Don't lend people money...it gives them amnesia

When I was a little boy (laugh at my feeble attempt to be funny...please), I really liked to share. For example, whenever I came home from a friend’s birthday party, I would always give my family as many lollies as they liked from my goody bag even though I would have happily eaten every last set of fake teeth on my own. I also didn’t mind lending my things to people...except Barbie clothes, you never got that shit back. As I have grown, I have continued to be generous but sometimes there are occasions on which you don’t want to lend something to somebody or you don’t want it back after what they’ve done to it.


Number 1 dilemma: When the girl who asks to borrow an item of your clothing is a ho fo' sho.

In this situation, a particularly skanky girl wants to borrow a dress or a top and you genuinely don’t want to give it to her because it will be returned unwashed covered in makeup, alcohol or bodily fluids. I’ve never understood why people would ever borrow something and think it’s ok to give it back in a worse condition than you received it in when someone was generous enough to let you borrow it. Equally, I hate it when a friend says to you “You’ll never believe what happened last night! I finally hooked up with that guy I like and just left his house ;)”. All fine and dandy until you have that horrible realisation that she was wearing that dress you lent her. That’s when you send a text back saying “Congrats on the sex. You can keep that dress you borrowed”, and pretend like you were going to get rid of that brand new dress anyway. Equally as annoying is when they just never give you back your stuff so you end up looking like a dick because you keep pestering them about it. Come to think of it, lesbians are quite lucky because they get two wardrobes when they move in together. Jealous.

Number 2 dilemma: When a chewer borrows your pen.

Oh to the em to the gee. I do not understand people who borrow your pen and chew the shit out of it. Get some freaking gum! You have a problem! It is not ok to use someone’s pen and chew on it as if it were your own. I have donated so many pens to people because I just don’t want it back after the absolute raping they’ve given it. I also can’t stand it when they just take possession of your stationary after using it because you’ve too lazy to label your items. Similarly when a person has forgotten their text book and asks if they can look on with you but somehow end up hogging the book and writing their own notes in it and take it home with them. I’m always too polite to say “oh that is actually my book, may I please have it back” and I just end up losing it.

Number 3 dilemma: Buying a round for someone who avoids buying rounds for the whole night

You know that one stingy bastard who is keen to get in on the rounds of shots until it’s time for them to shout everyone and they just feel like water? Or they’ve had too much to drink and need a break? I’m sorry, but when you agree to get in on a round of drinks, you automatically agree to buying another round at some point in the night. There should be a written agreement people have to sign at the first round of drinks, just like that sexual consent form they were trying to bring in....but that was kind of a mood kill so they decided against it. Join me in the fight against tight arse drunks.

Masonette

Just thought I'd post these pics from a recent shoot with designer Jo Mason (absolute sweetheart) from Masonette, Canix Jewellery and stylist Bianca Roccisano, who is awesome to work with since she talks almost as much as me. I love these designs and the theme of the shoot. The photos will appear in the next issue of Fashion Journal and an upcoming issue of Cosmopolitan magazine. The photographer was 18 year old Jacinta Rosewarne who has only got her first camera four months ago. Watch her. She is amazing. The other model is Laura Jane, such a stunning face!

It's friday, I'm in love

What the shit? So I found this song originally on itunes and thought maybe it was a joke but it's legit. I honestly think it's the worst song of all time but with a cringe worthy video to match. I particularly like how these 13 year olds are driving a car and heading to a party where all their mates cars are parked. Since when did America lower the legal driving age from 16 to 13? Her makeup also makes her look like a baby prostitute. Best lyrics in the song are clearly: "Yesterday was Thursday, today is Friday, we're so excited ... we gonna have a ball today, tomorrow is Saturday and Sunday comes afterwards. I don't want this weekend to end." Also, who is the black flo rida/ Usher wanna be that randomly starts rapping in the middle of the song? 10 points for street cred Rebecca! Another highlight of the song is when she's choosing whether to sit in the front seat or the back seat- ooh such choices! How can a girl choose?!
It's so dandy when the number 1 topic on Twitter is Rebecca Black over the Japan disasters. Thanks to Ark Music Factory there are multiple songs by children with delusional parents just like this one to keep you entertained.

Indie lord

Future 2011...shit day. Admittedly I just wanted to go to see Ke$ha because I think she needs a bath and I heard she blows glitter from her vagina BUT I didn’t think the experience of this music festival could be that bad. I’m not really that big a music festival fan, due to the fact that I’m not indie enough and I’m pretty much the only one not on drugs yet I highly enjoyed Good Vibes last year. I only went so I could see the Killers and it was well worth it because they were amazing. Literally one of the best moments of my entire LIFE was being on my friend’s shoulders during “All these things that I’ve done”. I was expecting something similar at Future music festival this year but I was so wrong.

The day started with amazing weather and a delightful lemon lime bitters and vodka slurpee. I had been offered a job working behind the scenes at the festival by my friend Olivia but since I’d already bought my $140 ticket, I decided to pass on that. I travelled into Flemington with Olivia and my other friends Sage and Alice as they prepared themselves to work in funky burlesque outfits all day. The train ride in itself was eventful considering an intoxicated young male vomited just behind us. It looked like he swallowed a sausage whole, the chunks were enormous. Sage described them as being similar in texture to apple pie. We also watched out the window as the clouds became more and more ominous.

Just as we pulled into Flemington Racecourse station, the heavens opened and sent everyone running. Some geniuses had those funky plastic ponchos but I literally had nothing to protect me. I tried to steal some guys hat by batting my eyelashes and smiling sweetly but it turned out to be his friend’s so that was an immediate fail. Problem number two was that I had my friend Brianna’s ticket and we were supposed to be hanging out that day plus we had no phone reception! We somehow spoke to each other for a few small conversations where neither of us understood each other but I managed to catch onto the fact that she was on the other side of the festival. Joy. Sheer joy.

After waiting in a line for a good 45 minutes with these randoms who decided to drunkenly befriend me, I got in and needed to pee. The lines for these feral public toilets were 15 minutes long so I decided to get everyone excited to pee. We had chants going to encourage people to “pee hard or pee home”. High fives were also exchanged as people exited the cubicles. Excellent morale. After I had peed, shit got real. I had to find Brianna.

Her texts went like this:
“like at the end of the main stage on the footpath”
“Emily I haven’t moved where r u??? I’m looking at the main stage but far back in the centre, about 50m up from a ride”

“The “no booze no bags” sign is 50m in front of me”

Needless to say, it was pretty difficult to locate her plus I was a little distraught because it was midway through Ke$ha!!! After searching for a good 15 minutes, Brianna and I are united with her screaming at the top of her lungs. We then made a futile attempt to get to the front. We got about ten metres into the crowd and gave up. I could see Ke$ha’s squat thrusts and blue lipstick from 100m away but no glitter vagina. Depressing. After this, we needed sustenance.

The question was: food or alcohol? We had to wait in a half hour que for each of them. We decided upon food. Food was amazing, being drenched...not so amazing. I was so not drunk enough for that shit.

After wandering around for about an hour, asking ourselves where all these derros came from, we decided it would be safe to watch “The Presets” because we figured we’d know a few songs. Wrong. We knew about two. Epic fail. It was also while watching The Presets that a bottle of wee was thrown in our direction. I replay the event in slow motion as boys began to run out of the way while another hurled a clear bottle containing a yellow liquid into the crowd. Brianna and I ducked out of the way just in time to see the girl next to us get smacked in the face by a large splash of pee. If there was ever a time for anti-bacterial gel, it was at that moment. Either way, that ended it for us. It was time to go so we walked our sorry dripping arses back home.

I’m starting to think maybe I’m a massive loser.

Ranga Racism

Roses are red, so is your head, I wish you were dead.


I’m a ranga. A red head, a ginger, carrot top, ginga ninja, fire crotch, pumpkin pubes...ok too far blue car. But yes, as of a week ago, I have joined the small minority of the population that has red hair. For a colouring competition, my good friend Shakira from Zucci hair salon dyed my hair red and cut me a fringe. Before this, I had virgin hair and my baby Jesus liked it. As you can imagine, I was absolutely pooing myself leading up to dying it, envisioning myself looking like orphan Annie. Once it was done though, I didn’t hate it, I kind of liked it. Could this be possible? I have been asked before if my hair was naturally red and if I had dyed it brown because I have freckles. Also, my brother has a ranga face. “What does that mean?” I hear you ask? It means people when they first meet him don’t notice that he has blonde hair but remember him and a ranga due to his slightly red and freckly face.

I’ve decided red heads are practically a race of their own. Everyone is super racist towards red heads! I got my first taunt when walking to the bus stop on the way to uni. Now, on previous days, a car full of builders always drives past at the same time and they all yell out something obscene. But this Monday was different. As I innocently walked down the street, probably listening to Taylor Swift, I looked up when I heard the word “RANGA!!!!” being screamed. It was the car full of builders shouting abuse at me! Only 3 days before they were singing a different tune but there it was, ranga racism. Whatever, if it means I could play Ginny in a Harry Potter film and marry Harry then it is worth it.

I told my beautiful ginger friend Jess about this incident and she said “do you see what I have to deal with??”. It’s tough having red hair! For some reason I have the idea in my head that there’s a high number of suicides from people with red hair and I can see why. Only 1-2% of the population has red hair, isn’t that insane?? I just found this on Wikipedia: “Cultural reactions have varied from ridicule to admiration; many common stereotypes exist regarding redheads and they are often portrayed as fiery-tempered.” Fiery tempered ey? I have already been described as that by someone who claims it’s just because I have red hair now. As I am Scottish, maybe I should have red hair as Scotland has the highest population of carrot tops. My mum continued the discrimination last night as she turned to me in the car saying “What are you going to do about your hair? I don’t love it.” Thanks mims.

I swear to God, as I write this blog, a creepy ginger baby is giving me the evil eye at work. I just took a sneaky photo of it. Win.

 

As a ginga ninja, I come in peace



I almost had a psychic boyfriend but he left me before we met....

When I was a younger, I watched way too many sci fi shows (no, not Star Trek) and I liked to think there was something else in the universe other than just the life we knew and that some people possessed a sixth sense. After the painful realisation that I didn’t have it (and that I wasn’t a witch about to be sent off to Hogwarts), I slowly started to think that these people who claimed to have a third eye never really had any special insights at all and instead were just really good at reading people hence making assumptions that were vaguely true. I’ve always wanted someone to prove me wrong and show me that some people can see things that others can’t. So when the opportunity arose to see a fortune teller in Bangkok, I couldn’t turn it down.


I was walking down the dirty, odorous streets of Thailand’s capital city with the three girls I was travelling with when I saw a rotund woman sitting in front of a table with a sign that read:

Tarot card reading 100B

Palm reading 100B

Foot reading 200B

We walked right on past her but my curiosity was already sparked. By the time we had decided to turn around to go back to the hotel, my mind was already made up, I was to have my palm read. As we approached, she could hardly contain her excitement five potential customers came her way, potentially providing her with AU$3 per reading. As we all pulled up a plastic stool, she begun whipping out her equipment including a pen, a frog shaped lamp, a photo album filled with pictures of customers and a digital camera. After about five minutes of posing for photos with her as she directed some poor, innocent Japanese bystander turned photographer on the street, we got down to business. I was first, beginning with the age I would die. It was 35...

JOKES! She told me I would die at 95 after a long, healthy life (that is if I ate lots of bananas to keep my bowels from messing up). She then moved onto my soulmate, who I would meet when I’m twenty five in another country and would be happily married to with two OR four children by the time I’m 32. He will apparently be very smart and handsome. Lucky Emily! There was a lot of stuff before all that were to happen though. It kind of went like this:

• “mmmm, you have bery kind heart but I see that you worry too much about something you are in two minds about. You think is bery big decision. You no worry no more.”

• “You are bery creative mind, you write book or film, maybe play”. Interesting since you may have noticed readers that I love to write and I am also studying performing arts at university. Weird....but it gets weirder.

• “you spend all your money and never save”, this is so true, “never lend any friends money, they never pay you back!”

• “make much money from part time job, cat walk model I think”. Thanks lady, but where is all my money?!?!?!

• “You charm all boys and break their hearts.” Ummm oops?

She also somehow knew about my sore back that I had that day. I was pretty impressed with her predictions for me but for the other girls, she was a bit rough. One of the girls, Alana, was told that if she didn’t stop stressing out she would die early from heart problems, that she would have two husbands because the first would die and if her husband didn’t feed her, she would kill him. Another girl, Steph, was told that she shouldn’t be alone with men or she would be raped. Don’t sugar coat it woman, give it to us raw!

So next time you doubt fortune tellers, think about my little friend in Thailand, whose name eludes me. She was weird but she knew her shit.

Tits out for the boys

Strippers are real people too. You better believe it. In fact, I’m a strong believer in supporting these women. Who am I kidding, I FREAKING LOVE STRIP CLUBS! I love to make up these stupid excuses so I can go as well such as “I guess it’s just us boys, you probably want to go to the strippers...” and “oh, it’s a Wednesday, nothing is open except the strippers, guess we’ll have to go there.” That’s the exact excuse I used only one week ago so I could visit King St once again.


Now, my lovely best friend Chanelle, as pictured below (very attractive girl), is super sweet and innocent. She flinches at the word penis, cringes at the sight of an FHM cover and would NEVER go to a strip club....until now. I like to think of myself as someone who can persuade people into doing something they don’t want to do so making her go to a strip club was relatively easy.

The first time I suggested it, she firmly said no. I had obviously told her of my first experience of a strip club way back when I was a tipsy underage rebel using my sister’s I.D. I didn’t even have to use that fake I.D, claiming I couldn’t fit it in my dress while trying my best to get into “Dallas Showgirls”. To my delight, they let me right in. Long story short, I made good friends with the strippers, had a group hug with them and tipped my first dancer, resulting in her expressing her gratitude by rubbing my face between her sweaty breasts. I’m a lucky girl.

After a little persuading, Chanelle was convinced that going to a strip club was a good idea. “Goldfinger’s” was selected as our exotic venue for the night, which proved to be a terrific choice. It was unlike any strip club I’d ever seen before, with dozens of strippers walking around and working for tips. As a girl, it was my natural instinct to check out every girl in the place (I assume girls do that in order to scout of the competition). The strippers (or shall we call them exotic dancers??) at this testosterone fuelled environment came in all shapes and sizes apparently to suit every type of man. You’ve got your fatties, your hotties, your fake titties, your oldies and your possible dudes. It’s every flavour you want from a buffet of ladies.

As an experienced campaigner, I’m going to provide a list of hints when going to a strip club for the young players.

• Tipping strippers can vary. Some strip clubs have a main stage where the chickadees will strip down to their birthday suits. At these lovely establishments, you can get a seat right up against the stage and tip the strippers with cash (if you’re lucky, you can put this tip down a pair of underwear or inside a bra). Some places you need to buy tipping money at the bar but those places you will usually find in Kings Cross. Other places (such as “goldfingers”) you approach the stripper directly to ask for a private strip dance that goes for around $20 for five minutes.

• Don’t touch the dancers unless you see others do it and it seems ok. No one likes a dirty pervert.

• Be nice to them and they’ll be nice back.

• Don’t ask for their phone numbers or ask them on a date. You just sound seedy and they probably get it all the time. Just keep it classy.

Just so y’all know, I’m the best friend ever so it was only right that I bought my friend Chanelle her very first lap dance from a lovely girl called “Lexie”. Clearly her alias but she was a nice lady! I picked out her through a careful selection process after scanning all the girls. She had the best body with the nicest bra so I went in for the kill and got her into the other room, alone with Chanelle and I. “So what would you like me to do?” she asked in her adorable Brittish accent. “I don’t know, some cool shit with the pole?” I replied sounding uber experienced. The show went down pretty casually with the highlights being when Chanelle asked where she got her bra from (playboy, if you were interested), when I found out that her terrific mammories were in fact real and when she grinded on Chanelle while Chanelle squeeled and put her hands over her face.

When all is said and done, remember this:

“You know that little girl up there dry humping the stage and grinding that f*&#ing pole, that’s somebody’s daughter! “