I had a terrible dream last week where my friend Ryan got really sick and started coughing up blood all over the carpet in our house. I was relieved when I woke up and realised it was a dream because we had the carpets cleaned quite recently and I didn’t want to go through all that bother again.

even a burberry cactus weeps for annik skelton

I’m going to get really drunk and break stuff at annik skelton’s house warming

there are manwhores that dig annik skelton and themselves

annik skelton is a terrible child

annik skelton left pitt st and my life is an empty abyss

annik skelton won’t support my baby until I get a paternity test, I’m just not sure it’s hers

i really really really hope annik skelton comes to our xmas party because she owes me one for not showing up to my birthday party when she said she would

who is hedge monkey annik skelton?

“annik skelton” in a bed made of cock

annik skelton (neekerskeakers) is utterly spectacular and sexy like a dalek

annik skelton has pubic hair on her elbow

annik skelton plays with dead children

heh heh annik skelton heh heh

tonguing with annik skelton

what did annik skelton get for xmas

“annik skelton” slept with tim allen

annik skelton ate my hat. it was a nice hat, too

annik skelton has the hair and toes of an angel

annik skelton is a poo god

annik skelton is getting drunk. later she will lick dead mice

annik skelton is like she-ra but betterer and more lovely xx

annik skelton kissed a girl and she liked it

annik skelton puked on my shoes and it was totally endearing

annik skelton queening me.

annik skelton waves farewell to the cunt bus. the cunts don’t notice

annik skelton would make an awesome ikea shopping partner

annik skelton, party with her i would. bone her also.

annik skelton, this is your mother, have you had a smear test recently?

annik skelton, writer

i got annik skelton a latex catsuit for christmas.

i really want to see annik skelton before i go home for christmas

i spoke to annik skelton for 5 seconds at #digicitz and it reminded me that i hadn’t left creepy search terms on her site stats for a while. hi. not actually creepy, just easily amused.

i want annik skelton to finally admit how gay she is

jesus fucking christ annik skelton just shut the fuck up already, nobody cares

the wind was too strong for annik skelton to fly her kite with her congenital defect

why is annik skelton such a whore?

annik skelton ate my dog and didn’t even have the common curtesy to shit out the collar

annik skelton being violated by christians

annik skelton has a perty mouth

annik skelton in latex gives me mad boner time. schwing!

annik skelton is a bum man

annik skelton left me at the altar but then made up for it with kinky pre-marital sex

annik skelton secretly wants to be a pastor at hillsong

annik skelton twiddles my nipples

annik skelton will be the president of the world someday, you mark my words

i knew annik skelton before she was famous and i loved her then

i bet annik skelton is secretly a nice person

i hope annik skelton doesn’t find my secret facebook group about her

i should really be working instead of googling annik skelton

i want to see annik skelton drunk at the white party

if i couldn’t be me, i’d like to be annik skelton

is annik skelton a scam?

life would never be dull with annik skelton around

one day the mouse corpse will lick annik skelton right back

searching for annik skelton also brought up the encyclopedia of serial killers

there is nothing more than annik skelton sitting in this bucket, and i have the measuring tools to prove it

why won’t annik skelton stop being so highly strung so i can finally get the guts to fuck her?

Me: Check out that figure skater!
Him: I could never have sex with her. She’s too graceful. It would be like putting tomato sauce on a really nice steak.

Me: Damnit, my pants shrank.
Him: Are you sure?
Me: Yes, I just got them out of the dryer.
Him: Maybe you’ve put on weight.
Me: I haven’t put on weight. These pants fit perfectly yesterday, now they’re too tight. Clearly, they’ve shrunk.
Him: They look the same to me. That’s all I’m saying.

Him (on the phone): Hey, I’m just at the pub with Annik. Yeah, she’s right next to me. What’s she wearing? Well she’s got what appears to be a curtain wrapped around her waist, tied with a piece of cheap rope; a faded non-descript black singlet; and sunglasses that definitely cost less than $15. In fact, I’m pretty sure she found them on the side of the road.

Him: I literally have nothing to wear. All my clothes are in the wash.
Me: You can borrow one of my shirts, if you want?
Him: It’s okay, all your stuff is too man-ish anyway.

Me: And my UAI is…wow.

Mum: What is it?

Me: Almost ninety-five.

Mum: Well that can’t be right!

Dad: Maybe you should give the Board of Studies a call?

Not my work

By far, the worst job I ever had was during the summer when I was twenty-one. I’d returned from South Africa early after a failed attempt at voluntary work (I like money) and couldn’t resume my old job for another 4-5 months because there wasn’t yet any work for me to do there. For the first time in seven years, I was unemployed.

I played nintendo for a few weeks, drank a lot of beer, and sunbaked all day in my parents’ backyard before my mother told me I should think about contributing to society.

“I’m an organ donor,” I reminded her.

“No, I mean you should get a job,” Mum said. “Pay some taxes.”

“You don’t,” I argued.

“Not according to your father’s accountant.”

“Fine, I’ll get a job.”

And after a few interviews with recruiters, I eventually landed a temp-to-perm position doing accounts payable in North Sydney….for a funeral home.

“Is the nature of the business going to be a problem for you?” I was asked during the interview.

“Bills is bills,” I said nonchalantly. “Besides, I like the quiet.”

However, unlike an episode of Six Feet Under, this job proved to be less fascinating than you might think. I was primarily trained by a balding middle-aged man who smelled funny and breathed heavily, which meant I could never have any sort of meaningful professional relationship with him. The hours were 7:30am to 4:30pm, which meant I had to drive in because the buses didn’t start until 8am. And so, every day, I parked my car illegally, and every second day, I got a parking ticket. The residents in North Sydney were clearly sick of the parking situation, because they often abused me. One morning, a lady drove out of her driveway, then told me I had parked too close to it.

“You just drove out of it,” I pointed out.

“I hope you get a ticket!” she said.

“Okay, thanks.”

“Fuck you!” she said and drove off.

At work, I spent my days coding and entering invoices for flowers, catering, burial plots and children’s coffins. I could tell you how much it cost to cremate an adult, an adolescent or a baby; what flowers were most popular; and which funeral celebrants were well-respected. I spent all day looking at names of dead people, and every time I saw a surname I recognised, I had to stop and google them to make sure they weren’t related to somebody I knew.

My co-workers were mostly Asian mothers. Our boss was Cruella de Vil. On my first day, she showed me the depressingly small kitchen. I opened the fridge and noted a complete absence of alcohol.

“You can have a biscuit from the jar, if you like,” she offered. “It’s free.”

“Sure,” I said, knowing that I would eat as many biscuits as possible to compensate myself for working in such a soul-sucking hell hole.

I spent every lunch break chain-smoking in a park around the corner, calling everyone I’d ever met and asking them if they knew of any jobs going. Eventually I found a temporary position doing admin at a friend’s office. I went over for an interview and drank a beer with the CEO, who was wearing board shorts and thongs. We chatted casually for fifteen minutes and he asked me when I could start.

The next day, I quit the funeral home.

“This is awfully short notice,” Cruella protested, “I have no idea how we’ll cope with the workload.”

“Oh I didn’t really do much,” I said, comfortingly.

“This puts us in an awkward position,” she continued.

“Who cares,” I replied. “All your clients are already dead.”

I never got offered anymore work through that particular recruitment agency and I haven’t been to North Sydney since.

 

Him: You think I’m some sort of golden goose? That I will just offer you a silver platter of men to bone your way through?
Me: I don’t really think that’s how the story went.
Him: Fuck you.

 

Him: I just don’t understand why anyone would want you.

 

Him: Do you want to go to the pub?
Me: It’s Monday.
Him: I know, but I get bored in the mornings. Usually I just masturbate on your bed and then get ready for work.

 

Him: I think we can all agree that the only real use for the internet is looking at pictures of posh furniture. And porn.

 

Him: We all have the stupidest jobs. We possess no real valuable skills. If we got stranded on an island, we would just sit on the beach and die.
 

 

I live with two boys. They can be quite offensive.

 

Him: I read your blog post about me.
Me: Did you like it?
Him: Yeah, it was kind of like an unfunny version of ilivewithcrazypeople. Like a poor man’s version of that.

 

Me: Wait, don’t look at those photos, they’re terrible.
Him: Annik, you don’t have to worry about that kind of stuff with me. I see you looking like shit all the time.

 

Him: Let’s plug in a red light globe in the lounge room and then our house will look really cool from the street!
Me: No it won’t, it will look like a brothel.
Him: Only if you’re standing at the window.
 

Some of you will know who was involved in the events below. Please do leave a comment and feel free to ask questions, but I would appreciate it if no names were mentioned, in order to protect the innocent (and the guilty.)

I was having drinks with an old friend when the subject of my particularly heinous ex came up.

“You need to be smarter,” he advised as I wrapped up the latest update.

“Fuck off,” I replied. “It’s not as if these guys come with a big tag saying DOUCHEBAG. You can’t pick them.”

“Yes, you can,” he insisted. “Well I can, anyway.”

All men think this. They have absolute faith in their ability to spot an arsehole, presumably because they’ve been one themselves at some stage.

“Go on,” I said.

“Okay. So if a guy has a popped collar – he’s a douchebag. And if he’s got the southern cross tattooed anywhere on his body, I won’t even speak to him. Also, bleached hair is a huge indicator of fuckwittage.”

“But my ex didn’t have any of that stuff,” I protested. “Then again, he wasn’t a conventional douchebag. He was actually…evil.”

“Yeah, yeah, all men are scum,” my friend said, and waved his hand dismissively.

I opened my mouth to argue, but found myself at a familiar loss. I’d already had this conversation with various people over the past few months – with both men and women – but I was still struggling to find a way to explain exactly what went on in my relationship.

In a nutshell: I chose to be with an emotionally abusive, lying, manipulative cunt, for nearly two years.

Did I know it at the time? Yes. Was I able to walk away from the relationship? No. How did it actually happen? I’m not sure.

I’m a reasonably well-balanced individual. I’m relatively smart. And ordinarily, I’ve got a pretty healthy sense of self-esteem. But over the years I was with this guy, he took all the parts of my brain that made me normal and systematically destroyed them. By the second year, I was a mess. I couldn’t concentrate at work, I didn’t sleep, I was 8kg below my normal weight, I took too many drugs, I drank too much, I had no interest in my friends, and I lived in a perpetual state of fear and intense anxiety.

It started slowly… A few comments about my weight, my make up, my dress sense. Some condescending remarks about my work or my writing or my professional reputation. Over time, that developed into plain insults, combined with accusations of cheating, irrational jealousy, and constant arguments. He made a habit of pointing out everything I did wrong (and I was always doing something wrong.) He told me that my friends were conspiring against me and I should cut them out of my life. He read my emails and went through my things. He joined forums to follow my online interactions. He forbade me from talking to some of my male friends. He ranted and raved and screamed until I learned not to complain about anything. He told me I was paranoid. He told me I was stupid. He told me I was inappropriate. He told me I was a slut. He yelled at me when I cried. He said he wanted to punch me in the face. He threatened to kill my family.

And he cheated. Oh yes, he cheated, a thousand times. And for an obscene period of time, he had two serious girlfriends concurrently.

“Why did you keep going back to him?” is the question everyone asks.

Quite simply, I was terrified of not having him because he had rebuilt every aspect of my life to revolve around him. There was just nothing left. I had alienated most of my friends, and my relationship with my parents had become strained because I was so agitated all the time or trying to hide the fact that I was fucked up. My work, my music, my writing, my social life, and everything else I enjoyed had somehow come to involve him to such a degree that I couldn’t do any of those things without him. He made my life miserable, but I needed him desperately because I had come to depend on him for almost everything. I had no coping skills left and having someone else control my life was somehow comforting, even if they were the one who made the mess in the first place. He would regularly orchestrate situations that he knew would devastate me, then swoop in at the last minute to fix things as I floundered. Eventually, he was all I had.

I suffered most of this in silence. I never really told anyone what was happening, because I knew what their answer would be, and I knew I couldn’t leave him. Plus, I was just plain embarrassed. There was simply no point in having that discussion.

But of course, it ended eventually. I uncovered a series of transgressions so major that even I couldn’t talk myself into believing his bullshit anymore. I arranged a meeting, and then I threw myself at him, kicking and screaming, hitting and biting. He didn’t feel it, but he left me alone after that.

Once the adrenaline of that final episode wore off, I fell into a bit of a slump. I was still reeling from everything that had happened, but everyone had already heard the story and was bored with it. I looked okay, so everyone assumed I was. My job kept me busy and functional during the day, but most nights I drank until I passed out. I felt completely traumatised. I’d always known my relationship contained some untruth, but discovering the scale of the lies was devastating. It felt like an episode of Scooby Doo, when the villain peels back his mask and you realise you had completely mistaken his identity altogether. I agonised over how I was supposed to prevent a situation like that from developing again, when I wasn’t really sure how I’d let it happen in the first place. And at the end of the day, I was simply floored by the fact that a human being could be so completely, purely, remorselessly awful. So I drank until I couldn’t maintain a string of logic, I turned off my phone, and I didn’t leave my house unless I absolutely had to. I simply needed to sit, alone, and try to remember who I was. Gradually the shock wore off and I remembered how to be a normal person, but the anger never really faded. I realised that up until that point in my life, I’d never actually hated anyone. I say that I hate things or people all the time, but this was red-hot and bigger than me. I was afraid it would make me do something terrible. I’m still afraid of that.

I think about him less now, but when I do, it’s always in fantasy: I see him drunk, stumbling around the city one night. He trips and staggers in front of a bus. It crushes him instantly. His body breaks and he’s thrown to the side of the road. He lies there, a tangle of gore and smashed limbs. He can’t speak, but he can hear. And he needs an ambulance, fast. I walk over, kneel next to him, and look into his eyes. “You worthless fuck,” I say and spit in his face, then walk away.

I thought I told you not to call me on this number... Oh very well, 2 large meat lovers and a garlic bread please.

Telephones were first discovered in 1972, secretly nestled amongst the cocoa fields of the Alaskan desert.

Scientists believe that the telephones were first planted by dinosaurs. “We have significant reason to believe that the telephone may, in fact, be post-modern,” somebody said.

Others maintain that the telephone was the original source of polio, which received critical acclaim in 2002. “We’re not making any promises,” says Jeremiah, “But I get my paycheck every month either way, so the telephone can suck my dick for all I care.”

There’s a gym across from my office and sometimes I see people getting changed through the window.