I was reading my friend Helen’s Live Journal when I came across the following paragraphs:

We grabbed a beer and headed for the front bar. I accidentally caught the eye of someone sitting next to the door… As I walked past he ducked his head and gave this long, breathy snort, before bursting into laughter and going, ‘FAT chance.’

What I never understand about these situations is that your attacker doesn’t ever tell you anything you don’t already KNOW. Unattractive people are more than aware of their unattractiveness, always. We carry it with us daily, and the weight of it makes us grunt. Every time we look in the mirror – hello, horror. Every time we get caught unawares on camera – god forbid, put that red-herring-cross-Appaloosa face away. So yeah, we know about it. Why the need to verbally reinforce? Who is born with such cruelty in their genes?

I’ve never actually met Helen, but I can tell from my Facebook stalking that she is one of those beautifully quirky, colourful, witty, clever people you rarely come across. To imagine somebody pissing on her birthday cake over something so stupid as how she looks really hacks me off. And it breaks my heart a little too, because I know that no matter how brazen and confident you are, a dumb passing comment from some random douchebag can reduce the toughest of us to a self-loathing mess.

For me, it’s less about my face and more about the size of my arse. As an adult, I’ve weighed 70kg and I’ve weighed 45kg at different points in time (I’m 5’6″.) I wasn’t particularly well in either of those situations, but I’ve never gotten more (positive) attention in my life than when I resembled a broomstick. Hell, even at 60kg, I was rarely given a second glance. I was referred to as “the fat one.” Guys would approach my friends in bars and say, “Hey, gorgeous,” then turn to me and say, “Hey not-so-gorgeous.” And when I had the guts to wear a singlet that said “UGLY” one night, a girl pointed me out to her friends and shouted “Yeah, she is ugly!” All of these incidents were unprovoked, unless you count the shape of my body or the arrangement of my facial features as an invitation for rebuke. Apparently, I was so hideous on those occasions that complete strangers felt the need to comment. And not in private either – they commented right to my ugly face.

Despite all this, I think I’ve managed to come out the other side with a pretty healthy self esteem. I’m no supermodel, but I’m not bad looking either. As long as I stay below a size 10 (the upper limit of the “acceptable weight range” of most guys I date) I think I look reasonable. If I tell this to people though, there is guffawing and rolling of eyes. Girls are not supposed to think they’re pretty. We are supposed to be insecure to the point of obsession. Pout in front of the mirror and squeeze at the fat on our arms and bellies. Shove our fingers down our throats and lose sleep over the wrinkles around our eyes. When somebody compliments you on your appearance, deny it! Don’t say thank you or actually agree with them. Good god, the scandal.

Sometimes little pokes and prods have the desired effect. An overweight person might use their unflattering nicknames to fuel their fire at the gym. Another person wearing tights as pants might need to catch a few disapproving glances before they figure out what they’re doing wrong. But simply telling somebody they’re ugly isn’t exactly constructive. What reaction do these people expect? “Oh really? Shit, thanks for letting me know. I’ll get a new face asap.”

So are people randomly insulting girls in order to make sure we don’t get too sure of ourselves? Modesty is becoming in a woman, so make sure she damn well knows she’s not hot enough? Or is it the old “I make fun of the other kids to make myself feel better” syndrome? Cutting down everyone around you to make yourself taller?

Is consumerism to blame? Entire industries are built on our insecurities: weight loss products, cosmetics, plastic surgery, fake tanning, etc. Every day, the TV and magazines tell us that we’re ugly and overweight, so what’s wrong with telling each other the same thing? Have we been desensitised to our own cruelties?

Personally, I blame fairy tales. The good guys were always hot, and the bad guys were butt ugly. Snow White was a babe, while Rumpelstiltskin was a hideous dwarf. From the day we’re born, there’s a very strong reinforcement that people who look nice are usually nice, and people who look dodgy are usually dodgy. In some cases, this is true, but not always.

Maybe when we tell our kids not to discriminate against people who are black or homosexual or female, we should also tell them not to discriminate against those who have been dealt a dose of acne or a bad nose.

And maybe next time you see someone who you think could use some improvement, you should shut the fuck up.

Me: Dad, there’s something gross on my neck. Can you take a look?

My brother: Is it your face?

Dad: It’s eczema.

Me: I’m going to my room.

My mother is generally oblivious to anything I do, say, wear or inhale, so she is constantly endangering her heart’s health by noticing my tattoos, piercings and the like up to 12 months after their advent.

Last night she picked me up from the airport and immediately exclaimed, “Annik! You’ve shrunk!”

Pleased that she had noticed my new sleek figure, I proceeded to explain my recently tweaked workout regime and how I have been hauling arse out of bed at 5:30am every morning to exercise, but it has obviously been worth it because now I am thinner and hot.

“No,” she interrupted, “I think you’ve gotten shorter. Are you slouching even more than usual?”

When I was twenty years old, and able to ingest large amounts of alcohol, I went to Europe and participated in two Contiki tours. I thought it would be great to see some of the world, broaden my horizons, experience other cultures, meet new kinds of people, etc, etc. Instead, I wound up on a bus with 49 other Aussies who were hell-bent on getting shit-faced and exchanging bodily fluids. It was awesome.

But I digress. What I want to do here is EXPOSE the Contiki Rep. Not the Tour Guide, for she is educated, holds her liquor well, and does not sleep with anybody until the very last night when it doesn’t matter anymore. But her site-based lesser counterparts exhibit no such control.

Contiki Reps are basically over-enthusiastic twenty-somethings from New Zealand and Australia, along with some Brits, attempting to avoid angry ex-girlfriends and boring university degrees by spending 6 months washing dishes in European campsites and shagging whoever happens to stay there.

During our London to Athens tour, I spent a great deal of time observing the Contiki Reps. They were paid badly, had to clean toilets and stayed in terribly isolated areas, yet they were all so chirpy I nearly lost my breakfast on the first few mornings. I studied their eyes carefully as they dished up my spaghetti, and questioned them closely while scraping my plates into the bin. So how many hours of sleep do you usually get in a night? Uh huh.. And when did you last speak to your family? Riiiight.. How often do you get time off? Oh.

It was not unusual to have a quiet meal or a serious conversation interrupted by one of the Reps bursting into the room, bouncing up and down and shouting, “Can I get a WOOOOOO???!!!”
I tossed and turned at night, dreaming uncomfortably of childhood church camps. These people had to be on something. Anything. However, after six weeks of intense study, I was forced to conclude that their perpetual cheer was due only to an excess of free alcohol and casual sex.

In Venice, I was forced to interact closely with one of the Reps, as I was rostered on for “dishie duty” on our second day there. And so, after several rounds of a cocktail known as an “Attitude Adjustment”, kissing somebody called Giancarlo, and vomiting long strings of spaghetti into a public toilet, I grabbed a few hours sleep, woke up early and reported to the campsite kitchen. I told the Contiki Rep on charge that I was experiencing my first hangover of the tour. His eyes misted over as he handed me a tea towel. “I remember my first time,” he reminisced, “You want a shot?”

It was at that moment that I realised all Contiki staff are alcoholics. They are not worldly travellers at all, but seasoned pisskops seeking employment where they can drink on the job. I’ve got no beef with that, but I think everyone should know. Well now you have no excuse – Contiki Reps have been EXPOSED. You heard it here first.

I once dated what I thought was a smart guy. On our fourth (and final) date, we were out having drinks when I made a joke about being a supermodel.

“Oh my god!” he snorted, “That’s hilarious! I mean, you’re gorgeous, but you could never be a supermodel!”

I know that, cocknose.

Last weekend, the Sydney Morning Herald website published Angus & Robertson’s list of Top 100 Books of All Time. The list was compiled based on the votes of 26,000 readers and confirms my long-standing suspicion that people are morons.

Here’s my own little list.

Top 10 Reasons Why the Top 100 Books List is About as Definitive as a Cowpat:

1. The Harry Potter series stole first place. Has the world gone mad?

2. My Sister’s Keeper by Jodi Picoult scored 5th. This is one of those books I stupidly read simply because every idiot around me went on and on about how wonderful it was and claimed that it changed their miserable lives. So I read it, and then I tore out every page and wiped my arse with it. The plot of My Sister’s Keeper is based entirely on a single ethical dilemma: is it right to take an organ from one child (against their will) in order to ensure the survival of its sibling? After debating this throughout the whole goddamn book, and including many tedious courtroom scenes filled with ridiculously inappropriate behaviour from the characters, Picoult neatly sidesteps the issue altogether by killing the protagonist in a car accident and leaving all her organs up for grabs. I almost expected to turn to the last page and read, “And then they all woke up and realised it was just a dream!” Fuck you, Jodi Picoult, you wasted four hours of my life and I want them back. I could have used that time to read something better, like the phone book.

3. Rolling in at number 8 was Tim Winton’s Breath. Don’t get me wrong, I totally heart Tim Winton. I would probably have sex with him based on his writing ability alone, and Winton is about as attractive as a dog’s bum. But Breath just didn’t cut it for me. The plot was shaky, the characters confusing, and the ending unsatisfying. The one thing Breath proves is that even if your idea is shitty, you can get by on superb writing skills alone.

4. April Fool’s Day by Bryce Courtney slides in at number 25. Again, I love a bit of Bryce, but April Fool’s Day is hardly his best work. What about The Potato Factory, Jessica or Four Fires? They piss all over a (sometimes) whiney account of Courtney’s son’s death, punctuated by uncensored rants against the public health system. On the bright side, you’ll never shower without a raincoat again.

5. In 27th place is In My Skin by Kate Holden. In My Skin is a great read, but mainly for shock factor. Every bored housewife loves reading about a high class heroin-addict whore. Who cares if she can write? She’s exciting. Idiots.

6. A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini is ranked 29th. After The Kite Runner, I was expecting big things from Hosseini. Unfortunately, A Thousand Splendid Suns is about as engaging as a brick wall. I didn’t even finish the fucking thing.

7. In 32nd place is Atonement by Ian McEwan. What the deuce is wrong with people? Atonement the book sucked even harder than the movie! McEwan seems to have taken a leaf out of Picoult’s book too for the ending – after labouring through three hundred pages of meaningless romantic crap, you find out that none of it ever really happened in the first place.

8. Paulo Coelho’s The Alchemist comes in at 57th. Oh god, now I’m really angry. The Alchemist is another book I read because everyone in the world recommended it to me. I thought it was a load of horse shit. This is by far the most boring, meaningless, mind-numbing novel I’ve read in the last year. Through Santiago’s journey, we are supposed to realise that no matter how unattainable our dreams seem, if we just have the courage and determination to pursue them, we will succeed. This, my friends, is why so many losers try out for Australian Idol and cry when they don’t make it through. The reality is you will probably never achieve your dream – that’s why it’s called a dream.

9. At number 89 is Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris. WHY THE FUCK IS THIS SO FAR DOWN THE LIST? Sedaris is a goddamn genius. He’s the Einstein of the twenty-first century. In fact, I think SMH’s list should have consisted solely of Sedaris’ work.

10. This is not a list of the Top 100 Books of All Time. It’s a list of the Top 100 Commercialised Crap Published During the Last Fifteen Years With Some Token Austen, Bronte and Dickens Thrown In to Create an Impression of False Credibility.

It’s 9am and I’ve been up for four hours. I woke up at the butt-crack of dawn because I had a bad dream where my brother died – the fourth in a string of nightmares this week involving dead animals, cutting off my face with a razor, and being raped by wild bush-pigs.

No, I haven’t been smoking crack before bed every night. I’ve been wearing nicotine patches.

Nicorette is possibly the greatest legal substance I have come across in the course of my adult life. Nobody knows you’re wearing it and you get all the wonderful benefits of nicotine seeping directly into your skin without the pesky process of smoking, smelling like an ashtray, and the various safety risks associated with holding a flaming object in your mouth. I can wear my nicotine patch on the bus, in restaurants, at the office, around babies, and right next to the bar when I’m out drinking.

The problem is that rather than overcoming my addiction to nicotine, Nicorette has simply shifted the mode in which I absorb it. While wearing a patch, I am calm, relaxed, energetic and productive. The second the patch is removed, I feel antsy, yell at coworkers, pick fights with my boyfriend and cry. I also smoke cigarettes.

Over the past four months, I’ve noticed a developing pattern in my nicotine use. From Monday to Friday, I wear patches (approx $20 worth), and try not to think about cigarettes. It’s hard work, especially when a lot of my friends smoke, but I often make it through the whole week without smoking once. This is not only due to Nicorette, but also stems from a strong sense of self-control, my ability to overcome temptations, and my incredible resolve. I like all these qualities in myself so much that I want to reward myself for them at the end of the week. I do this by having a cigarette.

Oh yes, as soon as 5pm rolls around on a Friday, I pack up my desk, rip off my patch and smoke until I feel sick. This is sometimes achieved within 2-3 cigarettes, but if I’m planning on drinking over the weekend, I usually just buy a deck in anticipation that I will be a walking chimney until the following Monday.

Now I’m no accountant (hang on, yes I am) but if I used to smoke two packets of cigarettes a week (~$26) and now I wear 15mg patches 5 days a week and smoke one packet of cigarettes over the remaining two days ($20 + $13), I’m really no better off financially.

Why is this stuff so fucking expensive? I run out of money, try to go patchless, SMOKE and then wind up right back at the start of the Nicorette 16-week goddamn program. Sure, I fall off the bandwagon every now and then, but isn’t that to be expected? God didn’t create the world in a day – he created it in SIX days, and then he took a cigarette break.

1. City Rail (aka “Shitty Rail”)
2. Weight loss patches
3. Applicator tampons
4. Every single Harry Potter movie
5. Valley Girl work-pants
6. Limp Bizkit
7. My childhood friend’s pledge to never ditch me for a boy
8. God
9. University
10. Three mobile
11. South Africa
12. The stray dog I took in and nursed back to health, who then attacked a family friend and had to be put down. Good one, Rocky.
13. Lindsay Lohan, although she is still totally fit and I want to sex her
14. L-shaped nose rings
15. Acupuncture
16. Nylon underwear
17. Flu shots
18. Hillsbus
19. LG
20. Ciaran Leahy of late night Hotel CBD fame. If you don’t know what Facebook is (“Face what?”) you are too old to date me. I wonder whether this will come up the next time he googles hisself, if he knows how to. I do not want to sex
21. Trellini’s
22. Canned corn (beetle included)
23. $4k worth of orthodontic work
24. Berocca
25. Fitness First
26. Recovery Magazine
27. My body
28. The St John’s Ambulance staff at Livid 2004. Thanks for leaving me unconscious on the ground while my 90-pound girlfriend dragged me out of the mosh.
29. Merrick & Rosso
30. Alanis Morissette
31. The heating in my ’89 Corolla
32. The seatbelts in my ’89 Corolla
33. The speakers in my ’89 Corolla
34. The clutch in my ’89 Corolla
35. My brother’s friend, “Donkey”, who was too fat and broke the driver’s seat of my ’89 Corolla
36. Hair removal cream
37. Proactiv
38. Everyone I’ve ever dated
39. Augusten Burroughs – I still love you though and I would sex you if you were not gay
40. ILS. Why does your second album suck so hard?
41. Excel
42. Psyllium husks
43. Limewire
44. Every recipe I have ever tried to follow
45. Daniel Johns – how could you get married to somebody who was not me? Let’s sex.
46. E-Tax
47. My gag reflex…huh??
48. The Sex & The City film
49. Florence. Why are all the shops closed on Sunday? Some people are a $2,000 flight away and only have one day to spend in the city.
50. Yamaha
51. Johnson’s holiday skin. If that shit works, I’ll eat my own head.
52. Bar Bellino – what happened to your coffee??
53. Bleach
54. Jose Gonzales – remember what city your concert is at, champ.
55. Garlic
56. Palmer’s Cocoa Butter Scar Serum
57. 96.9
58. Sydney Community College
59. Stingoes
60. Nerves
61. Many, many cigarette lighters
62. The weather
63. Google desktop
64. People who can pay for their own drugs next time
65. Ezibuy
66. My $30 alcohol breath tester
67. Spell check
68. Dr King
69. Caffeine
70. Broken guitar strings

Religious people really hack me off sometimes. I live with a bunch of Jesus-praising, bible-studying, grace-saying, hymn-singing, sexless-til-married, loving, caring, forgiving Christians. I look like a pretty shit person in comparison.

Don’t get me wrong. My family are very tolerant of my “heathen lifestyle”, as they affectionately call it. My mum sometimes even spins cute little phrases around it: “If that plumber comes on time, then Annik’s a virgin.”

The thing that gets my beef going is that every opinion I have is immediately tainted in the household’s eyes on account of the fact that I have “fallen away.” When really, my views should be worth twice my family’s because I have lived both as a Woman of God, and as somebody capable of thinking for herself. I gave God a shot and he didn’t come through – as soon as I developed my higher reasoning abilities (about the same time I started smoking pot) the whole thing ceased to make sense.

Even Gilbert Grape could tell you that Christianity doesn’t reconcile with free will. Allegedly, God has graced us with mental autonomy, yet he has total control over every pre-destined whisper of the universe, and then he punishes us severely for exercising our “free will”. Where’s the fucking sense in that? On a similar note, concepts such as infinity and immortality are about as plausible as City Rail arriving on time. Any time I raised these concerns as a teenager, I was told that “mere humans cannot understand that.” Excuse me? Baking powder? That’s the biggest cop-out I’ve heard since Warnie’s mum gave him the tablet. If you undermine the entire capacity of human logic like that, then isn’t anything possible? Pigs might fly, Britney Spears could make a come-back, and Telstra might actually employ real live people to answer their customer care line instead of having a recorded voice that takes you from lengthy menu to lengthy menu before cutting you off in mechanical triumph.

I’ve been surrounded by Christianity my whole life. My entire family are devout Anglicans. 80% of the student body at my highschool and 100% of the faculty were Christians. I was one too for fifteen years. I understand that some people spend their whole lives studying the bible and are still putting the pieces together but shit, if something doesn’t grab me in less time than it takes to reach puberty, I’m not interested.