aisle from them - watching, taking mental notes like a stalker, thinking things way too deep for so early on a Friday morning.

Both wives were obviously fraught with nerves at flying but what interested me was the way in which their respective husbands comforted them.

The younger man put his arm around his wife in an awkward side-hug as she drew her knees up to her chest and shook violently at takeoff. She spent the rest of the flight with her head in her hands, pale as a ghost while he patted her shoulder with one hand and continued to finish his crossword with the other.

The older man however, feeling his wife's discomfort as we began takeoff, held his wife’s hand tightly, looked directly into her eyes and smiled reassuringly. Almost immediately she visibly relaxed, returned his smile and gave his hand a squeeze.

After takeoff, the elderly woman opened her eyes and the couple shared a smile - one I was sure portrayed a lifetime of secrets - squeezed each other’s hands one last time and then went about their separate in-flight business.

She stared out the window peering through the fog at the mountainous landscape pointing out things that interested her along the way. He picked up a thick novel and read, silently nodding at his wife’s commentary in all the right places.

There was something comforting about the easy, unassuming silence they shared. Something about what they didn’t say that told me all I needed to know about their lives: that come what may they had found contentment with one another and themselves. That their life together had been built on solid foundations. That he could say "I'm here for you" by simply holding her hand. That she could reply "I'm thankful I have you" with a smile.

That their love had seen and endured many things and still passed freely in the spaces between them.

My grandparents had that. My parents have that.

I hope one day when I’m old and wrinkly, I have it too.

Lesson Six: Sometimes all you need is someone to hold your hand.

Enjoy your Sunday x

these songs of freedom.

As a matter of principle, I try not to like music that doesn't mean anything.

For me, it really isn't about escaping the labels of being conformist or mainstream. I just love what music does to you. It can make everything seem so much better. Or worse. It puts the feelings you weren't sure you had, into words that rhyme - what can be bad about that? Also, I mean I don't have flowers in my hair or a braided belt wrapped round my head or anything but I'm still a firm believer that music could change the world, man.

Jimi Hendrix once said that:

'Music doesn't lie. If there is something to be changed in this world, then it can only happen through music.'

In days gone by, music changed everything. It changed the way people thought about the world and their place in it. I wish it still had that capacity but somehow looking at the charts, I'm not convinced.

In those days music was the spirit of slaves, the protest to war, the way to get things done. Or undone.

That might be why I always feel guilty when I find myself unwittingly singing along to those Top Twenty pop hits on the radio. And why I have a secret playlist on my ipod filled with all the songs I'm too ashamed to admit I like - full of uninspiring lyrics haphazardly thrown together more for their rhyming potential rather than their meaning and set to a hauntingly catchy tune that I can't help but love.

Despite my secret indulgences, I do try and stay loyal to the cause (loving music that displays its purity as an art form, music that struggles against the man to define itself, music that means something).

It’s hard though. Sometimes you don’t want some lyrical genius to articulate your every thought. Or fear. Or regret. Sometimes it's not enough that a songwriter a million miles away is thinking what I'm thinking - that in these lyrics of a stranger echo the ramblings of my heart.

Sometimes you just want to forget and get lost in a string of ‘ooh ooh oohs’ and ‘baby baby babys’ so it doesn’t hurt so much.

Lesson Five: Where words fail; music speaks.

You can't hear it if you're not listening; turn it up & let it speak to you.

xx

i wanna be M(ad)E.

I'm watching MADE. Don't tell anyone because I'm pretty sure Dad didn't pay to fix my laptop so I could daydream while my essay sits untouched.

For those of you unaffected by the virus that is MTV, MADE tracks the physical and emotional transformations of American high school students on their quest to fulfill their innermost heartfelt and often surprising, dreams. This week's episode is about a girl who wants to be Made from the school skunk mascot into a stage goddess.

Yeah I'll let the visuals conjured up by that sentence sink in for a minute.

Anyway her Made coach (a beauty pageant-esque life size barbie doll) forces her to engage in all kinds of awkward social experiments - speed dating, eating lunch with the popular kids, wearing heels to school even though she's a 6 foot giant etc - but despite her good intentions, still leaves you questioning exactly what she'd know about being a social misfit.

In the end, old skunky gets her day in the sun with an underwhelming performance as a featured extra in the school play and in what I'm sure is a rigged vote, the ever coveted prom queen crown.

The episode closes with her getting her first kiss and proclaiming that prom was the best night of her life. Darkened school gym, streamers and a sea of pastel taffeta? Not exactly setting the bar very high but okay.

It did get me thinking though - as things often do. I couldn't help but feel a little disappointed in her new image, her new personality, her new life. While it's questionable how long after the show any of these life changes lasted, it did make me wonder about how much of her old self she got to keep. Whether any of those things which made her unique and interesting in the first place would survive the makeover aftermath. It just annoys me a little that they're not MADE until they toe the line of conformity.

I mean I enjoy the cringeworthiness of their fails as much as the next person, I'm just kind of humiliated for them that this is the extent they have to go to be comfortable in their own skin. That feeling like they're enough depends on whether or not other people approve of who they're pretending to be.

In the end, I'm kind of disheartened that the standard by which we judge their success relies on whether or not they fit into our prescribed categories of what's acceptable - normal - cool. In our eyes they don't 'win' unless they get the seal of approval from their generally cruel and unaccepting classmates and I can't help but wonder what kind of irreparable damage we do by condoning and then encouraging these kinds of attitudes.

Not to be overdramatic - some of them do indeed get the crown but it's just that they always seem a little less of themselves in the end. Like some of their fight is gone.

I just wish there was a way for them to be MADE without being broken first.

Lesson Four: Embrace your crazy.

xx

tell me what you want (what you really really want).

I'm a secret fan of all things passive-aggressive. It's too easy to say "fcuk you" and be done with it. I've always enjoyed the subliminal stabs in life because (unless they're as fluent in sarcasm as you are) the subject of your ridicule won't even know you're roasting them until you've slipped back into the shadows.

I think that might be why this anonymous blogging thing appeals to me. It's like my very own secret little 'eff you' to the wardens and moderators of my life - the self-appointed watchdogs who patrol the avenues of facebook and the like to update everyone at the next meeting that I went out on friday with X wearing Y and saw Z.

It did get me thinking though. Why is it never okay to just say what you really feel? To do what you want to get what you need? Why is that so unacceptable?

I mean I understand it potentially borders on the edge of crassness, but I for one am a little bit sick of tip-toeing around the point to save people from the truth. Sometimes you need to hear things you don't want to. That's how we grow and learn. I just think we could save a lot of time if we put all our cards on the table at the beginning instead of trying to navigate the emotional minefield of human relationships not saying the things we need to, not feeling the things we want to, not being who we are.

Generally speaking, I try and make sure I don't say things that I don't mean but I think from now on I should make it my goal to say more of what I do. To be clearer in my thought and in my speech outside the safety net of those who know me well. It might get me into trouble now and then but I think I've learnt about as much as I can by playing it safe.

Time to mix it up a little.

Lesson Three: Tell it like it is.

a musical interlude.

Okay - sidenote from the life discovery, I attended the John Mayer concert here in Auckland last week and while I know he's gotten a lot of bad press lately, there is no denying that the kid has some serious music genius going on.

Personally I'm not easily impressed or fazed by the whole celebrity phenomenon. You will not for example, catch me up at five in the morning waiting at the airport to catch a glimpse of a teenage pop icon waving an "I Heart Bieber" sign over my head but after thursday's date with Mayer, I'm reconsidering my commitment to the notion of celebrity.

Though the venue was barely 3/4 full and many suggested the gig would have been better suited to a lounge-type set-up, fans that were there for the music were not disappointed. Okay so he didn't play a few of the classic favourites like Your Body is a Wonderland or Bigger Than My Body but what he did play was nothing short of amazing. Particularly inspiring were Waiting on the World to Change, Belief and a fiery version of my personal fav, Gravity, to close.

Between his sexy drawl and amazing guitar riffs I now understand why during the 1970s women gave up their lives to follow bands across the country. I'd follow John Mayer to the gates of Mordor if he asked me. I know he's a bit of a racist prick in some of his interviews but it really doesn't take much of an "ooh ooh ooh" in that drawl you love to hate and I'm won.

In addition to the musical ecstasy that is John Mayer, I am now a huge fan of New Zealand songbird Lisa Crawley who was joined by her band The Conversations as the night's opening act. Having not heard much of their stuff before, I was decently impressed - not only by her effortless musicianship (including a whole range of instruments from keyboard to snare drum) but by her unassuming stage presence which was just the right amount of cute without being sickening.



With song titles like The Loneliest Girl in the World, Birds and Brother, Crawley easily won over the crowd who ranged in no even mix from seven year olds pumped up on sheer excitement to be out on a school night to crazy alcohol-fuelled teenage hooligans who always ruin everything for everyone - and back again.

She has a genuine likeability factor that is deliciously sweet which contrasts beautifully with her edgy, soulful lyrics which make no apologies for who she is or isn't but come to your senses in a kind of 'take it or leave it' manner and then stay there.

While she's still in the process of recording her first album, she has got a few little gems up on youtube that are worth checking out in the meantime.

Despite my early resistance (in a bid to remain aloof and unaffected) I have to say I didn't put up much of a fight last week. I was musically wooed from the opening stanza and though I never expected it, I left the show a shameless fan.

xx

reality bites.

I spent a lot of time at home last week - part by choice and part because I literally feel like death; coughing and spluttering and sneezing more than should be legally allowed. Unfortunately all of this was self-inflicted. Being sick then going out til the wee hours two nights in a row was not a very good idea but it does explain why my mother refuses to put on her sympathetic face while I cough and hack like an 85 year old ex-smoker.

I wish I could say I've spent the time wisely - catching up on study, writing my three outstanding legal essays - doing anything remotely useful.

Sadly that would be a lie.

Most of this week has been spent eating, curled in a ball under tonnes of blankets in a restless sleep or watching hours of reality tv and even worse - loving it.

I think it's safe to say I've now seen every episode of 'Keeping up with the Kardashians' and 'Kendra' they've ever made. I can't say I love either of these programs but I will admit there is something deliciously addictive about them & their ilk. It wasn't until I started reciting the lines alongside Kendra as she ooh-ed and aah-ed over her newborn son that I realised I had a bit of a problem.

As a result, I banned myself from the E! channel to save my sanity. Unfortunately I then found the crime network. Or rather refound. You see, I am a bit of a recovering addict when it comes to crime shows. There was a dark time two years ago when I got the chickenpox (as a 20 year old) and was confined to the depths of my room in self-directed isolation. It was then that I discovered I had a bit of an obsession.

To put it plainly, I love criminals. I'm not sure if it's the four years of law school or the saturation of CSI reruns on New Zealand late-night television or some unexpressed rebellion against 'the man' which forces me to reject boys that are good for me in favour of those who would turn my mother's hair grey - that have made me this way but as I've found, I'm a real prison junkie. Anything to do with prisons and gang brawls and I'm there all wide-eyed and affected.

I've yet to decide if it's pity or awe that makes me yearn to know their stories. But in between the arrogant swagger and the unapologetic street slang that drawls out of the screen and into the very depths of my conscience, something about them is invigorating. Addictive. Hopeful?

They make me wonder about where they came from. Where they're going. So I always feel like the show ended too soon. I want to know where inmate 54633 ended up. It's not enough to tell me in a little subtitle at the end that he was killed upon release. I want to know why. And how. And where. And if he made his peace before he did it. And if it was an ambush or an all-out gang massacre or if he accidently shot himself while cleaning his .22 with the safety off.

I'm not sure why I care. But for those 43 minutes (minus adverts) I do. I'm hurting with them, surviving alongside them. I'm doing it all and feeling it all. And then when it ends I feel a little bit cheated. As if my emotional investment wasn't worth it somehow because in the end, there they are in their world and here I am in mine. Only their lives go on unchanged while I feel different somehow. It doesn't seem right.

I can't say it quite as well as Jenni Diski did so I'll leave the final word to her.

I hate neat endings. I have an antipathy to finishing in general. The last page, the final strains of a chord, the curtain falling on the echo of a closing speech, living happily ever after; all that grates on me. The finality is false, because there you still are, the reader, the observer, the listener, with a gaping chasm in front of you, left out of the resolution of the story that seduced you into thinking yourself inside it. Then it’s done and gone, abandoning you to continuation, a con trick played out and you were the mark. An ending always leaves you standing in the whistling vacancy of a storyless landscape. Any ending exposes the impossible paradox – the desire for completion, the fear of termination – which like an open wound is too tender to uncover. But neat endings are the worst; the rounded closure that rings so true and so false, the harmonious conclusion that makes sense of the beginning and of all that happened in-between, and makes a lie of what you know about the conduct of your life, a lie of you.

Lesson Two: Live your own reality.

Enjoy your week xx

trial & error.

So I actually started this a couple of weeks ago. My first post was a bit dark and broody about how I'm undecided about my life. Then people started to comment and it was all getting a little Dr Phil for my liking so I'm scrapping that and starting again.

I'm really not sure how I ended up here. Most of the blog things I've seen so far are about children, religion or fashion but I'm not sure I can lend too much of an insight on any of that.

For starters, I don't have kids and even when I do I'm still of the opinion that no-one will ever think your kids are as amazing as you do.

Secondly I think a personal relationship with God (or whatever higher power you subscribe to) is for you alone to define. If I want your opinion on how you think my soul is doing I'll...no wait - I don't want it. I'm going to guess that goes both ways.

And third, I admire fashion and its comings and goings as much as the next person but I've still yet to figure out who gets to decide what's cool and why. Whatever the answer, I'm pretty sure it isn't me. I like what I like because I like it. I'm not too fussed by whether or not it's "in" according to the self-ordained judging panel of cool (often employees of noteworthy designer boutiques but who are - let's face it - just glorified shop girls), those people who sit in the front row of New York fashion shows or whoever else gets to tell me what I can and can't secretly love.

So, one might ask (note - 'might' as in - if anyone actually ever reads this)- what is this blog going to be about?
To be honest I haven't decided yet. I'm not vain enough to think anyone even remotely cares about the ins and outs of my everyday life but sometimes I do have some valid thoughts.

Lately I find I'm learning more about life than I ever have before. I'm not sure if that's because I recently hit the grand old age of 22 or if it's because God has a cruel sense of humour and my mid-life crisis is beginning prematurely.

What I do know is I need somewhere to organise my thoughts - to document my life lessons in a more structured way. I guess I could start randomly spouting the things I think out loud as my life unfolds in a type of instructional monologue but I'm pretty sure most people won't think I'm artsy or inspiring; more that I just need psychiatric help.

So let's see where this takes me. I'm going to try and make at least one valid summing up kind of point per blog - that way we might get somewhere.

I think my first is gonna be -

Lesson One: It's okay to not be sure.

I'll try and remember that this week. In the meantime, I'm figuring it out.
Let me park my hopes & fails here til I'm done.

Be blessed kids.