When I was in year nine, every weekend I told my parents, “I’m staying at <insert friend’s name>’s house tonight.” Then I got drunk in a park and passed out on somebody’s couch or in the backseat of a nearby car.

One week I made the error of including a movie in my lie. “Bye, Mum,” I said, walking out the door, “I’m going to see Panic Room with my bible study group.”

Then I went to a school friend’s boyfriend’s share house, smoked bongs with a bunch of uni students, and built a tower out of empty UDL cans.

When I got home, my parents asked me if I’d enjoyed the movie.

“It was okay,” I said, not wanting to rave about it too much in case they decided to see it. And then, on a roll, I proceeded to fabricate an entire synopsis of the film. My rationale behind this was that if I told my parents everything that happened in the movie, they wouldn’t bother going to see it. I hadn’t even seen the preview prior to this, so my account of the movie was inspired by the title alone and was about as accurate as a James Frey novel. I gave extensive descriptions of the characters and made sure to detail all the plot developments, and then I re-enacted several scenes, using a set of Babushka dolls my aunt had given us for Christmas.

“I heard there’s a big twist at the end,” my mother said, “What’s the twist?”

“Jodie Foster is a robot,” I answered confidently.

“Well, that sounds like quite a film,” my dad said when I had finished. “And if you didn’t smell like a grow house, I would probably believe you.”

“Am I grounded?” I asked, leaning against a book shelf to steady myself.

“No, that was entertaining enough to redeem you this time,” Dad said, “But if you come home this stoned ever again, I will enrol you in aqua aerobics classes with your mother.”

Mum: Is that your new top?

Me: Yep. Like it?

Mum: It has horizontal stripes.

Me: Yeah, so?

Mum: You should wear vertical stripes, darling. They’re more slimming.

After I failed uni, I decided to give community college a go. So every Monday night, I left my mind-numbing accounting job and hiked over to Redfern to attend a creative writing class.

On the first night, the teacher introduced herself and informed us that she had written three books.

“How long did it take you to get published?” I asked.

“Oh I haven’t been published yet,” she said, “But I will.”

At the second class, we read a Roald Dahl short story and were told to write about a place that made us feel peaceful, then swap papers with the person sitting next to us. I wrote about a garbage dump and then passed my notepad to Austin, the British guy next to me, who I instinctively knew would be a massive wanker.

“This makes no sense,” he told me, “I can’t hear the protagonist’s voice properly. Just read mine so you know how to do it next time, innit?”

At the third class, we were given a handout that was literally titled The Formula for Writing a Story. This included ingredients such as a “seemingly insurmountable obstacle” and a “catalyst for change” as well as “external and internal conflict” and characters that “evolved” and achieved a “worthwhile goal” in the end.

“I dunno about this,” I whispered to Austin, “I just wanna write dick jokes and stuff, you know?”

“If you’re not serious about being a writer, then why are you here, innit?” he replied.

For our big project, we all had to write a short story and then email it to the rest of the class, who would each give personal feedback the following week.

One guy wrote a meandering, pointless tale about a journey to the centre of the earth that never ended and involved stunningly dull characters. He scored a 9 out of 10.

Another girl wrote about a GP who drugged and raped his patients, until one of them went crazy and cut off his penis with a pair of scissors, then proceeded to feed it to her dog. She received an 8.

Austin wrote some bullshit crime scene story featuring a feisty heroine and got an 8.5.

I wrote about this arsehole landscaper I dated during highschool, and how I would intentionally go for average-looking and unintelligent guys so that I could lord over them and bask in my superior looks and intellect. When the time came for the class to discuss my story, I was asked to read it aloud, despite nearly being drowned out by the other students’ laughing at my awesome jokes. When I finished, I received a standing ovation and Austin slapped me on the back.

“This is an excellent piece,” the teacher announced, “But there isn’t any inner conflict. The protagonist is completely at ease with herself. This is just meaningless fodder, and it needs more substance before any publisher would even look at it.”

“But the protagonist is me,” I argued, “And I don’t have any inner conflict. I feel great.”

“Well. I’ve given you a 4 out of 10, nonetheless,” the teacher said. “There just weren’t enough elements of the formula present for me to mark you any higher.”

“Tough luck, innit” Austin said sympathetically, as I returned to my seat.

“Fuck you,” I replied.

After class, I walked outside and threw my story in the bin. Then I went home and deleted Austin from Facebook. I never went back to community college and I didn’t write anything for two years. I held onto the teacher’s contact details though, just in case I ever do write a book. I want to send her a copy of the hardback edition and sign, “LICK MY BALLS, IN YOUR FACE” inside the front cover.

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When I was in primary school, we were visited once a year by the Life Education Australia van. This was a caravan manned by chirpy women who used a giraffe puppet (Healthy Harold) and a nude mannequin (Tammy) to educate third graders on drugs and general health. I didn’t care much for Harold, but I was fascinated by Tammy and her womanly figure, which I would never develop. Her plastic skin had been shaven away on one side, exposing her plastic internal organs. I wanted to reach out and stroke her plastic liver, then tweak her plastic nipple. I was shy though.

Healthy Harold taught us about the food pyramid and advised us to exercise regularly. He then launched into an anti-drug tirade and touched on the dangers of peer pressure as well as the legal and socio-economic factors involved with drug abuse and their long-term effects on society. I spent these lessons staring at the caravan ceiling, which was covered in tiny fake stars, and thinking about my silk worms, but the message was so strong, it seeped completely into my eight year old brain anyway. If anyone had offered me a cigarette, I would have urinated on their entire packet and rang the police immediately. If thirty of my classmates had stood in a circle and chanted “CHUG, CHUG, CHUG,” I would have tipped my bottle of beer down the nearest drain and raised my face to the sky, arms outstretched, before calling out the twelve steps and giving glory to God. I was completely staunch in my resolve: I would never drink or smoke. I would certainly never take drugs. I would be healthy. I would be happy. I would be like Harold.

Four years later, my great-grandmother died. She was ninety-seven years old, and had been in a nursing home for six months. I remembered the day she was put into the nursing home, because my father was very tense and simply told me, “She fell over.” But through eavesdropping on my mother’s phone conversations, I was able to piece together all the details: Nan had gotten out of bed during the night to get a glass of water, then she had fallen over on her way back from the kitchen, breaking her hip and smashing her head against the floor, knocking herself out. Unable to get back up after she regained consciousness, she simply remained on the floor and waited for somebody to find her. By the time my grandfather arrived in the morning to take her to church, she had ripped up half the carpet in her living room in an attempt to keep herself warm throughout the night. She had torn up her hands doing this, and managed to cut her arms on broken glass. She had also shat herself and was crying with embarrassment.

This single agonising, undignified event completely horrified me. “Why couldn’t she get back up again?” I asked my mother, interrupting her phone call.

“She’s just too old,” Mum explained, “The body starts to give up and stop working after a while.”

This distressed me deeply. The idea that I could one day find myself unable to walk or wipe my own arse was the most depressing thing I had ever contemplated. And the thought of my great-grandmother lying amongst broken glass on her kitchen floor, nursing a smashed hip and a bruised face, scratching at the carpet and defecating on her own muumuu was too awful for my pre-pubescent brain to handle. In that moment, I vowed that I would die the day after my 70th birthday. Or even sooner, if possible. I would never be found covered in my own shit and lying broken on the floor, because I simply wouldn’t live that long. I would die while I still had dignity and presence of mind. Hopefully I would still have my figure too.

And so, when my time came, I said “Yes!” to cigarettes. I said yes to alcohol and pot and pills and anything else that crossed my path. I still work out and eat properly and moisturise and sleep 8 hours every night, because I am vain, but I’m not going to make any effort to extend my life beyond the ability to control my own bladder. If being healthy means dying in a puddle of my own excrement with broken hips, then Harold can eat my arse.

Editor’s note: Any teachers or parents who are interested in having Annik speak at their children’s schools can send an expression of interest via email to education [at] annikskelton.com

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.