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.