Tuesday, October 25, 2016

She Blew My Mind

A friend once went out with this girl for juuuust too long, around six years perhaps, and whenever she opened her mouth, the words sent tingles down my spine that could make Michael Cera, Michael J. Fox, and any other nice Michaels you know go postal. But I'm not here to speak about how frustrating Frustracey was as an adult and a human being. No. This post merely exists to chronicle the things she said that literally blew my mind. I'm speaking of things she said to me seven years ago that made such an impression on my psyche and the person I've become that I still routinely ponder them in my spare time.

Faux Pas Resulting in Grand Theft Auto
When I worked at this clothing store, Frustracey and her boyfriend whom I actually liked visited me there to say 'hello'. But that's not the real reason she came in, she actually wanted needed to inform me that I was responsible for almost getting his car stolen; that's basically how she worded it. This revelation made me stop folding pyjamas because I knew this shit had to be so good, like just the sweetest, most top shelf, Veblen bullshit that it needed to have my full attention. Allegedly, the night before when he pulled up in front of my home, I got out of the passenger side without locking the door behind me. He then moseyed on home, also got out of the car and did the same as me, only locking the driver's side. Apparently, to her, not only is this a faux pas, but it's also one which can result in grand theft auto and is evidently punishable by bothering me at work.

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You see, if it's a hot night and I have the car window open, I'll always offer to close it before I hop out, because not all cars have automatic windows and the last thing you want is to realise after hitting the road that you now have to twist and contort your body, trying to fiddle with that window winder with your left hand like it's a bra strap before the lights go green again. I do this with everybody: Friends, relatives, taxi drivers, police officers; it's just manners, I don't discriminate. I, however, had no fucking idea that if I failed to also lock the door and then the driver drove home, went inside without checking if it was locked, and then it wasn't there when he woke up the next morning that it has something to do with me!

Anyway, I threatened to kick them both out of the store and that bitch scurried away. But it doesn't end there with Frustracey; it never does.

She Ruined Pizza With People For Me!
I love a good house thing. I don't care if it's a party, shindig or hootenanny. Whatever the occasion, they're just so easy, just like the food you have at them, because it's finger-food, it's pizza, and it's potato crisps. Those are some of the easiest party foods! Why? Well, let's just look at pizza toppings. They're all just so alike really, I mean, there are only so many things you can do with a pizza, that's why they started putting shit in the crusts; they're out of ideas! The same goes for crisps! Most of the time, it's just different seasoning on the same chip in a different coloured bag! That's why they're good at parties, because majority of people will eat most pizza toppings, they'll eat most chips, and for the remainder who won't, there are gluten-free pizzas and finger food, some of which are without dairy or pork. Someone once said "You can't make everyone happy. You are not a pizza". Well, I mean, this is all what I thought for years until I met Frustracey, because even pizza couldn't make her happy.

With her, it had nothing to do with being celiac or lactose intolerant or a Jew, it just had everything to do with being fucking difficult. In a group of 10 or so, if we ordered about five pizzas between us, the one she wanted was always hers and nobody else's. Likewise, if we went down to the supermarket to grab some snacks, the bag of crisps she chose was for nobody else but herself. Her reason: She's fussy with her food. Yes, exactly! "Food!" I’m fussy too! But you simply cannot be fussy about crisps; you either like them or you don’t! You can have preferences, sure, like a preference for chicken and you won't touch salt and vinegar, but you cant say 'I'll only have chicken, the other 1271 available flavours will make me gag!' It's ludicrous.

So, whenever she was around, we could never just lay everything out on the floor so that everybody gets a bit of everything, like a buffet, she would basically sit on her own. This also meant that if she ordered a deep pan Hawaiian and someone else wanted that too, they couldn't have it unless we ordered two Hawaiians, which kind of just ruins the whole fun of sharing pizza with people; why didn't she just stay at home?

But that's not all she was weird about sharing, she also had a thing about sharing toilets too, which confused me on a deeper, human-level.

She Wouldn’t Put Up With My Shit
So, let me set the scene: It's Christmas time. A bunch of us are chilling in a friend's apartment hitting the whisky pretty hard, including my friend and Frustracey. I asked my friend where the bathroom was because this was the first time I'd been to his place. So, I sit myself down and I drop this thing that was so solid and big that I was worried I might shatter the porcelain, but it was all good, so I flush and I stumble out of there. About half an hour later, Frustracey goes in and immediately leaves making a scene, with my friend doing the boyfriend thing, going to her aid, asking her what's wrong. In front of everyone, she begins chastising me for leaving what I assumed was a motherfucker of a gift in the bowl.

I apologised straight away, explaining that I definitely flushed but failed to realise that the water pressure was weak and that I was a little too drunk to remember to assess the damage following what I assumed was me passing a kidney, but the crazy thing here is that my floater wasn't really her problem. Her problem, her entire lecture in fact, was about why I was doing that at other people's houses, to which I was like "What the fuck are you on about? Do you expect me to go on the lawn outside whenever I'm not home?" This very public discussion went on for a very entertaining ten minutes. She started asking me if I'd taken shits at her place and I was like "Of course, I have!" But I only really said that to stir up shit (metaphorically); I couldn't actually remember. Anyway, she made me feel like a total fucking maverick, going to toilet...in a toilet. Say she had caught me in my mate's mother's bed aggressively banging one out to granny porn, then the way she carried on would've made total sense, but instead I was like "I don't get the big deal here?"

And that really sums my many exchanges with Frustracey into a nutshell, what is the big deal? Again, the things she said to me blew my mind, which was weird because I've always prided myself on being polite where it's due and these are faux pas I had never come across in my 20 years! And still haven't come across again since! But the larger reason my mind was blown was because nobody ever came to my aid in these public showdowns. While I sat there scratching my head, I was the only one ever asking what the big deal was. Come to think of it, nor was anybody ever on the offensive. My friend was always present in these things and her friends were around for a lot of them too, which leads me to wonder if Frustracey had just managed to develop an environment where people had to walk on eggshells around her. Was it just a case of everybody no longer being bothered challenging her bizarre ideas and that I was the only one left who still had the energy? Maybe...or maybe I'm the one in the wrong.

Maybe Frustracey is a person I've always said we need more of in society, someone who isn't willing to put up with shit (both the metaphorical and literal kind) and stay silent about it. Oh, fuck! What if I've been unwittingly leaving turds in homes all over Sydney and nobody was ever game enough to bring it up to me at the risk of getting their hands dirty, and Frustracey just assumed that risk? Seriously, I've always said, we need more social-crusaders like her, cleaning up dinner parties, social gatherings, and private toilets everywhere. So, thanks Frustracey! Keep up the good work and I hope that your new fiancé is proud of your nobility and tenacity in this merciless mission to civilise.

Friday, October 14, 2016

The Dog Ate My Racism

I'm sick and tired of old being an excuse for bigotry, and this isn't a joke, it's a rant. Hearing someone’s age and upbringing justifying racism is like nails on a chalkboard, because it's use should've stopped like the chalkboard. It's what everybody once thought making prejudice acceptable makes my hands feel gross like I've just used a chalkboard. I'm talking about when your grandmother drops the N-bomb and everybody laughs it off because it was okay when she grew up. That's unacceptable, because even if racism was okay in the first place, we've had decades of progress to learn that it isn't anymore. Age and being a disgusting human being aren't somehow synonymous, no matter how much that sort of thinking helps people sleep at night. Few reasons why.


The 'ol faithful age excuse for prejudice is predicated on this notion that it was okay to treat someone like shit because everybody else was doing it at the time. It perpetuates a gang theory that 98 percent of the human race are just livestock with nice cars and fancy phones, and that's grim. That's all I hear when someone says,"well Ryan, that's just how they were brought up". Most prejudices as far as I can see are just a product of one person sniffing the butt of the person in front of them, then that person doing the same to the person in front of them, and so on and so forth; like some sort of voluntary human centipede of morons. If you compare the era and setting I was raised in to the world in which our elders grew up, it sounds like it was just a huge playground where most people bullied this one kid who they all thought was beneath them. Meanwhile, the other fraction of the school who either thought this poor boy was alright or simply didn't have an opinion about him put their hands over their eyes and pretended that dogs didn't exist until they graduated. While admittedly a pervasive school of thought is difficult to rail against, membership of said school and living amongst it's ideologies still doesn't just automatically make that kid beneath everyone, and excusing bigotry from it's alumni in this day and age implies that. To me, not only does it imply that sort of talk is okay now, which I'll get to, but it also sends a message that it was okay in the first place. What it really means, however, is that everybody from that school was either too stupid to think for themselves or too much of a pussy to let everybody know that they weren't part of the zeitgeist; I occasionally struggle to settle on who I'm more mad at.

However, that's just the beginning, because while the prejudice has far depreciated since, the mass-stupidity that let it happen lives on somehow. You see, it's absurd to believe that dogs don't exist just because that's what everybody told you to think, even though one was pissing on your shoe, but it's even more ludicrous to shriek when one walks into the room 40 or 50 years later. That's what your grandmother or whoever is essentially doing when she can't sit a table with lesbians and calls your friend an N-word in 2016. It's what the customer is doing when he automatically thinks you're the manager because you're the only male working that day. That's unacceptable if you consider how well documented and how much of an utter cliché the whole N-word from a white person drama has become in just my 25 years here. Sure, if you've managed to ignore that for this long, then they probably don't make screwdrivers for the screws you need tightening, but it's still the same ignorance as before, isn't it? When we apologise for a person's upbringing and our own inability to change an elderly person's attitude, we miss the point and start sniffing butts again. We just continue the dogs don't exist delusion and take part in the dog ate my homework chain of inaction which allowed prejudice to pervade unfettered in the first place. That chain needs breaking, because I'm tired of the smell.

It's not okay to be bigoted or prejudiced, but we all are in varying degrees. It's innately human to make note of changes and differences. A blonde dude is not a blonde dude until you've seen a brunette chick, the same way that a song which is just one tone for three minutes is not a song, or how a blue car is not a black Harley, or a black US president is not the slew of white presidents which preceded them. For me, my prejudice comes out whenever they send a crew into space, because let's face it, the folks at NASA choose they're crews like they're either ticking boxes in the Handbook for Political Correctness or casting for another horrendous Fantastic Four film. The difference is that we haven't deluded ourselves into a dogs don't exist fairytale universe, and for the majority of those that have know to keep it there next to the cyanide slides which end in an Aryan utopia. It's 2016! So regardless of what we believe, we all should know by now that the only valid excuse for using the N-word for instance is if you're black, a rapper or if you've been in some fucked up Kimmy Schmidt situation where you've missed the last 40 years of pop culture and literature. So, unless your grandparents have been dropping club hits featuring Flo Rida which I'm unaware of, give them a smack over the back of the head with a calendar the next time they say something bigoted, because hopefully it might either knock them out or knock them into being amnesiacs; whichever shuts them up first.

Sunday, September 25, 2016

The Quinn Gene

Anybody who has ever proclaimed that life doesn't come with a manual just hasn't looked hard enough, because you can get one from Amazon for a cool $7.88. But more to the point, life actually comes with something so much better and more tailor-made than that: a stupid, stupid family. When I was a teenager, 98 percent of what left my mouth was so sarcastic and so dry that it could leave your kids crying in a Sea World parking lot. In the presence of the non-initiated, my mother would simply excuse my humour on my behalf as something I acquired at birth from my father, aptly referring to it as "The Quinn Gene". I'm only now fully realising how on point she was. Quinn men are so alike that I think we were all baked in an oven like cookies. You see, by that point, Mum had spent two decades leafing through the pages of my life manual, from chapter Wed Only Within the Motherland to How to Lift Heavy Rugs, and now, so have I. Here's a sneak peak at The Quinn Gene chapter.

Quinn Humour = Sahara Desert
There's no question, us Quinns think we're regular, natural comedians, and sometimes maybe we are. But to everyone else, it can get annoying quick, especially when we we're failing to pull on the strings we endeavoured to or simply trying to stir up shit. Our main problem is that we lost the recipe to dry humour circa World War I. While it should be 10 parts dry, one part water, we seem to forget the water part. You know what I mean: A wink, a subtle smirk, a nudge of the elbow, a punchline to button it. Which means that nobody around us can ever be sure of what's actually a joke and what's not. So, being around us is like living in the Matrix in that you start to question reality a little bit.

The take away: When preparing to execute a joke of non-wet properties, please maintain a straight back, bend your knees and put the dry humour recipe to use.

The reason we have a penchant for this sort of humour is probably because the only place it's really any good for us is with the opposite sex. Why? Because a dry sense of humour is rocket-fuel for banter, and that's really handy because the Quinns are ladies men.

Professional Ladies Men
If there's anything we want to do in life, it's not erect sky scrapers, cure cancer or serve our country. Na! Na! It's much simpler than that: We want to take you out to dinner...please? And it's all of us; we're basically just a bunch of walking ids. We can be loyal husbands, I think, but we can never quite put blinders on, because Quinn isn't something you can just shut out or turn off; it's omnipresent.

The take away: Think about something else. It's almost like girls are the only thing in a Quinn's head, which might be why none of us have ever done anything particularly commendable or great. There is only so much female-centric thought you can fill your mind up with until you start pushing important shit out, like carrying the one and how to write an active sentence, the words appeared on the screen as the keys were struck by the lone gentlemen.

However, these aren't terrible qualities to have by most measures. I mean, I believe this quality makes us drug sniffing dogs for romance and for a laugh, which are the makings of a fun night out. Tragically though, they tend to be the first things to fall by the way side due to the next few qualities, the first of which is that we don't fucking listen.

We Don't What?
We have notoriously bad communication skills, to the point where a search for acknowledgement risks becoming a deep exhibition you didn't pack the correct footwear for. You mostly just get silence following anything you say to a Quinn. Sometimes it's because we have other things on our mind, sometimes we are so hell bent on being right that we just don't want to hear it or we are listening and we just don't know that a simple 'okay' here and there is a conversational-must; not particularly remarkable or ground breaking. What is remarkable in this is that any man or woman would understandably struggle to be be funny or an effective ladies man when they aren't taking in what people are saying.

So, what good is a Quinn if one of his worst qualities cancels out his best two? What good are we if the only conversation to be had and the only jokes to be made will be ours and ours only? You can't banter with someone who doesn't listen because it takes two to banter, and therein lies the struggle of baring the Quinn name in your veins.

The take away: Listen.

But Quinns Think That Nobody Else Listens
If a person calls you, gives you some instructions or advice, accepts that you've heard them out, and doesn't call back five minutes later to reiterate everything that they just said, then that person is not a Quinn. An instruction said once by a Quinn is an instruction said three times, the same way that a single call from a Quinn is actually two consecutive calls. What's terribly ironic with this one is that Quinns too seek acknowledgement; the kicker is just that we hold little faith in it because we don't believe you're actually listening, so we ask for additional re-enforcements.

Take away: My suspicion here is that this is the result of years spent dealing with other Quinns and their aforementioned conversational ineptitude, something I'll aptly refer to as "The Quinn Cycle" when I have my own family. So, the take away here is to not fall into this irritating vicious cycle one can fall into as a Quinn by reserving it only for family gatherings and then shaking it off like sticky mud the moment I leave.

To add insult to injury, when a Quinn does acknowledge, the responses often make no sense, leading me to wonder if I've ever gotten a straight answer from one.

A Quinn Answer is a Myth
There's a reason why a Quinn has never run the kids story time at the local library: Because we would read the book like we're trying to fit it into a tweet! Which only leaves the listener with questions, which a Quinn will either again not acknowledge or answer in another tweet which will create a set of new questions secondary to the initial line of questions. A conversation with a Quinn is like doing mind pretzeling circles with a rubix cube; it's a scene.

The thing is, us Quinns, for whatever reason, have little to no appreciation for detail. If we were artistic painters...we just wouldn't be, we'd paint houses; that's the extent to our detail - paint only this room Honeymilk White and rub the paint we get on the carpet out with the tip of our boot. This is in stark contrast to my mother however who will often opt to include way too much detail! I have no clue who she got that from, to be honest.

To give you an idea, let's say my mum had to go back to the store to replace some expired milk she mistakenly purchased, she would make sure that I knew whatever activity she had to finish beforehand, the weather outside, what counter she went to in the store, how many people were in line, what the shop girl looked like before she refused the exchange, and how the subsequent mid-supermarket showdown went; it would take five minutes to tell the story. Now, say this happened to my dad, he would say "I went down to the store with some milk and got into an argument with a teenager", making you wonder whether or not you had a stroke in the middle of the story somewhere or, you know, you sneezed.

The take away: Find a middle ground between my mum's storytelling abilities and my dad's, because they both reside on bad ends of a scale. Sure, details are important, and long stories are fine when appropriate, but one should ensure the listener along the way that the details which seem boring and worthless are actually integral to an interesting conclusion. After all, the last thing you want is for someone to hear the punchline of a story and then not get it because you either didn't provide something important or they spent the whole time wondering when it will be over; all suspense is lost at that point.


Now, there are a few reasons why I really wanted to write this and it wasn't because I wanted to make a joke out of my family, nor did I want to act as if none of this applies to me or that I'm somehow above it all. My point is that this life that I have here is for me to make my own mistakes, learn from them and hopefully teach those after me in the bloodline a thing or two. Families are literally a made to order, living education, and this life would be a waste if I just went ahead and didn't learn from this vital life manual I've been given. Anybody who feels lost only needs to look to their family to reset the bearings. It would be like if tomorrow you worked with asbestos without a hazmat suit or poked a beehive with a stick expecting to be okay. I'm not ashamed to be a Quinn. Admittedly, the times I've caught wind on the grape vine of my 60 year old father's philandering with thirty-somethings, a small part of me wants to shout the guy a beer, but that's not who I want to be. The last few generations of Quinn men in my eyes have been facsimiles of each other. Sure, they're different people who have done a lot of things from the heart, but there are so many things they've also done where they've neglected to look to their elders for direction, and I'm not continuing that ancestral chain. As someone in their mid-twenties, I won't ever pretend it's not in my blood, but I refuse to get churned through this genetic-machine and spat out as a carbon copy of what preceded me; that would be a wasted opportunity.

Wednesday, August 31, 2016

Whose Crime is it AnyWaze?

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Five years ago when the law man had me bent over a table Catholic-style, I was summoned to court a couple of times. On one occasion, a well-presented gentlemen was listed before me to appear in front of the judge in the hopes of having a drunk driving charge reduced, probably using the ‘But I'm Rich’ Defence. His articulate lawyer presented to the court that his client had been at a work event where waitresses walked around serving him glasses of wine on trays, impeding his ability to keep track of how wasted he was getting. Cut to later on in the night, he apparently got behind the wheel of his Mercedes Benz, or whatever car poncy fat cats drive, and upon spotting the random breath testing stationed up ahead, he drunkenly attempted an illegal 'U' turn manoeuvre like a modern day John Wayne. This attracted the attention of the police he was trying to avoid, for which he was caught, breath tested anyway and booked accordingly. Of course, had he simply downloaded an app and exercised some of what is commonly known only by me as 'nice guy law evasion', he would've been in the clear and I wouldn't have had anything to chuckle about later that night. What's more bizarre than funny is that not only is it getting easier to evade the cops nowadays, it's also becoming more socially and legally accepted; is that not strange?

There was a day when if you were in a car that had a police radio scanner installed, it either meant you had shifty friends, you were balls-deep in some shady Nightcrawler shit or you took shrooms and got butt-naked in the middle of a McDonalds again, but nowadays we all kind of have police scanners in ours cars, do we not? They're just in the form of GPS units and apps like Waze. When I bought my first GPS navigator and it kept telling me where all of the speed cameras are, I was like "What the? Why do I need to know that? Shouldn't I just be going the correct speed all the time?" As a general rule, whenever I get behind the wheel of what can essentially become a weapon with a twitch of the hand, I just do this thing where I go the speed limit, that way I can worry less about being photographed by the state and focus more on updating my Twitter feed with my free hand. #about2die. This was five years ago as well, and just when I thought that was bad, Waze entered the scene and took it to a whole new level!

Waze is a navigation app which uses crowd-sourced information to set itself apart from less sinister apps like Google Maps and Navman. It's basically the Wikipedia of the road. For example, if there's a crash where you are, tap the crash button and the app will warn other nearby users that two or more idiots have caused a traffic interference up ahead. More importantly, if you spot a cop, just tap the cute little man with the police hat and users nearby will literally hear "Police reported up ahead". How is this shit legal? It's the technological advancement of flashing your high beams at cars on the opposite side to warn them of the fuzz hidden behind the trees up ahead. Oh! There are cops nearby? Well then, let's slow the fuck down, throw the weed out the window, close Tinder, and pretend that we care about safety for a minute.

However, the larger question is: How is everybody else so okay with this? I mean us, as citizens! Nobody seems to be batting an eye lid at the fact that all of us are essentially racing around the streets like Michael Schumacher, doing metaphorical 'U' turns whenever there is a speed camera or a police unit nearby, just like that well-to-do drunk driver was being charged for that day. So again, why the fuck was he being charged really? Was it because he was committing a crime, or because he didn't have an app? I'm confused.

Let's be real, to us, speeding and driving while fatigued or under the influence are these tiny negligible crimes; they're nice guy crimes. It's like disobeying bicycle regulations or embellishing on your tax write-offs; insignificant, victimless offences. "Ten dollar slacks for work. Pshhht! Let's say they were thirty and plan a trip!" But actually, those things are really only as nice as we are morons, because speeding is a nice crime which can rather quickly become very dark, like what your prsion cell would be, or the inside of a coffin, I suppose. The ABC reported 348 road deaths in NSW last year, attributing "speeding, fatigue and drink and drug driving" as the main causes to fatal road accidents. We do some of these things the same way that we underestimate our earnings in our welfare paperwork because we see our stupid friends doing it, but those two things reside in such different ballparks, they may as well be in separate fucking universes. The only way you can die from one of them is if you're walking to the welfare office and a piano falls on you! Australian television once ran welfare ads primarily shaming those who make "mistakes" on their forms, little did I know that while we were busy thinking about that, companies like Waze and Navman were paving the way for the normalisation of dangerous driving, which is what this is, let's not lie to ourselves.

So, we can all prance around and say things like "When I drive stoned, I'm more alert", "Blogs are stupid" and "Stop making a big deal over 15 kilometres", but the reality is that numbers still have meaning. Numbers of road fatalities due to dangerous driving mean something. The numbers authorities put on speed signs mean something (most of the time, see point four); believe me! Have you seen Sydney traffic? They want us off the road as quickly as possible and yet, they're still asking us to go 50 kmph in residential areas. Why? Because 50 means something different to 60. So, the day that either numbers become irrelevant or become low enough that we can be trusted to govern ourselves is the day we can ignore being only 15 kmph over what's posted. But if we continue on this path of allowing things like Waze to fly under the radar while it breeds an acceptance of police circumvention and speeding, those numbers won't be going down and we'll be just as bad as that fat cat in court with his silver Mercerdes or whatever the fuck he drives; mark my words.

Friday, July 15, 2016

Chocolate Cake & Dishonesty

If heartbreak and break ups were an Olympic sport, I'd be the little league coach in some one-horse town, who would subsequently be fired for being so shit at it. Parents would complain. I'd respond by calling them morons and their kids creeps; it would be a mess. The very worst part of heartbroken Ryan is not my behaviour, not my lack of maturity or my wealth of melodrama, it's actually a part that nobody really sees: I lie a lot, and that's not good, because I've been heartbroken a lot lately.

Honesty, believe it or not, is something I pride myself on among most other things. I don't care if I'm funny, likeable or fuckable, I want honesty to be the trait others revere in me. I want the people around me to feel like they never have to question what I say, even when they want to punch me. I'm not just talking about veracity, but forthrightness too. However, the passed 12 months has seen my romantic life dragged through the mud, and I've managed to take these two qualities along for the ride. What's scarier is that the lies I've been telling aren't at all calculated, they're just knee-jerk reactions, where my mouth is saying words and my brain is screaming at it like "what the fuck are you doing?" Consequences, be damned! There are two reasons why I do this.

Rebalancing Power
I've always found that where you find successful romance, you find equal power. There’s none of this who wears the pants bullshit. There isn't a person who's only in it to fend off desperation or only for good chocolate cake and nothing else, nor is there someone who thinks they can get better chocolate cake elsewhere.

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Since my foray into lying started a year ago, the problem's been that my love affairs keep being with girls who find my cake eh, okay at best, even after I've slaved over it all day. So, when one of them finally tells me she's found better, more delicious cake elsewhere, power shifts out of my favour. In order for me to immediately restore the balance, I too will say that I've been getting chocolate cake from somewhere else too, perhaps one with exquisite white chocolate sprinkles! The saddest part is that this is despite the actual truth that I've just been eating my own shitty cake alone in my room in front of saved episodes of The Food Channel! Rewinding through my favourite parts with my free knife hand.

So, from then on I have to exhaustively act disgusted whenever she sees me cooking my own cake. I also have to plant crumbs from the other fake girl's cake around my kitchen when she comes over to pick up her things I've practically been holding hostage. It's a layer cake of lies that I can bake myself into in a matter of seconds, but then it takes months to begrudgingly eat my way out of it! Also, I'll rarely ever actually have the balls to come right out and just admit "yeah, I'm not just lonely anymore, I'm also a liar, you got me!"; two very attractive L words to the opposite sex. But there's also something else here too. 

I'll Never Starve Though
A fear of mine in any non-exclusive casual fling is looking like someone who can't get cake elsewhere. Now, I'm not saying that I'm not desperate, nor am I admitting that I am, but I certainly don't want to be seen as such, so I lie to make sure! I lie through my teeth about how much of other people's cake I've been having, acting like I've had heaps. But it's not so much about feeding my Brad Pitt complex as it is about ensuring that people know the place they hold in my heart. Need more?

Well, I've had arrangements with people where I'm just killing time 'til the next sweet serving, and then on the flip side, I've had other things which have made me never want anybody else's cake again, but ultimately didn't work out. I don't want the latter to think they're just the former. Despite this, even in the loosest of unions, I have a tendency to shut out other cakes, which actually makes it seem to the other person that I am in fact desperate; they don't see the rejection, just the outcome. So, when I dishonestly say that I've had other's, I'm basically just ensuring that I'm with them because I chose to be with them, not because I felt like I didn't have a choice. You see, to me, the beauty about wanting be with someone is that it stops being about how good the cake is and how good other cakes might be, and it starts to be about cake you know you'll be happy with for the rest of your life. It's not about settling for the first girl who comes along or wanting the most popular chick you know to touch your dick, it's about finding something in someone else which makes something in you crazy, no matter the time, no matter where you are in the world.

While I can't exactly blame them, I don't really like desperate, hungry people; they don't date people, they date concepts. That's bad news for you if they ever come across the sample counter down at the local supermarket, because they'll keep the concept they care so much for, but they'll swap out your cake for that one, fucking guaranteed! You see, everybody wants to be the star of their very own little romantic comedy, myself included. We're brainwashed into ideas of perfection, which is a fucking mirage, but people will still leave you for it. So, I don't want to simply fill in the blank in someone else's bullshit concept, nor do I want someone to think that they're filling my blank, more importantly. So I lie. I know, I didn't make myself this way, it just sort of happened.

Anyway, it needs to end, the lying. I've ended it before and I can do it again. Up until my mid-teens, exaggerating the truth and making up stories had become a nasty little habit of mine. They weren't particularly bad or malicious, they were just little embellishments of the truth, but it was nonsensical and exhausting. I hated myself for it. Eventually I decided that no matter how boring the details and no matter what colour they painted me, I had to ignore that little liar who lives in my ear, and it was a monumental realisation. I just think this last year and a half I've been at my weakest, perhaps - immature, bad temper, health in decline, insecure, lonely - and in that I've let some old habits resurface in order to protect myself. I know I can be better.