Hi Cassie,

I have been to Thailand, Malaysia, South Africa, France, Spain, England, Italy, and Greece. During those journeys, I worked in orphanages, AIDS homes, and boarding schools, and gained a pretty thorough understanding and appreciation for other cultures. If you had bothered to click on the tag that says “travel” before you commented, you would have been able to answer your own question and save yourself from getting so upset.

I work full-time and pay my own bills, but yes, I do live with my parents at the moment if you count that as being “dependent.” The reason I never finished uni is because I didn’t want to, and my degree was useless for the industry that I am now working in. Also, feel free to call me a hippie, but I don’t think that a tertiary education based on an outdated syllabus is the only way to educate one’s self.

As far as friends who love me are concerned, just read all the comments above yours and tell me the ratio of negative to positive ones. I think you’ll find you were the only person who failed to understand that it was a tongue-in-cheek story, not to be taken overly seriously.

Here’s an idea – if you’re going to get all hot and bothered by random blog posts on the internet, just don’t read them. And if you can relax your sphincter enough to remove the giant pole that is currently lodged inside your anal cavity, learn how to take a joke and do your research before you have a meltdown and humiliate yourself online.

Cheers,

Annik

When I was in highschool, there was a group of boys four years above us who were all blonde and hot. They never showed the slightest interest in us during school, but after graduation, I became visible.

One night I spotted the group’s ringleader, Ryan, at a local nightclub. I caught his eye, then looked away and smiled. He approached me and asked, “Can I buy you a drink?” and thus began a brief sort of relationship.

Ryan was attractive, friendly and smelled nice. However, once we got to know each other a bit better, I realised that he was painfully boring. I didn’t really care about any part of his personality because it was all so mundane and ordinary, I wanted to stab out my eyes with a dirty chopstick. The sex was good, but when it came to conversation, I would have preferred a homeless person. The issue was that Ryan was too normal and well-balanced for me. I need to date men who are tortured and neurotic and irrational, otherwise I lose interest after about eight minutes. So whenever Ryan talked, my eyes would glaze over and I would fantasise about being with somebody less average. Every time he suggested we go out for dinner or a movie, I would panic at the thought of being forced to endure hours of his conversation. “Why don’t we just stay at your place and fool around?” I would suggest, trying to reign the relationship back to its shallow, physical roots.

After a month or so of this, I met somebody more interesting and stopped answering Ryan’s calls. I then successfully avoided him until roughly a year later, when I bumped into him at the same club in which we met.

“Hey!” he cried, scooping me into a hug.

“Hi,” I said, pulling away from him.

“Gosh, I haven’t heard from you in ages!” he said.

“I lost my phone,” I lied.

“Can I take you out for a drink sometime?” he asked.

“Oh, I don’t think so. No, thank you.”

“Hey, Neek,” he said, beginning to look downcast, “I don’t know if you heard, but my dad had a heart attack a few months ago and he… he died. My dad died.”

“Oh. I’m sorry,” I said, scanning the bar for my friends.

“I could sort of use someone to talk to right now,” he said quietly.

“Well you’ve still got your mum, right?” I reminded him. “Listen, my ride’s about to leave. Take care.”

Below is a list of questions that have appeared in my search terms. Obviously these people need answers, and fast. Luckily, I am here to help, and I have thoroughly researched every issue dealt with below.

If you have a question you’d like to ask Elton, you can leave it as a comment or email it to askelton [at] annikskelton.com

Q. what happens on contiki
Q. what ahppens on contiki
Q. what happens on a contiki tour
Q. what happens on contiki tours

A. Drinking, sexual intercourse with strangers, some sight-seeing, usually a few muggings/assaults/thefts, loads of fun, but mostly just drinking. You will break your liver.

Q. breast implants and need my wisdom teeth out?

A. I’m not really sure I understand the question, but I don’t think having fake boobs will interfere with any dental surgery you may require.

Q. can i get panadeine forte for wisdom teeth

A. You sure as shit can. You probably won’t need your full prescription though, so you should send the leftovers my way once you’ve healed.

Q. can i have sex on contiki tour

A. Yes, you can, and you will. Probably more than once.

Q. can i wear makeup for my wisdom teeth removal?

A. I don’t see why not. However, when you wake up smacked-out after your general, with no idea where the fuck you are and a mouth full of bloody gauze, I don’t think a little eyeliner is going to be enough to make you look remotely attractive.

Q. contiki boring?

A. Only if you don’t like drinking.

Q. contiki for idiots?

A. Definitely.

Q. do you have to wear a medical gown to get your wisdom teeth removed?

A. Yes, you do. You’re allowed to wear underpants underneath though.

Q. does annik skelton like a tongue deep in her ass?

A. To be honest, this is something I have yet to experience in life, but I will keep you guys posted.

Q. getting my wisdom teeth pulled what’s the cocktail?

A. I’m no anesthesiologist so I can’t tell you the specific ingredients, but it tastes sweet and will fuck you sideways.

Q. how much will it cost to have my wisdom teeth removed?

A. I have no idea, because I’m a middle class white girl and my parents paid for my surgery. But I think it will set you back a few grand, unless you’re covered by private health insurance.

Q. how worried should i be about getting my wisdom teeth pulled

A. Not very. Unless you have some sort of eating competition planned for the day after.

Q. marry me, annik skelton?

A. No.

Q. my brother just fucked up his life what do i tell him

A. Once when I was having a bad day, a homeless person told me, “Hey, at least nobody dead.” If somebody is indeed dead, at least your brother can take comfort in the fact that it isn’t him.

Q. what do i have to do before getting my wisdom teeth out

A. Nothing. It’s an operation, not a job interview.

Q. what if pedafilia

A. This one is beyond me.

Q. what to do if i bang my teeth

A. If you want to be polite, at least buy them breakfast.

Q. what will my face look like after i have my wisdom teeth out

A. If you get put under, your face will swell up like a beach ball and you will look hideous. If they do it under a local, you will probably look pretty much the same but with gaping holes in your jaw.

Q. when do you pull out the wisdom tooth

A. I recommend you leave that to somebody professionally qualified to remove parts of your body, rather than doing it yourself.

Q. where is my wisdom teth

A. Usually located within the mouth, secured inside the gums.

Q. why can’t i fuck jennifer chapman?

A. One word: rohypnol.

Q. will annik skelton swallow my man juice

A. No.

As you can see, Neekersneakers has had something of a face lift, and now includes a bit of colour and an attempt at conveying some personality. This is so you guys can stop saying “the text hurts my eyes… it’s boring… you’ve gone too minimalist… I’m a massive vagina… etc etc blah.”

The new design comes courtesy of my rather talented and fiery-haired friend Mitch (pictured above), whose other work can be viewed here. Mitch designed this working with only a very loose brief (“just make me something cool, with pink bits”) and then changed the twenty-seven things I complained about, then changed them back, then changed some more again. I paid him in snaps.

I would also like to thank the ever-lovely and always helpful Zac for his keen eyes and expert advice, as well as Darwin’s best-dressed lady, Kahlee Rose, for agreeing with me when I already knew what I wanted but required confirmation.

Yall can leave feedback if you like, but let’s be honest, I can’t really be bothered changing anything and I have annoyed Mitch plenty enough. I do hope this one is easier on your beautiful eyes though, and if you spot a major fuck-up bug, please send an email to support [at] annikskelton.com

All aboard!

Not only was I unfortunate enough to be born with scoliosis and eyes which look in different directions when I am over-relaxed, but I also belong to a set of parents who insist on living in the Hills.

For those unfamiliar with Sydney, the Hills is an entirely stagnant and insular area north-west of the city where people are born, educated, employed and married all on the same block. People who live in the Hills go to school, church, soccer practice, work, the pub, and the movies all with the same group of friends they have had since pre-school, and they will continue to do so until they all rot beside their colostomy bags at the Anglican Retirement Village on Old Northern Road. If you suggest a visit to a city club or a day trip up the coast, Hills residents will smile and shake their head at you as if you are retarded. “Why would we trek all the way over there when we have everything we need right here?!” In this way, the Hills is exactly like America, but thinner.

The only way to get out of the Hills is to go to uni so you can secure a high-paying job and afford to move somewhere less conservative and tainted by Christians. But if you failed uni, like me, then you have to catch Hillsbus everywhere.

Hillsbus is the only way to get from the Hills to the city without paying $40 in tolls or trawling through three different forms of public transport. It is a privately owned company, which means they have a total monopoly on the norwest city-workers’ commute and can bump up their prices at will. The result is 60,000 passengers who fork over $50 each week for the privilege of spending 2 hours every day standing on a crowded, stuffy, perpetually late piece-of-shit vomit yellow bus. It is inevitable, like the tides – anyone who catches Hillsbus is a cunt.

“Umm Neek,” I can hear you say, “You catch Hillsbus. Does that make you a cunt too?”

Well yes, it does, to be honest. I live my life in a cranky state of constant exhaustion because my commute is so fucking long and tedious, I have considered simply sleeping on a yoga mat under my desk at work and giving myself sponge baths using the office water cooler. I also catch approximately six colds every winter because Hillsbus is so crowded that you will perform fellatio, on average, every three weeks simply by sitting in the aisle seat. I hate everyone on Hillsbus and all the filthy diseases they carry and sneeze on me. I never give up my seat for pregnant people or old women because the ride is so long and expensive that on the rare occasions you can get a seat, you hold onto that fucker like it’s going out of fashion. If someone wants to carry another human inside them for 9 months or commute long distances once they’re past the age of sixty then that’s their business, not mine. You should have thought about how you were going to work that into your life without counting on the generosity and kindness of strangers because really, the average person is fairly shit.

The Evidence

Last week, I was waiting at the Hillsbus bus stop after a few post-work beverages, when I became aware of some crazy bitch screaming up the road. Naturally, I turned to look, but my alcohol-riddled brain was too slow to look away before I had accidentally made eye contact with this raging meth head. I turned away anyway, hoping she would let it go, but ten seconds later I was grabbed around the head and dragged 3 metres by my hair. At this point, my brain cut out and I could not feel any pain or really register what was going on. I assume this is the same protective mental mechanism that shields me during sermons, conferences, and twenty minutes into any family dinner. Also, I was too smashed to know quite what was happening. However, I was aware of being slammed up against a wall and thrown to the ground, while being screamed at and called a cunt, a bitch, a whore, whatever else. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I assumed the fetal position and tried to cover my head. My friend Julia was on the scene fast, and yelled obscene threats until the ice junkie retreated, then she helped me to my feet.

“Are you okay?” Julia said.

“I don’t know.”

“Do you want to sit down?”

“No.”

“Do you want some water?”

“No.”

“Do you want a cigarette?”

“Give me three.”

As we stood back in the bus line, because there seemed little else to do, I became aware that every other person waiting in the queue – all thirty or so of them – had simply watched me get bashed by an ice addict and decided that being a witness was the best civic duty they could provide in this particular situation. One lady (who was not a cunt) phoned the police to let them know what had happened, but everybody else just stood there guarding their place in line and staring at me. I knew they wanted tears. They wanted hysterics. They wanted blood. Instead, I held my cigarette at a jaunty angle and immediately pulled out my iPhone to tweet about the experience. I tossed my hair and LOLed. “Can you believe that just happened?” I asked Julia, who had not blinked or exhaled since the junkie first approached us. As soon as I know somebody wants something from me, I do everything within my power to prevent them from getting it, simply because I can, and I am selfish at heart. So these Hillsbus cunts could have their bus seat, but they wouldn’t get a show out of me.

When I got home, I took three valium and had a bath. Then I stood in front of the television and told my mother I had been attacked by a meth addict at the bus stop.

“That’s awful!” she said, putting down her crossword puzzle book. “Was anyone there?”

“Yeah, but nobody did anything. They didn’t even ask if I was okay. Those arseholes just stood in line watching. Like it was fucking street theatre.”

“Well I probably would have done the same,” Mum said, picking up her book again. “You don’t want to mess with an ice junkie. Besides, you’d never risk losing your place in the Hillsbus line. Those bastards will sidle up like you were never even there.”

The above image was brought to you by the genius man that is @bobearth and my power to persuade people to photoshop genitals into ordinary pictures.

What? Where? Get that fucking camera away from me.

This is my cat, Georgie. I have a rather unique attitude towards pets, in that I generally consider them to be completely disposable. Some call this callousness, I call it post-modernism, whatever. If one dies, I simply buy a new one. And if a live one annoys me too much, I usually take it to the vet and have it put down.

Georgie has been on thin ice for a while now, because despite being cute, she is the most irritating and fickle creature I’ve ever known. (And I have worked at an accounting firm and dated many musicians, for your reference.) Georgie likes to be let in and out of the house roughly every half hour, day and night. When I am sleeping too deeply to hear her scratching at the back door outside, she jumps onto my window-sill, grabs the fly-screen with her claws and slams the frame against the window pane repeatedly until I am jarred from my slumber. “I hate you,” I tell her, cracking open the window and lifting the screen for her to crawl through. She glances at me briefly before wandering to her food bowl, eating one biscuit, and then meowing at the back door to be let out again. I imagine having a child to be similar to this sleepless, constantly annoyed state, which is why I use eleven different methods of contraception, including abstinence.

Georgie does not want anything much to do with any of us, but requires a human around at all times. Just in case. Usually she has my mother, who is lazy and rarely goes out, but whenever my parents are away, Georgie finds herself alone during the day and becomes anxious. She follows me around the house at night and jumps on top of my computer, my dinner plate, my piano, whatever is occupying my attention when I should be more concerned about her needs. When I go to the bathroom, she scratches frantically on the door and wails mournfully. I let her inside and she perches on the edge of the bathtub and stares at me intensely as I sit on the toilet. Unused to such scrutiny, I get stage fright and do not urinate for 3 days.

The reason I cannot get rid of Georgie is because despite the fact that she is cold and sometimes violent, I love the boundaries she forces others to accept. She will allow herself to be patted sometimes, but only if the person patting her doesn’t obviously want it too much, and only if they are satisfied after a few pats. You may not grab her or hold her in any way. You may not pick her up and put her on your lap either, although she may deign to sit on your lap if it is a chilly night and she is feeling sleepy.

I recently complained to my friend Matt about Georgie and how I sometimes wished she was more affectionate with me. I was lying on the lounge while Georgie sat on the coffee table, staring at me suspiciously. She knew that I was talking about her.

“I just don’t know what to do with her,” I told Matt. “She’s not really contributing much to the household. I think it might be time to go, you know? Try a different breed or something?”

“Annik, this cat is you,” Matt said.

“What do you mean?” I asked, reaching out to scratch Georgie behind one ear. She snapped at my hand, then rubbed her nose against my arm.

“Well she looks pretty and friendly, so people want to touch her,” Matt explained, “Sometimes she’s receptive and affectionate, usually with total strangers. But if you’re a nice, caring person and actually try to get close to her, she’ll scratch your fucking face off.”

“Mmm..” I said, rolling onto my back, “I guess she can stay.” As if on cue, Georgie stepped from the coffee table onto the lounge and settled down on my chest. She nuzzled her face into my neck and fell asleep.

Precisely four minutes later she woke up, dug her claws into my shoulder and hissed at my face, then fled from the room.

Those four minutes were nice though.

This is your June petting session. Don't come back until July.

Most of my relatives live interstate or in France and the Sydney ones don’t like us, so my family usually spends Christmas day getting drunk in our living room and letting out all the pent-up rage that has accumulated over the year.

“Why should you get to park in the driveway while my car sits out on the street like a whore?” I snap at my brother, tearing open a carefully wrapped gift from my mother. “Oh look, more Bryce Fucking Courtenay. You know he hasn’t written anything good since Four Fires. Buy me some Tim Winton or something. Goddamn it.”

“I’m the oldest,” my brother says, slurring slightly, “I get to park where ever the hell I want.”

“You’re the ugliest,” I retort. “Besides, you sell cleaning products, you’re going nowhere in life. At least I went to uni. I tried to make something of myself.”

“Yeah, tried being the operative word. Unlucky for you, there isn’t much demand for ice-queen bitch accountants with half a degree under their belt and a drinking problem. Face it, Neek, you’re a fucking failure. You have no career prospects, and no man will ever marry you because you have terrible genes. No offence, Mum.”

“You cunt, I’ll kill you,” I say, smacking his beer off the coffee table and reaching for his eyes, which were recently operated on and cost him $9,000 in medical bills.

At this point, my father rises from his cane chair and sighs. He walks over to his new electric piano and plugs in his headphones. Then he sits and plays Gershwin for three hours, until we have all passed out or gone to our bedrooms. The piano is my father’s happy place. He is an amazing musician, and people often go to my parents’ church just to hear my dad play. But at home, he plays to himself through headphones while the rest of us sit on the couch and watch television. Eventually, my mother falls asleep on the lounge and my brother goes to the garage to work on his motorbike. I walk down the road to the park with play equipment and sit at the top of the slippery-dip. I smoke cigarettes and ash onto the slide, thinking about all the local children who will now go home to their mothers with ashy, smelly pants. I think about how much I hate my family. I think about how much I hate Christmas. I think about the arbitrary cruelty of having a designated day of the year where I am forced to spend 24 hours with my family, regardless of whether I am in a good mood or have a sufficient supply of valium to see me through the holiday.

It wasn’t always like this. We used to have guests over for Christmas. Not traditional guests (ie friends and family) but random people my mother had met throughout the year who didn’t have anything better to do on Christmas day, because they were so scummy that they had failed to achieve basic relationships in life and had nobody to hang out with on the most important holiday of the year.

First there was Warwick, a thirty-something IT professional who lurked around my parents’ church and rode his bicycle everywhere. He came over for Christmas each year, and I hated him passionately.

“I think he’s a pedophile,” I told my mother as we stood at the kitchen window, looking out at  Warwick in the backyard. He was sitting by the pool, supervising the neighbour’s children as they swam.

“Do any of you kids know what skinny dipping means?” he asked them, trailing his big toe through the water. “I like to skinny dip.”

Then there were the pregnant bikie trashbags. They only came once – the last year we had guests. My mum had invited Gail, a crusty woman she met at TAFE, and her daughters. They showed up for lunch at 4pm and were all wearing leather jackets.

“Sorry we’re so late,” Gail said, picking something out of her teeth. “Young Natalie here had to stop every five minutes to take a piss.”

“I’m pregnant,” Natalie explained.

“Cool,” I said, draining my wine glass.

“Not cool!” Gail shouted. “Do you know how many times I’ve driven her to the abortion clinic? She pussies out at the last minute every time and decides to ruin her life instead.”

“How old were you when you had Natalie?” I asked pleasantly.

“She was sixteen,” Natalie replied, “Just a year older than me now.”

“What a charming family tradition,” I smiled, pouring myself a gin and tonic. “I recently turned sixteen myself.”

“If that’s the case,” Gail interrupted, “Should you really be drinking, young lady?”

“Well I’m not pregnant,” I replied.

Just then Warwick entered the house, holding a dripping child under each arm. “Did somebody say something about babies?” he gasped.

“Yeah,” I said, “This is Natalie. She’s pregnant, but she’s still trying to work up the guts to have an abortion.”

“I beg your pardon!” Gail spluttered.

“I like babies,” Warwick said.

“Oh my god, we’re out of wine,” Mum whispered to me.

“I’ll get some more,” I offered. I caught a bus to the local shopping centre and smoked a joint on the loading dock. Then I watched The Ring three times because nothing short of the apocalypse would cause Greater Union to close their doors. By the time I got home, Mum was asleep on the lounge, Dad was playing the piano, and my brother had disappeared to the garage.

A moon or two ago, I wrote a heartfelt post about my brother, who was tragically lost in a gender-reassignment related incident. In response, one of my favourite readers, Eduardo, posted the following comment:

I think Eduardo’s name is actually Ben, and I am pretty sure I know where he works, but that’s neither here nor there. It’s behind you.

Eduardo really got me thinking about Neekersneakers though and what this site is about. (Nothing, really.)

Like most things in life, I actually got bored with my tagline after the site had been live for 15 minutes, but I couldn’t be bothered changing it.

However, Eduardo has inspired me. I am going to open up the forum and let you guys submit suggestions for the new Neekersneakers tagline.

Be creative. Be krazy. Be offensive. Be flattering. I don’t really give a shit, just send me something cool.

You can leave your submission in the comments section below, or tweet it to @Neekatron, or send an email to ilikeblackmen(at)annikskelton.com

The booty up for grabs is your very own pair of Neekersneakers!!

Not really, but it will be just as good. I will send the winner a prize so awesome, it will hurt.

Me: Oh good, you’re home. The phone rang, but I didn’t answer it.

Mum: How helpful.

Me: You know I get phone-phobia.

Mum: You answer the phone for a living.

Me: If you worked at Subway, I wouldn’t ask you to make me sandwiches at home.

Mum: Sometimes your selfishness astounds me.

Me: Actually, I am a little hungry…