Absolute Pisser.

Fuck I adore my housemate.

So I've been undergoing the attempt to extend some of my outer suburb mates' vocabularies and food knowledge, likewise that I now know how to put BBQ sauce on absolutely everything and how to abbreviate every single word in my sentence.

Even the words that have already been abbreviated.

For instance "What do you mean?" becomes "What ya mean?" to simply "Watch mean?"

I tell you I'm saving thousands of seconds of my life and wasting so much of my Dad's valuble money that has been spent on my private school education.

Anywho. I cooked brussell sprouts the other night, not crap ones either, ones with butter and salt and bacon until they act like a sponge and taste nothing like how your Nan made them. (You know, steamed until they resemble a pair of school camp explorer socks that got wet on the first day and shoved to the bottom of the pack.)

A conversation followed a few days later that went something like this:

My housemate: "Brussell sprouts taste good when they're infused with shit."

Me: "Good work with the word 'infused'. Very nicely done.

H: "Bitch please, I was unemployed for three months, I've watched my fair share of cooking shows."

Me: "Now I know why you wanted TV so badly. You missed Martha Stewart."

Gotta love living with someone that won't stab you when you hog the recorded TV with Ready Steady Cook.

<3

I Have A Confession.

Firstly though, I would like to apologise to anybody that has been or will soon be, broken hearted by this lie.

-sigh-

I have not seen Anchorman. I have merely memorised a few quotes and have since, had them floating on a loop throughout daily conversation.

I have lied to my boyfriend and my friends in saying that I have.

I am very sorry. I did not mean to hurt anybody.

I hope we can repair our torn friendships.

Ode To The Boyfriend.

People are always asking me where I get my inspiration from. How do we just conjure ideas out of our assholes? Out of nowhere, like a sneaky fart in the supermarket or something.

It's not like that. They brew and mess with our heads and we fix and fiddle with dishes until we're happy. Menu change accounts for 79% of our drinking problems and insomnia, closely followed by any idiot waitress, vegans and the fact that the price of secondary cuts of meat skyrocketed after Matt Moran showcased lamb's neck on Masterchef. That fucking cunt.

If anybody wants a good example, go on Youtube and look up Evolution Of An Idea - Grant Achatz.
My favourite chef and undoubtedly more brilliant than the love child of Biggie and Einstein ever would have been.

But today at my restaurant, we celebrate the new fish dish making the menu and I must say, it was not my idea.

It's a simple home dish my boyfriend makes me, that we simply tweaked and fixed until it was fit to prep ahead and charge $26 bucks for it (little do the fuck knuckle customers -clears throat- sorry, guests know, it averages at $2.80 a plate for me).

So thank you Handsome Boy, your persistance at finding a cheap meal for our poorhouse selves to eat on a Monday night in front of The Graham Norton Show that isn't beans on toast or the always dreaded curried sausages, has given me enough peace of mind to sleep tonight.

Now to crap out a chocolate dessert by Tuesday and I might be able to finally say good riddance to this damn nervous twitch I've acquired whenever the boss mentions the topic of "Autumn Flavours".

Anyone... Anyone... Bueller... Anyone.

Recovery Drugs.

Mates are always giving me the excuse that they only do small amounts of drugs just to keep going. So they can stay out or the best one, 'keep up' with me, because Recovery Clubs are the best.

You know what I reckon? If you've got the durability of an iPhone 5 and therefore, can't make it to recovery time without your drugs:

Then you don't deserve to go.

Dickhead Chefs?

So a new dish we're trialling at work has braised lettuce on it.

Essentially I get a nice Cos or Butter Lettuce or even a Radicchio and I cook the living shit out of it in butter and if I'm feeling a bit funky that day, maybe some mollasses.

However the new waitress is a bit of a health freak balanced out with a mild drinking problem.

Now, this dish is banging. The only thing we're still working on is lowering the Cost On Plate.

But Miss IAteAPieceOfCeleryWithSaltReducedCottageCheeseForBreakfast, has a problem with this.

"What the hell Chef!! You've just taken a perfectly healthy food and ... And ... BASTARDISED it!!"

"No. I took a perfectly boring food and made it better."

When I want healthy, (and I often do, because it helps clear the guilt from the weekend benders and all the drunken 3am cupboard raids) I eat at home.

Going out is for splurging. No I am not going to cook healthily in my restaurant all the time. I am already quite well adjusted to the minds of the Soccer Mums of North Melbourne County and I do oblige accordingly.

But when I go out, I don't want what I can make at home. I want different, I want exciting, for fuck's sake I want FAT!

There is nothing wrong with salad. Just like there's nothing wrong with good old missionary position.

Doesn't mean you want it every single night...

I'm A Bitch.

I just bumped into a girl I went to high school with and the first thing she says to me after hello is:

"You're not fat anymore!! Good for you."

Now, I don't know if I took some pointers after watching Mean Girls the other day, but I was in no mood to put up with that. So in my best Regina George voice I exclaimed:

"Yeah I know, looks like I gave it all to you. Glad to see you haven't changed a bit and you're still a heinous bitch. Good for you."

Only thing better than seeing an old nemesis get fat is seeing your ex with an ugly as all fuck missus.

Aside from the fact that I actually feel bad for my comment and will probably have to unload some community service hours to level out my karma, life is good.

Gay Marriage.

New Zealand has shown, that like a flower, there are natural rays of beauty in this world that outweight any utilities we assume as important.

Patriotism is supposedly the act of standing by our government's decisions. However if this is maturity, then I am bitterly disappointed. I cannot help but wonder if the members of our governing system look out of their window every morning and think : "It could be worse."

Today I woke up and looked across the ocean to our neighbours and thought : "It could be better."

It would appear that we all are in possession of perfectly functioning legs. Yet it is not us that know how to walk forward.
 
Constitutions should be in place to expand liberties, not to contract them. Whether we are straight or gay, it makes each no less patriotic, no less worthy of a choice. I hope that we can show our Kiwi mates the highest form of flattery, in imitation. I hope we choose not the 'Australian' answer or the 'Christian' answer but the right answer.

"Hope is tomorrow's veneer over today's disappointment." -Evan Esar.

Fatigue.

I missed the bin... From here.

Ergh. Bed come at me.

It's A Hard Knock Life.

Being a chef can be tough. It alters your personality.

One day you could be an innocent little 19 year old... The next you're reminding yourself at the family dinner table to say "Please pass the potatoes Mother" instead of "Oi cunt, pass that fuckin' starchy shit."

Sometimes I think we're like the Melbourne weather forecast. Unpredictable and bipolar.

Business Is Booming.

I can pretty much thank the 'Yolo' trend for why my pastry/dessert career has soared.

Health Freaks vs No Fucks Given.

Thanks for the pay rise guys! <3

Mmm

Scalloped potatoes should be a food group.

Melbourne Scene.

The last four weekends I have received a phone call from a few friends who are out clubbing and have witnessed a friend being taken away in an ambulance. They just wanted a calm and level-headed person to talk to. They call me because no doubt they know I'm awake and sober.

A former club rat, I have stopped going out because of this. I can't control what my friends do and I never want to. I simply cannot distinguish between making my friends change their actions, to if they were trying to make me do them. Each person makes their own choices in life and I stand by that.

I used to be tolerant to my mates. I was the girl who went out more than anyone, stayed up longer and danced harder, never judging people for what they did and my friends didn't judge me.

I found a niche. A group of people who I could be myself and only myself around, who I could tell every dark, damaged, embarrassing and shameful secret to, and they did not give a rat's ass. They still quote : 'adored their Little One'.

But here's a fact you may be unaware of. In recent months I have become known as a lover of 'podium bangers'. I walk into a club, find an empty and elevated piece of space and I dance there. No it is not for attention, believe me the way I dance does not require any attention. Stevie Wonder's eyes are offended by my dancing.

But truth is, I started dancing on podiums to get away from the crowd. To remove myself from all the loose units who don't realise that they are actually injuring me in amongst their flailing limbs.

I am not here now to whine or whinge or judge, simply to ensure my friends that I love them. However the next person that pulls out the dramatic tears on me when I don't answer my phone or when I say I don't want to go out with them anymore, please stop and look at why I am doing this.

I care. I care about my friends more than anything in this world. But I have been through enough and I am not strong anymore. I cannot sit by and watch another black bag cover up a friend's beautiful face.

The last few years have escalated beyond anything I ever thought possible. It is not a scene I wish to be a part of, no matter how much joy it has brought me in the past. I love the Melbourne scene, I have met some of the most amazing people of my life doing what I love doing and it certainly has had an enormous impact on me. 

But what I love doing is dead to me now. The scene I love so much got put away in a black bag too.

Now I am nothing but a stupid girl posting a stupid status about stupid people. 

Nothing will change, but it doesn't mean I can't.

Time For Work.

Me getting ready for work in the morning basically consists of me sitting on my bed, shirtless, thinking of all the reasons I shouldn't have to go.
This usually occurs on the same mornings I'm so fatigued, I'll buy a sandwich to eat on the go and I'll accidently pass a bin and throw the sandwich out.
Great. Tasty, tasty wrapper.

Housemate Isn't Home.

Fuck yeah!!
I can dance around my house in my Superman undies doing air drum solos to the sound of Shania Twain blaring at full volume.

Sorry neighbours but...

Wheeeeen will I waaaake up!!! Whyyyyy did weeee break up!!! Wheeen will we maaaaake up!!!

And I'm not even drunk yet. Yikes.

On The Topic Of Women.

Women: "Oh my god nobody ever listens to me this is not fair?!"
Society: "What's wrong hun?"
Women: "I don't want to talk about it."

...

I Hate The Gym.

Once upon a time there was a chubby girl…

Ok so realistically, I once had the metabolism of a frozen sloth, so fat I couldn’t even jump to a conclusion and I honestly thought the “Hang, Clean and Press” exercises, were simply laundry instructions.

There was one machine I knew of at the gym which I thought was just fucking amazing. Every household in fact should have it. Although after an hour on it I really felt quite ill, but it had everything! Kitkats… Mars Bars… Chips… Cheaper than the gym membership too.

These days however, I’m a pretty tiny little thing, rarely pushing past 50kg unless I have a sudden Thins Light ‘n‘ Tangy craving and they‘re on sale at Coles alongside really cheap old Eddie Murphy DVDs… You know, back when Eddie Murphy movies were funny. I did lose a lot of weight just after high school. I figured “Hey.. I’m kind of chubby… I don’t really want to be chubby anymore”. It really was that simple for me.

But still, I’ve actually never set foot in a gym before in my life. People heard this and were all “OH MY GOD WHAT’S YOUR SECRET?!!”

…

Oh I don’t know. Maybe put down the fork, remove your ass from the couch and pick up a book that teaches you how to use the words ‘carb loading’, ‘insulin spike’ and ‘donuts’ in the same sentence? Learning how to calculate the total fat, protein, carb and sodium amounts in a packet of mi goreng doesn’t hurt either. (Yes I have done this, no I am not proud of it.)

That’s what I did and I lost around 19kg in about 3 ½ months. I would come home from work, put on some kind of TV show marathon or a movie and sweat my soon to be sexy little ass off, in front of the Simpsons.

I just despise (and always have) any exercise that isn’t thumb curls due to excessive Playstation addiction or any type of sex based cardio. I’m lazy. Really, REALLY lazy. I find zero enjoyment from exercise. None of this endorphin rush that people who are gym obsessed tell me about.

And I AM a chef, which mean I have two diets to choose from.

Introducing: The Skinny Chef. This chef’s daily calorie intake averages around 312. The type of person who stresses themselves to a mere bony frame and whose breakfast consists solely of black coffee and cigarettes. Then there’s your stereotypical Fat Chef. The butter eating, bacon loving, probably goes home and washes his armpits in golden syrup type of chef.

I chose to combine the two to result in a diet that is 97% green vegetables and bacon cooked in a heart stopping amount of butter, washed down with black coffee and diet coke.

But to get to my point, I have a gym loving boyfriend. I am quite fit, I am quite strong and I have a reasonably well defined set of abdominals. But I also have a new housemate who I don’t think would appreciate coming home to find me in a sports bra in the living room doing a “Hack Squat” which is apparently supposed to be a leg exercise but looks more like the position a cat makes when it’s trying to cough up a hairball.

So I thought I’d take a leaf out of the boyfriend’s book and I went to the gym. Once. That was enough. I have come to the conclusion that - I Hate The Gym.

It’s not even for the exercise aspects. It’s the people at the gym. For example:

1. The Overly Complicated Workout Guy: You know the guy that does a hand stand on top of a medicine ball that is situated on the treadmill, with a kettle bell attached to his ankle and a hula hoop around his waist who most likely will complete this set by smashing down a carefully formulated protein shake that he has experimented with at home to find one that doesn’t make him gag? Yeah I hate that guy. Watching these guys MAKES me gag.

2. Excessive Nudity Girl: This girl probably has a baben body and she likes to show it off. Fucking do it at the beach or at a bikini competition. Not by wiggling your perfectly formed tits in front of my face whilst I’m trying to get changed. The locker room should be like the men’s urinals. You look up and down and never side to side. It’s the same scenario you get put in as a First Year Apprentice when you get shoved into a corner and you’re given 15kg of mushrooms to perfectly slice. I feel like I’m sitting Year 12 exams again. KEEP YOUR EYES ON YOUR OWN TITS! I’m having enough issues with all the mirrors in this place. Why do they do that anyway? Why must every fucking machine have a mirror in front of it? Cunt, I know what I look like that’s why I’m here. I dislike this girl because she is most likely the same girl that pissed me off in the gym only an hour beforehand by impersonating the Sharapova Grunts.

3. The Guy Who Doesn’t Clean Up His Sweat: This is pretty self explanatory. If you’re sweating like a ballerina’s crotch and transforming your surrounding area into a kid’s play pool, here, take this towel and use it for a good purpose other than to flick your nearest “totally not gay” gym mate. There are many more fun ways I can think of to catch some form of contagious disease and none of them consist of rubbing up against the by product of your evolutionary dog-like sweat glands.

4. The Sports Psychiatrist: The person that thinks they know everything about why you’re at the gym. Look, I don’t know if you’re trying to be helpful or if you just want to be a fucking prick, but let me tell you this. I am NOT here for self improvement, I am NOT here to gain ‘inner strength’ or find my identity or learn to trust and believe in myself or any other philosophical explanation you seem to be able to pull from your ass. I am simply here before I have a love affair going on with pork belly whilst simultaneously wanting to look good naked, full light, ‘on top’. Got it fuckwad?

And finally;

5: The Show-Off: In my ONE gym session I had a rather nasty encounter with one of these guys. The guy who would flirt with me in between machines, then stand in front of my treadmill doing what I refer to as “The Superman”. The stretch where the man puts his hands on his hips and thrusts his waist forward so that his genitals are unnecessarily three inches closer to my face than they should be. This is the type of guy who walks around flexing and spends more time getting other people to watch him, than actually exercising. I don’t like these people, I’m at the gym to get my shit done. Get in, get out, like a quick root and I have NO time for people like this. So this guy after I got off the treadmill comes over to me and as I’m wiping the sweat off my neck (See Number 3, because I’m a considerate cunt), says:

“Hey baby, I can bench 150kg, what can your sexy self do?”

…

“Read.”


BAM!!! I have to say I’m rather proud of that response.

So I guess I will have to find an alternative solution. I refuse to allow my hatred of gyms and exercise and my love of all things fattening to stop me from fitting into my Size 6 Sass&Bide jeans that I splurged half a pay-check on.

When I have a shower, I want my feet to actually get wet.

Dear Hospos.

For all of you who actively participate in social media networks, e.g. Facebook, Twitter and... Well ok anybody who actually still uses Myspace.

Let's take a moment to embrace each other...

And prepare for the 'Friday' statuses.

StandStrongMyBrothersAndSistersInArms.

Chef's Cutlery.

Like a boss.

Damn My Name.

It's one of those days where you hear your name being called out everywhere.

Blaaah. It's ok. I like spinning around like one of those retarded toy ferrets with the battery operated ball attached to it's nose.

Pfft. Who needs their neck intact anyway?

Why Do I Do This To Myself?

I work two jobs. Saturday, Sunday double at the restaurant and in between I do an overnight shift at a club.

I am now almost 33 hours into a completely sober 37 hour shift...

Not going to lie. I'm wigging out a little bit.

My arms are in a state similar to a Wacky Waving Inflatable Arm Flailing Tube Man and I just instigated a rather in depth discussion with my boss about morning sex.

10pm: please have premature ejaculation problems and 'come quickly'.

On The Topic Of Singles.

You know what I reckon?

I reckon people who whinge about how 'The Single Life' is shit, don't have good enough friends.

Life is about having fun. With your mates, with a lover, hell even with a fuck buddy or a fellow Pokemon fan.

But most of all, (masturbation jokes aside) it's about knowing how to have fun with yourself.

Enjoying our own company is a severely underrated experience.

You're stuck with yourself for the rest of your life - you may as well be your own best friend.

And when Cruel Intentions comes on... Nothing wrong with being your own lover too.

Words Cannot Describe...

Ladies, there is nothing attractive or sexy about wearings heels if you walk like a newborn calf.

It's heel toe bitches HEEL TOE!!

The only thing that makes me cringe more is seeing a child fall in a supermarket and you know you've got about 2.4 seconds of escape time before they start to wail.

Pfft. Women.

My Bf Brings All The Girls To The Yard...

Not going to lie... I'm a little concerned.

Dirtiest Look.

Yes. I am buying two 79c 600ml water bottles.

Yes. I am buying four 300ml Smirnoff Double Blacks.

The look wasn't necessary Mr Register Man. You know what I'm doing, I know what I'm doing.

Let's just smile and move along and we can all get through this a lot faster.

No Your Mum's An Oxymoron.

I have a general distaste for oxymorons.

The latest one that is bothering me is 'freezer burn', something that has been annoying me at work a lot lately. But then I realise... Well oxymorons just fucking follow me everywhere don't they?

For example:
I can picture my mate The Cunt, it's a pretty ugly sight. I see him half naked, sipping non-alcoholic beer from his plastic glass.  Then from time-to-time he nibbles on his cold hotdog, which is smothered in hot chilli sauce.  For pudding he will be having freezer burnt, white chocolate, ice cream, with a plain fudge topping. The freezer burn which was caused by liquid gas that also cooked my ceviche jumbo shrimp, causing me to stress like an anxious patient.

But I suppose I'll be calmely excited next week when we have our work party. This is a new tradition and we will be spending a whole half day on the top floor of his low-rise apartment. Personally, as a group we're hoping to watch the live recording of the paid volunteers turning green oranges into non-stick glue via his wireless cable tv.

You see my point yeah?

Sometimes life's a comedian with no sense of humour.

When I Think About You I Touch Myself...

Neighbour at work strikes again:

"Do you know why I love touching myself? It's sex with someone I love that doesn't expect breakfast."

Me : "You just sit at work all day thinking about masturbation, don't you?"

" - long pause - Thinking about it? ... Yeah sure. Thinking."

Ew.

It's Upsetting Really.

You call a girl fat, then wonder why she doesn't see that she's skinny.

You call a boy scrawny, then tease him for going to the gym.

You call someone dumb, when you don't see their point of view.

You tell someone they're an embarrassment, but their personality is adoring.

You tell someone they're offensive when they try to make people smile.

You tell someone they're a hick, a thug, a bitch, a slut.

But never to their face.

And you wonder why people are fucked up?

This Might Sound Awkward...

A girl who works next door to mine comes in for a chin wag a few mornings a week when she sees I'm in the kitchen early.

This morning she provided a rather delightful topic of conversation to start back the work week after the Easter break.

Strolling in and taking a seat on the couch she lets out an intense sigh.

"This might sound awkward, but is there an appropriate way to tell your housemate to put his headphones in 'cos the boyfriend is coming over to... Enthusiastically 'Slam the Ham'?"

Laughed so hard I spat my coffee all over the bar.

Damn You Nescafe.

Alright coffee.

You have approximately 20 minutes to do your job before I have to leave for mine and I am NOT holding this in from Ringwood to Flinders Street.

This is what I call nervous.