Me: Jules, man, can we make a quick stop before we get on the motorway?

Julia: Why?

Me: I need to get four beers.

Julia: No.

Me: Just a couple of roadies.

Julia: Absolutely not.

Me: I think there’s a bottle shop before the bridge. Just pull over and I’ll run inside.

Julia: I’m not stopping.

Me: Come on, I just need four more beers. That’s all. In the scheme of your life, this is probably the smallest request you will ever receive.

Julia: No.

Me: Fuck, why do you always have to be such an uptight bitch? It must be so depressing to be you. I’m depressed just by being in the same car as you. I’m depressed by proxy, like osmosis.

Julia: You’re going to fall asleep before we get to the Hills anyway.

Me: No I won’t, you goddamn fun-wrecker.

Julia: Whatever.

Me: I can’t believe you’re not stopping.

Julia: Uh huh.

Me: Can you turn the music down? I’m tired.

Sometimes when I’m having trouble expressing something, I write a song. This means that often when I have something I want to tell somebody, rather than simply talking to them, I’ll wait until they’re drunk and perform an impromptu acoustic gig for them. It’s not the most direct approach, but it usually works after seven beers.

I recently wrote a song about my friend Julia who, for some reason, continues to help me clean up every time I make a mess of my life. I waited until I felt confident/drunk enough, and then I played the song for her at a BBQ, while some mutual friends sat and listened quietly.

When I finished, there was a moment of silence and a few of the girls looked misty-eyed.

“What did you think?” I finally asked Julia.

“Can you play My Friends by the Chili Peppers?” she replied.

Julia: Annik? Is that you in there?

Me: Yes.

Julia: I knew it!

Me: How did you know? Did you look at my shoes?

Julia: No, I just recognise the sound of the way you remove toilet paper from the dispenser.

Me: I think we should spend time with other people.

This is Heather; she was rejected from Masterchef.

This is Paul; he’s fabulous and he speaks to blind people.

This is Joel; he’s just had his hair cut.

This is Zoe; she works at…wait, where do you work? I just realised I don’t know anything about you.

This is Julia; she’s Greek.

This is Leo; he surfs and he writes a great blog and he loves his wife. What? No, your WIFE.

This is Lynette; her hair smells amazing and she is taking me to lunch next week. Smell her hair. Go on.

This is Mick; he likes metal, as in the music.

This is Ben; he’s a writer, or a journalist, or something.

This is Peter; he’s an arsehole.

This is Scott; he’s from Scotland and he has a silly accent.

This is Cathy; she’s awesome as shit.

This is…hang on, I have no idea who that is, walk away, just go.

This is Jess; HR.

This is Mandi; I just met her and she told me something about drawers. I think I like her. I think I like her a lot. Hey, can you get me a beer? I ran out of money.

I once shared a house with an older guy who had gross friends. At least four nights every week, our backyard was full of drunk tradies telling boring stories. However, the following one did interest me.

Damo’s tale:

For my twenty-first birthday, my old man gave me a small box wrapped in blue paper. I unwrapped it and found an old pair of stubbies inside. I was a bit pissed off at getting such a shit birthday present, but then Dad said “Son, these are the shorts I was wearing when you were conceived. I was pretty drunk at the time, but I’ve remembered ever since, and I want you to have these.”

So now I wear them whenever I’m feeling sad, and the Conception Shorts remind me that I’m loved.

I also write down whatever I’m wearing after I shag a chick, just in case I ever have a son, so I can give him his own pair of Conception Shorts.

What follows is a list of direct quotes from somebody who will be known as Mark, because that is his name. I have not edited these in any way, I simply sit next to him at the pub and write down everything he says.

• “That hill was so fucking steep. It was like Columbine, but instead of murders, it was geography.”
• “I put it on Facebook, a.k.a. internet.”
• “Damn right, I’m awesome as shit. Do you want to see a stunt?” *inserts whole schooner inside his mouth*
• “Hi, I’m Mark. I’m a mad cunt.”
• “It is completely normal and natural for a woman to secrete approximately one teaspoon of fluid from her vagina per day. What? Yeah, get me a beer.”
• “You know what? If I’ve got shoes on, and I’m inside, I’ll walk outside to piss in the garden. It’s not like I’m saving water or being lazy or some shit, I just like pissing in the garden. It just feels natural.”
• “I don’t do drugs, drugs do me.”
• “You know when you take shit drugs and you’re like, Last night was awesome as shit… but last night is also today?”
• “I took acid once. I got lost in this fucking underground carpark for four hours.”
• “I took acid once at Fred Caterson Reserve. I ate heaps of chili because I thought I was hungry, then my mouth was burning, so I went for a walk. Then I was staring at the moon, yelling COME AND GET ME, FREDDO PEDDO. But nothing happened.“
• “Fuck, we’re awesome. I just ate raw chicken and then I tried to purge behind the Mobil service station. I tried hard, fingers down my windpipe. Here, I’ll show you.”
• “I would give head like a motherfucker, trust me. I’m not gay. I don’t want to suck cock, but fuck I’d be good at it.”
• “When I sue you, I’m gonna make some money. Write that down. Damn right, I’m gonna make some money.”
• “The bartender can suck my dick for all I care. Full gag on it.”
• “Men only want three things from a woman. You want someone who does the sexy times, someone who cooks, and someone who cleans. I don’t want to be rude, but I’m pretty sure all you’re going to do is the sexy times. Now that’s important, but it’s not everything.”
• “I just hate it when people talk about dead people. It makes me feel awkward. Is this going on your blog?”

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

Wanker at party: Hey She-Skelton, you look different tonight.

Me: I’m not wearing make up. I just came from the gym.

WAP: Oh.

Me: Yeah.

WAP: Oh no, it’s not bad. I mean, you don’t look totally ugly.

Me: Just get me a beer.

WAP: Oh, okay.

This morning a girl who I was once very close to died. I’m not going to pretend to know the particulars of the situation, because I haven’t had contact with her for years, but something about Crohn’s disease and the latter stages of liver cancer, etc, etc, she didn’t make it, please pray for her family.

I’m sitting here trying to come up with some memories of this girl. Pick the pieces out of my brain, look at them with renewed perspective, type them out and embody one small part of her life: the impact she had on me. She and I spent a significant amount of time together during highschool, and in theory, I should be able to recount specific anecdotes, quote directly, dig up old notes and emails and photographs.

But sadly, my brain has wiped most of my memories from early adolescence, and I have thrown away all the physical evidence over the years.

And so, digging deep as possible, all I can put together is the vaguest of pastimes, but a stronger sense of her spirit:

The memory is blurred and non-specific, but I do recall the intense camaraderie I felt from the day I met her. And I remember that at every church-related event our fascist parents dragged us to, she and I snuck away, without fail. We stole biscuits and ran down the street. We hid in parks and bitched about every single person in that church. We condemned their hypocrisy and ridiculed their sensitivity. We were ruthless and nasty, delighting in which one of us could shock the other the most.

Believe it or not, she was a lot more cynical than I am. She was more negative. Less ethical. More bitter. And that’s exactly what I liked most about her.

Friend #1: So, any goss?

Friend #2: Jennifer Chapman from school is engaged.

Me: Who the hell would marry that piece of shit?

Moment of silence.

Friend #1: You’re kind of a bitch when you’re stoned.

Me: So’s your face. Fuck you. I’m going home.