Dear Diary….

My Dad recently got the shits with me storing a bunch of stuff in his garage and made me take it back to my place. Among the carload of crap that I had pretty much forgotten I owned, but now can’t bare to throw it out, is a box filled with my old diaries.

I always thought it’d be great to keep a diary because when I was at some old age like 31, I’d be able to read over it and reminisce. Turns out, my adult self isn’t quite as interested in page after page of teenage angst as my teenage self thought she might  be.

I used to think maybe after I died someone would find my diaries and publish them. Now I’m not sure that the story of the time, “the boys followed us to the basketball courts, but then both groups, (guys and girls) ignored each other, then Cara’s Mum took us to a Chinese restaurant’ is going to be much a seller.

As a teenager, I wasn’t allowed anywhere near the cool crowd (mostly because they wouldn’t let me), so unlike some teenage diaries, mine are seriously lacking in  the sex, drugs and rock and roll department. Despite that, here are a few bits and bobs that’ll give you some insight into the tragic, dorky teenager that grew up to be the tragic, red-hot mess I am today.

diary

1/8/1995 (aged 13)

Mum brought me a bra today. It is very uncomfortable. I am not going to wear it until I totally need it.

 (Oh and by the way, young teenage Evie, don’t you worry, you won’t ‘totally need it’ until 2010 when you realise the only way you will ever get boobs is to buy them yourself.)

8/2/1996 (aged 13)

High school has began again, I am in year 8. I have Mrs. West for a science teacher and she is a mega-bitch. She seems to hate me personally, probly because I hate her and I don’t have a book and I am always late.”

1/8/1996 (aged 14)

“Last night we had a conversation about where we would like to lose our virginity. Casey said by a river on a blanket, Kirsty said on the beach and Holly said in a cabin surrounded by snow-capped mountains. I tried to get out of it by saying I was going to be a nun, but they made me say something so I said in a bed, then changed it to water bed.”

Notice how no-one suggests, ‘drunk in a party in a bush’ or ‘in the back of Mark Toddy’s Mum’s Toyata Corolla’

10/11/98 (aged 15)

And yet another reason why I think I shall remain childless

“Anyway, I smacked Josh (my brother) in the face and his nose bled. Any second now Mum’s going to come in yelling……

Mum just came in she didn’t yell just had a whinge at me but now she is throwing a spac about the washing up not being done. I hope when I have kids they are better than us.”

10/3/99 (aged 16)

I love James Jones. I actually almost spoke to him. I sneezed and he said, “bless you.”

I guess James and I just weren’t meant to be though,

8/5/99

I saw James walking around with his mole-patrol. These year 9 and 10 chicks follow him everywhere (can’t say I blame ‘em). Anyway, I have decided I am going to stop liking him. I used to think he might like me but the last two maths classes he has not sat near me.

25/6/99 (17)

It isn’t always easy dealing with the anguish of past mistakes…

“I just can’t believe I invited Tracey and Marie to my 15th birthday and not Anna, it is one of my biggest regrets.

2/10/1998 (aged 16)

My stellar taste in men started early

“So last night me, Katie and Erin hung out down the shop with the boys. Scott was swinging on shop door, putting the phone out of service, climbing up the power poles and pulling apart the seat and throwing bits of wood…by the way I totally liked Scott ‘cause he is bad and I love bad boys.”

30/5/99 (aged 17)

I had another driving lesson today. My main problems are –

Going too fast

Cutting corners

Forgetting the blinker

16/02/01 (aged 18)

“I’m sick of my job, my brain is dyeing to get to university”

25/05/01 (aged 18)

Mathew called me today and is like, “are we still on for tomorrow?”

I say, “sure” so I guess I must have agreed to go out with him last night. My first official date and it’s with Mathew the arse-spanker.”

18/05/01 (aged 18)

To slut or not to slut

“I’m thinking of wearing my slutty dress tonight, but it might be too cold.”

facepalm

This is the part where I tell you I outgrew my awkward, embarrassing teenage years into swan-like woman-hood, but I am still waiting for that to happen.

In other news, I met some bloggers in real life on the week-end.

Sean Smithson of The Office Inbetweener and Daile of  Kissmeoutofdesire and I all met up in Sydney.

It was awesome to meet people I feel like I already sort of know and they were both lovely.

I ended up drinking too much wine and fell asleep on the train and woke up about 30km from where I was supposed to be on a train bound for Melbourne,.

How I feel after most typical week-ends.

It was ok though, I was able to get back to my sister’s place, so all in all a great day.

 

Crowd-Funded Boobies.

Do you ever feel the need to “give the gift of bigger breasts” but don’t know where to start? Do you have more money than sense and consider helping someone get a boob job to be a wise investment?

Personally, I don’t but apparently there are plenty of people out there who do.

Has anyone else heard of this? Crowd-funding for breast implants?  Websites where women can put up photos of themselves and men, or ‘benefactors’ as they are known, can donate cash to help these ladies achieve the tits of their dreams.

Apparently this concept has been around for awhile so maybe I’m just out of the loop.

I don’t want to get all judgy about how people spend their own money, and I know we all like boobs, but surely if you have spare cash to throw around there are slightly more worthy causes out there? I don’t know, how about sponsoring a child, or donating to research to fund an vaccine for HIV?

Of course, the problem is, if you try and donate to a charity that wants to do something dull like say, build a school, you don’t get all the benefits that crowd funding  boobs will get you.

And according to one of the websites, the benefits are a-plenty.

Interact with attractive ladies from all over the world and invest in their breasts (So, I was trying to decide whether to go stocks or real estate, then I realised, no, I’ll invest in tits.)

Negotiate for custom video & photos in exchange for your donations (creeeeeeeepy)

 Keep “abreast” of your female friends activities through their blogs, or write your own (write your own? Oh I do hope you have a follow button)

 Exchange private messages with ladies that compete for your attention 

 Create lasting friendships with real women all over the world (I’m not sure ‘friendship’ is the right word.)

I can’t help but wonder, what are these benefactors of bosom are like? To get some idea, here is a few cut and pasted testimonials:

“On other sites you don’t know where your money is going. But with MyFreeImplants, I have the piece of mind that my contributions will always help fund a boob job. I think that’s great!” – John.

You know what else is great, John? Donating to a charity trying that fights malaria. Also, I think you mean ‘peace of mind’.

” I’ve helped over 30 women get their implants, many of whom I still talk to today. It feels great to apart of such a life changing experience” - Steve.

So Steve, if your idea of a good time is paying for random women’s implants, did you ever wonder if you were the one that needed a life changing experience and not the ladies you are helping?

I guess I shouldn’t talk.  My boobs are about as real as a Rolex from Bali. A few years ago I went from an A cup to a D cup, only I had to pay for the whole thing myself.

Y’know what else, I wouldn’t recommend it. I don’t lay awake at night racked with regret about my rack, but if I had my time again I simply wouldn’t bother.

For one thing, the breasts are a major erogenous zone. You don’t want to mess with erogenous zones. You run a major risk of losing some or all of the sensation there. I have a little bit of nerve damage and while it still feels nice when my boobs are touched, the intensity has seriously decreased, and probably won’t ever come back.

At least I still have some feeling. My plastic surgeon told me an horrific story about a woman who lost all feeling in her new boobs. All feeling all together. She stepped out of the shower and was drying herself with a hair-dryer (out of towels I guess?!) and as she couldn’t feel the heat, she burnt her boob.

So basically if you get you a boob job you run the risk of loosing all feeling in your breasts to the point that someone could literally come along and set your boobs on fire and you would be standing there saying,

“Hey, can anyone else smell something burning or is it just me?”

Another problem is the way they feel. Have you ever wondered what enhanced breasts feel like? Well I’ll tell you. They feel like a pair of fake tits. My boobs don’t feel awful now,  but they have lost that squishy, booby softeness they once had. It’s is also apparently obvious to everyone I sleep with that they aren’t real.

It’s usually when we are laying in bed and it always goes something like this,

Random Dude- “Ummmm, so, can I ask you something.”

Me- “Sure”

RD- “Ahh I mean your boobs, have you errr, had them done?”

Me- “Yeah, I have.”

RD- “No, I mean, it’s fine, I was just wondering, it doesn’t bother me or anything.”

Me- “Ok.”

RD- “Anyway”

Me – “Good talk.”

What people choose to do with their own bodies is their decision and far be it from me to try and tell another person what’s best for them. All I can say is that in my experience, having bigger boobs hasn’t really made much difference to my life. I’m no happier, I’m no healthier. I didn’t suddenly become funnier or more clever or creative. My friends and family don’t suddenly love me more. My dreams have not all come true. Basically all that changed was that I had to go out and buy a stack of new bras.

You know what would change my life though?

A convertible. I have always wanted a convertible.

If you, dear reader, feel the need to give the gift of a hot car, you can chip in to my ‘crowd funded convertible fund’

I think this one might be nice.

I think this one might be nice.

This one is $189,000, so if the 5-10 visitors I have a day all chipped in $2 I could have this car by around 2039.

I think it’ll make me a lot happier than a few lumps of silicon ever did.

I’m glad I have a car now.

Public transport is like some strange little bubble. We all sit around breathing in each others air, sitting closer to strangers than I’ve been with guys  three drinks in on a second date, all the while pretending no one else around us even exits.

Just keep repeating, 'there is nobody here but me.'

“There is nobody here but me. There is nobody here but me.”

This strange little bubble always seems to attract some of the more fringe members of our society, and they always seem to hop on to my train.

Like the man I had the pleasure of sharing a train carriage with once, who kept spraying deodorant on his bald head. He then got into an argument because someone that the rest of us couldn’t see, accused him of smoking on the train.

Then there was the fella who decided to get comfy by taking off his shoes, his pungent foot odour wafting through and nearly clearing out the carriage. When  the train rolled past a paddock full of sheep and he started ‘baaaaaing’ out the window at them.

Another man I sat near on a train a few years ago, started telling  me all about how he had just got out of gaol. Then he asked for my phone number. There is something to be said for not sharing too much too early.

……Aaaaaand, it’s a no from me.

One man though, really sticks out in my mind as going that extra mile to be inappropriate in a public space.

I was about 19 or 20 and heading out for yet another night on the tiles with the girls. Living with my parents out in suburban Sydney, going into ‘the city’ meant a 40 minute train ride. On the night in question, I was the only person in the carriage. I picked up a magazine that I found on the floor and started reading.

An artist's impression of me on the train that evening.

An artist’s impression of me on the train that evening.

It wasn’t long before a fellow commuter joined me. He had a face like a bucket full of arse-holes and smelt faintly of BO with a hint of wee. Of the sixty-odd  empty seats on offer that night, he decided to choose the one right next to me.

Could you not find any other seat anywhere that you liked?

Could you not find any other seat anywhere that you liked?

I have an almost pathological aversion to being rude, offending people or making a scene. I had the option of politely asking him to move to another seat, or getting up myself, though as you can see from the above photo, the latter would have meant awkwardly climbing over him. I decided to go with option three, burying my head in a magazine and trying to pretend he wasn’t there.

He seemed to take my avoiding all eye contact with him as an invitation to chat and started telling me all  about how he was newly arrived in Australia and had come over to work with his brother. He apologised for his bad English.

“That’s alright, I don’t want to talk to you anyway,” I said. Well, that’s what I said in my brain. My head nodded and my mouth went ‘em hmm.’

He then tried to be a little bit smooth. “I like your shoes,” he said, looking down at my legs, ” very, ahh, sexy.” “Emm hmm” I said again in reply, feeling creeped out, hoping his was the next stop.

He sniffed the air, “your hair smell nice. You use Pantene?”

“I do actually,” I said, foolishly. His knowledge of hair products just by scent had caught me off guard.

He went quiet. I kept reading.

He kept sitting quietly. I kept reading.

Then, I saw it, just out of the corner of my eye. I turned my head ever so slightly to confirm if I was seeing what I thought I was seeing. Out of his pants and into the light, white, pudgy and a long way from being hard, was his penis.

It looked like a squidgy bit of dough that he was flopping about in his right hand.

A bit like this sea-slug, but less shiny.

A bit like this sea-slug, but less shiny.

I wish I could tell you I pulled some ninja move, but I just gasped,  grabbed my bag and leapt over the seats and ran away into the next carriage.

I'm outta here!

I’m outta here!

Me running from his floppy dick coincided with the train pulling up at Wolli Creek station and I saw him  get off there and run away.

Call me vengeful, but I hope that was not his planned destination and he had to sit there and wait a long time for the next train.

In other news, an old post of mine has been featured on Sean Smithson’s always hilarious blog, The Office Inbetweener, with some extra funny bits added by Sean. If you have not checked out his blog, get on over there. He is pretty much a male version of me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

An Open Letter to the Grub that Vomited in my Bicycle Basket.

Dear Grub,

We have never met, you and I, but in some ways, I feel like I know you intimately. Sometime between 11pm and 1am last Saturday, you threw up in my bicycle basket parked just outside the Lass O’Gowrie Hotel in Newcastle. This one small action taught me so much about you. I know, for example, you had pasta with what appears to be bits of chicken for dinner that night. You don’t chew your food very well. You drank a little bit too much, and, you are a dick head.

In some ways, my little Vom-a-Tron, you and I are similar. I too, know what it is like to drink so much I vomit. I too have vomited in inappropriate places. My parents carpet, the nature strip outside of a multi-million dollar house in Tamarama, my handbag whilst on a train and memorably, in the middle of the day out the front of the High Street Kensington Marcs and Spencers. The difference between you and I is, when I vomit, I try and do it with some respect.

I, at the very least try to aim the contents of my stomach to an area of least damage. I mentioned before, I vomited in my handbag on a train. See how I did that? Rather than cause a mess for my fellow commuters to travel with, I sacrificed my handbag. That is respectful vomiting.

I know how it is My Sweet Chunder-Chops, sometimes, there is very little warning of an approaching vom-vom. Sometimes, we have no choice but to let it out then and there. I must say though, I find it hard to believe that your ‘then and there’ moment involved your face in my bike basket. I can only conclude then, that upon feeling like you were going to chuck, you walked up to my bike and aimed at my basket.  The sheer volume of vomit in my basket that night tells me that there was more than one heave to your movement as well. That is vomiting without respect.

I wonder, Little Chuck-Monkey, if you have ever known the sorrow of taking off your high heels and sticking them in a bicycle basket realising too late it was full of someone else’s spew? I wonder if you can understand what it is like to unsuspectingly go to fish your heels out of said basket, only to find your hands covered in the puke of another. Grub, I hope for your sake you will never ever know the pain of waking up hung-over on a Sunday morning and having to hose out your bike basket and your vomit-crusted good shoes, because you know that if you leave it any longer it’s just going to bake and fester in the sun. I almost added to your little pile, Grub, dry-retching as I aimed my garden hose at what was once your dinner.

If there is to be any good come out of this, I guess I can take comfort in the fact that your vomit, sprayed out of my basket and on to my lawn, provided some food for the local birds. As someone who believes strongly in recycling, seeing your dinner recycled softened the blow in a small way.

bike photo

Sincerely,

Evie.

I think the universe sends me these guys just so I have something to blog about.

It might be early in the year, but the unholy mess that is my love life has already got off to a corker of a start. Readers of this blog will know, I have an almost uncanny ability to seek out and date the creepy, the peculiar and the wholly unsuitable.

‘Shawn’ a 25 year old American I recently met on Tinder, is no exception.

Our date probably couldn’t have got off to a more mortifying start.

While waiting for Shawn  at the Merewether Surf House, I noticed my dress was on back the front.

Of course it was. Oh how embarrassing.  

I went around the corner,  looked around, and seeing no-one, pulled my arms in through the sleeves, pulled my dress down around my waist and  turned it the right way around. I just in the process of pulling it up again when Shawn walked around the corner just in time to see me semi-undressed.

“Oh god! Hi I um, my dress was on back the front” I said, completely mortified. I struggled to get my arms back in my sleeves while trying to act like I was a normal person and not some Pervy McPervertson, who lurks around the corners of buildings taking my clothes on and off.

It.Was.Awkward. To his credit, he polititely pretended he hadn’t even noticed, kissed me on the cheek and we went and sat down to lunch as though that didn’t just happen.

The awkward seemed to follow us to the table. We looked over our menus, then out to sea, then back at our menus, neither of us having much to say to one another. It turned out, before moving to Australia, Shawn had lived in China for a short time. Hoping it would kick-start a conversation of more than a few syllables, I asked him about it.

“I hated it.” He said. “See those chickens over there,” pointing at a flock of seagulls, “In China, they grab chickens like that, kill them and stick them in a window. I used to drive an hour sometimes just to get McDonalds.”

And at that moment, I knew, this was not the beginning of my fairytale.

“I see all these people drinking coffee in Australia”, he said suddenly, “but what people don’t realise is, coffee is a mind altering substance.” He said the words ‘mind altering substance’ slowly and deliberately then he opened his Coke and took a sip.

“People drink coffee in America don’t they?” I said.

“Not like they do here! Everybody drinks coffee here, they don’t think it’s a mind altering substance, but it is.”

Just say no kids.

Just say no kids.

“What about that Coke you are drinking” I said, “that is full of caffeine as well”

“No. Coke does not have the mind-altering effects of coffee. I can have four of these, and go straight to sleep. What happens if you have four coffees? You’re wired, you’re not going to sleep all night!”

At that point I put on my, “Hmmmm, I see” face. It is a look I put on when someone is saying  something I completely disagree with. I sort of nod and say, “Hmmm yes, sure” in the hopes they will stop talking about it quicker.

“You know what’s not bad for you?” He said, “McDonalds. People say it is, but it’s not.”

“Umm, I’m pretty sure..”

But before I could finish he continued, “I know a guy, ate McDonalds every day for a month, he lost weight.”

Probably because he was malnourished. “Hmmmm, yes, sure.”

“Nothing is bad for you, if you don’t have too much of it.” He said.

“Well what about coffee?” I asked.

“Oh, but people do not have one cup of coffee. They have, how many? Two, three, four cups?”

“I think some people have just..”

“Who? Nobody! Nobody has just one cup of coffee!”

I laughed and shook my head. I couldn’t help it. Turns out my “hmmmm” face can only take so much.

After lunch we went for a walk and then sat down on some chairs looking out at the ocean.

“See that boat out there?” He pointed at one of the massive coal ships out at sea, “I would never get on one of those.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Well what if it sinks?”

“I don’t know” I said, “get in the life boat I suppose.”

“And if that sinks? No way, y’all got sharks out here! No way!”

white-shark-061

Just a typical day at my local beach, apparently.

“Yeah, but not many. You have more chance of being struck by lightning than eaten by a shark.” I said.

“Not out there you don’t” he said. “How many sharks you think are out there, just along this beach?”

“Umm, I really have no idea”

“C’mon” he said in a tone that wasn’t going to take no for an answer, “give me an estimate, how many sharks? Just an estimate.”

It was the first time I had been required to estimate the local shark population while on a date and I really had no idea.

“Two?” I guessed.

“Two? No! There are at least and I mean at least 20 sharks just along here.”

“I really don’t think there are twenty great whites just circling along this stretch…..”

“I didn’t just say great whites! There are regular sharks too!”

I’m still not quite sure what a regular shark is.

When I got home, he messaged me the following,

textedited

This one really is the last of the true romantics.

                                             ***************************************

If you have read this blog before, you might remember an earlier post about how my housemate Olly and I decided to have a competition who could sleep with the most people this summer. Well, seeing as it is now March 1st, the Australian summer is now over. I won, but it was a piss-poor effort by all concerned, with the final tally being

Evie- 2  Olly-1.

There’s always next year I guess.

Olly now has a blog of his own, that you can check out here

A bunch of reasons being single on Valentine’s Day probably isn’t all that awesome.

It is Valentine’s Day today and for the 31st year in a row, I woke up alone.

 I got up, went to the supermarket and I was faced with this…

Was tempted to kick this over and pretend I "fell".

Was tempted to kick this over and pretend I “fell”.

Some time around mid-morning I started to wonder…

Is 11:40 am too early to start drinking wine on Valentine’s Day when you are in your 30s and single?

Maybe I am over-reacting? According to the Internet, being single on Valentine’s Day is AWESOME!

Judging by all the 10 reasons it’s better to be single on Valentine’s Day’ blog posts going around; being single on Valentine’s Day is the BEST THING EVER!

For a start, as a single person on Valentine’s Day I have the advantage of  being able to do, ‘Whatever the FUCK I want!”

Unless of course doing whatever the fuck you want involves sharing a romantic meal with your sweetheart followed by shagging all night? Then, maybe not.

Maybe next year?

Maybe next year?

For those budget conscious singles among us, another reason to clap your hands with joy at being single today is that you save money by not buying presents. It also means of course, you don’t get any presents either. As my Facebook newsfeed began to fill with photos of flowers this morning I thought…

The only person who has ever bought me flowers is my Grandma Toby, and she’s dead.

Never mind.

Another reason that it is so freaken rad to be all alone on Valentine’s Day… ‘you can watch anything you like’, or ‘you are the boss of the remote control!’

How good is this!!

How good is this!!

Because sitting at home watching telly, alone,  beats the hell out of anything those couples might be up to tonight.

According to one article on Elite Daily:

Being a free agent during the month of February simply means that you get your pick of the litter when it comes to whom you want to have sex with.

The pick of the litter? I spend the rest of the year experiencing a conga-line of rejection, but magically, tonight, I can sleep with any man I want?  Awesome.

The article then went on to say:

The single folk go out, party with their friends and target the vulnerable chick in the corner of the bar who’s on her 5th Vodka Tonic.

Which isn’t creepy at all. I’m feeling much better about being single now.

Being single on Valentine’s Day is just the ‘best’ because it’s a good excuse to party with our single friends. Y’know, like we do every other weekend. And some Thursdays.

Of course, as everyone knows being single any time of the year is way more awesome than being in a relationship, otherwise why would people tell me…

I love seeing your Facebook and reading your blog. Being in a couple is sooooooooo boring, at least I can live vicariously through you.

Of course, they then go on to say:

But did I mention my boyfriend and I just had the most awesome romantic weekend drinking wine in the Hunter Valley? I never sit at home by myself on a Saturday night! Oh and it’s twice as easy for me to buy a house and I can have sex any time I want! Oh no, but seriously, being in a relationship is just oh so dull.

The only advantage I do have being single on Valentine’s Day is that one of my girlfriends has hired a stripper for tonight. Take that, couples!

I'm sure this is what our stripper will look like.

I’m sure this is what our stripper will look like.

To all those in a relationship, enjoy falling asleep next to your sweetheart tonight. I’ll be falling asleep next to an empty bottle of wine.

Tinder-itis

Last night I got so drunk I threw up on my parent’s carpet. I seem to do that quite a lot. I blame them for keeping a shitload of wine in the house. I can’t be around a lot of wine at once, it ends badly. I had to cancel my wine club membership because Emma and I drank the entire crate in a few days. Emma and I are like two naughty school girls that need to be sat at opposite ends of the classroom, always leading each other astray, like when we accidentally broke into a house.

Throwing up on Mum and Dad’s carpet was just another incident in a long line of trashbag behaviour. I slept with two different men last Sunday, one of them in a car. I met both of them on that classiest of aps, Tinder. I’m such a slutty, slutty boombah sometimes.

Tinder is kind of awful but it’s a little bit addictive and the men I’m matching with really know how to turn on the charm with their opening lines.  Like these blokes for example;

“So, would you say you prefer giving head or receiving head?” (Yeah, like most women, I much prefer a willy in my mouth over receiving oral sex)

“Lets just cut the small talk, I’m in Newcastle for the weekend and looking for sex” (I don’t know mate, try a brothel perhaps?)

“Want to meet up and fuck tonight?” (and they say romance is dead)

“Are you looking for a toy boy, cause I’m really attracted to older women” (I’m an ‘older woman’ now! Fuck the fuck off.)

Just to clarify, I didn’t specifically meet two different men for sex on the same day. I’d been out with both boys, lets call them, Adrian and Finn before. It just so happened that I spent Saturday night at Adrian’s and we had sex in the morning, then I went out with Finn on Sunday night and went and had sex in the back of his van. I felt sort of guilty though, I’m not sure I really cut it as a player.

 Adrian is a little different to the type of guy I usually date. He has a job and a car and doesn’t live either in a crappy share house or with his parents. I think Adrian has quite a bit of money to be honest, which is a change for me as I usually date the poor. The last guy I went out with didn’t even own a bed.

Adrian is sweet and kind and I enjoy his company. He has a beautiful flat with sweeping ocean views that can’t have come cheap. He recently went to Melbourne for work and offered to fly me down there to hang out for a few days. Usually, the only thing a man offers to do for me is have sex with me, which I suspect is more for him than me anyway.

Finn, on the other hand, is a student from Canada, over here on exchange at Newcastle Uni for a year. He doesn’t currently work, but he’s looking. He lives with a bunch of other students in a grotty share house near the uni.

Adrian seems really keen on me, Finn meanwhile, meh. I think he thinks I’m an alright chick, but he’s just not that into me.

Of course Finn is the one that has my heart all a flutter. Every time my phone beeps I grab it, hoping it’s him. Inevitably though, it’s Adrian, or work, or Mum reminding me to please return her Tupperware container with the yellow lid.

Adrian is great, but I’m just not feeling it. I’m going to tell him I don’t think we should keep seeing each other because I’m wasting his time. I know Finn is a bad idea. I’ve been down this path before of seeing a guy who’s not that in to me, and it ends in tears. Somehow though, I just can’t help myself.

Internet Daters Say the Darndest Things!

Reading through internet dating profiles on the look out for love, I often come across some profiles that make me wonder, “What exactly about that sentence did you think would most attract the opposite sex? Was it the spelling, the grammar, or the blatant misogyny?”

I’ve started collecting a few quotes. I have copied these directly from people’s profiles so don’t blame me for the spelling!

Let’s start with some words of advice offered to us by my fellow Internet daters

One man offers some thoughtful fashion tips

 “It’s funny girls say on this site dickheads and idiots don’t apply or there after something serious…….. But there photos have there tits hanging out or all tarty what do u expect. Actually look decent in ur photos and the decent guys might msg”

Another, gives us ophthalmology advice

“Ps for any girl that thinks she is better than any1 els, especially if its about your looks. Please dont flatter yourself and go get your eyes checked. Every1 is good looking in there own ways!”

And another comes in with some tips on how to fill our leisure time

“love my cars burnouts and drifting cars are so fun haha”

Finally some advice on how women think, by a man who knows

 “So seems alot of women are on here thinking they are alot better then they are, all the best hope you find that genuine arsehole you deserve”

 I wonder how many women looked at this profile, were about  to contact this fella when they suddenly remembered ‘oh wait, no, I am a dero, better not then’

” looking for a nice chick i could find myself settling with. I dont like deros so if you are one dont bother.”

It’s not me, it’s you. These blokes can’t be blamed for being unlucky in love. No! It’s all because of those pesky women that frequent these sites

” And this site is full of sh*t all. The girls winge about that they cant find a nice guy or their ex was so mean to them, thats because you’s talk to and date dickheads and ignore/scroll past the nice ones”

“Like to meet at lest one girl who isn’t stuck up witch would be hard to fine these days”

“The truth is I don’t understand chicks that skip past the nice guys and go for the douche bags that want only 1 thing and will treat them like shit… You complain that’s the only type of guy you meet but I say hi and I get put in that category to… Girls are just as judgemental as guys”

No sex please, we’re online dating.

“If you do not value the connection of a physical relationship and partake in friends with benefits or “fb’s” don’t talk to me as I don’t think you have morals or value yourself. In my view you are beneath a street walker, at least they get paid.

We all have urges some act on impulse with a one nighter its not my thing but its fine, your not fooling anyone doing that.”

 “Dont request an Add if ur all ur interested in is getting into my pants…. like seriously!! The Same second u ask for it i will remove u from my contacts…..”

“Just know if u start asking about the size of my package I am gona f#$%^&* remove u immediately. Am So sick of that question already. If u haven’t got one and want one… Grow one!!… Don’t ask about mine……”

You might be sexy, but…..

 “NO BLOKES NO TRANNIES UR NOT WOMEN AND UR NOT MY THING AS.SEXC AS U MAY BE.”

Here we have some reflections on the self, as well as the world around us

 “Wats up with newcastl.e? Its turned into such a look at me with sleeve tatts kind of place filled with wannabe fake tan, orange, clone glamour people. Wat happen to all natural,yes i am the most pale man on the planet I think im good lookin though and I embrace this…..the rest of this is true….”

Finally, sometimes, you really have to wonder, ‘how is it that a bloke like this is single’?

” Male 46 Australia

muffing,swimming,films,gambling,drinking usual bloke shit, p.s i dont enjoy walks along the beach,or camping,my ideal holiday is a week in colombia with charlie and a south american salma hayek.”

New Years Eve.

After seeing in the  New Year last year sound asleep on a friends couch, I wanted to make up for it this year.

And make up for it I did.

Despite having 365 days to get organised, by 7pm New Years Eve, my friends and I still didn’t really have a plan. Getting messy and seeing where the night led had become our best and only option. We headed into town to a bar where we proceeded to spend the final hours of 2013 getting off our faces and dancing.

At some point after midnight, my blurry eyes met his. He took my hand to dance. He told me his name was Bruce and he was 23 and from Sydney.  Soon we were that revolting couple pashing on in the corner.  Our dance floor romance turned out to be short-lived however.  Bruce had to go because he was staying in town and his friend had the key. He took my number and headed off, leaving me to dance alone.

After the bar shut, no one was ready to go home. A random guy in the street invited us back to his place and my friends and I wound up having tequila shots in his kitchen with him and his mates. I should have called it a night and headed home after the tequila, but sometimes, for example, 3am New Years morning,  a person’s judgement can be a little impaired. These are the times that a calling an ex-boyfriend, weeing behind a shop or eating that second kebab seem like really classy moves.While I was still hanging around at random guy’s flat, Bruce texted me, asking me to come and see him. Just like a second kebab at 4am,  it seemed like a really good idea at the time.

As I was leaving the building to go and meet Bruce, I noticed a frustrated looking drunk man pressing on the buzzer trying to get in. Normally I shy away from any kind of confrontation, but tequila had given me a false sense of confidence.  I decided the building had a buzzer for a reason and it wasn’t for me to let drunks through the door.

As I opened the door to go out I told him;

“Nope sorry mate, but I’m not letting you in, you’ll need to buzz”

He tried to jam his foot in the door to stop it closing and I kicked it out of the way. We got into a little bit of a tussel in the door-way. He pushed the door and tried to push past me as I pushed back with my shoulder to block him as I tried to pull the door closed.

“Move!” he said pushing the door.

“No!” You must press the buzzer!”

With one final grasp, much to the man’s annoyance, I managed to pull the door shut.

“You fat slut” he said, as he stormed off

“Oi” I called out after him, “I’m not fat!”

Then he called me a cunt.

Bruce was staying at a backpacker hostel and he met me outside and snuck me up into the four bed dorm room he was staying in. It was a classy start to the new year. We fooled around with our clothes off then I tried to go down on him.

“Yeah, I don’t think I’m going to come” he said after a few minutes. The nights excess was catching up with me and I was tired anyway, so I curled up next to him and fell asleep. I woke up a few hours later, with a cracking hangover and a vague sense that I had left some of my dignity back in 2013.

What am I doing with my life? When you are 21 years old and backpacking Europe it’s considered acceptable to give a crap drunken blowjob to some dude you barely know on a bunk bed in a hostel while his mate tries to sleep above you.

I am 31 years old and at home, things are starting to border on the tragic.

If there is one thing to distract you from a New Years Day hangover, it is coming home to find a baby joey wrapped up in a box in your living room. My housemate Olly unfortunately hit a kangaroo in the early hours of New Year’s Day and she had a little joey in her pouch.

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News Year Day cuddle while we figure out what we are going to do with the little guy.

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We wanted to keep him and look after him until he was big enough to go back to the bush, which would have been the coolest thing ever, but it turns out, that isn’t allowed. Raising a baby kangaroo is a job for the pros apparently.

So 2014 for me started with some over-danced feet, a doorway altercation, a bad blow-job and a baby kangaroo in my living room. How was your New Years Eve?

Summer Time

Have a rocking Christmas everyone!

Have a rocking Christmas everyone!

Merry Christmas to anyone and everyone who has read, commented on, liked posts or just dropped by this blog. It has been wonderful getting to know people from around the world through your comments and your own blogs and I hope 2014 is a wonderful year for everyone! Keep being excellent to each other!

If you have read this blog before, you’ll know my housemate Olly and I have a bet going to see who can sleep with the most people this summer. At the end of summer we are having a barbecue and the loser pays for the food.  Lucky for me, I have gained a bit of an advantage with over Olly. He has a new girlfriend  meaning his ability to go about hooking up with chicks in the hopes of winning a bet have been severely hampered.

Now its just me, shagging my way around town in the hopes of scoring free sausages, a salad and half a dozen bread rolls at the end of Febuary. Meanwhile Olly has all but taken himself out of competition as he and his sweetheart skip through meadows holding hands and doing whatever else it is couple do. Yep, I’m feeling pretty lucky right about now.

Sadly, despite my obvious advantage the tally remains at:

Olly-1 Evie-0

Summer is off to a scorching start here in Oz, or at least it was when I started writing this post a week ago. Now it’s come over all shitty just in time for Christmas Day, but I digress.  The hot weather has got me thinking about how the beach is the perfect place for a first date.

For a start, it’s  probably one of the only places you can go and not spend any money and still not look like a cheap bastard.  A first date at the beach means you have agreed to hang out with someone you barley know while you are both nearly naked and sober. The harsh sunlight highlights every wrinkle, stray hair and wobbly bit and you are surrounded by nearly naked, younger, fitter and far more attractive people.

I think it cuts down on a lot of time wasting because frankly, if both parties are still keen to see each other again after that, I’d say it’s a good sign it’s a goer.

I have been on a few beach dates, and two were alright, but there is one stands out as being particularly bad, probably one of the worst dates I have been on, and with my history, that’s a big call.

After chatting online briefly, Mike and I decided to meet at Merewether beach. We’d organised to meet in the car park overlooking the beach and after a brief ‘nice to meet you’, I asked,

“So you want to head to the baths for a swim?”

“Nah”, he said, “lets just stay here and talk”, he then yawned in an exaggerated, almost theatrical way.

It was well over thirty degrees and there wasn’t a whole lot in the way of shade in the car park. I suddenly wished I had brought my hat.

For a man who wanted to talk, old Mike didn’t seem to have a whole lot to say. We stood around in the hot sun as I tried to make small talk with a man who seemed to favour one and two word answers and yawned a lot.

Minutes crawled by and I could feel my shoulders starting to burn. “Do you want to go and sit in the shade?” I asked. No, he didn’t. He wanted to continue standing in the car park, not saying a lot and yawning every two minutes.

I suggested we go and get a cold drink from the kiosk but that was knocked back too, apparently the car park was where it was at. There was a long silence, broken by another loud yawn. I had enough.

I told him he, “seemed kind of tired” and if he wanted to go we could “hang out another time,”   I thought he was making it obvious he was bored as bat shit in my company and would jump at the chance to leave but he said, “ahhhh come on, we just got here.”

Right.

So we stood around that car park yet another few minutes as I continued my blundering attempt to engage him in something that resembled a conversation. 15 minutes after we arrived, I decided to give up. I told him that I could feel myself starting to get sunburn so I better go home. You can’t argue when a date wants to leave because they are burning can you?

I thought that was the end of that, but Mike apparently enjoyed our time in the car park and hit me up for a second date. I politely declined.

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I have been nominated for the Sisterhood of the World Bloggers Award! Woo hoo! I was nominated by Dudesandshit if you haven’t checked out this blog, do yourself a Christmas favour, because it’s awesome and outrageous.