Violent crime

Once again high heels have caused me a great deal of trouble. Last night I went to the Melbourne Uni commerce ball at the Docklands, that lovely event everyone lined up for overnight. Overall the night went splendidly as I spent it being one of the only sober people and only getting two drinks poured on me. Success. I did have a tiny diva tantrum when the first drink was splashed over my favourite shoes along with broken glass but I slapped myself in the face and got over it.

The night went by fairly uneventfully with a few people stacking in on the dance floor, a creepy camera guy zooming in on girl’s butts while it was projected on a large screen and the serving of a very interesting mystery meat for dinner. I didn’t drink as much as last time either so the ability to see was an unexpected surprise. Those who know me would know I’m not the biggest party animal in the world and would rather spend a night in on the couch than go out drinking till 4am...generally because I get sleepy at about 11 or 12 and start dozing off....at clubs. I’m just lucky my mum has enough money to keep paying people to take me out and be my friends.

All was going great until the ball ended at midnight, at which point my carriage turned into a pumpkin and the horses turned back into mice. Ok not really, but what actually happened included torrential rains and misleading bus drivers. The after party was set to be at Prince as it was the year prior with buses apparently waiting outside ready to take us there. When we got to the buses, we were sent away, told that it was the bus for Monash students going to Tramp. Because of this, we went on an adventure in our tiny dresses through the rain to find a cab. Eventually we found one with a club photographer in it on his way to Eve so we jumped in with him. After finding out our jobs paid less than half of his, we finally arrived at Prince freezing our butts off and feeling less than stunning. This is the venue where I would later be carried out of in a great deal of pain.

15 minutes into the afterparty, shit went down. We were all dancing when a young lady lost her footing and began to fall from a step. On her way down she stood on my foot in her sky high stilettos, twisting hard as she fell. Don’t worry, she was fine, my foot on the other hand was not. I don’t usually swear much because my voice is really high pitched so it just sounds odd so when I do, you know something is serious. I yelled the f-word out for a total of ten seconds before limping away to the bathroom. As soon as I got in there, I sat down to check out the damage. Already my foot had swollen with a lump the size of a golf ball just above the toes on my left foot. I didn’t even realise I’d sat next to my friend Jacinta but thank the holy mother of Jesus that I did. After 20 seconds of trying to be a big girl I burst into tears with the most excruciating pain I’d ever felt finally becoming too much.

Many girls came and went through that bathroom, all with an empathy I knew all too well. I’ve been stood on multiple times but nothing like this. I was offered ice and water but no alcohol. At that stage I was in need of a whole bottle of tequila, regretting my foolish decision not to drink in the first place. Soon my wailing was becoming too much for my friends so they decided it was time to make a move. They pushed through the crowd hoisting me off the ground while screaming “SHE HAS A BROKEN FOOT, GET THE F*$#K OUT OF THE WAY!” Finally I was down the stairs and in a private room getting fed nurofen while my foot was up on top of a table. At that point, all I wanted was my mummy. The call to her went like this:

Me (while balling my eyes out): Mum, someone stood on my foot in a stiletto, I think it’s broken

Mum: Are you drunk?

Me: No mum, I’m unfortunately sober and my foot is broken. I need you to come get me.

Mum: Who are you meant to be going home with?

Me: The Brighton girls. Mum-

Mum: What time are they leaving?

Me: I don’t know! You are not understanding the gravity of the situation! My foot is broken! I need you to come get me!

Mum: Ok, ok I’m coming.

I later found out my mum thought I was kidding. What kind of person calls their mum when they’re drunk and says they have a broken foot? More like who calls their mum when they’re drunk in general? Long story short, I went to the hospital, got pushed around in a wheelchair, got an x-ray and was told it wasn’t actually broken but just a chipped bone. I feel bad for my poor friends and my mum who had to put up with me whinging. The entire time I was in hospital, all I complained about was how I would have to wear a boot or worse, have to wear crutches. My mum also asked me if I punched the girl. Such a good role model.

In conclusion, until last night there was nothing heels could do to make me think about them in a poor light. I’m not quite willing to hang my pairs up just yet but I do think I’ll take more care when dancing with drunk girls...or take knuckle dusters next time I go out.

Dream a little dream of me...

I’m a bit worried. I think I’m a psychopath. Seriously, the stuff I dream of is so odd I’m beginning to think there’s something wrong with me. I don’t even bother looking it up anymore because I think it all sounds like a crazy cat woman who takes her horoscope seriously has written it in between making rock cakes and sorting her china doll collection. Apparently when I used to have dreams about all my teeth falling out it meant that I had things I needed to tell people but I couldn’t and when I couldn’t run away from people in dreams because I kept tripping over meant that I was trying not to confront something in my life. Who the hell invents this stuff?

My dreams are a little different from the ones in the “common dreams” sections of most websites. The other night I dreamt I was on a cruise in Greece with a lot of people, eventually becoming just my mum and I because everyone left me. My mum then swam away and had an affair at the same time as my camera was broken by some random Asian lady while I was off being a life saver on Baywatch. Tell me what that means dream dictionary!

Of course I have the old naked dream where you’re walking down the street or speaking to someone and you suddenly realise you’re starkers. It’s slightly awkward when your bits are out in front of random strangers and your friends. Those are the worst! Eventually I wake up topless and my best friend has left the bed and is in another room...

I feel as though I should slip in something witty and intelligent about Inception...I got nothing. Everyone was obsessed, it should’ve been in 3D and I actually had to stay awake for the entire film. That’s my take, I am not about to give my opinion on whether he was still in a dream or not with regards to the spinning top and the fact that he finally saw his children’s faces.

But then again, who doesn’t love the falling dream when you get abruptly woken up when you smack your elbow into the lamp next to your bed? That’s generally when I feel like a freak. I’ll avoid the delightful topic of wet dreams for boys because it makes me giggle plus it’s a touchy subject...pardon the pun.

All in all, I’m hoping I’m not some absolute weirdo because I have dreams about trying to save my imaginary younger sister from being murdered. That’s normal right?

Steak anyone?

Picture this: walking into a room looking as nice as you can to meet a potential employer. In this room, you become surrounded by 30 stick thin drop dead gorgeous girls all competing for the same job. You eventually get called to your potential employer, hand them a picture of yourself while they inspect a book with pictures of you while you walk in a straight line down the middle of the room, pose at the end and walk back while being stared at by a bunch of the most stunning people you’ve ever seen along with your prospective money source. After you’ve been scanned for beauty, you are then sent on your way with a “thanks for coming”. Sound horrific? It freaking is! Why would I subject myself to such intense scrutiny? I’m still searching for the answer to that one.


What I just described was what is known in the fashion world as a “casting”. I like to call it the meat markets. It just doesn’t seem natural to go for a job based on your appearance but hey, that’s modelling. Literally the talents required for this business are genetic blessings (or the ability to apply makeup super well) and the capability to walk in a straight line with good posture. No joke, the walking is so much harder than it looks and I’ve seen some girls stuff that up hardcore, myself included. I’ve been told at castings that I walk in a diagonal line and that I pose to the wrong side. Riiiiight. Most people snigger at the seemingly “idiotic” models who stack it on cat walks all around world but before you do, imagine what it would be like if the shoe was on the other foot, literally. Those shoes are effing high! The shoes you are expected to wear at times look like they belong in a museum, they are so beautiful and obscure. I experienced one of these horrific accidents firsthand....when I had my first fall.

I was at a Jason Grech parade. For those who don’t know this designer, he creates magnificent couture gowns costing thousands of dollars each. This particular parade I participated in had a long stair case in the middle of a circular runway, which the models would use to enter and exit from. All was going according to plan until I tried on my longest dress of the set and had to walk back up the stairs. I didn’t lift the dress high enough when I took a step up the stairs and I stood on the front of it, causing me to fall forward onto my face. Not only did it hurt sooo bad but it was in front of about 60 people. Nice. All I could do was pick myself up, dust myself off, turn around to the crowd with my thumbs up and force out an “I’m ok” while gritting my teeth so I didn’t cry from the pain. This was not quite as bad as other falls models have made.

If you have a look on youtube there are countless videos of models losing their footing on catwalks. My personal favourite was from America’s Next Top Model when there were giant pendulums swinging across the runway and one of the girls got hit by it and was tossed off the catwalk. I shouldn’t laugh because she got injured but it is freaking hilarious.

I’m just saying, next time you go and make a comment about how stupid models are because they fall over all the time, just take amount to think about the size of their shoes. So shut up, I wear heels bigger than your dick.

Apple & rhubarb crumble

I'm pretty sure the entire world has had this about a million times but for me, the second time I've ever had it was last night when I made it. I couldn't find a decent recipe so I asked the lady I babysit for.....because I'm cool. Anyways, it was a ripper so I thought I'd share the recipe with you guys.
Peel and chop 3 granny smith apples along with a bunch of rhubarb and put them in a pot to stew with some brown sugar and cinnamon. To make the crumble, put 1 cup of flour and 1/2 cup of brown sugar on a baking tray and mix in lots of blobs of butter until it becomes crumbly. Then add 1/2 a cup of oats and 1/2 a cup of coconut, mix together with your fingers. Pop the stewed fruit in a baking dish and cover with the crumble. Slide into a 200 degree oven for 20 mins or until golden. Serve with cream or ice cream.
Nom nom nom!

How do I loathe thee? Let me count the ways....

I have a beef to settle with men. It involves the way they express their appreciation of the female form. Women definitely do not act in this way...unless they’re a “woman of the night”, then it’s their job and it’s not a big deal. Men will yell out crude comments, whistle, toot their horn (which I do occasionally because I think I’m hilarious), stop women in the street and even leave their phone numbers on people’s car windshields. What do they expect the women to do?

Recently, I was going to get ice cream with my best friend in St Kilda as we do every Wednesday night because we’re cute. For those who don’t know the area of Fitzroy St too well, just know that at night all the weirdos come out of the woodwork, this includes drug addicts and deros. Back to my story! As we were crossing the road, we walk past two hobos who yell after us “looking good ladies”. I mean, really? What do they expect us to do, walk up to them and slip them our numbers? Similar thing used to occur when I’d walk my dog at the beach. All the- ummm let’s be politically correct here- men of Italian and Greek descent would line their cars up along the jogging track and just hang out there. When asked for my number several times after false enthusiasm expressed over my dog, I decided to choose a different walking route. You’d think it would be outrageous enough in Australia, think again. Europe kicks arse.

My first experience of Europe was when I had just passed my sweet sixteenth birthday. However, my teenage innocence was about to be destroyed. Every Tom, Dick and Harry had his say on how he felt about my sister and I. To say I was shocked, appalled and giggly was an understatement. The worst of it came when I was in a market in Florence and someone asked my dad if he could buy me. Dad said only if he had 50 euros. Thanks dad, love you too. It’s not just non-English speaking countries either.

England rates pretty high on my list of sexual predators. On my last trip, I had multiple creepy 40 year old guys stop me in the street, mention that I had “caught their eye” and ask me if I wanted to go for a drink. REALLY?!!?! I mean come on! NO! You just want to ask “has this ever actually worked for you?” but that would be harsh. I prefer to decline with a sincere “I’m actually going back to Australia tonight to feed my kangaroo, sorry”.

In reality, a man yelling out to you saying how attractive you are and that he wants to take you home may in fact want this in his dreams but when confronted with a female who would like to satisfy this man’s desire, he may turn out to be bluffing. Take the episode of Sex & the City where Miranda experiences a man drought and is being pestered by a crude workman outside her video store. When she expresses her burning desire for him, he admits he has a wife and didn’t mean it. She finds that these men are “all talk and no action”, as I believe most men committing these crimes would be.

In the words of a wise woman, Cat Stratford, “I want you, I need you, oh baby, oh baby.”

Cinderella didn’t lose her glass slipper waiting in line

Yesterday I had the delightful experience of lining up for a university ball. This one in particular was the Melbourne University commerce ball, which I attended last year but skipped the line up. This line up goes for around 26 hours and 33 minutes ish. Basically, tickets go on sale on the Monday morning and there are 75 tables to be snapped up so all these people begin lining up in the wee hours of Sunday morning to camp out in the hopes of going to the ball. My group of friends were luckily enough to get the 11th spot in the line, with dreams that next year they’ll be number one.


I arrived at a casual 4:00 in the afternoon to meet two of my friends who were on their shift. It literally looked like a campsite....minus the grass. People had tents, speakers and fold out chairs to go with the large amount of beer they were consuming. My friends, however, had set up camp with none of these things...just chips. Whoever said girls don’t eat clearly hasn’t met my friends and I. So while we sat around, I brought out the bible AKA Cosmopolitan magazine. I literally think you can learn how to have sex just by reading that magazine. Some of my favourite quotes include “Is it weird if I squirt liquid from my vagina when I orgasm?” and “be a pants-down winner between the sheets”. Thanks to Cosmo, many things have been opened: many magazines, the world of sex and lots of women’s legs. Love it.

As loud as us girls are, it was inevitable that a nearby boy would become engrossed in our conversations on how to make sure your man arrives second and why guys are attracted to skanks. Before I could even finish my sentence asking this boy if he wanted to borrow our magazine, he had already let out a squeal of a yes and snatched it from my outstretched hand. Eager beaver.

We then started telling drunk stories...generally about my lovely friend Anna. This girl is a veteran of the line and decided she would drink when she did it last year. This resulted in her stacking it multiple times and just being generally a class act. My favourite part of the reminiscing of this story was when the random boys sitting near us starting adding to the story, saying they remember these incidents happening last year and more. I think that’s when you realise it’s gone too far, when a random stranger you’ve never seen remembers you from a whole year ago. I’ve never been so proud.

I’ve also discovered my humour consists of sarcasm and throwing in the odd “your dad didn’t think so last night when I was in his bed” joke after someone insults me. Is that what I’ve become? I myself find these jokes hilarious, but only secretly snigger on the inside while tumble weeds roll past as the sound of crickets rings in my ears.

As immature as my sense of humour is, I can’t ignore the fact that today I’m still in my pj’s sniffling and chowing down on vitamin c. How is it that I get an intense cold from staying outside in the cold for four hours? My other friends weren’t wearing nearly as much clothing as me AND they were staying overnight yet I seem to be the one on my death bed. I need a new immune system. Pronto. I feel like I’m a hundred years old and I’m just waiting for my great great grandkids to bring me a get well card. Looks like I’ve reached senescence at the age of 19, what a joy!

Oh! A bald eagle!

As it is, my latest screen play hasn’t been snapped up by a Hollywood producer and I haven’t been “discovered” and whisked off to Milan by a famous international designer. My life is less than glamorous as I spend my weekends working at my mum’s gift and home wares shop. I use the term “working” loosely as I tend to repel customers as I’d much rather spend my money making time stalking people on facebook. As glorious as facebook can be for entertaining me for seven hours while I avoid my uni homework, it can only go so far as to satisfy my need to for human interaction. Thus the story of my introduction to the world of chat roulette was born.


From what I’d heard of this internet phenomenon, there were a lot of penises and some people had been fortunate enough to encounter such celebs as Ashton Kutcher and Paris Hilton. My first experience didn’t include any rising stars just lots of risen wieners. I found myself pressing the next button like each click was donating thousands of dollars to world peace. Too many men were propositioning me for things I hadn’t even thought existed outside such films as In Diana Jones and the Temple of Poon and Arma-get-it-on.

While wading in a sea of varied groins, I discovered a lot of ads featuring girls with plastic boobs and occasionally a face or two. You do come across some interesting people, mostly from America and mostly male. Some encounters interest me more than others but what worries me the most is the large number of 13 year olds I have seen. The poor little dears are being bombarded with men playing with their little friends, I could think of nothing more horrible for my potential kids to be seeing on the internet. I did find a Justin Bieber look alike wielding a knife, that was concerning to say the least. Way to taint my Bieber baby’s squeaky clean image. I’ve seen drunk American teenagers with big boobs, gothic weirdos who haven’t seen a light other than that of the screen of their computer for years as well as a few really cool people. I would recommend it for a rainy day if you’re bored just to check it out for a laugh. I do not recommend adding your genitals to the collage of them that is chat roulette.