Maz Reviews Being Hypnotized

It took me an inordinate amount of time to stop believing in magic. Unlike most children who find out that Santa and the Easter Bunny are not real and come over to the side of rationality and logic, I loitered on the side of the mystical for an extended period of time. And by “extended period of time” I mean that I was doing magic spells well into my 20s. I would collect rose petals and write incantations on blue lined paper and place them in envelopes in graveyards. I would stand in the dark in my bedroom on the Friday night of a full moon and glance over my shoulder hoping to see the reflection of my future husband standing behind me. I watched The Craft at least three times. I even spelt magick with a ‘k’ at the end. I was a total, full-blown witch guys! I even did a spell on Nick to make him like me when he didn’t seem that interested and would just sit and watch the cricket when we started going out. We’ve been married two years though, so no one can say for sure that that one was a bust.

I know this seems like an odd confession and recounting it makes it sound even more ridiculous than it was, but perhaps it goes some way to explaining why I consented to be hypnotized at work one morning. (I mean, it was probably 30% my search for the fantastical and 70% the possibility of a completely legitimate reason to take the morning off work.) Working at a television network means I receive strange all-staff emails most days of the week. These emails often include requests like “Does anyone have a bale of hay that we could use in a story?” “Is anyone allergic to bees and wanting to talk about it on the 6’o’clock news?” So it wasn’t that strange when the email went around asking “Is anyone interested in being hypnotized live on air today?” Of course I responded immediately with a hearty “Yes PLEASE!”

Five minutes later and I was in a conference room with six other diligent employees waiting to meet the famed Peter Powers (surely this isn’t his original name, but a thorough google refused to reveal anything other than this weird fansite). I had to admit I was a little nervous. I’d always wanted to know what it was like to be hypnotized. If it was really a thing, why weren’t hypnotists the rulers of the entire world? Why instead, did they mostly perform this wondrous feat on cruise ships and at RSLs in Rooty Hill to drunken 70 year olds for $15 a pop? Mr. Powers finally arrived and I knew, by the end of the morning, I would have the answers to all these questions.

First things first, he made sure that we were hypnotizable. Apparently, not everyone is prone to being hypnotized. Lucky for me I am incredibly gullible and willing to be hypnotized which are the only qualities you need to succumb to the old “you are getting very sleeeepy”. After the first test (imagining our hands were held together by glue and then trying to separate them) I was top of the class with the stickiest of hands that refused to part. I also breezed through the next test (imagining one arm was tied to a bucket of sand and the other to a balloon) and made it into the group who would be making their television debut shortly.

Peter kept us in the room for the next 45 minutes taking us deeper and deeper into a hypnotic state with his dulcet tones and lots of finger snapping. He never stopped speaking the entire time he was with us. He told us to imagine we were melting into the carpet, then to point out any flaws in his appearance. I told him his teeth were crooked and that he had quite a nose on him and then laughed hysterically. There was lots of tapping on the head and being told to “sleep!” Eventually it was time to wander in an orderly line over to the studio. Now this is the part where I find hypnosis to be the most legit – I’m pretty sure that I would usually be nervous going on live television on a day when I hadn’t washed my hair. This particular morning however, I was completely cool with it. Although, it also helped that for the duration of the time that we were waiting to go on set we got to nap on a couch.

Finally we were led on stage, sat in stools and then tasked with doing a bunch of crap; acting like we were petulant children, protecting the Prime Minister from an assassination attempt, you know, the usual. You can watch every moment of my phantasmagorical experience here (note the 4 minute mark where I nail David Campbell with a cushion.)

It was an enjoyable experience where I felt totally relaxed and had no qualms about doing whatever I was told. The question remains though, does hypnosis really work and was I really hypnotized? And here’s the upshot of it; I’m not so sure it’s a real thing as much as it’s an excuse to act like a dick. It’s the sober version of “sorry I peed on your front lawn, I was drunk.” People always ask me if I was aware of what was happening and the answer is yes, I was. I had a complete grasp of everything that was going on around me. I remember every second of it and did nothing against my will. The only difference between being in a trance and normal life was that I didn’t care if I looked like an idiot. I just felt a sort of happy obligation to do whatever Peter told me to do. But to this day I’m unsure whether or not this was because I didn’t want to make him look like a fool on the tele or if I just love an excuse to be a trick monkey. I guess we’ll never know. I never felt any after effects of the hypnosis, Peter de-hypnotized us after the segment ended and sent us on our way. I went back to the office and acted sluggish all day and everyone was fine with it because I’d just come out of a trance. As an experience I give it an 8/10.


And don’t forget, if any of you wants help with some incantations or magick spells; feel free to hit me up. Please be aware that I will charge you and results are definitely not guaranteed. Also, you’ll have to bring your own map of the world, black candle and strange personal item pilfered from the person you’re interested in bewitching.  

The Day Taylor Hanson Finally Got To Meet Me

Taylor Hanson was the first person I ever imagined having sex with. Before Taylor, my fantasies about boys (captain planet and the red power ranger in particular) encompassed them being injured in some way and me taking care of them. In my weird little daydreams I would make them soup and serve it to them in the single bed where they lay in the spare room of my house. But the ultra-effeminate Taylor Hanson changed all that. He was the perfect pre-teen crush. His girliness was non-threatening and it didn’t hurt at all that he sang stirring songs about girls whose names sounded similar to mine (hello Madeleine!). You could close your eyes when listening to that breathy voice of his and imagine those songs were about you. And I never quite got over him.

So you can imagine my excitement when a month ago I was awakened by a text from my parents that read:

Hi Marion. Dad says “down with Bruce, Hanson forever”.

It turns out, Hanson were going to be playing live in the studio AT MY PLACE OF WORK. Bless my mum and dad, they know how excited I get about Hanson and thoroughly encourage me. I think I actually heard tears in my mum’s voice when I called her to tell her about the Hanson experience which ensued.

When I arrived at work the following week, I had a skip in my step. Other people were excited that Hanson were going to be in the studio, but they were excited about seeing a band they perceived to be one hit wonders from 1997. I was Maz seeing the first boy she ever loved excited. I was frothing with excitement. I was over the moon. I ripped my closet apart. I washed my hair and agonized over the flyaways that wouldn’t lie flat. I couldn’t eat my dinner. I felt weepy. I woke up at five and lay in the dark, rehearsing what I was going to say. I wanted them to know that I was a long time fan, but not a weird obsessed fan. I had devised a series of witty, yet endearing stories, which would demonstrate both my charm and sense of humour. Stories that would resonate with them to the point where they would undoubtedly ask me about where they should go out tonight and would I care to join them. Taylor would realize that we actually belonged together and beg me to leave Nick for him. I would decline but not before we shared a lingering kiss.

To be honest the only story I had come up with was that someone stole one of my Hanson CDs from my car once. But I was sure I could spin it somehow.

Finally the moment arrived, and at 7.30am on a Friday morning I went down the rabbit hole – also known as the little side door of studio 22. And there he stood. Shrouded in a halo of light, his perfectly quaffed hair framing that divine face, just as I’d seen in so many adolescent daydreams. There were other people around, but all I could see was him and me, forever and forever. By the time the first notes of Mmmbop washed over me, I was in a state of what can only be described as mild hysteria. My chin was quivering as I sang along and did my best not to cry. And when the song drew to a close and the show cut to an ad break, it became apparent that this could well be the moment I had waited for all these years. It was zero hour. Taylor time.

After a few awkward, shuffling moments of lurking and loitering at an uncomfortably close distance he turned in my direction. I requested a photo. He introduced himself and I ignored him, forgetting to tell him my name. All intriguing and titillating stories left me and I was a simpering mess.

“I’m coming to see you tonight” I said twice. And then oh god oh GOD, he had his arm around me as we took a picture.
“I’ll see you tonight then” he told me, and strode off.

Taylor Hanson touching me

And that was it for me. I dissolved. I had to leave the studio post haste to cry in the car park. Wracked with sobs I ran into one of the children from the Voice Kids. For some reason he thought I was super excited to see him and wrapped his pudgy little arms around me. I brushed him off; horrified that someone could ruin the fact that the last person with his arms around me was Taylor Hanson.  But I had to suck it up, because they were playing another song in two minutes, and I’d be damned if I was going to miss an opportunity to stand in the front row of my own private Hanson concert and pretend Taylor was singing and banging that tambourine just for me. I scuttled back into the dark, wiping the joyous tears from my eyes.

After a stirring rendition of Get The Girl Back (I was the only person in the studio who knew all the words, other than my boy Tay) more photo opportunities arose. So again, I approached the holy trinity. This time Isaac introduced himself to me and shook my hand. And again, I forgot what my name was because his hands were SO SOFT! However, I did have my wits about me enough to tell him

“You are my husband’s favourite Hanson brother. Whenever your parts come on in the car, he always says ‘sing it Isaac’ hehe”

Isaac looked at me, nodded and responded “ok”. We took a photo and I walked away satisfied, knowing I had to leave the studio before I ruined this perfect moment. I didn’t quite pull off the mystique I had been aiming for, but fuck it, Taylor had put his arm around me and he’d smelt even better than I’d always imagined.

A very flattering photo of me in a Hanson sandwich


The rest of the day people were laughing about the queue of girls who had lined up outside the studio hoping to get a glimpse of Hanson.

“As if we’d let those crazy obsessed girls in!” someone proclaimed.


Little did they know, one had slipped through the net.



The Four Reasons Bogans Are Happier Than You Are

People are unnecessarily mean about bogans. Sure they sometimes err on the side of being a bit yucky with their Southern Cross tattoos and their ridiculously broad Australian accents, but they also have a zest for life that to be honest, most corporate, conservative, clean-shaven types do not have. I would know this because my pedigree is roughly three quarters bogan. I pronounced yellow like “yallow” until I was at least 20, I would give my right arm for a turbo charged diesel Toyota Land Cruiser with a snorkel and a two inch lift, and my favourite drink EVER is a passionfruit UDL. Whenever I get too stressed out by corporate or classy life, I take a breath and remember the four bogan commandments…


Thou shalt not be too precious

When I was 11 we visited a wildlife park in Tassie. They had animal feed which was sold according to an honour system. Unlimited bags of feed were piled into a bin with a moneybox attached into which you were supposed to pay 50c per bag. Being 11, I had very little money or regard for rules, and the temptation to become the ruler of these animals with an unlimited supply of feed at my disposal was just too strong. My parents must have noticed that I had more feed that the $2 they gave me would buy, but just let me go about my business, as they were always wont to do. Ten minutes later, tiny arms laden with feed, I was bailed up against a fence by a donkey that was ferociously snapping not just at the food but at my clothes and hands too. My parents thought it was hilarious and took as many pictures as my supply of feed and their 24 exposure film would allow. At no point did they try to intervene. I’m still scared of donkeys.

Thou shalt have no shame

I went to a high school where my dad was a teacher. Most people I know whose parents taught at their school kept a safe distance. Not my dad. Every December my school would see out the year with a concert called “lip sync” where everyone mimed to pop songs. Usually reserved for cool girls with crimped hair and boob tubes singing Brandy and Monica “The Boy Is Mine” my dad and I broke the mold performing a duet together every year. Over the course of my high school career dad and I mimed in full costume, to the entire school, the following hits:
-       Sonny and Cher “I Got You Babe”
-       Huey Lewis and Gwyneth Paltrow “Cruisin’” (in which I mimed Huey and he mimed Gwyneth in drag)
-       Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers “Islands In The Stream”
-       Sandy and Danny “You’re The One That I Want”
-       Jasmin and Aladdin “A Whole New World”
Sometimes people would ask me why I was performing duets with a teacher. My dad maintained that I should have told them that he was my boyfriend, just to freak them out. That’s another thing bogans like – incest jokes. And let’s be honest, they are hilarious.

Thou shalt never be subtle

Sometimes my dad would decide that he would like to do our clothes shopping for us. For months afterwards my brother and I would be getting around town in hideous shirts, emblazoned with “AUSTRALIA” featuring cartoons of koalas bouncing on trampolines, purchased for five for ten dollars from Go-Lo. In a further attempt to win “father of the year” my dad would take out his false teeth (he only has a couple of missing teeth, so don’t judge him) and would chase me around the house, gnashing his good teeth and growling. I’ve never asked my dad why he’s missing teeth, but I certainly enjoyed all the laughter it brought me. And never let it be said that stereotypes aren’t accurate.

Thou shalt always observe the rule that bigger is better

My parents would scrimp and save every dollar they had. They worked hard, but they worked even harder at squirreling away their cash. When I was tiny my dad would smuggle the bladder from a wine cask into Pizza Hut so that he and mum could top up their wine on the cheap.  Once dad even claimed an abandoned car, which had been left out on the street – which is apparently a thing you can do. It eventually burst into flames while he was driving it. And good on them, because with the money they saved we always had the BIGGEST TELEVISION EVER. We may have had cheap clothes and basic food but we sure could see every detail of the news. Other items that expounded the bigger is better/more is more principle in our house included: the four separate entertaining decks we had, our super loud outdoor sound system and our endless supply of dried beef snacks and smoked almonds.

To conclude, bogans live a magical life. A life where children like their parents enough to make a dick of themselves in front of all their peers, a life where you’re taught to shake off injuries that probably need stitches and a life where laughter reigns supreme. So let me say boldly and unashamedly I AM BOGAN, HEAR MY V8 ROAR.

Let's Talk About Sex, Baby.


“STOP IT! YOU’LL SCAR THE CHILDREN!” is a sentence very rarely heard before the child version of yourself is mentally scarred. When your parents want to tell you about sex for example – no one is ever there to stop them. When someone sits on your guinea pig and it dies slowly in your arms while yellow stuff dribbles from its mouth – no one is there to shield your eyes. In my experience, the only time anyone actually intervenes on your childly behalf is when they want to stop you doing something fun. Like watching R rated films, using a homemade slingshot or eating an entire tin of sweeten condensed milk - all of which I was personally denied as a child. And, of course, the one time I really could have done with an adult running in screeching their head off and covering my ears with their hands, not a soul arrived to stop the mental scarring which is still evident on my psyche today…

This may come as a shock to you, but I was in a “gifted” year six class. We were treated like little savants; given algebraic maths problems and acting out our own mock versions of parliament, debating the pros and cons of genetically modified food. We were such little geniuses in fact; that I think our teacher would often forget that most of us still had majority baby teeth. This was never more apparent than during our daily “Reading Time”.

I’m sure most children’s experience around “Reading Time” is immensely pleasurable. Sitting calmly on the floor, tummies full of lunch, as the teacher enthrals you with tales of Charlie and his Chocolate Factory, Charlotte and her web or perhaps even Harry Potter and his Philosopher’s Stone (or “sorcerer’s” stone if you’re a stupid American). This is pretty much the exact opposite of what reading time was like for my class. Cue the horror.

The first book we were read for the year was called Pink Balloons. It was about a charming little five-year-old girl. She was kind and sweet and beautiful. Oh, and she was dying of AIDS. A true story, the book chronicled her slow death. The sentiment “don’t judge a book by its cover” has never rung more true – book cover: shiny pink balloons. Subject matter: agonising death of a child.

Pink Balloons however, paled in comparison to what has to be the most age inappropriate book I have ever been read - Night John. Night John made Pink Balloons look like a romp in a field with some fucking gerberas. Our teacher obviously felt that 11 was definitely the age that we finally learnt about the Jim Crow south. Night John followed John, a slave in the Deep South during the 1800s, as he attempted to educate himself under the cover of darkness. Throughout the novel I learnt the following things:

  • Racism is a thing
  • Sometimes slave owners raped their female slaves to produce baby slaves. This was done with the aid of a clever raping contraption – a board with shackles nailed to it for holding lady slaves in place 
  • Lynching is the practice by which black people were dragged through the town naked, beaten and then killed – then, quite often, hung from trees. All to the glee of the white town folk
  • Scary shit as per the above makes baby Maz feel not very good inside


So that’s the story of the time I learnt what rape was. Comment below and let me know about your own induction into the world of sexual assault :)


Maz Reviews Bruce Springsteen's Ass


There is nothing lazier than people who speak in clichés.  Katy Perry’s Roar for example is entirely made up of clichés (I’ve got the eye of the tiger, already brushing off the dust, Cos I am a champion gah!). Instead of inspiring me, Roar makes me want to punch Katy right in her ass. Same goes for motivational quotes on facebook. I don’t feel inspired by a picture of a wishing well captioned with some inane shit like “Dream it. Believe it. Achieve it”. Because really, when you’re reeling off the clichés you’re just saying a bunch of stuff that’s been said so many times it’s become, well, clichéd.
I do however, have to vouch for a motivational image I saw the other day of a little fellow reaching towards the stars. It was captioned, logically, “reach for the stars”. Yes it’s your everyday sub-par vom inducing meme, but I actually did reach for the stars recently and it felt pretty damn delightful.

As you may or may not know, I have a very slight obsession with Bruce Springsteen. My car is called Bruce, I listen to his music every day, a whopping 20% of my instagram posts are about him and most importantly, he is my number one celebrity crush, my religion and my muse. When he announced his latest tour I spent $1000 dollars on tickets for my family, who all get equally as excited about our lord and saviour, Bruce. I made my parents go and queue in the rain hours ahead of time in order to ensure we would be right at the front of the stage so that, just maybe, I could touch that beautiful hunk ‘o’ man. And touch him I did!

Figure 1: My Dad's enthusiastic response to the news I had acquired sold-out Bruce Springsteen tickets for both he and my Mum

Springsteen is the most enthusiastic performer you will ever see. He does three hour-long concerts with more energy than a hessian sack full of toddlers, and during these performances, he likes to crowd surf. Enter the ultimate “it would only happen to Maz” moment. During a particularly badass rendition of Spirit in the Night Bruce launched himself into the crowd. Falling backwards onto the welcoming sea of hands like Janice does after slamming Regina George at the end of Mean Girls, he continued to sing as the audience slowly delivered him to the stage at the front of the arena. As The Boss approached, I craned my neck to see whether or not he was going to pass over my head, and could vaguely make out a figure up and to the left of me. Using my finely honed basketball attack skills, I dropped my shoulder and charged left until I was right in the path of the almighty Bruce.

Time stopped. My heart rate hastened. My mouth dried. I saw his leather lace-up boots, and then his ankles and suddenly the moment was upon me. Bruce Springsteen’s tight little bottom was directly above me. I reached up and with my full, open hand, grabbed his right bum cheek and squeezed. Oh, the ecstasy. For that one beautiful second, I was molesting the man of my dreams. It was a little sweaty but let me tell you, it was firm and pert and round - everything a good ass should be. Before I knew it, he had been placed gently on the stage and, overwhelmed, I burst into tears. I cried on Nick and then turned to my dad and cried on him too. There is very little I will be able to achieve now that will trump the time I grabbed Bruce Springsteen's behind.

And that is the story of the time that I groped the 64-year-old man I am in love with and then cried snot onto both my 61-year-old dad and my husband in celebration. So follow your dreams kids, it’s like the saying goes: reach for the stars, even if you miss, your hand will touch his moon. I know that was feeble, but you get what I was trying to do there.


Truth From Strangers Is Fiction


The other day I drove through Yamba and they had this sign that said “Yamba – Australia’s Number One Town”1. One of my biggest peeves with today’s society is that people often say things that aren’t true and no one pulls them up on it. It seems to be that if you’ve said something loudly and authoritatively enough (or in this case – written it on a billboard) it is then indisputably true. Other examples of this include Lindsay Lohan talking about her sobriety, anyone who ever tells you that daddy long legs are the most poisonous spiders and people who constantly refer to each other as “husband” and “wife” when they are not married then are offended if you tell them they are not married2. Unfortunately these people are rarely pulled up on this crime against humanity (by humanity, I mean me).

The weirdest example of this happened to me about a year ago. I had been invited to my friends’ house for dinner. One of my friends, for the sake of this story her name will be Cindy, had also invited her boyfriend whom I had never met. Polite small talk was made, drinks were drunk, food was eaten bla bla bla, dinner. And then something odd happened that I have been stewing over ever since. My friend’s boyfriend, let’s call him Trevor, who had not spoken to me all night approached me with a question.

“Marion” he enquired, “did you tell Cindy that moths fly towards light, because lights are warm?”

Firstly, let it be known that I have grown to hate the word random. Not as much as “epic” or “fail” but almost. However, in this circumstance it is the most correct word to describe this question, so I will have to use it. Trevor’s question was entirely RANDOM. You have as much back-story on this incident as I do, I literally have no recollection whatsoever of telling Cindy this, but sure, it sounded like something I would say. I relayed this to Trevor.

“I guess that sounds about right” I told him “moths are ectotherms, so they need an external heat source to warm their bodies, plus they’re nocturnal and don’t see the sun often, so I assume that’s why they love the light.”

There. That sounded good, finally my science degree was being put to use!

“Actually” Trevor sneered, “that’s wrong. Moths think the light is the moon, so they fly to it.”

He sat there with a triumphant look on his face and I shut up, Trevor was obviously not one to be messed with. Not because he was right, but because at some weird point in time he came across a little bit of hearsay that I may or may not have actually said, waited until he met me and then brought it up, hoping to entrap and then slam me. Like the proverbial moth to the flame. Touché, strange dinner guest.

I went home and googled it. According to live science, this moon theory holds no water. Alternate ideas as to why moths fly to lights include that males confuse lights with female moths and that the wavelengths of light assist in moth navigation. Wikipedia on the other hand does suggest that moths use radiation from light to warm themselves.

In the end though, I’m pretty sure that no one really knows why moths like lights because no one really gives that much of a shit about moths. And to be honest, my interest in moths only really extends to those of the Bogong variety (it sounds like bogan hehe). But I just wanted the world to know that Trevor was wrong. And is a dick.




1Yamba actually did win best town in Australia. In 2009. Stop living in the past Yamba!
2Those who, due to the ridiculous laws of this country, are not allowed to enter into said holy matrimony are not included in this pet peeve. But if you are legally allowed to get married and want to use these titles, then just get married and then use them because you are confusing me.

Twenty Thirpeen: The Year of the Dickhead


I was in Peru once. I was on the bus, heading to the start of the Inca trail on my first international adventure as a young adult. I was like, so antipodean. In complete awe of my surrounding, hurtling through the Andes, I caught glimpses of what it would be like to live in these small remote communities. I spied a woman tending to her caged guinea pigs. I watched children playing happily in dusty front yards. And then I saw the most picture perfect man, a bundle of firewood hoisted onto his muscular back, the quintessential Andean beanie perched on his head. He looked up and our eyes met. I put my hand up to wave, wanting just one fleeting moment of contact. He stared at me, and then his expression twisted to one of pure hatred and simultaneously he gave me the finger and poked out his tongue at me.

What. A. Dickhead.

As a naïve nineteen year old, I assumed this was an isolated incident, that dickheads of this calibre were confined to the remote wilds, thousands of kilometres from where I live. Seven years later this is not the case. 2013 was undoubtedly The Year of the Dickhead. Read on for the crème de la peen; my list of the top five dickheads of the year.

5. Tailgaters.
Tailgating to me is an entirely confusing pursuit. In one hand you don’t trust the person-in-front-of-you’s judgment of what is an appropriate speed. Conversely, you put all your trust in them – assuming they won’t suddenly slam on their brakes and cause you a whole bunch of damage, all of which is entirely your fault. Also, to all of those who don’t wave when I have slowed down to let you in: you stink more than a bag full of assholes and I there is a special place in hell for you.

4. Social media superstars.
In order of dickheadedness.

Selfies. Especially if your mouth is a little bit open.

Statuses that begin with “To the guy on the bus/girl in the gym/my aching hand” or “that awkward moment when”.

Engagement announcements that reference Beyonce’s Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It), contain some sort of poorly cobbled together collage or a use a variation of the sentence “she said yes!!!” Just ONCE I would love to see an engagement announcement that alludes to the Japanese horror film The Ring or references Johnny Cash’s Burning Ring of Fire. Alternately, I'd be intrigued to see a “she said no” announcement.

Those of you who will happily write terrible things on the wall of a company you feel has wronged you but would NEVER actually say anything remotely similar in person. All I can imagine when you do this is Ali G giving the police the finger from behind the car door. You truly are a badass mofo.

Posts which alternate between dizzying highs and horrifying lows. In an age when everything on our social media profiles is so carefully vetted that who we are on Facebook and Instagram has become basically an avatar instead of a reflection of reality, I’ve noticed a disturbing amount of people who can’t decide whether their life is aaaaamazing and enviable or if they are a complete victim. Is your life shit? Is it not? Pick one, stick to it and don’t post both a status about how you want to die and have already purchased the garden hose and started your car’s engine in the tightly shut up garage and then instagram an image of the delicious chocolate pie you had during your mid-week day off.

3. Latecomers.
Back in the day I would meet my friends at the water clock in Hornsby. You would ring them on the house phone and arrange a time. And by gum, you would be there at that time, because you had no alternative. There was no iMessage with which to bail last minute, there wasn’t even a mobile phone number to ring and verbally inform you of your friend’s impending lateness. You couldn’t insty or snapchat or keek them to warn of your impending lateness, you were just THERE ON TIME - a foreign concept to many of you. I still have this delightful little penis badge that my girlfriends made me wear at my hen’s night, from now on if you are late to meet me I am going to make you wear it for the duration of our time together as a signifier that you, my friend, are a dickhead.

2. People with problems.
Actually, people with problem. The funnest friends ever are those who have the same problem every day of the year. It can be a boy. Or a job. Or you are sad at the declining usage of fax machines. But if you go on about it every time I see you, I will not want to see you any more. Same goes for people who label themselves survivors when all you have “survived” is an upper-middle class upbringing and someone dumping you once. Poor you L Top honours in this category goes to a friend of mine who called me on Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, Boxing Day and New Years’ Eve last year so I could talk her down off the ledge about the same thing for an hour or so each day. She recently chided me for not having checked up on how her life was lately. She also laughingly told me she’d never read my blog. Hehehe. It is funny when my friend doesn’t care what happens in my life but needs me to be intensely invested in hers. Hehehe.

1. Jennifer Lawrence
JLaw is a cunt.


There you have it, the top five Vas Deferns Faces of the year. And I look forward to the annoying, inane and selfish shit you will all undoubtedly do in 2014.

Scents and Sensibilities

I often think about how naïve and young I was when I left home. I would go for days without eating anything other than mushroom cup-a-soups (which I kept on my bedside table with a kettle beside my bed to make without having to get up). I can’t think of a single time I washed my sheets, only having had a dryer and no washing machine. And I’m pretty sure that once I left macaroni cheese in the sink for about three months.

 

There is one incident however, that I think truly illustrates how NOT ready I was to have moved out of home. My street smarts were obviously lacking, which became alarmingly apparent one mid-summer’s afternoon.

I lived with a friend of mine – a boy – who was the same age, although he had lived overseas and out of home for a long time, so was much worldlier than I was. One day, I was brushing my teeth when I noticed this smooth, shiny crystal lying on the bathroom sink. I spat out my toothpaste and picked up the short, stubby stone. It was heavy and cool but I couldn’t figure out what it was, so I lifted it to my face and smelt it. It had no odour; still I was perplexed as to what it was. Having run through all the senses I had at my disposal; it smelt of nothing, looked and felt like nothing in particular and sure as hell didn’t SOUND like anything, I figured the only logical course of action was to lick it. Seven years later, I still consider this one of the least sensible decisions I’ve ever made – It was tingly on my tongue and slightly acrid.

 

Cue my roommate coming in and asking me what I was doing licking his crystal deodorant. (This is actually a thing, in case you don’t believe me see proof here)

 

Apparently that’s a thing. I’ve kept my tongue to myself ever since. Practically licking your friend’s armpit will have that effect on you.