Wednesday, 1 July 2015

Door B*tches

15 Reasons Why Being a Door B*tch is the Best Worst Job Ever.

As soon as I turned eighteen, I became what they call a chronic clubber. (Well, it’s what I called myself - a term I like to think that I invented).  I would club and drink and dance at every single chance I got. I would go out on Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, deal with the hangover for the next two days and then repeat the process. And I loved it.

But like most things, the novelty wears off.  Now, I cringe at the thought of being that dirty, sloppy drunk girl stumbling in her heels not knowing what year she’s in. And the reason why I cringe is because I started to work as a door girl. The job description most commonly known as “Door Bitch.”

I work as a door b*tch fairly often until 2 or 3am in the morning, taking cash, checking VIP lists, giving stamps for entry.  But more often than not, I’m rolling my eyes when yet another drunk human stumbles into me and breathes warm alcoholic breath into my face. Once, I even got spewed on by someone who was coming down the Mondo stairs. Yep, you heard me. It was all through my hair and all over my back, too. I know, gross. 
My point? Though fun at times, it’s a tougher gig than it looks.

That doesn’t mean I don’t like it, though.

So here are 15 reasons why being a door b*tch is the best-worst job ever.

1.      The money. I don’t think I need to explain why this is number 1.

2.   You get to judge the absolute fuck out of people. That girl with her boobs popping out of her top? The guy with the ratty squeezing her ass? You’re sober (mostly), they’re not. You see everyone and everything, in all their glory. Embrace it.

3.   You feel as though you have had a night out. You were there (sometimes you party), you saw the people you would see if you were out, you didn’t spend any money and you drive yourself home with a pay-check. Game. Set. Match.

4.  You can drink on the job if you want to. Nothing like a bit of alcohol to put you in a better mood when dealing with drunk people. If you can’t beat em, join em! (Oh and it’s free).

5.  You get paid to be a bitch. Literally. Got tough skin? Angry at something? Take it out on the drunk idiots that try to slobber (or vomit) on you. It’s your job.

6.  When people you hate rock up. You know the ones, the people you went to school with who treated you like shit. Watch as they suddenly try to become your best friend. Don’t worry, they haven’t changed their minds about you, they just want a bit of door-girl love. Send em’ packing with a toothy smile and watch their utter disappointment when you charge them full price. Now you’re even.

7.   You witness the drunken mistakes, the fights and all the drama that goes on. And believe you me, drama goes on.

8.  You no longer desire to be that drunken idiot. That drunken idiot will become your worst nightmare. Never again will you want to be the one who can’t stand up, fumbling with your wallet, arguing about the price, crying when you lose your phone or being carried away by security.

9.      You make friends with security. Actually. You’re no longer the one out clubbing and shaking security’s hand, or hugging them with fake hellos in the hope that they will let you skip the line. No, you are right beside them, dealing with the same shit they are.

10.   You become nocturnal, or at least, continue to be if you’ve graduated from clubbing to become a door b*tch. Early hours of the morning are your forte, and Redbull is your soulmate.

11.   You decide who is a VIP and who isn’t. Well, to some extent. The list decides, really. But you get to watch looks of frustration and disappointment when you say that someone’s name isn’t printed on that list. And you know all too damn well because you’ve been there, done that. Now you’re the one with the pen and the power. Hottie no. 1, come on through.

12.  You get to dance! The entire time the background music is usually a pretty damn good DJ. Be an idiot if you wish – no one else will care. And if they do, well, chances are they won’t remember anyway.

13.  Your phone will implode. You might not think this is a good thing but it’s pretty entertaining to watch countless messages come in from everyone that you know. “Can you get me in?” “Hey any chance of VIP?” The best advice I have for you is to simply turn it off.

14.  You can laugh at people who gasp at the price when you say “That’s fifteen dollars, thanks.” Oh the absurdity! They’ve headed out for another night clubbing and can’t believe they have to pay entry? Puuuhhlease, you knew you were going for a night out, you’re clearly spending money on drinks, pay the entry and hustle your way to the D-floor my friend,  door girls ain’t got time for you.

15.  You’ll also be surprised at how many people go out clubbing with 0 cash on them. How do you do it, guys!? And if you haven’t got enough money in your account to extract cash, get yourself home to bed and re-evaluate your life, please. Or alternatively, get a gig as a door b*tch.

Monday, 11 May 2015

Bad Day, Not a Bad Life

I found a short story I wrote a few years back, and have since reworked, and decided is pretty relevant to the struggles of teenage girls in particular today.  It explores the notion that depression can come and go, and the hormonal rollarcoaster that exists during adolescence.  I also thought a Monday morning was a pretty good time to share this, as sometimes you can feel the weight of the world, only to wake up and realise it was just a;

Bad Day, Not a Bad Life

Emma was having a bad day.  The concealer was somehow making her pimples more obvious than they were before, and she had an extremely painful one on the bridge of her nose that her mother would surely point out later, as if she didn’t already know it was there.  The morning had trailed into mid- afternoon and then to musky evening without anything slightly entertaining happening.  The boy she liked had been unable to come over as expected, but it was a staggering disappointment all the same.  She felt hopeless and desperate and simply foolish.  Her ex-boyfriend is trying to chat her up when she really isn’t in the mood, but it counts as entertainment in these present boring moments.  She lies on her bed and contemplates sleep, but why waste a perfectly good evening when all it would do is bring the next day to reality quicker than necessary.  There was a pile of homework waiting for her and a shift at the pizza shop looming at the bottom. 

Today she tried on her flowing white skirt and completed it with a big blue ring and hanging necklace to try and feel unique.  As if style could erase the depressing emotion inside her and bring about a brighter attitude.  It was a good theory, but it didn’t work.  Boys are annoying, she’s decided.  They make you feel silly things and change the way you feel about yourself.  Meanwhile, Facebook is just a world full of fake friends and a competition of ‘who can get the most likes’ which quite frankly she will not be manipulated by.  A camera sits next to her on the bed and she wishes she could just scoop it up and snap away to capture every passing moment in life, but it’s not possible.  The drawing she did earlier is beside that and it remains quiet.  It just lies there innocently and refuses to speak.  She feels like a kiss; a soft careful one that sends a spark racing down your tongue and brings a smile to your lips.  The kind you only get with a person you really like; and it scares her shitless. 

She rolls over onto her back and stares at the ceiling, trying to remember a time when she didn’t feel this way.  Bored, overwhelmed, lacking in motivation.  It’s almost impossible to imagine.  It feels as though her heart has dug its way deeper into her chest; far too lost and too difficult to yank out.  This isn’t just because of a boy, of course, this is much more.  She lets out a sigh and sits up, looking around at her bedroom.  Parts of herself, her life, scattered and placed and remaining silent. 

There’s a round lamp on the bedside table and a glitter lamp next to that.  A red electric guitar, some hanging lanterns and a pair of patterned shorts.   A typewriter that doesn’t really work and an old television hidden nearby.  A forgotten empty bottle of Rekordling – premium apple flavour – and a silver chain with a key.  There’s a vase of flowers and a plaited piece of ribbon.  On top of a shelf that sits on the floor lives a tv with an aquarium inside, home to Ariel the mermaid and three gold fish.  Next to that is a jar of paintbrushes and a bottle of orange nailpolish.  Assorted shelfs attached to the wall hold an array of knick-knacks – a bottle of Kate Moss perfume, an old camera, a shell, some blocks that spell “LIVE”, three old keys, a bamboo ‘Sabah’ cup and a small china teapot.  There’s a clay dolphin, a row of linked elephants and a bottle of sinus clearing blend. 

On the biggest of shelves there is an assortment of books, and three fancy cats.  On the top you can see a dreamcatcher, a globe, blue sunglasses, Tigga, Piglet and Pooh, a Rubix cube, two die and an orangutan plush toy.  There’s a netball trophy, a San Francisco hat, a ukulele and a fur real friend’s cat.  There’s yellow and orange pencils, the ace of spades, a bratz doll named Yasmin, Paddington Bear, a ‘Where’s Wally?’ book, a rainbow slinky and a purple pig money box. 

Emma buries her head in her pillow and tries to block out the memories, but no matter how hard she tries they just creep up on her.  From her room she can hear her mum bustling around in the kitchen, oblivious to her daughter’s misery.  She hears the pots clink and the pans clunk and a cupboard closing and the oven opening.  “Dinner’s ready,” a shrill voice calls, and Emma drags herself out of the room of memories.

One day she’s not going to have broccoli with dinner.  She’ll have carrots and cauliflower and peas and green beans, but no way is she having broccoli.  One day she’ll get a tattoo of a tiny mermaid on her shoulder, for a time when memories begin to fade.  One day she will see the world and travel around buying expensive novelties and dangling beads and glass crystals.  One day she’ll get a scuba-diving licence and swim with the fish and the dolphins.  She’ll ride a camel in faraway places, scoff a whole box of rock candy and make a fortune out of selling authentic balls of wool.  She will fall in love and get married and live in the country and see the snow and smile.  But today she’s just a teenager with a sore back and a stupid heart, reading a book on a lonely Saturday night. 

On the contrary, Monday morning is surprisingly welcoming.  And the day continues on much the same.  Tuesday rolls by a little less merry, but as the afternoon sun dips below the horizon she heads home with a smile.  She pours a coffee from the kettle and dawdles into her room.  The light is dim and the curtains are drawn as she sits down in the warm evening night and brushes her fingertips across the crisp pages of a worn book.  She loved how books allowed you to delve into the depths of a life completely different from your own; escaping reality.  She could live off toast with small dollops of vegemite and just the right amount of butter, and life didn’t seem so bad anymore.  

Tuesday, 14 April 2015

A Day in the Life of A Writer

Being a writer can be pretty difficult at times, especially when you can’t think of anything new to write.  Also, you’re often holed up in dark rooms or cramped studies trying desperately to think of the ‘next best thing’.  You science junkies and mathematicians have it easy! Either it is right, or it’s wrong, and if you leave it and come back later – not much has changed.  Writers have to pull a whole story out of their assholes and then let other’s read it!  And there are endless possibilities of how to write a story and what to write about.  Trust me.    

So, for those of you procrastinating from whatever it is you should be doing – here is a short insight into the day in the life of a writer, because, well, I can’t think of anything else to write. 
Firstly, begin the day with a cup of coffee (pretty standard for anyone, right?) but essential, nonetheless.

Also, make sure you own a cat.  Or at least a pet of some description, but usually a cat.  Then, get annoyed at said cat when said cat tries to eat your breakfast, walks all over your notes, pens, pencils and laptop.  Waste some time dealing with said cat in the form of picking it up several times, feeding it, and eventually putting it outside.  Then, eat your breakfast in peace (or what’s left of it anyway).     

Open up a word document and write the name of the assignment or piece of writing.  If you don’t know what the name is just yet, simply write “New piece” or “Writing” and save it, so at least the skeleton is there.  It’s the thought that counts, right? 

Decide you’ve done some good work (*cough* denial *cough*) and make yourself another coffee.

Play a musical instrument. Or at least try, even if you can’t.  Learn the rap section of any rap song if you have to.  Literally, anything will do.  Sing the theme song of a television show, or burst into a classic Lizzie-McGuire-movie-number and realise you’re way too distracted to start writing just yet.     

Do all the chores you would never otherwise do because that’s a good enough excuse not to write.

Make another coffee even though you feel sick from the last one.

Eat multigrain toast (because you’re trying to be ‘healthy’ with a little vegemite and way too much butter.  (But not before standing next to the toaster with your arms crossed waiting for it to pop up instead of doing something productive).  I mean, you can’t possibly have been doing anything else – you were waiting for the toaster!

Watch an episode of your favourite television show.  Convince yourself the dialogue and characters are part of your work because you’re drawing ‘inspiration’ from them.    

Set up all your stuff in an area you think will be peaceful and be ready to do work.  Check Facebook instead. Then play the latest app that’s hot.   It went from Doodle Jump, to Words with Friends, to Draw Something, to Flappy Bird and I think people aren’t quite sick of Trivia Crack just yet. 

Contemplate going for a swim, or a walk, or pretty much any other physical activity.  End up taking a nap instead because it’s all too much.

Wake up from the nap unsure of what year you’re in.  Have a shower.

Settle back into your writer’s spot and attempt to write.  Write a small paragraph of crap that you’re not sure you will really use, but is better than writing nothing. 

Flip through your writer’s journals. Waste plenty of time reading every single thing you’ve written in the past in the hope that something will be good enough to work on.  It’s not.  But hey, you practically did some work by reading through it all, so take a break.

After yet another ‘well deserved break’, spend some time organising your study planner.  Use lots of highlighters, and write things like ‘work on assignment 3 for unit blah, blah’, knowing full well you’re probably not going to end up working on it at all. 

And lastly, write something completely different to what you’re supposed to be writing so you feel accomplished.


Thursday, 9 April 2015

The Best Way to Eat Your Easter Chocolate

Well, that time of year has come around again.  It is the days after Easter, and your baskets of chocolate have only slightly diminished.  There’s still stacks of it left, making damn sure you remain somewhat shy of “bikini body ready” for next summer.   If you’re unsure whether to eat it all in one go, throw it out, give it away, or savour it for the next few years due to the worlds ‘diminishing supply of cocoa’, I have some advice for you. 

I present here before me, the best way to eat your Easter chocolate.

I aim for, ‘eat as much as you can until you feel sick’.  Let’s be real, everyone looks at a giant chocolate bunny and thinks “hell yeah I can eat that all in one sitting”, gotten halfway through and realised that no, no you can’t.  But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try.    

Think about it.  No one wants chocolate hanging around for months – you’ll never get into shape and if you keep eating a little bit every day, it feels as though it'll never end! No, you don’t drag the process out.  You need to eat it as quickly as you can.  This way, it’s all gone, and you physically cannot eat anymore because a). you’ll throw up, and  b). there’s none left.  Perfect!

On that note, you should eat the crappy chocolate first.  Got those cheap, shitty rip-off eggs that are usually in that turquoise blue or gold wrapping and sometimes psych you because they turn out to be white chocolate and not milk?  Yeah, gobble them up first.  There’s nothing worse than realising the last little bit of chocolate you have left is something shit. 

Next, eat all the tiny little boring Cadbury eggs, and the hollow ones a size up from that.  Save anything with popping candy (my god marvellous creations did well this year didn’t they?) and any special eggs such as the Maltese, Caramel or Turkish delight ones.  Yummo!

The things you want to leave until last are your Humpty Dumpty eggs, Lindtt bunnies and any other delicious large chocolatey items that are your favourites.  You’ve eaten through a shit-tonne of chocolate to get to these babies – make them count.   

Another tip I have for you, – and this one’s a real gem – only works when you’re eating a large hollow chocolate egg or bunny. 

Now we all know that a glass of milk after some chocolate is brilliant. Right? We all know this.  Nobody speaks about it, but it is a known common fact.  Polished off a mountain of chocolate? Have a glass of milk.  Done.  No questions asked. 

Now what I propose you do here is what I like to call ‘a spot of genius’.  

First, eat half or a portion of the hollow chocolate, and then make your way to the fridge.  Select the carton of milk.  Pour said milk into the chocolate.  Yes, into the chocolate.  If you ate it right, you should have a cup or bowl-like body of chocolate. Once filled with milk, your chocolate suddenly becomes a cup or makeshift glass. YOUR CHOCOLATE IS HOUSING YOUR MILK.  You can now drink the milky goodness AS YOU EAT YOUR CHOCOLATE.  Seriously, try this, it’s like the best thing ever.   Also, no dishes. 

You now have all the material you need to chomp through that chocolate mountain. 
You’re welcome :)  Make me proud!


Big fat chocolate-eating mess. 

Monday, 30 March 2015

Starting from the Bottom

Hey guys.  No, I am not dead.  I know my last blog post was in September of last year.  It came as a bit of a shock to me actually. Have I really been unmotivated for this long? As it turns out, indeed I have. 

You see, losing motivation is something I’m sure we've all been through.  For whatever reason it may be – too tired, fear of not getting anywhere, being put down by others, the end of a relationship.  The list could go on.  Recently, someone encouraged me to get back out there and write something on my blog, to which my response was, “I can’t think of anything to write about, and no one cares anyway.”

Their suggestion? Write about why you stopped writing. Write for you.   

So here goes.

I was a little on the drunk side of sober.  Possibly the more tired, red eyed and hungry side actually, if anything.  In any case, it was the winding down time of a night out.  You know, seated in a hard plastic kebab shop chair, head slumped into your hands.  Depressed because the night is over and tomorrow means uni lectures endured with a hangover.  I was waiting for a kebab which cost me the money otherwise intended for tomorrow’s coffee, when someone I knew approached me.  Now in the hazy memory of this, I don’t remember exactly how the conversation went.  But one thing resonated with me.  The thing that were to stick in my mind and cause me to question myself, my writing and my potential success. 

It was something very simple.  One comment.  A question, actually. A sneering, mocking and derogatory tone of voice.  “How is your blog going?” followed by a laugh.  Now, I won’t name names.  But I will say, this person is someone I know who would do anything to follow their own dream.  Someone who, by all intents and purposes, started at ‘the bottom’ and has slowly worked a successful way up.  Now why would someone of this nature put me down in my quest to also do well?  It beats me. 

Should this have bothered me? No.  But it did.  It made my heart sink.  And it got me questioning.

What is a blog even achieving? Do people think my posts are stupid? Do they even care? Are my posts a waste of time?  Who even reads it? Why am I putting so much effort into writing something for the internet, when anybody can write a blog? Why bother?


And so, I gave up.  Pathetic, I know.  But I wonder how many of you can relate?  How many times has something that somebody else said or done influenced you?  Did you change something about yourself because of what someone else thought or said?  You've got to be lying if you say no.  And if you’re not – hands down to you, you must be an extremely strong person and I’m jealous.

It’s been almost 7 months since I even opened a new document to begin something for my blog.  7 months! I study writing, and in all honesty, I lost motivation for this passion.  I’ll be honest, even as I type this now I feel a bit ridiculous; writing about my own life as if people will actually care.  But hey, sometimes I write for me.  I guess that’s what I’m doing now.

I’m also writing for the people who have lost motivation in their lives.  Think about why it is you lost the motivation in the first place.  If it’s something external, tell it to bugger off! Do something for you, not for someone else.  And if it’s something internal, try to find a way to work through it.  Start a journal, listen to your favourite music, hell, have a glass of wine if you need to! Find something that makes you happy, and then force yourself to do the thing you've been putting off (maybe even for 7 months). 

And so, what I’m basically saying to my kebab-shop commenter, in the politest way possible; is fuck you.

I would love to believe that I’m working for something that I want, and that it’s not pointless.  You can laugh and scoff at my blog and my writing all that you want.  I’m trying to get some of my writing out there for people who are interested.  I’m also writing for myself because I love it. 

I’m starting from the bottom again.  And babe, I’ll see you at the top. 

Tuesday, 16 September 2014

Condemned to Drink

I enjoy going out.  I know – big surprise.  But, (yes, there’s a but) going out doesn’t necessarily mean ‘having a big one’ or being ‘white girl wasted’.  I’m about to blow your mind.  Get ready for this…

Space for you to get ready:

Ready?  Okay, so people can actually go out and have a good time without chugging back litres of alcohol.  What!? No? 
Yep! I know right!? Who would have thought?

I’ve been out drinking plenty of times, sure.  I’ve also, however, been out completely sober simply because I felt like dancing or saying hi to someone I don’t get to see often in our busy lifestyles.  Sue me.    

When you’re a chronic clubber like me, there are always people you see out in consecutive nights or weeks.  And it’s here the interrogation begins.
“Are you drinking tonight?”
“Why aren’t you drinking?”
“Oh, sober once again are we?”

Shit, I even ask similar questions myself come to think of it. Wow.  Do I?  Why?   

Has drinking excessive amounts of alcohol become the norm?  In order to justify not drinking, must we have an excuse?  Really?   

Fun fact: Apparently beer was the first alcoholic beverage known to civilisation. Yay for beer!

But it is said that alcoholic beverages have been used in virtually all cultures through most of their recorded history (apparently).  However, in our lifetimes (and probably our parent’s lifetimes, and their parent’s lifetimes) drinking has been a social phenomenon.  Recently, I’ve noticed the continuing pressure to drink while out.  Drinking can be a social thing, yes, but does being social depend on drinking? No. 

Side note while I’m at it, I may as well mention those who attack sober party-goers.  More times than I’d like, I’ve been asked “Any danger in you smiling?”  while taking 5 on a club couch.  Sorry, but sometimes if you are sober in a club full of people who are fucked off their faces, spilling drinks on you, crashing into your shoulders, or hitting on you with dribble down their face and a slur in their words, you aren’t exactly going to be smiling.

But back to the point.  People now need to have a formulated reason ready for the interrogators to explain why they aren’t consuming a liquid that accounts for nearly 88 thousand deaths each year in the US alone.  Do you hear how ridiculous this sounds?    

Strap on your thinking hats ladies and gentlemen – extravagant excuses are needed in this century.  If you can’t think of any, the top 5 commonly accepted excuses are:

‘Sorry I have a sport game tomorrow.’

‘I have work in the morning.’

‘I’m sick.’

‘I’m on antibiotics.’

‘I’m driving.’

Majority of the time, however, these excuses will get a scoff of the face as a response, or a shake of the shoulders for being ‘weak.’ 

Are you serious?

Why do we have to have these excuses? Why isn’t “not tonight” a legit reply, or “I’m just not”, not sufficient?  Or better yet – the question never needing to be asked in the first place.    

I have to say, I can drink a LOT and I still feel the need to have an excuse when I choose to have a sober night.  (Don’t mind me – I thought peer pressure was something we left behind in high school. Evidently not).   

Not to mention the fact that alcohol is one of the worst things for your body.  Over time, alcohol can lead to the development of serious diseases such as heart disease, strokes, liver disease, cancer of the mouth, throat, oesophagus, liver and colon.   

Also, just because this blew my mind – binge drinking is defined as, for women, consuming 4 or more drinks on a single occasion and for men consuming 5 or more drinks.  Heavy drinking is then defined as women consuming more than 8 drinks a week and men drinking more than 15.  Guilty, anyone? I know I am. 

That doesn’t mean I’m going to give up my Saturday nights, though.  And my point still stands.  If someone isn’t drinking, who cares?  That’s their decision.  If you choose to drink – good on you!  If you choose not to drink – good on you!  I’m still gonna party with you on the dance floor either way.


Bellis, Mary.  “The History of Alcoholic Beverages.” Retrieved from

Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. “Fact Sheets – Alcohol Use and Your Health.” Retrieved from

National Institute of Alcohol Abuse and Alcoholism. “Alcohol Facts and Statistics.” Retrieved from

Thursday, 11 September 2014



“Nanna, what do you like about being old?”  I asked her; sitting across from me in a faded arm chair, walking stick perched upright to maintain her posture.  She laughed.  I loved the way the corners of her eyes would crease when she smiled; glowing still at 80, wrinkles and all.  You can tell that in her youth, she was beautiful.  “Too many to name, my dear,” was the reply. 


One of the most common things I come across in today’s living is the prospect of becoming older.  I mean, it would be a miracle to be 18 forever.  Sometimes I wish I was a vampire.  Okay, well not actually a vampire (I think I’ve been watching too much Vampire Diaries). But I wish that I was something eternal, with eternal life; a life that I could choose to end whenever I pleased.  There are so many wondrous, beautiful, scary and dangerous things in this world and I want to see them all.  I want to travel every inch of the globe and see and experience and live.  There seems there isn’t enough time. 

Getting older is scary when you’ve wasted a lot of time waiting in lines for clubs, watching Friends (or a show you’re obsessed with), making your bed or worrying about little things like taking the bin out, or cleaning the bathroom, or why that boy hasn’t texted you back.  I wonder, if you could live for as long as you wanted – would you worry?

I have to ask, what would you do if you were eternal?

I know we would all break the law a lot more, take more risks, do more stupid things, perhaps kiss the wrong person one too many times.  But on a serious note –

If I were eternal, I would learn every language there is.   Spanish, German, French, Italian.  You name it.  Imagine being able to understand, speak and think every other language different to your own? 

I would probably jump off more cliffs, or swim in more waterfalls. 

I would raise millions of dollars only to donate it to causes (and perhaps just one or two more pairs of shoes…)

I would write many books, delving into the dark depths of my writer’s study, perhaps even invest in a quill and ink to do it like the ‘olden days’.
I would work in restaurants serving pretentious food or open a cafĂ© and make it unique with funky tea cups and miniature pot plants.  I would work in crummy crammed bars, in groovy derelict ones, in banks, in offices, in golf courses.  I would be a flight attendant, or learn to fly a plane.  I would be a professional dancer. 

I would travel with bands and write music reviews and maybe learn to sing.  I would master guitar and learn piano, nail “Piano Man” on harmonica and drum solos from Red Hot Chili Pepper songs.  I would drink too much booze and maybe do some drugs on lonely Saturday nights that end up being not-so-lonely after all.

I would buy a kombi and see Australia, because what’s more awesome than the sights you see in a land you get to call home?  I would go to the Kimberly and Eyres rock and see the desert before we have a chance to destroy it. 

I would eat every flavour of ice-cream that exists, and try things like snails and grasshoppers (but not cockroaches, sorry, some things are just not meant to be consumed). 

I would dance like an idiot (and sometimes I do) and not care what people think, because why should you?

I think I would laugh a lot more.

I would visit history museums and art galleries and pretend to understand all the meaning behind them. 

I would travel to unknown places and nooks and crannies and eat a too much food and - Wait.
Hold up.
What’s to stop me? 

If you imagine it being something you want to try, you may as well.  Right? If it's something you really want to do, do it!  I guess what I’m saying is, you’re not eternal (thankyou captain obvious – I know).  But that’s the thing – you’re not.  So you have one chance to go out and do all the things on that list.  Don’t be one of those people that say, ‘life is so short’.  Life is the longest damn thing you ever get to do.  Do it right. 


And so I took another sip of my tea and looked up to catch my Nanna’s eye.  “You know, Nanna, I think I’m going to love being old, too,” I smiled.