I usually try to avoid using my blog for “commercial” purposes, not wanting to taint it with Adwords or furniture ads (but do have exclusive and charming carspace for rent near Sydney CBD for $70 p/week, inquire within.)
However, something very important has come up.
I need a year’s supply of pineapples.
Long-time readers will know I like two things in life: fat cats and fruit.
My idiot housemate is allergic so I need the pineapples.
I know there are a lot of “causes” around that you could devote yourselves to, but please put your heart in the right place.
If we win, we will have some sort of cocktail party where you should all dress up as pineapples and bring your own liquor and we’ll put it in a glass for you with a slice of pineapple and then drink some for ourselves.
I need to beat some food blogger called Not Quite Nigella. So I created something pretty special.
It’s called “Pure Hawaii”. Here is the recipe.
I think you will all agree it is worthy of first place. Maybe not in the competition, but in our hearts.
Vote for my amazing recipe HERE.
I will love you and/or your vote.
The Superindentent entered the briefing room and raised his hands for quiet.
“Switch on the projector,” he instructed.
On the screen appeared a photograph of a middle-aged man in spandex. He waved a revolver at a flock of sheep.
“This is Constable Johns,” the Superindentent said. “As some of you will know, he was once an outstanding police officer. But then one day, he completely lost his shit.”
“Well where did he last see it?” Literal Man asked from the back. “We should contact the local police stations, perhaps they’ve heard something. I’ll make some calls.” He jumped out of his seat and hurried from the room.
The detectives all rolled their eyes, but they didn’t say anything. Since Literal Man was diagnosed with Asperger’s, they were no longer allowed to urinate in his coffee mugs.
#1 You start thinking about contents insurance.
You don’t own anything apart from a bicycle, a Nintendo 64, and the electric frying pan with the melted handle that your mother gave you when you moved out of home.
Maybe you should insure that junk, because it’s better than having nothing, right?
#2 Your personal comfort becomes more valuable to you than looking good.
You decide that you were stylish enough when you were younger and now it’s time to be warm and have free movement of your limbs when you go out.
I assume so, anyway.
I was never stylish at any age.
I wore hand me downs.
From my brother.
#3 Your hangovers become brutal.
They used to set in as a gentle headache, then ease off after a strong coffee and 4 hash browns.
Now they break down your door at 7am and smash you in the face with all the force of a date rapist.
#4 It becomes harder to keep the weight off.
You used to eat like a 12 year old boy, but you had an arse like one too.
Now you have an arse like Jack Osbourne.
#5 When you buy cereal, you choose the ones that promise to lower your cholesterol.
Whatever that is.
#6 You start getting along better with your parents.
You realise they’re not so bad.
You stop planning ways to spend your inheritance because you don’t want them to die so much anymore.
#7 When someone offers you free drugs, you say no because you have work in the morning.
I would never do that.
The detective frowned at the various papers and photographs scattered across his desk. He tugged violently at his tie and then hurled his coffee mug against the office wall.
“GODDAMNIT,” he screamed, “This just doesn’t add up!”
His assistant came over to his desk and peered at the detective’s notepad.
“Did you carry the one?” he asked. “Maybe you need to convert a fraction to a decimal. I’ll go get us a calculator. Do they sell them at the newsagent? I can’t remember.”
Kristen: I see Foursquare as a game. I like to score points and earn badges and stuff, so I always check in exactly where I am. I like to play fair to win fair.
Me: I like to check in to random private residences and then write creepy tips, like, “Thanks so much for tonight, it was really special…” to freak people out.
Julia: Fuck you guys. Let’s do shots.
So I did Dry July.
It was horrible and wonderful in equal measures.
I went to an engagement party, 3 farewells, a birthday, Halfway Crooks, and my own work farewell without so much as a cheeky nip.
(I smoked heaps of crystal meth though. Not really. However, I did order a steak with a red wine jus one night.)
Going out sans-booze isn’t that different from going out with booze, except that time slows inexplicably and you will have finished everything you want to do in a night after about an hour.
I became pretty productive.
I lost 4kg.
I got a new job (may or may not be related to Dry July.)
I did heaps of yoga and bought various seeds and juices and vitamins and am thinking about purchasing some incense because I have all this extra money I didn’t spend on ten beers and I don’t know what to do with it.
How to do Dry July:
- Accept the fact that it’s okay to hang out at a bar without drinking ten beers.
- Know that most people won’t try to pressure you too much into drinking, unless they are a dickhead.
- If your boyf or girlf is prepared to do it with you, it’s ten times easier.
- Don’t drink.
I celebrated the end of Dry July by getting hammered at Splendour in the Grass. It was fun, but after a point each day, I decided to switch to water. Normally I would just drink through that. The mornings afterwards, I wasn’t too hungover, but felt generally shakey and unwell. The best way I can describe it is to say that I felt vaguely poisoned, which is probably not an inaccurate way to talk about alcohol.
Will I do it again?
Probably. Maybe not a month-long stint like Dry July, but I definitely do not intend to resume my mid-week sessions any time soon. I think that drinking a lot/often is like wearing underpants that are too tight. Sometimes you don’t realise how much they’re hurting you until you take them off and surely you can’t have put on that much weight since uni and why are you even wearing the same underwear as then?
Ryan: You’re funny. And not just for a girl, but for a person too.
Me: I am a person.
Ryan: Yeah, with a humour-killing uterus.
Me: Come to yoga with me.
Ryan: Will there be chicks there?
Ryan: I can’t sit there grunting and sweating while wearing skin-tight lycra pants in front of a bunch of chicks.
Me: You don’t have to wear lycra.
Ryan: Fuck, Annik, if I’m going to do yoga, I’m going to do it properly.
Ryan: John and I came up with the best pick-up line. You go up to a girl and say, “Hey, do you want my number?” Before she has time to answer, you say, “Of course you do.” Then you hand her your number and say, “Why don’t you give me a call later, when you’re not acting like such a bitch.”
Ryan: We should download a bunch of female stand-up comedy and then turn it into a drinking game. Every time they make a period joke, we chug.
Last week, I went for a run. Because I’m fit. As I was jogging through Hyde Park, I noticed a man sprawled on a bench, seemingly unconscious.
“Junkie,” I thought, and continued running. However, as I got closer, I noticed he was reasonably well-dressed and clean-shaven. His head was thrown back and his mouth hung open. Like a corpse. As I jogged past, he did not move at all. When I got to the end of the park, I turned around to look once more. The man still hadn’t moved. I hovered for a few seconds, then a possum ran in front of me and I chased him because I love the possums in Hyde Park. They make me feel like a bush ranger. I ran home, then ate a can of corn and played Diddy Kong Racing. After all, I am a grown up.
The next day, the man was gone. I wondered whether he’d simply woken up, or been gently pushed into Sydney harbour by the city council. Had I run past a dead body and not noticed/cared? It was entirely possible. I live in Darlinghurst. I pass smacked-out junkies more often than I buy toilet paper. I have frequently seen homeless people brawling, interrupted doorway poops, witnessed various acts of vandalism, and been a spectator to more than a few domestic disputes. On top of this, I get asked for money every time I leave my house. But enough about the Red Cross, because the junkies are pretty annoying too.
Sometimes, I’ll see a couple fighting, and the dude will push or hit his lady around a little. I’ll think, “How could he!” but my default reaction in these situations is to always look the other way. Sure, I’m a post-feminist/alkaline or whatever (I was born under the sign of Taurus), but I’m not prepared to get glassed in the face to save one of my sisters.
Am I a bad person?
Don’t answer that.
I’ve been on the other side of the spectrum too. I was once attacked while waiting for the bus, because I looked at a person. Nobody seemed to mind much. And I once tried to fight someone on York Street, which attracted a few stares, but not so much as a comment from passers-by.
Have we become desensitised? Or are we just tougher?
I don’t know, I’m from the Hills. We used to kill bees when we were bored.