Am I the only one who just doesn't know how to dance at a club?

Filled with an abundance of party vibes I ventured into the wild world of Wellington's 'clubs' a while back.

I found myself surrounded by sweaty drunk people who were shaking their limbs, grinding, spinning, and kicking. 

So what do I do? Well, like the natural klutz I am, I shook my hips and whirled my arms around and around.

Imagine a wind-farm. They're beautiful, strange looking structures. Now imagine the opposite. That was me.

I love Captain Planet.

Hi. I am a 23 year old female and I just watched an episode of Captain Planet. The 90s classic where children run around saving the world from the bad men who want world domination.

Best part is when they put their rings together and make Mr World Peace himself, Captain Planet. He would give Miss Universe a run for her money any day.

On a more serious note. The Simpsons are incredible. I grew up watching The Simpsons (seriously, I wanted to BE Bart Simpson) and never really got the jokes. My sisters laughed and so I laughed.

Is wasn't until this year when I started to re-watch everything that had become the basis of my jokes. I only just realised that Otto was always high, or snuggling did not actually mean have a cuddle, or that Itchy and Scratchy were bad-ass Tom and Jerry.

Pretty damn funny. I even have a new hobby. It's called Simpsons. I do Simpsons quizzes, draw pictures of The Simpsons, watch the Crazy Cat Lady throw cats over the roof. The list just goes on.

Rugrats was pretty cool. I read on the internet somewhere that the babies were all in Angelica's imagination. Kinda freaked me out. So I have stopped watching it.

Rocket Power. Now this is the show that made me try surfing, skateboarding, roller blading, scooter riding, and just general crazy ass hobbies. I wasn't very good at any of them, but I still felt just as cool as those Hawaiian kids and that glasses wearing white boy.

Ever watched old school Looney Tunes? You know where the roosters are wooing the hens and Porky the Pig just can't scoop those eggs fast enough? Yeah. They were pretty cool.

Have you ever wanted to be invisible? Or, more realistically, anonymous?

I wish that I had written this Blog anonymously sometimes. I wish that I could type out all of my secrets, share them with strangers, and feel good for letting some of the muck in my head out. Instead, I spread it over Facebook and scatter it with pictures of myself.

I'm sure we all have times when we want to snap our fingers and vanish from sight. Think of all the possibilities that would come with still being present, but not seen.

Would you sneak up behind people, suddenly appear and scream "BOO!" in their ears? I would. Probably to total strangers. I met a French guy in Phuket and we spent an entire morning walking the streets and jumping out at people. It was a thrill, a cheap thrill. Nobody knew us, and we knew nobody. We were completely anonymous, and completely deranged.

Would you creep around people you like? Follow them into their rooms, watch them undress and admire their vulnerability? Would you steal a kiss? A secret kiss that only you would know, and they would taste. This is every stalker's dream.

Would you follow a perfect stranger, and be them for a day? Shadow them as they go to work, buy their coffee, dine with friends, and hold themselves in bed.

Steal? Future proof yourself by walking into a bank and helping yourself to bundles of money and handfuls of change.

I would whisper strange and lovely things in thousands of ears (it would take me a while, but my goodness it would be delightful). Tell them they're beautiful, share a fact, or simply breathe some life into those who are covered in dark clouds.

Sit behind the wheel of a car, a push-bike, a tractor, and drive. Drive and be the phenomenon which would make the 6 o'clock news.

Would the impact of Paranormal Activity draw you to play similar pranks on a friend, foe, or stranger? Shake the lights, tear the curtains, and scratch Satanic signs into the wallpaper?

Would your secret desires attract you to brothels, gay bars, abandoned buildings, or hospitals? You could watch, participate, let your senses go wild and truly be you for a brief, magical moment.

Skip customs, flag the passport, sneak onto a plane and fly to a foreign country? Learn the culture and immerse yourself in it as a nobody, a fly on the wall of a foreign society.

Could limitations restrict your choices? Nobody can see you, yet your conscience still remains.

If only we all lived in the Harry Potter books. Sigh.

I don't know whether I'm funny or if I just know a lot of film quotes.

I've learnt a lot from the wide collection of films I've seen over my lifetime.

Here are a few life lessons from a sample of films you must see.

I learnt two things from watching Big as a child.

One: A giant keyboard is the business.

Two: Growing up gets you money and bitches.

Well, I don't have a giant keyboard. I don't have a lot of money, and being a straight female I'm really lacking in 'bitches'.

The Castle taught me that digging a hole and filling it with water will get you praise from your Father.

I have a Father, he has a spade, and I have an abundance of taps.

Wayne's World was wise with its teachings.

If you need to spew because you're partied out (again), a small paper cup will be sufficient.

You don't have to know all of the words to Bohemian Rhapsody to have a good time.

Giving a dog a bone is not meant to be taken literally.

Metropolis is a fantastically amazing watch.

It taught me that swinging your breasts around with nipple tassels will get men to praise you, like they should.

Stranger Than Fiction taught me to wear a watch. Always. It could save your life.

Also, freshly made cookies rule.

Now and Then shared some sensational songs which I can sing out loud if a karaoke session ever demands it.

Little Women made me want a house letterbox so I too could use it to store fresh fruit instead of letters.

Ace Ventura taught me how to park a car, like a glove.

It also taught me how to squeeze myself out of a rhino with all of my dignity intact.

Never Been Kissed shed some light on the teacher-student relationship. It is okay for your teacher to like you. But, he will be mad if he finds out you aren't a child.

Look Who's Talking taught me how babies are made. Sperm are both friendly and feisty creatures.

Saw showed me how to cut off my foot and crawl away from a messy situation.

I Love You, Man gave me a lesson on slapping the bass. I don't have a bass, but if I ever do it's getting a slap.

Most importantly, Step Brothers showed me how to make a bunk bed. Which I now have.

Winning at life.

"To me, you are perfect"

We all strive to be the most perfect versions of ourselves. In our quests for perfection we all find ourselves (or at least I do) doing the most ridiculous things so others can turn all shades of green with envy and jealousy. We put on perfume to mask our body odour, we paint our nails to hide the chips and bite marks, we style our hair to suit our facial features, and we buy beautiful clothes to hide our lumps and bumps.

I am not perfect. Nobody is. Yet I find myself admiring people who appear to ooze perfection. There are lucky souls out there who appear to wake up polished and ready to go everyday. I wake up with hair stuck to my face and mascara running down my cheeks. My mouth tastes like a giant bag of ass cakes, and I am always in desperate need of a jolly good body scrub. Luckily nobody is forced to wake up next to the horror that is me, yet.

Today over americanos and honey, my sister and I talked underwear. My sister is one of those people who must match their bra to their underwear. It freaks her out if she has a bra and only one pair of underwear to match. This perfect match is a must for her, and a lost dream for me. I like to feel beautiful. I spent hundreds of dollars in the weekend on lingerie to make my body appear Goddess like, but the Goddess inside my clothes doesn't have to match. Give me an aqua bra and a bright purple pair of underwear and I'm ready to face the world, or at least my mirror.

What I want to know is how far do we all go to be our most excellent selves? Do we spend hours in front of the mirror plucking and pruning so we can go to the supermarket and buy cakes of chocolate? Of course we do. This seems common sense, but I feel that our less than perfect selves are left in the cold, over shadowed by our fake appearances and polite courtesies.

I asked my flatmate what she did to be perfect. We got talking about make-up and why we wore it. We want to hide our blemishes, accentuate our favourite features and generally feel pretty. Boys always find it puzzling that we paint our faces. Their misconception is that we want to impress them. This is partly true. We want to find a mate and procreate, face paint might aid us in our plight to cover the world with our offspring. But for the most part we apply foundation, eye-liner, mascara and blusher so we feel comfortable and perfect. Not for others, but for ourselves. In order to be perfect to others we have to feel perfect. Make-up is one application for girls (and some boys) that help us be who we want to be.

Think to those moments when you have to meet new people. We long for them to like us, to see this wonderful person and instantly make a connection. While they are summing us up we are inherently doing the same. We are sizing up their personalities, criticising their jokes and carefully calculating the chances of seeing them again. I have spent many hours thinking of witty one liners, choosing the perfect outfit which portrays casual day wear and classy night wear, and hundreds of dollars on the right make-up to meet new people and show them who I am. Receiving this persona which I create can be taken many ways: try-hard, satisfactory, on the spot, and negative. I know I'm not alone in this. In every country and for every person this is the same.

Travelling through Thailand the beautiful women painted their faces white to appear European, while us Europeans went through great lengths to tan and look exotic. Straight haired people curl their hair, curly tops straighten theirs. We all want what we can't have, yet the wonders of modern technology and cosmetic products let us be somebody else for a fleeting moment. Fashion magazines tell us to look thin, tell us what to wear, how to be the ideal sex partner, and what we should order when out with the girls for a cocktail. We laugh at these magazines, yet we frantically save our pennies in order to subscribe to these constructed images that society demands we purchase.

Personalities is a puzzling topic for perfection. We can be fake, laugh at bad jokes, agree to arguments we blatantly disagree with, and listen to music we would never normally buy. Yet at the same time we (at least we must all hope so) still stay true to ourselves. We say what we want because what we have to say is important, witty, or quirky. We behave like idiots or grown-ups depending on who we are with and where we are. Sadly I cannot say that I have never tried to change my personality to make somebody like me. My fear of rejection forces me to mould myself into somebody who meets the requirements of a stranger. Yet my outgoing personality and willingness to over share information always tosses aside any constructed personality types so more often or not people are meeting me, not somebody else. At least that is what I like to tell myself when I go to sleep.

While taking a stroll through the city the other day a teeny-bop song came onto my iPod. I was really enjoying both myself and the song. But when I walked past a beautiful person whose attempt at perfection was executed to an art, I quickly changed the song. The person had no idea what I was listening to, who I was, nor what I was thinking. But my desire to be loved and admired is so ingrained in me that I was willing to alter who I was for a brief moment. How fantastically odd us creatures are.

Have you ever met somebody who lies about everything? There are people among us who must find their lives so mundane that in order to portray perfection they lie about meaningless details. I know somebody who told me that he had broken a limb and later that day had removed the cast himself. The little knowledge I have about bones and breaks quickly surfaced and I could not help but call him out on this lie. His desire to make his weekend more exciting than sitting on the couch watching romantic comedies was painted with a fabricated story which was nonsensical and humorous. The need to be entertaining and thrilling is common for everybody, and we all have to admit that exaggeration is not an unfamiliar friend. But there are people who need to be the best that their life is a blanket of false tales. If only we could all be stripped bare, naked, and honest. Politicians could learn a thing or two here.

Confidence and arrogance is a show. It is a mask for my fear  of exposing my honest self to people. To stand naked in front of somebody basking in all of my flawed goodness terrifies me. To ask somebody to love my far from perfect self sends me into an anxious state. Sharing my secrets with somebody I admire sends shivers down my irrational spine. Yet, the rational part of my brain knows that everybody has dark secrets, fears and flaws. I so long to say "frankly my dear, I don't give a damn" but that will never happen.

We will always aim for perfection, living in cocoons of fabrication and pleasantries.

Brushing off the cobwebs and blowing the dirt off this thing.

Starting fresh - theme for the blog.

Colour Me Life

Colour me life, for I am a shade of grey.

Hair colours and stereotypes go hand in hand. My head has been a chameleon, welcoming stereotypes and swimming in self-indulgent glory. Join me and my hair on my latest escapades and philosophical discoveries.

Blonde

Ever hear the one about the blonde who... no lets not go into the long list of exhaustingly long jokes about blonde people. We get it. Blondes have no brains, high pitched voices and quite often a massive rack. Barbie meets the masses people. This stereotype was passed down to me from a packet full of dye and a roll of tin-foil. Little did I know that the whole "blondes have more fun" and "like, ya know, whatever" stereotypes actually exist for people who meet blondes. I was 16 years old and had my first break-up. I didn't take it well and the crazy child inside unleashed, found alcohol, and demanded change. I am not a creature of habit. I like to mix things up and go a little crazy by not subscribing to a regular coffee order, mixing up the Subway ingredients, and sometimes if I'm really out there I'll even take the long route home in the hopes that I bump into some other reckless people.

This change that I desperately craved at the ripe age of 16 called for a makeover. One that would show my ex I had moved on, gotten hotter and was having fun without him. What he got was a laugh at my poor lifestyle choices and the countless stories he would have heard about his blonde ex-girlfriend who was turning into a train wreck covered in tan. Just a shout out to all the blondes who fake tan - don't. For the love of all good things you just look stupid. Trust me. So there I was, 16, orange, blonde and a little (extremely) careless. At the time I remember thinking "Wow blondes do have more fun!" and admittedly I did have fun. Until I became the idiotic bimbo we laugh at in jokes. Although, I think that if you ask anyone what they were like when they were 16, their tale would run a similar course. Our hormones are bouncing off every fibre in our bodies, we find new experiences which warp our perceptions of the world, and our willingness to say "fuck this" becomes a lifestyle.

So did I become a product of the Blonde stereotype? I think I did. I had the blonde locks with the torn ends, the high pitched voice from squealing at all the 'raves' which were popular in high school, and puberty had blessed me with the rack. Did I transform into an irresponsible and mindless idiot? Hell yes. I was so intent on being the life of the party that I failed to see where the party ended and I was living in a well of pity and stupidity. To live in hindsight would be a beautiful thing.

Brunette 

My natural hair is mousy brown. It is a dull, lifeless version of the glossy wooden locks we see on the covers of magazines and the packets of hair-dye. Like the less-than-average shade of my natural hair so is the reception that comes with it. You know that line "Shag a blonde, marry a brunette" well if you want to get all analytical on this blog then you could side with that. You fuck the blonde (16 year old blonde) because she is young, inexperienced, and living life (as she thinks) to the full. And you marry the brunette because you want someone who wants to settle down, just take it easy and has a shred of self respect.

Similar to my blonde transformation, becoming a brunette again was brought on by the need for change in my  repetitive life. It also signals the change from teenage years into adulthood (although can you really classify 20 as adulthood? Our frontal lobes are still growing and I still classify the Katie then as a naive and careless person). I was halfway through University and my brain was craving more intelligence than my blonde appearance would allow. Wanting to toss out the blonde image and make way for a new intelligent look was welcomed on by another packet of cheap hair-dye and the assistance of a friend who tired of my outdated blonde locks. I didn't feel more grown up, nor did I feel more intelligent, articulate, or sensible. I was still the same person, just with healthy hair and a normal complexion (I had ditched the fake tan by this stage, or at least toned it down). But somehow this altercation of my appearance invited reserved judgements about my appearance.

It was always interesting to ask the opposite sex what their preferred hair colour is between blonde and brunette. Expecting to find blondes winning by a mile, it was actually the brunettes which came out the stronger of the two from my limited supply of statistics. Did men find brunettes more attractive, or were they buying into the sensible and clever stereotype? Were they inherently craving somebody practical to share their beds with? Biology getting in the way of what men find attractive? Or did they simply find brunettes more attractive because, lets face it, brunettes are babes. Break me off a piece of Rashida Jones, Mila Kunis, or Zooey Deschanel any time.

For me, brunette is a safety net. It's that grey woollen jumper you put on with a pair of old underwear and snuggle in when you're feeling dowdy and precious. It's that moment when I started to come to terms with what the blonde had created, and it was a person who dealt with blonde's mistakes and started to pave a new path for all future hair colours. Personification of my hair. My English teachers would be so proud.

Red

I was able to pass judgement on my past hair colours as they were years earlier. It is harder to comment on my ginger locks as I've only been a ginger for a few months. What I can comment on is that it too was brought on by change. Having grown out of my home-town fuelled my desire to grow up and move cities. I was thrust into a city (still in the comfort of New Zealand) with no job, no money, no house, and no friends. I know people do this all the time, in different countries, as different genders, and with different outlooks on the life they want to mould for themselves. I had no idea what this new city would bring for me, but it seemed appropriate that I signal to my Facebook friends that I was in another pivotal moment of life - the ginger phase.

Blonde welcomed idiotic jokes, brunette welcomed non-judgemental comments, and ginger welcomes smart asses. It seems that hair colour determines a person and gives others a limited supply of jokes and taunts. Never have I heard so many jokes about my hair colour. Luckily they are usually quite funny, and if they aren't I retaliate with some mediocre sarcastic comment or if I'm scraping the bottom of the barrel I'll show them the middle finger.

So here I am now, building up my CV, with a new group of friends, in an apartment in the city, sleeping in the corner of a cave and on the next leg of this journey we call life. I can't help but giggle as I write that. I'm still that immature blonde, the homely brunette, and I'm living in a mask of ginger pretending to be this profound individual when I'm really just a sack of skin and bones, coexisting with other self indulgent sacks.

We all have somebody we don't like for no reason. I am sure there are a few people out there in the world wide web who are thinking that this is false and that they love every woman, man, and everything in between. Want my opinion? You are lying and irrationally dislike somebody.

Join me in my list of reasons why I dislike people I do not know.

The reason comedians can joke about other people is because they usually joke about themselves first. Depending on how funny the comedian is, this can either be perfectly executed with the right amount of personal attacks on both themselves and a stranger in the audience, or it can go terribly wrong leading to hisses and boos from the five people who turned up to mock the poor wannabe comedian. I have never, and will never, try stand up comedy. Shout out to the sighs of relief coming from my readers. My sense of humour relies purely upon lame jokes I have stolen from various 90s comedies and catchy one liners I have tweaked from the internet. For this reason (and lets be honest, for so many more) a lot of people would join in on the 'throwing rotten fruit at the loud ginger' on stage wagon. You're too kind.

The reason I say this is because I have seen a few comedy routines in my time and have quickly disliked a person based on their opening line. Armed with a stomach full of cider one evening, myself and a few friends thought we would give amateur comedy night a looksie. The night was a drunken blur of laughter, face-palms and I'm not going to lie, a drenched t-shirt after I lost the ongoing war I have with gravity. What got to me were the many brave people who got on stage and managed to silence the audience with the worst jokes in the world. A man joking about periods can be hilarious. Seriously, I'm all about equal rights. If a dude wants to make Aunty Flow jokes then please be my guest. But for the love of all things good, don't taint them with all things vulgar, or at least do it tastefully. I  remember (well, heard the next morning) somebody had made a 'period' joke but it silenced the audience and had us (boys and girls) quietly plotting his slow and painful death. Luckily I do not remember this person so I cannot hold onto this irrational hate. But, whoever you were - you sucked. Big time.

There are some funny buggars out there and hell I love a great body shaking laugh. But what I hate are those people who think that they are so damn funny they deserve a great big trophy. The thing is, people who think they are funny are usually the most try-hard douche-bags ever (sarcasm and hypocricy intended). We all know somebody like this, and chances are if you don't then TAG you're it. Lucky son of a bitch. You know what I would like to do to people like these? Duct tape their mouths shut, put on Wayne's World and teach them what comedy is. Because poorly crafted English accents and the overrated Golem impression just does not cut it any more.

Bitch face. This tends to cater to the female population of the world. There are those unfortunate females out there whose faces permanently resemble somebody who has eaten a giant sack of their own faecal matter. At dinner one time a group of us were fascinated by this beautiful girl who sat at a large table surrounded by people. You would think that in a circumstance such as this you would be enjoying yourself, or at least pretending to. But no, this girl ate her Teriyaki chicken on rice and scowled the entire time. The pinched look on her face didn't seem out of place. Instead, it looked like she had spent her entire life cursing the world and eating shit out of her handbag. So what did we do? We wrote a note telling her to cheer up, and share her breakfast with the poor boy who had been hitting on her all evening. Helping a sister AND a brother out - yeah girl.

 Having gone to Otago University I am familiar with the 'bitch face' population. It is a trend for these girls to flock down south, put on small dresses, high heels, a tonne of Mac lipstick and give the middle finger (or at least the face version of this) to every man and his dog. Like I get it, if I had to wear gigantic heels and designer labels I too would probably curse the world and all of my first world problems. But seriously, why you gotta look like a bad ass duck? I dislike all bitch faces, for no reason other than they can't bloody smile. This could have something to do with my eagerness to please and possible ADHD... As one of the Brady kids once quoted in every single episode "I never thought of it like that" Cue the happy upbeat music and high five.

People without manners. This is something I cannot comprehend. How hard is it to say "Hi can I please have *insert something you might want here* Thank you" instead of "Oi C**T. Gimme that!" Nobody has actually ever said that to me, but this is a pretty big world. People say some pretty rude things. But seriously. We learnt manners when we were little. Mum used to go on a rampage at the library when kids didn't use their manners and I can't thank her enough for frightening little children back then because the chances are they say please and thank you now. And you know what? Manners get you everywhere! There is a reason this is a common expression. It is actually true! There needs to be some uplifting music and a montage to emphasise this point better than my fumbling fingers can manage. I have received so many free 'things' (damn I'm witty) in my life that if I kept them in my room they would take up a fairly large portion of space. And you know why? Because I use manners. Shock freaking horror you rude ass bitches.

How you like them apples now?

Bitch out.

So here I am on a Saturday afternoon drinking Crisp Apple Tea out of a tea-cup and bathing in the glorious cold air that is forever in my flat. Probably a good time to blog. Except my keyboard has been a little 'off colour lately'. When I write a sentence or two it likes to back track and insert words into previous statements so I get paragraphs with the occasional "Kinfreakd regards, KdearMrsatie" Like, I get it. Just another case of the good old keyboard trying to have a laugh. But in having typed only this far I have had to find where I have messed up, backspace, make changes, and give the keyboard the fingers. Not the fast tapping fingers that gracefully brush over the buttons in a carefree and familiar way. Oh no. My keyboard is getting abused with punchy fists and swear words.

This has got me thinking. How often do we find ourselves swearing at inanimate objects and cursing their very being? I have found myself doing this far too often and am now going to share with you a tale of my relationship with objects. So, dear reader, lean back in your chair, put on a jumper, take off your shoes and take delight in knowing that you are not the only insane person out there. Ahhhh the comfort.

On a side note, I am about to hurl this bloody keyboard down the stairs and scream Bloody Mary.

My Toes and Everything on the Floor


For all intents and purposes I am going to lump everything that could possibly 'live' on the floor into this category. I am an extremely clumsy person. Sometimes I will be standing upright when wham bam thank you Ma'am I'm on the floor with a sore behind and a confused expression. I have never actually seen my expression when I fall, but I can imagine it is a mixture of chins and confusion. It is hard to look attractive when gravity is bringing you to your knees. Being the clumsy person that I am stubbing my toe has become second nature to me. I have a theory. Stubbing your big toe is worse than child-birth. There, I said it. Now I have never actually given birth (touch wood - ha see what I did there? Little bit of sexual innuendo for you naive ones out there who haven't quite grasped sexually explicit material) but I can imagine that the two are in the same category. I know this statement is going to get me into a lot of trouble with my fellow women friends (sup ladies) but at least I'm not a male who claims that getting kicked in the testicles is worse than giving birth. Lets not even get started on that can of worms.... But here is a pain that both sexes can share and hate. Even thinking about it I want to hurl chairs, stomp on phones, kick stairs and scream at loose bricks. Stubbing your toe is one of the most infuriating and teeth gritting experiences. Ever. Honestly. If I had to choose between eating a big bag of crap or stubbing my toe I'd be chowing down on that bag of crap and asking for seconds. Why I would ever get that choice, or why somebody would collect crap in a bag (manure perhaps) is beyond me. But seriously. Ouch. Like holy mother of God don't talk to me for at least five minutes while I plot a long slow and painful death on the staircase who wasn't there five minutes ago but just popped up and got in the way of my foot. I will end you.

Call me, Maybe?


My phone is a piece of crap. Sometimes it likes to freeze, change words (damn you auto correct), call people in my pocket, turn itself off, and just make a bloody nuisance of itself. Now I know there is some smart ass out there who is saying "buy a new bloody phone and blog about something else" and my thoughts to this? Yeah, righto. Will do. It will save me many minutes of "arghfuckingphone!" yells when I'm walking down the street, and will save a lot of phone-calls from my ass to random people whose numbers I have saved in a hasty 'lets be friends' moments only to forget who they actually are....

I'm sort of running out of things to write about the angry moments I have had with objects.

I need a shower and I've been eating chips and gherkin dip. My mouth tastes like the bag of crap I was eating as an alternative to stubbing my toe.

Now the bloody laptop is dying. First world problems all up in here. Might blog tomorrow. Make up for this sorry excuse to tell people just how much I hate stubbing my toe.

Peace.

You know those days when you have no food in the pantry, $0 in the bank, a large supply of tea bags and you've smoked your last cigarette on the stairs of your apartment? Today is one of those days. I have this overwhelming feeling of anxiety sitting on top of my shoulders for so many reasons. I have work to do, I have food to magically procure, and some sort of direction to find. I get into moods like this quite often. You know, those moods when you're glum and feeling sorry for yourself because nobody else will. So, as a means of procrastinating and as a way to try and cheer my depressed ass up I have decided to blog. Dear diary moment if I ever saw one.... What a self absorbed pile of shit.

I was smoking my morning cigarette outside today, sitting in the warmth and sneezing at the sun when I heard these loud, slow high heel noises walking their way across the concrete. Has anybody ever seen Bowfinger and can remember that scene where the dog is wearing red high heels and is frightening Kit Ramsay (played by Eddie Murphy)? I got the giggles thinking about this moment and thought of a high-heel clad dog walking through the car-park. Luckily I wasn't wearing my glasses so the woman who was wearing them was a blur of colours and shapes, and the illusion of the dog was not shattered. This got me thinking, so often I find myself looking at moments in life, both past and present, and identifying them with images, characters, scenes and themes from films. Obviously, the Bowfinger moment was a comical and fragmented second which was there to cheer me up. But seriously, I can't help but watch films and find pieces of myself scattered throughout. I understand that this is why these films are so successful. We all liked Bridesmaids because of the hilarious sense of humour, but we also liked it because we've all been that unhappy girl (sorry boys, you can't identify here unless you're that smoking hot cop or douche-bag of a fuck buddy) whose life seems meaningless and empty. There she was on the screen, sharing our dark moments in the funniest way possible.

So, my dear readers, here is a list of Film and Television moments and characters who I have attached strings of recognition to, in the hopes that as they find themselves, I too can find myself.

Girls

My sister Liz told me about this new HBO series called Girls. It is a show about four girls in their early 20s who deal with the kind of first world problems I am currently facing. I find myself identifying with the main character Hannah way too much. She, like me, is a recent graduate and is on that joyful roller coaster of a ride to find a job and some sort of direction. One thing that the University brochures don't tell you when you're a doe eyed 17 year old at high school, is how unbelievably stressful it is to find the world's most perfect job with the apparently useless degree you spent four years working your ass off for. Luckily after months of tears, stress and too many cigarettes I found a job in the field of what I spent $50,000 of the government's hard earned cash studying. Lucky me. We are constantly showered with life expectations. You get a degree, you get a successful job, you travel, you met 'the one', you have children, you raise them right and by joves they're all gifted sons of bitches, you sit on your fortune and you die. What a load of bullshit. I'm really starting to agree with the Trainspotting poster we have hanging in the kitchen. Lets ponder these for a moment, shall we? I got my degree, it was four years of drunken blurs, late nights cramming and a nervous breakdown. Tick. I moved to the capital city in search of the perfect job. What I didn't realise is that four years of higher education didn't show me what I actually want to do. And now that I'm up here, I still don't know what I want to do. Maybe radio? Who wouldn't want to listen to somebody ramble about meaningless junk while sipping on their instant coffee and eating vegemite on toast. So half tick. I travelled. I have nothing bad to say about my travelling here, it was the most amazing thing I have ever done in my life and I would recommend it to everybody. The one - who the hell is the one? I feel like Ted from How I Met Your Mother, preoccupied with this conception that my ideal person is out there and that someday we will meet and there will be fireworks and a large marching band playing our song. Fuck the romantic comedies that have shaped me into this 'love can conquer all' kind of person. And fuck myself for actually wanting this. I'm not ticking this box. Kids - god help the day when I breed. No tick.

I'm getting off topic here. This bad mood that I am in is clouding my supposedly 'funny' blog which I hear so many people rave about (this is saturated in sarcasm, not arrogance). Back to Girls... So this main girl Hannah, she deals with the same ordinary life obstacles which myself (and lets be honest, probably half the twenty something girls living in our long white cloud) has to 'overcome' daily. Gee, I should really get into motivational speaking. If this doesn't make you want to pump your fist in the air screaming VICTORY then I have failed. I think the reason I love this show so much is that the flawed hero Hannah, like myself, is a mess. For once we aren't watching glamorous (Fergie taught me how to spell that word, thank you very much) teenagers deal with how to spend their parents' fortune (Wassup Gossip Girl - you unbelievable addiction). We are seeing unconventional beauties deal with the kind of shit that everybody has their face shoved into. No direction, average love lives, mediocrity, and the obvious lack of funds. Sigh.

New Girl

I started watching this genius of a show when I moved to Wellington. I had fantasies of wearing Zooey Deschanel's (Jess) fabulous outfits and meeting a perfect group of borderline nut-cases who would eventually become my family. It got to the point where I wanted to be Jess so badly that I cut a fringe in the hopes that some blind person with a vivid imagination would mistake me for her. Hardy ha. The reason I find myself on a similar level to Jess is that she is a basket case. Her quirky sense of humour and inability to care about what people think about her makes me want to jump on that wagon, say some more weird things and be all Cartman from South Park and "do what I want!" Luckily I was taken in by a group of colourful characters who I am clicking with like Lego. Ten points to the castle and all of the dwellers inside. My transition into Jess could totally happen... Just watch this space. And, bring on Nick!

Barney Gumble

My sister Becka got myself and my other two sisters to do a psychological test which would pair our personality types up with a Simpsons character. I, the lucky one, got Barney Gumble. The town drunk. Ha. Here is why I am Barney Gumble: ENFPs (my personality type, according to the Simpsons Myers-Briggs test) are introspective, values-oriented, inspiring, social and extremely expressive. They actively send their thoughts and ideas out into the world as a way to bring attention to what they feel to be important, which often has to do with ethics and current events. ENFPs are natural advocates, attracting people to themselves and their cause with excellent people skills, warmth, energy and positivity. ENFPs are described as creative, resourceful, assertive, spontaneous,  life-loving, charismatic, passionate and experimental. ENFPs are warm, enthusiastic people, typically very bright and full of potential. They live in the world of possibilities, and can become very passionate and excited about things. Their enthusiasm lends them the ability to inspire and motivate others, more so than we see in other types. They can talk their way in or out of anything. They love life, seeing it as a special gift, and strive to make the most out of it.
How did they get all of that out of the town drunk? Either way, now I see myself in Barney Gumble. It's one of those 'look into the clouds and you will see what I see' sort of moments. Funny how our minds work, isn't it?

Hufflepuff

My mad obsession with Harry Potter (the books, not the films even though I saw every single one at the cinema and got madly excited when the beloved Potter music filled my ear drums with its magical rhythm) has led to hours poring the internet, sorting myself and loved ones into Hogwarts houses. Half of you are smiling to yourself, because you too have done this. One quarter has never read Harry Potter, and the last quarter has but would never admit it to me, let alone themselves. You should be ashamed. If I ever get another tattoo it will either be a Harry Potter scar on my forehead of HUFFLEPUFF on my ass. I was having a deep and meaningful conversation about Harry Potter houses with a group of people a few years back. Everybody wants to be in Gryffindor and I was secretly hoping that this group of strangers would assume that I was a brave lion, desperate to rise up and fight for the greater good. But this dream was crushed when one of them piped up, laughed in my face and said I could only ever be Hufflepuff, no matter how many kick boxing lessons I went to. In an attempt to prove this person wrong I went to the beloved internet (and kick boxing lessons) and completed quiz after quiz trying to prove to myself that I could be in Gryffindor. But alas, time after time the answer was always Hufflepuff. And that is how I was sorted into the Hogwarts dud house. The house where everybody cares and mediocrity rules. This has given me a deep respect for all Hufflepuff characters, and admiration for the great Cedric Diggory (may he rest in peace) as he rose up against the other houses and was chosen for the Triwizard Tournament. You go Cedric - four for you!

Easy A

Olive (Emma Stone) is a witty, attractive virgin who pretends to sleep with less than average boys so they get a 'player' reputation and she gets moneys cash, cash moneys. Not prostitution, but more helping a brother out. I don't identify with this because I have never pretended to sleep with anybody. Unlucky for me, I have to tell the truth about everything. I get this horrible 'lying smile' that all my friends and family know too well. I can't help it. I'll try to lie about something and this stupid smile will creep onto my face and suddenly I'm caught out. So, I couldn't pretend to sleep with people in order to help them out. What I did identify with was Olive's way of dealing with her stained reputation. Everybody has a reputation. You can be the sister Christian like Amanda Bynes' character (which I once was), you can be the promiscuous girl, the cake eater, the butcher, the baker, the candle stick maker. Everybody has a reputation, some good, and some so badly stained that no amount of nappy san will clean what has become. Olive deals with this in the most bold and comical of ways. Her class and wicked sense of humour helped me to laugh at myself when things got overwhelming last year and I found myself trying to be her in order to deal with the mess of a life I had made. Cheers Burt V Royal for writing a part which helped a sister out - top guy. One of the main catalysts in this film is gossip. The way it spreads around like wildfire (Game of Thrones used wildfire literally, totally worth the budget increase) infecting ears and taking whatever shape it is moulded into by those who twist and turn stories for entertainment purposes. I am sure we have all been victim of a false rumour which has been pinned onto our chest like a badge, screaming out to those who think they know all that this is apparently who we are. You know what I think? The middle finger is what I think. I have been so upset in the past by rumours (some admittedly true, others completely false) that I have just stopped caring. I feel like I'm going against the Hufflepuff code here, my problem is meant to be that I care too much.

Total Recall

Who doesn't identify with Arnold Schwarzenegger in this film? Personally, I see myself in the three-breasted mutant.

This is getting deep. Time to peace out.

I normally have a theme for these blogs. I sit down and ponder for five minutes until a brilliant idea pops into my mind and then I'm writing away, spewing out my ideas and posting them all over Facebook.

Today, I thought I would go for something a little different than my usual lists and simply write until I'm satisfied.

The tattoo on my right ankle - what a great 'thing' to write about. 

It was leading up to Christmas Eve and I had always thought of getting ink on my skin. I'd practised with notes from class (pen to paper is overrated I say), and thought 'damn this mess of an arm looks pretty damn fly!'. It actually didn't look fly and often resulted in a furious soap scrub before work. Lets just say that a red raw arm is not a great look when you're handing over chocolate brownie to thin girls from Auckland who ooze perfection. But anyway, this tattoo... So it was leading up to Christmas and after a day sitting in the sun I thought 'right, time for a tattoo'. I took myself to the tattoo parlour with a friend in tow and booked an appointment, gave them a vague idea of what I wanted and the next day I had a permanent forget-me-not chain on my ankle. How. Original. The number of girls with flowers, butterflies, Asian symbols, and the dreaded 'live laugh love' inked onto their skin is outstanding. 

It seems that most people I meet with a tattoo have a story behind it. They have created their own unique masterpiece which explains to both themselves and others why they chose that particular design and that particular body part. I am never surprised when people ask me what my tattoo means. I have crafted a series of replies which explain the origins of my tattoo. "It is a weed. Nobody likes weeds. They infect everything, twisting and turning, ruining everything beautiful. I wanted that on my perfect leg" "Nobody has flower tattoos, I wanted to be original" "It was either this or FTW on my forehead" These are all obviously dripping with sarcasm. The few who get it politely smile, and the others say things like "Ha. Good" - ahh the English language at its finest! The truth is my tattoo means nothing. I found it on Google images, liked the look of it and went with it. There are not many people who like it. I can tell. They either ask me about it and then quickly change the subject, or blatantly tell me that it is no good. But you know what, my leg, my choice, my pleasure. I love my tattoo. It doesn't remind me of anything, it doesn't have a story, it just has me. 

Will I ever get another tattoo? Maybe. In Thailand I was adamant that I was going to come home covered head to toe in cheap tattoos. But after a stern word from all members of the family (who are used to my spontaneous life decisions) I came home with no more than the small one on my ankle. Oh, that and a parasite in my stomach which meant I was sick for a month afterwards. Lets just say that some things happened during that time which I am not proud of. Bless long showers and clean underwear.

I got my nose pierced once. I was walking through town with two friends after a large night out and thought that right then and there would be a fantastic time to get a needle straight through my shnoz. I remember walking into the store wearing techno-coloured clothes, sporting remains of bright orange paint from the night before, and demanding a nose piercing right then and there. The shop assistant looked so shocked that I was torn whether she was appalled by my outfit choice, paint on my skin, or my obviously husky voice which to strangers sounds like I have smoked a packet of cigarettes everyday since I was five. I got my nose pierced five minutes later and it lasted all of two months. After many infections and 'bogan' comments from people my affair with the stud was over. 

Looking back on photos I am not drawn to the nose stud any more, more to the amount of make-up I used to paint myself with. I don't know why nobody told me that orange was not cool, blusher was a sometimes drug, and eye-liner gave me an impression of a baby panda VS Snookie. Luckily, thanks to the helpful make-up artists who have wiped my face clean and sold me the correct make-up, I no longer look like somebody who needs a chisel to take off their face. However, at the moment I do have a split in my lip and a scratch below my eye, so admittedly the make-up has been 'caked' on in order to avoid awkward jokes about my facial misfortunes.

I remember at work a few years back I was waiting on a table. It was a family and the father was a loud obnoxious man. The first thing people usually say when greeted by their waitress is a simple "hello" but this man thought he would mix it up and instead ask me why my voice sounded so strange. Until then I wasn't aware that I had an odd voice. I had gone through life thinking that an occasional crackle was part of life. I knew that I didn't have the silky smooth baby voice like so many of my friends, but I never thought it was a bad thing. I remember blushing the deepest shade of pink (which they couldn't see due to my cake face) and stammering "uhhh this is my voice" - obviously my wit hadn't kicked in then as nowadays I have perfect replies to these very statements which have become more regular over the past few years. His family were embarrassed for me, and showed this by laughing merrily and spent the night doing impressions of my husky voice. Needless to say it started a complex which lasted for a few weeks until I thought "can't be changing this. Time to embrace it? Yeah girl". So now, I am a full time husk and I'm proud of the fact that sometimes I sound like a 40 year old smoker or a pre-pubescent boy.

Ramble out.

If I had a dollar for every time somebody called me "weird" I would have quite the collection of dollar coins. Maybe an entire sack. Being weird is not a bad thing. I can say this because I am okay with who I am. I have had my entire life to come to terms with being a "weirdo" and instead of bottling it up I wear it on my sleeve like a giant badge that screams "yo I'm weird, wanna hang?"

I was called weird the other night, and it got me thinking. What is about me that makes me so strange? So I have decided to create a list (woah really? A list? This blog has never seen a list before!) in order to highlight what has made me the weird-oh I am today.

Urges

Not the sexual kind. Wrap your head around that you filthy animals. This is not a list of the inappropriate things you would find in a B grade porno where a girl yells and a guy high fives himself.

Sometimes (K, a lot) I get urges to do the most politically incorrect things ever. I always wonder what would happen if I were to go up to a random, punch them in the face and walk away. This sounds slightly psycho, but luckily it has never, and will never happen.

Having worked in hospitality (ahhh what a glamorous occupation, nothing beats the feeling of making coffee, cleaning up mess and dealing with cranky housewives who like decaf cappuccinos with no chocolate but extra marshmallows and soy milk - IT'S NOT A COFFEE) there is not a moment which goes by when I don't want to slap my forehead and curse mankind. The kind of people who laugh with their friends, give their waitress a cold look when they order their well cooked salmon filo, and go back to laughing again drives me bonkers. I know you can smile ladies, you were doing it five minutes ago. Humour me and smile when you order your food. It will make you feel polite, and make me not want to flip the table over and throw napkins onto your plastic fantastic face. If I could do everything I wanted to when I work in hospo I would be out of a job and probably have a fantastic reputation as a delinquent bad-ass.

I don't know what it is, but urges like yelling at people, running down a street naked in broad daylight, eating food off a stranger's plate, jumping off a bridge, or flipping a desk full of important notes just appeals. It'd be all normal then BAM! For a few magical seconds I've disrupted a stranger's day for no other reason than I bloody well felt like it.

I told a friend about this once and she replied "Oh my gosh! Same! Sometimes I want to punch pregnant women!"

This makes me feel that I am not so weird. Everybody (well at least me and one other person) have these absurd urges. But luckily we have the capacity to ignore them and live our life doing the mundane activities. Only occasionally disrupting our lives by spilling wine 'accidentally' on ourselves or others.

Awkward Turtle

There is nothing I like more than an awkward moment. Awkward silences present an opportunity to say something so completely out of context the moment becomes more awkward, but draws the attention away from the lack of conversation and unites people with 'da fuck' looks. So really, when I say absurd things in moments like these, I am not doing it to be odd, I'm doing it to help others out and give them a sense of unity. Jokes. I am doing it because there is nothing more rewarding than seeing people look at each other while thinking "who invited this girl?" - who invited me? Chances are nobody did, but I was there and I gave you something to talk about afterwards. You can thank me later when you're married with children.

Elevators are the perfect place for an awkward moment. I work in a corporate building (like how I threw that in there? Wear shirts and pant suits. Yeah baby) where streams of business people frequent the elevator, staring at the doors in complete silence. Having to maintain a professional persona in these circumstances I remain on my best behaviour. But that doesn't stop the odd awkward comment from flying out of my mouth. The other day I was travelling down the 26 floors when I was joined by a fashionable middle aged corporate woman. We stood there in silence watching the numbers tick down. Then, my ears started to block up. This happens regularly and I've learnt to deal with it. But that day I must have been feeling either lonely or bored (maybe a little from column a, a little from column b) and felt that I should share this with this stranger. Her response? "Oh" and then she hurried (yes, hurried) out of the elevator and dashed out of the building. It took everything in me not to follow her and share other moments when my ear drums were blocked. But the poor woman looked so surprised with this spontaneous and awkward human contact that she probably had to go home and update her status.

Hipsters are the perfect people to plant awkward bombs with. Living in the hipster capital of New Zealand there is a constant tap that pours out these specimen into the streets. I am not generally into stereotypes but for all intents and purposes, hipsters are going to be defined as a collective of attractive, judgemental, shallow, boring and uptight human beings. Coming into contact with one of these creatures is a magical moment which my weird inner being relishes. I came into contact with a group of hipsters a while back who were on the way to a party which I had just left. Having never met them before I thought it was the perfect opportunity to introduce myself, by yelling slurred comments and moving my hands in turtle movements. Their response? "Lets get out of here!" I will never recognise these people, and they probably won't ever recognise me. But for once I gave them something to laugh about. Something other than their trim lattes and expensive clothing. Katie Sherriff. Of the people, for the people.

Shout

I used to read 'Babysitter's Little Sister' when I was a child. It was about this girl called Karen who was a little sister of the Babysitter's Club. What a concept. Anyway, her teacher had to remind her to use her inside voice nearly every time she spoke. Karen, I feel your pain. I do not have an inside voice. No, instead of that I have a loud shouting yell which bounces off walls and fills peoples ears like cotton wool - annoying but slightly delightful.

When I am working I have to remind myself (and get reminded by others) that it is not appropriate to yell out a conversation I am having about my weekend, the printer, coffee, or the cute person who served me a scone in the morning. But you know what, when I'm yelling and people can hear me it means that they are too darn quiet. If everybody had my volume we could get along just fine. Jokes, we would all be loud deaf people relying on sign language and high fives.

Foot and Mouth Unite

Hello foot. Here is my mouth. Jump inside. You comfortable? Good. You're going to stay there for a while. Until I learn when not to say the absurd things which jump into my head. I cannot control what I say. It's like I have these great ideas which just have to come out. Soon enough I'm projecting verbal diarrhoea  onto anybody who will listen, spewing out odd questions and insane scenarios for no reason other than I just thought of it. Perhaps it is my willingness to share, or my lack of social awareness but I just like to say what pops in my head at the click of a finger. I like to think it keeps people on their toes, guessing what is going to come out. But, in truth it probably annoys people who are trying to have an intellectual conversation about things which really matter. Like Facebook, and who from high school got married in the weekend.

Sometimes the things I say (which we all know I shouldn't) are quite inappropriate. If you know me then chances are you've slapped yourself on the head and thought to yourself "Not again!" If you don't know me well, or at all (why hello there) then count yourself as lucky. Making Chuck Norris jokes at a ginger man who I had never met before was probably not the best thing to do when I moved to Wellington, but it happened. Asking the barmaid for a jug and straw because I'd had a bloody guts full of people updating their statuses about what they ate for dinner was just awkward and got me a glass instead. Correcting a friend's grammar got me the silent treatment and an awkward taxi ride home. But, for the record you can only use the word 'done' when you use 'have' before it. The same rule applies to 'seen'. Look it up.

Personal Space

I'm all about the personal space thing. Honest. If I could I would draw a chalk circle where I stand and stick up a sign with "Katie's space, don't touch" in bold font that would be great. But then drawing a fresh circle every time I moved would just be annoying. So instead I rely upon people's common sense not to enter my personal space unless invited in. This rule applies to me, but somehow I don't let it apply to other people. I like to touch. It's like when you go to the museum, the displays say don't touch but two seconds later I'm sticking my mits all over the dinosaur bones, picking up antique pots, or examining the fine brush strokes of a painting with my fingers. Shame signs, you'll have to work harder than that for me to follow your rules!

I like to touch people. That does not sound right. Let me try that again. I like to touch people, with our clothes on and in a non-sexual kind of way. What I mean is I like to hug awkward people, squeeze strangers on the arm, dance around couples in bars (or on the street), pat strippers on the bum (true story. She did a really good job and giving her a dollar just didn't cut it) and high five everybody. That stripper part didn't meet the criteria of 'with clothes on and non-sexual', but I'm keeping it in for laughs.

Being a touchy feely person has some cons. The most major is that people take my delight in human contact with flirting. This is NOT always the case, despite what some of you may think. Unfortunately my pats on the arm, high fives and cuddles have been construed as "woah this chick likes me! I'm in!" when in actual fact I have taken pity or simply been bored with our mundane conversation, so in order to spice things up I've touched them on the arm in a "have to move otherwise I'll tell you I'm bored, making this even more awkward". This has resulted in a tonne of friend zoned people, and a lot of females adamant that I am a lesbian on the prowl for some fresh straight meat.


I am weird. That is all.

Want to play to a game?

Remember that line from the Saw films? I do, of course. I'm sure that creepy doll on his red tricycle started a fear of sadistic puppets for many people. I am not one of those people with a fear of puppets. As many of my close friends and family know, I used to be a puppeteer once upon a time. This is something I am not proud of, but alas, it happened. My love for the Muppets, Sesame Street, and simple shadow puppets led me to a few years with my hand up a doll's behind singing Boyzone songs and telling children to love Jesus and clean their rooms.

But the famous line from Saw has got me thinking. It scared so many people. So what I want to blog about are my fears.

I am scared of a lot of things. I used to joke with somebody that I could start a career as a professional bad-ass. One flaw in this potential career is that I abide by the law (the exception being J walking) and am terrified by so many things that my bad-ass reputation would quickly be shattered if anybody ever found out.

So instead of somebody else shattering my dream, I'll jolly well do it myself.

I have compiled a detailed list of everything which frightens me. Here is hoping this doesn't bite me in the ass and become the source of a sick joke by one of my acquaintances. 

Are you afraid of the dark?

Hell yes I am afraid of the dark. My family home is a large(ish) two storey house. It creaks in the wind and there are many corners a monster, ghost, or vampire (hello Twilight, you horrible phenomenon) could hide. When I was a small girl I remember waking up and seeing a dead carcass on my pillow. Running downstairs in a fright I was told to go back to bed and stop imagining things. At the time I was adamant that there was a carcass on my bed, waiting for me to return so it could bask in its dead glory and frighten the small girl who was supposed to be sleeping. The older Katie now realises that my vivid imagination was playing tricks on me and there was no dead carcass on my pillow. However, this 'memory' (for lack of a better word) started my life long fear of the dark and an attachment to lamps.

As a film graduate (way to sound pretentious) I know how horrors are made. I know that zombies are not real, murderers could find better targets than myself, and the devil would be bored as hell to possess me. But when I was growing up this was not the case. I first watched The Exorcist at a friend's birthday party. By watch I mean hid behind the couch with my fingers in my ears and tears running down my cheeks. The devil's face which sporadically (thank you Clueless for teaching me how to use this word) popped up on screen stuck in my mind like a sticker on a window, and only recently have I been able to peel it off. The sight of the young girl crawling down the stairs like a backwards spider freaked me out so badly that I was adamant that the stairs in my house were home to a similar demon and led to many years running blind down the stairs so I wouldn't have to face it.

For many years waking up at 3am in the morning scared the living daylights out of me. This was the devil's hour and I was the devil's prey. This was also the moment where my bladder had reached its limit and I was forced to drag myself out of the warmth of my bed and make my way through the darkness to the bathroom. Now I know that nobody likes getting up out of bed to use the bathroom halfway through the night. But when you're terrified of the dark it is one of the worst things in the world. I wonder if I was the only person to count to ten with my eyes shut tight, just to plunge my hand into the empty space between my bed and lamp, thinking that it was only a second before something grabbed me and shook me until my head span around and I threw up pea green vomit. This never happened, but the two seconds it took to turn the light on lasted a lifetime and had my heart beating like a marching band in a Christmas parade. As soon as the light was on I was safe. Corners where I was sure something or someone were lurking were filled with bookshelves, the scratching noise on a window was not fingernails but a branch, and the coldness which I thought were dead bodies passing through me was in fact caused by an open window I had forgotten to close.

This fear has not left. I am in my twenties and am still afraid of the dark. I recently watched Paranormal Activity 3. I tried to act tough and be all "pffft didn't scare me" but it did. I curse the writer who named the lead female Katie. I curse Toby for hiding under a sheet and lifting Katie up by her hair. He is a sick sick make believe demon who causes me to open my eyes in fright when I hear something bang in my flat.

Titanic - not just a love story

I know a few people who share this fear. Shipwrecks under the water. What the hell. These are one of the most frightening sights ever. I like open spaces, I love the water, hell I even like boats. But put all three together in a blender, add a dash of darkness, strange looking fish and eerie music and you've got yourself quite the recipe for an awful time.

I love the film Titanic. Being the romantic that I am (sarcastic laugh) I could watch this film over and over again (true story). What I cannot watch are the shots of the sunken ship. I cannot put my finger on what exactly frightens me about this, but it is something about the lonely ship deteriorating and sitting in the emptiness of the ocean which sends chills up and down my spine.

I tried to show somebody what I meant by my fear of sunken ships, but even googling images made me retch and close my eyes. For some reason I couldn't press close fast enough and had a minor panic attack. What a baby, right?

Hello Death

What an original fear. Has anybody else seen that episode of Ali G when he interviews a man who looks like a frail Santa Claus? He asks him if he is going to die, to which the man replies "of course, everybody dies". Being the comedian he is, Ali G gets quite angry about this and yells at the man. I laughed when I saw it, and would probably laugh again if I were to YouTube this. But you know what, I don't want to die.

I don't believe in after-life, heaven, hell, being born as something/someone else, or the long list of religious 'guesses' about what happens when we die. I think that when a person dies, bam! They're dead. Everything shuts off and they either decompose or get burnt and scattered somewhere sentimental. What a pessimistic view of what happens to us aye?

I like to think I'm quite the optimist. I'm a glass-full kind of gal and always find something positive in amongst the negative mess. But death, nah I don't take that route. I would love to think that when we die we get to ride unicorns and eat marshmallows, but something inside me scoffs at the idea.

This is why I am afraid of death. Everything stops. My long life is suddenly over. BAM!

Freaky huh?

Maybe I should invest in some hobbies so my life isn't so meaningless. Then when death does come knocking on my door I can welcome it like a friend, take it by the hand and travel into the depths of nothingness with a smile on my face.

1 2 3 JUMP

This fear is strange. When I'm standing on a bridge, cliff, tall building (anything with a large height) I am not afraid of falling. Falling doesn't frighten me, but jumping does. I get this overwhelming sensation that I am going to jump. I am not the type of person who would hurl myself off something but I cannot help but think for a few brief moments that I am going to jump and it will all be over in the blink of an eye.

I confessed this fear to a friend once and was surprised that they too shared this fear. It comforted me to think that I was not the only irrational person out there. Perhaps this is why I am writing this list. To let others know that these fears I have are not uncommon. Jokes, I'm writing this to procrastinate the long list of things I have to do today. Woe is me and my busy timetable.

Parseltongue Potter

Snakes. How something that looks like a garden hose can freak somebody out so badly is beyond me. But they do. They terrify me.

When  I was in Malaysia my brave little sister wrapped two snakes around her body and laughed while I ran away from her screaming in disgust and fear.

The way snakes slither and coil themselves around a body, poking their skinny tongues out in a tormenting way and hissing at their enemies is revolting. If they were to have legs (oh I think you would call these lizards) they would be a friendly pet. But no, the lack of legs freaks me out. It is so unnatural to slide around the floor, twisting and turning, plotting revenge and death on those unlucky to cross paths with the snake.

Snake tamers, I salute you. But, I will never ever approach you.

Please excuse my lack of pictures in this blog, but these things which I have shared with the internet frighten my very core. Even looking at them causes panic attacks followed by binge eating. My already curvaceous figure does not need any more chocolate and pies.

I fall in love easy. Not with boys, but with objects, concepts, theories, and stories. My life-long love that I am not ashamed to shout from the rooftops  is the focus of this blog. Unlike my long list of fads this is a life-long obsession which I am compelled to share with my internet fan-base (which admittedly consists of my family and a scattering of friends).

Gingers. I simply cannot get enough. I find my eyes drawn to red-heads and purposely seek them out to be friends, lovers, or simple pieces of eye candy. What draws me to gingers is not the lack of skin pigments, or the generous dose of hair pigments (I do not know if that is the correct terminology but this is my blog, I do what I want) it is their care-free attitude to life, often sprinkled with quirky characteristics which leave me fascinated and jealous.

Perhaps it is society's willingness to mock the red-haired population and their comical responses to the taunts and soulless driven jokes, but nearly every ginger I meet embraces their natural hair colour and takes on the jokes as part of their persona. I have a friend who deserves all the love in the world. Being one of the funniest people I know he is usually the first to crack a 'ginger joke' just to  ease people into conversation. I sometimes wonder if he does this to break the ice in a "I'm ginger, we can laugh, it is okay" kind of way. The first time I met him I labelled him as a 'ginger ninja' in an attempt to win him over with my wit, only to be amazed by his wide vocabulary and knowledge of every ginger joke under the sun. His ability to make friends at the snap of a finger made me fall head over heels for him. But what made me  love this boy was his red hair. It set him apart from everybody. He wasn't just a tall funny brunette, he was a tall, funny ginger who wore it with pride. I am still friends with this boy, and I hope that if I ever have children one day he can visit and teach them his wit and perhaps give them the comfort and confidence I sometimes lack so they can be as perfect as him.

One of my very best and dear friends is a natural red-head. Her entire family was blessed with the ginger gene and they remain as one of the most inviting families I have ever had the pleasure to meet. When we first met we were shy (her more than me) third years, both exploring alcohol and study. What drew me to this girl was her sweetness. Without having properly hung out before we both went to an Honours meeting at our University and she willingly drank departmental wine, asked questions about people, listened and replied with hilarious yet modest tales. Her modesty and can-do attitude has led to a tight friendship. When we  were close enough (sleeping at each others houses, building forts, making dinner, sharing our deepest secrets) I finally worked up the courage to tell her to stop dying her beautiful locks shades of blonde and brown. To hide such beauty was placing her into the category of everyday girls, and when she finally returned to her natural red hair she was transformed into a ginger goddess. I count my lucky stars everyday that I am friends with this girl. She blows my mind with her ability to care about others and laugh at herself. If I have children who are half as amazing as this girl I will think myself the luckiest person on the planet.

Having a hairdresser  for a sister (one of the best in the world by the way - that girl has talent rays beaming out of her) flicking through fashion magazines at the salon is a regular activity. I find myself flipping through pages of blonde bobs, black curls, and brown fringes and closely inspecting pages full of red, ginger, strawberry blonde and auburn styles wishing that I had been blessed with the ginger gene and not cursed  with the mousy brown locks I naturally have. This obsession has led to hours  scrolling through pages  of famous red-haired celebrities thanks to my favourite IMDB page and Google Images. My undying love for gingers has led me to obsessions with ginger celebrities, of whom I have placed into my "would turn gay for" and "would die to meet" lists. I have compiled a list of red-haired celebrities who have given ginger locks the popularity it so badly deserves.

Emma Stone

Naturally a blonde, Emma Stone has increasingly popularised the red-haired trend on an international scale. Being a fresh and ever so popular celebrity, the dyed red locks both look stunning and add to her intelligent and quirky personality. I say personality based on assumptions which I have gained by watching countless interviews, behind the scenes segments and every single film she has been in. What draws me to Emma Stone apart from her hair and unusual beauty is her husky voice. Having a husky voice myself (not from years of smoking, but from a lifetime of constant yelling and talking) I felt drawn to her as somebody other than Scarlet Johansson  (who has ditched the iconic blonde hair  for a sophisticated red-do) did not have the baby voice, or dull middle aged typical female voice and was a voice for the minority of girls who can put on a very convincing male voice if the  time ever arose.

Julianne Moore

This natural ginger is hands down one of the best actresses ever. If you have ever seen Boogie Nights (which I cannot recommend enough) , A Single Man, Children of Men, and Evolution (to name a select varied few) you would know that Julianne Moore is an actress who pushes the boundaries and delivers convincing performances time after time, meeting criteria of both genre and audience expectations. Being a similar age to my mother, Julianne's beauty is both breath taking and natural. I am not 100% sure if she has ever been under the knife like so many of our plastic loving celebrities out  there, but her beauty appears to be ageless and captivating. What sets her apart from other celebrities is her long, stunning red hair. The red and auburn tones perfectly  accentuate her milky white skin. It is in my opinion that if she had brown, blonde, or black hair  she would still be the sensational actress yet she may have not made it  to the title of Star as her red hair gives her a unique and recognisable trait, a necessity in Hollywood.

Amy Adams

The first time I saw this actress was in Drop Dead Gorgeous as a beauty pageant contestant, playing a supporting role against Kirsten Dunst, Denise Richards and Kirstie Alley. Her hair was strawberry blonde but the entertaining and sweet performance she gave intrigued me to follow her career. Amy Adams has blossomed into a internationally renowned celebrity who deserves awards and praised due to her outstanding collection of performances. Living in the media saturated world one of her most recent roles in the almighty Muppets film has, in my opinion, allowed her to become an icon to children, casting aside ginger jokes and making the hair colour fashionable and desirable.

Florence Welch

Not only can this woman wail, but by gosh is she stunning. Not a natural red-head, the famous 'Florence and the Machine' singer has made red-locks a fashion necessity. I remember when Florence and the Machine arrived on the music scene. Suddenly there was this funky red-head who wore elaborate outfits, sang her heart out and delivered unique singles time after time. Being an impressionable culture (me in particular, my adaptability and eagerness to please is no secret) brunettes and blondes were transforming themselves into Florence wannabes (I say wannabe in the most friendly way possibly, the negative connotations of this word are unnecessary in this context). After a long-time of South Park fuelled ginger jokes supported by angry gingers validating their soul's presence, the red-head community is finally being celebrated and advertised as a necessity.

Facebook and I have a weird relationship. I hate that people update their statuses with constant reminders of what they are cooking for dinner, when they last took a shit, what restaurant they are eating it, what they named their new car, and bitchy vague comments about people they hate. I am being a complete hypocrite here as I have updated my status ticking every box of 'hates' at least once or twice. What I do love, however, are people who post photos of new hairstyles, particularly those who have dyed theirs red. For the beautiful blondes who turn ginger, the brunettes who go crazy and lighten their hair red, and the dark haired people who relish in red tinges - I salute you.

This trend which has become increasingly popular is fantastic. What annoys me about the 'Hipster Generation' is that the anti-mainstream mindset means that talented musicians, actors, and fashion accessories get put down as soon as mainstream culture places it onto the ever changing band-wagon. Living in a city where mainstream is the minority and hipsters are the majority, I am pleased to see both groups jumping on the red-head train. What would break my heart if this trend were to reverse and in an attempt to go against the grain hipsters were to publicly announce their dislike for ginger, and in a vain attempt to copy the hipsters, mainstream followers were to copy this mindset. Although, in saying that, with Hollywood shoving red-haired celebrities down our throats and brainwashing Western society to love what they tell us to love we will simply comply and do as we are told.

One of the reasons I wrote  this blog is that I need to reassure myself that I fit neither into hipster nor mainstream society. I have loved ginger hair since I was a young girl. I cannot remember mocking gingers until high school. Before then, ginger hair was nothing to be laughed at. For me, it was to be loved and cursed that I too could not grow such beautiful hair. When it became internationally cool to mock gingers I felt a sense  of guilt if people were being overly mocked to the point where it was no longer about the hair colour, and more about the person instead. Being a person who hates personal attacks and bullying, taunting gingers was a chance for mediocre bullies to exercise their power over what became a minority. I think this is what caused me to love ginger people. Majority of the red-heads rose up against the personal attacks and retaliated with witty comebacks, ripping themselves out, or if it were personal enough, pointing out the mocking parties' flaws.

So in a tribute to the gingers of this world I have had my locks dyed ginger by the fabulous Elizabeth Sherriff of Glory Hair Salon. Here is me. I am a ginger for the win.