It’s 8:05pm on a Tuesday and I’m eating dinner, alone, watching Parks and Recreation. Dinner is two small corn-on-a-cobs and a piece of gum I was chewing earlier but got sick of chewing. Also, I have lemon lime and bitters cordial which is nothing like the real deal.

While I eat my glamorous meal I’m also fending off a weird giant bug thing that keeps settling and stirring over and over again.

An hour ago I was crying and texting my baby sister because I’m convinced my mother hates me after my ex-boyfriend dobbed on me for smoking weed. I was watching Sex and the City while this happened.

This is what living on your own in your 20s looks like. Believe it or not, this is actually better than most other nights.


I’ve Failed as a Parent

It has become apparent to me that my dogs, Brutus and Murder, have separation anxiety. Brutus has always been an anxious dog, and I put that down to his inconsistent routine. He’s been through a few different living arrangements over the past three years, and it’s easy to see the toll that all of the moving around and uncertainty has had on him. Murder is barely a year old, so I know that his anxiety is entirely my fault for being a terrible pack leader and raising him completely wrong. I’ve already achieved my all-time greatest fear of screwing up my kids, and I haven’t even had real kids yet. This fills me with confidence for the future.

I’ve decided to do some research into curing their separation anxiety, but so far all of the solutions seem to demand weeks of daily obedience practise to train these behaviours out of them, and I don’t have that kind of time. I’m out of the house from 7:30am – 6:00pm, and I’m in bed by 8:30 for my 5:00 start the following morning. With grocery shopping, cleaning up after the boys, cleaning up after myself, and maintaining personal hygiene, I really don’t have that much time to spend hiding on the other side of a door, trying to encourage my boys to behave like normal people when I leave. But I know that’s just a poor excuse for being a negligent parent. I could easily make the choice to spend even half an hour training with them, rather than watching eight episodes of Sex and the City, but I don’t, because I suck. It seems to me that changing my behaviours might be the biggest struggle that I face in overcoming my dogs’ borderline retarded tendencies.

Training Brutus and Murder to cope with my absence is made all the more difficult by the fact that there are two of them. Brutus on his own is a cinch – he’s intelligent, eager to please, intuitive and loves doing the right thing. Murder on his own is also easy – he doesn’t pick things up as quickly as Brutus, but he’s clever, and once he’s been shown the right way a few times he excels at obedience. Brutus and Murder together are a nightmare. Murder won’t allow you to show any attention to Brutus – he tries to steal the treats as you’re rewarding Brutus, and he’s a horrible distraction, always demanding to be the sole focus of your attention. Brutus is reluctant to follow instructions in case Murder gets a treat and he doesn’t, so he just dances around in circles, trying to sit closer and closer to you, but further and further away from Murder – while Murder follows him and stands in front of his face – and it’s just chaos.

Another problem is Brutus’ aggression toward other dogs. At first it was only black and white dogs (which has always baffled me, since Brutus is black and white himself), then any dog that threatened his territory/family, he only ever seemed to have an issue with male dogs, getting along with females just fine, but after introducing him to the female dog I pet-sat a few weeks ago I have discovered that he doesn’t particularly care for any dogs, regardless of gender. It has gotten to the point where he approaches every social situation with aggression and hostility, always attacking the other dog/s immediately, without even a tentative sniff first to assess the situation. This is a problem in itself, but it’s made worse by the fact that I’ll be moving to a new house, with a new roommate, who also has a dog. Murder isn’t particularly aggressive, but he follows Brutus like he’s god, and copies everything his big brother does, which makes intervening in a conflict situation difficult and dangerous, since Murder is twice the size of Brutus and weighs about 50kg. Trying to restrain two dogs – one huge and clumsy, one small and quick as a fox – is no easy feat, and I’ve received my fair share of cuts and bruises for my efforts. That being the case, I’m sure you can understand my lack of enthusiasm to introduce these two to another dog built similar to Murder.

I’m hoping that if I make a start on obedience training immediately I’ll be able to make enough progress to avoid a bloodbath once we’ve moved, and to prevent them from destroying the new house the way they’ve destroyed the current one. In this interest, I have also decided to transition them to outside dogs, which was my original intention when I decided to take Brutus on, but he was just so happy to be in the house, I didn’t have the heart to kick him out, and once Murder came along (and spent all night crying) they were inside dogs, on-the-bed dogs, do-what-they-want dogs. And now here I am, one year later, tearing my hair out with frustration. Sigh. I’d had such high hopes. I thought I’d practise obedience training with them all the time, and they’d sit and stay until I said they were allowed to eat dinner like those dogs on all the Facebook videos. I thought we’d go on walks, and puppy play dates, and trips to beaches and parks, I thought I’d take them to the Pet Expo and they’d have so much fun! Thanks to their humiliating behaviour, of course, none of that has happened, or if it has, it only happened once and ended badly and we’ve never tried it again.

As much as I love my dogs, I do sometimes regret taking on so much responsibility. I really do have the worst tendency to make my life so much more difficult than it needs to be. And I feel guilty that they aren’t getting the most out of their lives, even if it is kind of their fault for being psychopaths that can’t be taken out in public. Perhaps a little responsibility will be good for all of us – the boys will have defined boundaries and won’t stress whenever I leave the house, and I’ll have a healthy relationship with my companions and won’t have to deal with the constant destruction of my belongings. At this point I remain cautiously optimistic.

Welcome to the Hustle

What Beyoncé said is right: ladies, it ain’t easy being independent. I’m a single female, in my early 20s, living on my own in the big city. Well, actually I’m about an hour and a half on public transport from the big city, so that’s less impressive. I’m single because I chose to be when I decided to move from my home town, and I live on my own because I’m stubborn and insist on doing everything in the most difficult way possible. I’m finding that young-adulthood isn’t as fun as I thought it would be when I was 12. It’s hard, and stressful, and exhausting, and downright depressing. It feels like everything is a constant struggle, and I know that I’m not the only one experiencing this phenomenon, but I feel like I great number of 12 – 18 year old girls probably still have the same fantasies about life that I had at their age, and I know that there are plenty of older people who have either forgotten what it’s like, or never had to face the same struggles and don’t realise what’s going on with this generation. That being said, I have decided to devote this blog to providing an inside account of (barely) surviving life in your early 20s.

I suppose a little background would be appropriate and provide some context so here we go. I’m 22 years old, from Townsville, Queensland – I lived there my whole life and have never travelled further from my house than Brisbane, which is where I moved to in May this year. I made the choice to move to Brisbane after spending a three week holiday here in February when my best friend had her baby. As soon as I met this wonderful, little boy I knew that I couldn’t watch him grow up in pictures, and so when I got back to Townsville I told my boyfriend, who refused to move, and handed in my resignation at work. The boyfriend handled things very admirably, and we discussed the matter at length – I admitted that I didn’t actually want him to move with me, I had been thinking about ending the relationship for a long time – and we’ve remained close friends. A week after I moved my terminally ill Nana passed away, so I returned to Townsville to take care of the family for a few weeks. I had no savings when I moved to Brisbane in the first place, and what little money I did have was spent on the flights back to Townsville. Mum supported me for the three weeks I stayed there, but when I returned to Brisbane, with no job and no Centrelink payments I was truly fucked. I spent every day applying for jobs, I signed up with two different employment agencies, I applied for Centrelink and joined with one of their employment agencies as well, but for weeks I had less than no money; I couldn’t even pay rent where I was staying at my friend’s house. It felt like complete shit, and was probably the lowest point in my life so far. By the end of July I got a job, and in August I moved into my own place in a wonderful suburb called Slacks Creek. I had some people come to deliver furniture and when they discovered that I was living by myself in this suburb they were horrified and urged me to leave as soon as possible. This made me feel super relaxed and secure during the weeks that I lived here without my dogs, listening to various domestic disputes in my street. I have only the bare essentials in my house, having not been able to afford to transport my belongings from Townsville, or to buy new furniture. I own a fridge, washing machine, mattress and two bedside tables. One of the delivery people stopped by and gave me a box full of useful stuff like blankets, towels, sheets, cutlery, pots, etc. which I was/am super grateful for because it has saved me a lot of discomfort.

I suppose that about brings you up to speed – there have been a lot of absurd, hilarious, shitty events throughout the past six months, however they’re all stories for another time. This has been the official introduction to/explanation of my blog, stay tuned for more.


I’m living in a pretty rough area, and there are always a lot of loud, rowdy noises through the night, on any given day of the week. Tonight, being a Friday, I suppose my neighbours are feeling especially celebratory because it sounds like they’re letting off a series of fireworks. This actually happens pretty often – once on like, a Tuesday, which was kinda weird.

Now, I love fireworks more than any other thing in existence. They are my all time favourite thing of all things ever. Once, when I was about 19, I was living with my best friend, Katt, and we heard fireworks one night. I was so excited, and I ran outside to see them straight away, but we lived in a duplex and only had a small, covered courtyard out the back, so I ran down the driveway to watch them from the street. It seemed that I had been too late – I didn’t even hear any more fireworks noises – so, with a heavy heart, full of disappointment, I went back inside and that was that. The next day, however, Katt informed me that the fireworks had, in fact, been gun shots from a drive-by shooting incident. I was suddenly not so disappointed that I hadn’t seen the “fireworks”.

Ever since that incident I have never again run outside to try and see the fireworks when I hear them going off in the neighbourhood.

A Brief Introduction to Brutus & Murder

Earlier this evening I came up with a decent idea for a post about my two dogs – Brutus and Murder – but, as usual, nothing has gone to plan and I’ve run out of time to construct anything that could do justice to the topic. Of course, it is partially their fault that I don’t have time to get things done. I spent the majority of my night trying to clean up the mess that they had created for me while I was out at dinner last night – it was a spur-of-the-moment decision to go out with a friend, so I forgot to shut any of the doors in my house before I left. My dogs recently shattered my back door, so I can’t lock them out when I leave and I compromise by shutting the doors to my bedroom, the toilet and the bathroom, where their favourite things to destroy are kept, such as: makeup brushes, facial wipes, shampoo bottles, bras, pyjama pants, blankets, toilet paper, shoes, towels, sheets… I could go on. Usually when they destroy something it’s a mild inconvenience, other times it’s just plain cruel.

Like last night, for instance, when they decided to rip open my feather-down pillow. I had no idea that a feather-down pillow was so full. My entire living room is now covered in fluffy, white feathers – it looks like a Winter Wonderland scene, only infinitely more depressing. I didn’t even know where to begin with trying to clean it all up – I don’t own a vacuum, or even a real bin – and I was too tired to contemplate a more efficient solution than crawling around for what could be hours, packing fistfuls of feathers into a plastic bag. So I went to bed last night without even considering making an attempt to clean it all up, and I chose to continue to ignore it before work this morning. On the way home from work today I agreed to sell my old iPad and arranged for the buyer to come around to my place at about 7:15pm to pick it up, which worked perfectly with my routine. Then, of course, 7:15 comes and goes, and there’s no sign of them – there’s a storm forecast for tonight, and it had started raining a little by this time, so I didn’t think it unreasonable that they be a bit late. By 7:30 I still hadn’t seen them, but was sure they couldn’t be far off. I decided to kill some time and sort out my downloads, but by 7:45 they still hadn’t shown up, or text to say that they were going to be late. I had put off going for a shower until after the transaction and thanks to spending the time before our scheduled appointment cleaning up after my dogs, and this person’s complete lack of punctuality, I wasn’t able to go for a shower until 8:00. I was too exhausted to wash my hair last night, so I had to wash it tonight, which means showering takes longer, and I had wanted to straighten it as well since tomorrow is Friday and I like to feel special on Fridays. I also knew that I still had to at least post something today, or risk failing the NaBloPoMo challenge twice within the first week, and I was (and still am) determined to watch an episode or two of Parks and Recreation before bed. After all the buttfuckery of this evening I was forced to cancel/reschedule at least one of my three “tasks” for the evening, and since I refuse to fail NaBloPoMo, and I really love Parks and Rec, straightening my hair has been tentatively re-booked for tomorrow morning.

And all of this can be traced back to the fact that Brutus and Murder just can’t help but destroy everything I own and make my life as difficult as possible. And really, that’s a perfect summary of what to expect from the upcoming record of life with these two.

Did I mention that it was my only pillow?

Bring Your Children to Work Day

Today my bosses (who are a married couple) decided they would actually come in to the office for once – with two of their children in tow, of course. It made for a very interesting two hour visit.

The elder of the two (I’m assuming he’s around four or five since he’s not at school) had already peed with the door open twice within half an hour of being in the office, and the second time he managed to rip the soap dispenser off the wall which honestly impressed me. Now, I don’t particularly mind anyone peeing with the door open, but when the toilet is about five metres from my desk. He also spent about five minutes straight repeating “Mum, I want more, mum, you need to turn it on, mum I want put more in there,” while his mother tried to fix a problem with her husband’s phone, ignoring the child demanding that he be facilitated in his attempts to put things through the shredder. Unfortunately the shredder was full, and since nobody could be bothered to empty it the child was eventually told that he would have to play with the Legos. So, of course, the paper he had been feeding into the machine was left on the floor, scattered across the walkway and was completely ignored by everyone who walked over the top of it.

Then the two/three year old woke up and joined us in the office where he proceeded to drop his fruit on the floor, which his father told him was no longer safe to eat and threw in the bin. Not long after this he poured his cup of water on the carpet as well, then the two boys spent ten minutes playing with the water cooler, letting the spill tray fill up and flow over onto the carpet. Mum made a request to dad to intervene, but he just responded with “I can’t stop them,” and continued actively ignoring his children.

Soon after this the children’s attention was again redirected to the Lego box, which they emptied all over the floor before moving on to the next activity. The toddler chose Closing Your Fingers in a Sliding Door – he shut himself on the outside of the door so that he was on the balcony, and when he started to cry mum panicked, fearing that he’d fallen off, and she jumped from her seat exclaiming “Oh my god!” Dad’s reaction to this natural display of motherly concern was the berate his wife in front of their employees for “always carrying on about nothing” and continued to lecture her that she “needs to look at the situation before freaking out and carrying on like a fuckwit.” Top advice, Colin.

While this was going on the elder boy took the opportunity to re-ignite his younger brother’s screams by inviting him back out onto the balcony and slamming the door shut in his face as he approached. Somewhere around this point was where mum decided it was time for everyone to go home and requested that the children begin packing up the toys they’d spread throughout the office. Obviously the children are not about that life, so after 15 minutes of pretending to argue with them, mum and dad ended up cleaning up the mess themselves. Of course, this was when the children decided they wanted to “help” and proceeded to throw fistfuls of Lego back across the floor while their parents attempted to scoop the hundreds of plastic pieces back into the toy box. It was at this point that Kim decided to tell mum and dad not to worry about cleaning up, and suggested that it be my “job for the afternoon”. I managed a tight-lipped smirk in response, since opening my mouth at that point would have resulted in losing me job – not sure if I really would have minded that much, to be honest.

I am not usually a fan of children – there are a few exceptions to this rule, and I don’t deny that babies are hella cute – but I am especially not a fan of children who are being raised by people that put zero effort into parenting and allow their spawn to behave like assholes with a benign smile on their faces, as if they’re enriching everyone else’s lives by inflicting these beasts upon us. While I can respect that most young children simply don’t know any better, I still can’t stand the smug, self-satisfied smiles on their faces that betrays the fact that they do know better and are enjoying misbehaving and being disobedient little cunts.

Melbourne Cup Day

Once I realised this morning that I had failed to post anything at all yesterday, I felt severely demotivated. I can’t believe that I was barely two days into the challenge and I already fucked up. Like, I put my name on a register and everything. What if people actually see this? Now I’m just another lazy douchebag.

But it’s stormy here tonight, and I’m showered, and snuggled up in bed with my puppies, and it feels like the perfect environment for writing. I just wish I had a nice hot cup of Milo, or the day off work tomorrow. Speaking of which, I got drunk at work today! That was a first time experience that I never expected I’d encounter. It was Melbourne Cup Day (oh, how I despise the despicable event) and Kim bought a bottle of wine for us to share after lunch. Little did Kim realise that I’d barely eaten since lunch the day before, and I’m a notorious light-weight. I didn’t get roaring drunk or anything like that, but I did make a tipsy call to my boss to ask if we could go home early. He said no. And Kim and I rearranged the furniture in the house/office so that she could sit closer to the air-conditioner because it’s too hot where she was previously sitting, 80cm to the left of her new position.

Which brings us to our topic for today: the fucking Melbourne Cup. For anyone who isn’t familiar the Melbourne Cup is “the race that stops the nation” – a high-profile horse racing event, and an excuse for a public holiday and the privilege of getting drunk before noon. It is the social event of the year, the highlight of every rich moron’s fiscal year, this is the only time of the year that anyone gives a fuck about horse racing and they give more fucks about this day than any other day, with the exception (maybe) of Australia Day. Let me put this into perspective for you – growing up in an Australian public school I dreaded the day every year when we would be forced to pick a name out of a hat and sit on the floor and watch this barbaric event. Of course, when I was protesting watching the race as a six-year-old it was because it was boring and I wanted to read my library books, but it didn’t matter what reason I gave my teachers, I was always forced to sit and watch and participate. Whoever picked the winning horse won a free tuckshop lunch – the highest honour my school could bestow upon a student – thus perpetuating the nation-wide ignorance and continued celebration of this blatant disregard for animal welfare. As an adult I am filled with a sickening, impotent rage at the injustice of it all. It baffles me that the protesting of this ritual isn’t screamed louder and taken more seriously, and that so few care to even raise their voice. And it’s not just about advocating animal rights, and causing a scene; the number of businesses, TV networks, celebrities, politicians etc. that endorse this spectacle with their participation and support is appalling. You might not be the people flogging these animals, pumping them full of chemicals, and literally murdering them in a pool of blood once the strain of their physically exhausting, torturous life overwhelms their bodies and they succumb to injury, but you’re just as bad for not refusing to take part in this uncivilised display of savagery and disrespect for life.

The horse racing industry as a whole is a horrifying concept, it seems like the kind of thing you’d read about humans doing a hundred years ago and think “Goodness, how barbaric, people were so cruel back then, thank heaven we’ve come so far and nothing like that would be allowed today.” Except it’s allowed, and celebrated, and greatly anticipated.

“Statistics show that nearly all horses in the race today will experience bleeding in the lungs, while 50% of horses racing will experience bleeding in the windpipe. 89% of these racehorses will have stomach ulcers. All will be thrashed by a whip.”

“During training, these horses spend approximately 22 hours of every day alone in a stall the size of a bedroom, resulting in digestive and behavioural abnormalities. They are drugged to mask the pain from being overworked, and fed food with unnaturally high energy content.

The average ‘career’ of a racehorse is 3 years, after which they are ‘discarded’. Every year, 10000-25000 ‘discarded’ racehorses who didn’t ‘make the cut’ are slaughtered for dog food.”

These quotes were taken from a post on Facebook that my mum tagged me in today, after I called her on my way home from work to seethe over our mutual hatred for this “sport”. Immediately after the race today a horse name Admire Rakti died in his stall after suffering a heart attack, or potentially from internal bleeding, and another horse named Araldo got frightened and crashed through a fence, breaking one of his bones which apparently necessitated that he be killed on site. And those are just the two that were publicised this afternoon, not to mention those who will die later on tonight/tomorrow from internal bleeding, or broken bones, or just because they’re too tired to go on. Some of these horses will be killed by the damage they sustain from performing in the race, some of them will be shot.

I often see the argument “but they’re bred for it”, as if that is supposed to justify humans taking advantage of an animals trust and obedience, and abusing it, torturing daily, stripping the beast of any dignity, showing no respect, feeling no love, peddling life for profit. A lot of children in the sex slave trade are “bred for it”, based on that logic raping a child is fine, I suppose? “Oh, but it’s different, it’s a child you’re talking about, these are just animals, it’s what they’re made for.” NO IT’S FUCKING NOT! It’s life! It’s exactly the same, and no animal is made to be run to beyond the point of exhaustion, kept in cramped conditions, denied freedom, and pumped full of hormones so that they can be further beaten while being forced to literally run themselves to death.


In this day and age, the fact that something like this still exists is beyond appalling. It is a colossal disappointment and a stain on us all as a society for allowing it to continue.