"I don't think that being a strong person is about ignoring your emotions and fighting your feelings. Putting on a brave face doesn't mean you're a brave person. That's why everybody in my life knows everything that I'm going through. I can't hide anything from them. People need to realise that being open isn't the same as being weak."

- Taylor Swift

Friday, December 30, 2011

soooo....i'm back....

I'm back to good ol' Perthy after a month of galumphing around Asia and yeah, it's good to be back - back to my own bed, my own computer, internet that actually works...

More later when I'm less pooped.

Wednesday, December 14, 2011

monsoon dreaming.

Inspired by Kuala Lumpur, my home for the last few days. Tomorrow I embark on the final leg of my journey - Singapore, my mother's childhood home. Missing belephant and smelly belly. 

the sky cried on the streets today.
smoke and steam.

muddy puddles.
pay-by-the-hour hotels.

heaven stinks.

men stare.
sweat like diamonds
on brow, back and breasts.
i'm pretty sure you-know-whos aren't Sharia.
and then



The definition of atheism.

The dictionary definition of atheism is the rejection of the belief of the existence of deities. Clear as mud, huh? Well, I'm an atheist, and this is my take on what atheism is.

This isn't the ONE AND ONLY definition of atheism, and is certainly not the one and only CORRECT definition of atheism. This is just one atheist telling it how she ses it. So no hate mail, please.

As an atheist I reject the existance of a God or gods plural. I do not reject the possibility of the existence of deities, nor do I affirm the impossibility the existence of deities. So, to put it simply, I do not know or believe that the existence of deities is either possible or impossible. I simply believe that, in this world and in this life, there is no God.

There are other kinds of atheists out there. Some believe that deities can exist, they just don't, whilst others preach the impossibility of God. Others believe there might be something out there but it is not sentient, or at least uncaring of human activity.

The primary thing that atheists reject, however, is not God or gods plural, but religion. Religion is restrictive, confining and, to an atheist perspective, a futile sacrifice and, at times, at odds with human rights and human nature. I believe that we have evolved into intelligent, powerful, dangerous, sexual beings and religion suppresses what we are and what we are meant to be. Religion makes me ashamed to be a woman, to be a person, when I am on this earth as a person wholly in charge of my destiny, a bringer of life, put on this earth for a purpose and taken away when my existence becomes obsolete. Religion is a label, and to me, a prison. I cannot find peace in an institution which may have good intentions but is so vulnerable to corruption, violence and suppression. To me, atheism is freedom - freedom to be who I want to be, do what I want to do. I feel that I am a better person as an atheist, because I am free of guilt. I was not born a sinner, and I will not die a sinner. Death feels a little like a dead end, but there is nothing wrong with that. If there's no heaven and no hell, then the only thing death will bring me is a legacy, and if I am remembered as I want to be remembered then that isn't all that bad.

Monday, December 05, 2011

sharing food with the dead.

Broadcasting from Korea!

This is my last day in my father's hometown, Suncheon - tonight we take the bus back to Seoul for a few days before flying to Malaysia. Sorry I haven't updated in a little bit, but we are, ironically, suffering from prehistoric technology here.

One of the first things we do whenever we come is visit the graves to pay our respects. The most important grave we visit is that of my great-grandfather, who died when my father was four years old, and my great-grandmother, who died the year my sister was born. I don't know whether you've seen a traditional Korean gravesite, but it's actually very beautiful. An area is cleared out on the mountain, which is covered in dense forest, so that the dead can have a nice view. They are buried a few metres into the ground in simple wooden coffins and then it is covered in a mound of earth aout a metre high and two metres wide. Thatchy grass grows on the mounds as the years turn, and there is always a marble table in front of the grave with the deceased details etched onto it in Chinese. Some people, like my great-grandfather and great-grandmother, are buried side by side - spouses bound for eternity as they become one with the earth together. When we go we set up the small table with all sorts of food, and the thing I've always found funny is that it's all of my uncle's favourite foods - rice wine, rice punch, rice cakes, choco pies, chips, fruit and other miscellaneous junk food - because after bowing several times to the graves, the food becomes afternoon tea. Waste not, I suppose.

In other cultures nobody would dare eat the food offered to the dead, but to me it's almost spiritual. The Koreans love their food, and food is a big family thing. Food is shared, passed from parent's chopsticks to the rice bowls of their beloved children and nieces and nephews, heaped into huge portions and offered to the elderly. I've never met my great-grandparents, but somehow, there's something very nice about sharing a choco pie with them. It's how things should be.

Thursday, November 24, 2011

jumping the gun a bit.

As I make my way to my second to last year eleven finals, I have in my head resolved that next year I will do things a little differently.

All in all, I'm proud of how I've done this year. I've seen so many overconfident year tens crash and burn under the pressure of senior school, but I've borne the brunt of it and walked away relatively unscathed. Sure, I get tired and lazy and addicted to YouTube at times, but I've managed to get through the year in the good books, without failing too many things.

To me it was very important that I keep myself calm and relatively untroubled by year eleven. Too many people freak out and are burnt out by too many overnighters by the time year twelve hits - and that, my friends, is the big cheese. I took it easy. Tried not to obsess over marks. And I think it's paid off. I look forward to year twelve with much excitement and energy, and that was the main goal of year eleven.

Next year I will study more. Blog less. Work harder. Set more academic goals. Get iTunes set up again so that I can listen to music without the temptation of videos (ATM I listen to all my music on YouTube).

Next year I hope to:

1. Walk and get some fresh air at least once, if not twice a day (at least twice on weekends).
2. Set up to-do lists for each study session.
3. Only go on YouTube AFTER to-do list has been exhausted.
4. Write practice essays for each of my subjects at least once a fortnight (I have been very lazy about this, but I know it will help my Modern History.)
5. Use more sites other than Wikipedia (my Ancient History teacher warned me that the year twelve ancient history teacher has zero tolerance for Wikipedia)
6. Go to bed at ten. Sharp.
7. Wake up at six to study in the morning.
8. Continue to obsess about 90s for English and Lit (it is good for me. It doesn't sound like it, but it is. Trust me.)

I think that's it!

archiving is embarassing.

I honestly have no idea what was going through my head as a twelve and thirteen year old. I'm nearly sixteen, and quite frankly, the person I was four years ago is ridiculous. How could I have called all those people friends? Why did I write this and that? Why did I think I was being so witty and clever and funny? And WHY OH WHY did I fall in love so hard and so fast? Okay, I still do, but at least words like 'phwar' don't pop up too often now here. Except for Mathew Baynton. Phwar. But it's okay, because I'll never ever see him. 'Phwar' is not an appropriate word for a person you have to spend lots of time with.

I wish there was a polite way to tell a younger, innocent self that I might as well be a nun for all the luck I've had in love. Nothing is fair in love and war.

Friday, November 18, 2011

to my, like, wonderful readers LOL

I don't, um, really live in the world of like ROFL like LOL.

I mean, I like, live in it but I don't really get it. LOL.

This isn't really, um....a blog 4, like, peeps who don't know how 2 like, y'know, talk properly. Gottit? gr8. I like, um...don't really care if you, like, know my like ex-bf or whatevs man because y'know what? We, like, go 2 the same skool so I can, like, see all of U laughing and shiz. I mean, like, whatevs man. Totes not cool. Sum peeps don't like telling the whole world that they a) can't talk properly and b) don't understand anything.


Tuesday, November 15, 2011

I may possibly take a leetle weetle break...

Exams + vacation: possibly inactive Lady Solitaire.

I don't know how much time/access I'll have to this blog in the coming weeks, so I might take a summer snoozer. December 2011 may be the first time in THREE YEARS OF BLOGGING I have failed to post anything!

To keep you busy, here are my personal favourite internet haunts (I don't spend all my time here, you know):

Dirty Diaper Laundry - don't get put off by the title. Kim Rosas is a work at home wife and mother, and a super awesome environmentalist/cloth diaper advocate. You could watch the 200+ cloth diaper reviews but if you're not having babies then that's just a bit weird - she does have a personal blog which is baby related, but not so much. Kim is so not your average WAHM - she's funny, insightful, intelligent and down to earth. Also check out oatmealr, which is a YouTube channel dedicated entirely to her cute-as-pie sons, Fletcher and Everett.

Mama Natural - One of my all time favourite vlogs - Genevieve Damascus posts twice weekly on natural living, parenting, and life with her GORGEOUS baby GriffyD (CUTEST BABY I HAVE EVER SEEN) and her hubby, Mike. Warning: following this blog may lead to GWS (Griffin Withdrawal Syndrome) as the cute bub doesn't appear in every single video...nooo...

Karen Cheng - A Perth favourite. Food, fashion and family life.

Charlieissocoollike - I don't actually know any teenage girl who doesn't follow/obsessively stalk this Brit. Seriously.

HORRIBLE HISTORIES - Just type in 'Horrible Histories' into YouTube and go MAD! It's CRAZY FUN! (yes, I did just do about 20 links to Horrible Histories.)

Kurthugoschneider - Uh-May-Zing.

MetroDad - he doesn't post often, but when he does, it's gold.

Nigahiga - because nerdy Asianness isn't just skin deep.

Megan Nicole, Savannah Outen, Caitlin Hart, Tiffany Alvord - internet talent, sans Autotune. Good times.

So...probably adieu...for now...

Saturday, November 12, 2011

Vanity vs. Morality

I am now a size six, 32DD. Mwahahaha....

....not really.

A few weeks ago I was a model for one of my friend's photography project, in which she was making fake Levi jeans adverts. The photoshoot involved me, then nearly 60kg, prancing around in baggy jeans (jeans and I don't have the best working relationship) and very unflattering tank tops. I didn't mind too much because a) I should not be judged by my spare tires and b) I knew it would be edited to oblivion anyway.

I saw the end results and I must firstly say that my friend is very competent at all this photography editing stuff. Looking at the pictures, you'd probably think that the model was a spot free, size six, 6 foot model with a nonexistant waist. But it's not. It's a heavily edited picture of a short, spotty, dumpy teenager.

I am fundamentally opposed to photoshopping adverts. I have been all too often a victim of the portrayal of unhealthy body images and, as a sufferer of depression, I take attacks on self-esteem very seriously. Young girls these days have too many things to worry about.

But, this is where my vanity kicks in. I am just a normal, hormonal, teenage girl. I have my insecurities, but more importantly, I have my own vanities. I love looking good. I love how I look in those photos, even though I know if I were that skinny in reality I would be very, very unhealthy (and I wouldn't have such big jugs). But I can't help loving how I look in those pictures. I've been brainwashed. I'm still opposed to photoshop, but I can't help but like how I look with photoshop. You can't win.

So I'm a hypocrite. I know. But at least I'm hot.

Tuesday, November 08, 2011

eating a very, very humble pie.

I have absolutely no problem in saying that I am cocky. I know what I am good at, and I'm damn proud of what I'm good at. We all have a right to be so.

However, I'm not too proud to concede defeat. I'm not the sort who cannot fly a white flag. I'm not scared of admitting that I've stuffed up, and asking for a second chance. I know my faults, and I know where I go wrong. My ego's been deflated but it's a learning experience.And now I am eating a very, very humble pie.

I remember vividly the very first essay I got back when I first skipped a grade. I was fresh out of primary school and I had no idea how to write an essay, no concept of academic writing. I gave it my best shot and prayed for the best. At that time I was a very cocky kid, terrified of failure. At least, that's what I thought.

I must tell you that I set very different standards for myself than other people, and I have very different standards for some subjects than others. For example, for all of my subjects I am perfectly happy with 70s and 80s, and so are my teachers. But for English and Lit I will fight tooth and nail to get 90s. It's just how I work.


I got this first paper back, and it was a 73%. 22 out of 30. This was a top class where a good half of them were getting 31 (English teachers are not known for their mathematical skills). An utter failure for my standards. Even now, I still cry a little when I don't get a 90. But back then I didn't feel shocked, or sad, or try to justify my failure with 'I've just skipped a grade'. I had lived for eight years getting nothing less than perfect for my reading and writing. It made me restless - knowing I wasn't yet a good writer, but not knowing how to make myself better; knowing I didn't yet deserve perfect scores, but getting them because teachers couldn't be bothered, or simply couldn't, dig deep and pull out some flaw. I had lived for eight years helping teachers mark work, helping teachers mark my own work, writing and working without a single praise or critique. And here was a teacher willing to scribble out page after page of what I didn't do, what I did wrong, and what I could do better. Nothing was harsh or cynical or judgemental. It was you suck the big one, but in a nice way.

I left year nine, as a year eight, a perfect 30 student. Every essay I got back that wasn't perfect, there was always help and guidance, and more importantly, an internalized drive to do better.

I realize now that I have lost this. I'd gotten lazy, overly confident that I wouldn't slip too far even if I didn't put the work in. Don't get me wrong, I did work very hard on this particular disaster, but hard work is futile if you haven't got the bitterness of failure on your tongue. I was fighting against failure, but I had forgotten what failure was like. I'd forgotten what it was like to fall short of my own expectations.

I could have endless, perfectly-valid excuses as to why I had missed the mark. I have skipped a grade, after all. What I did end up getting is more than most people dream of. It's not such a bad mark, and, in the grand scheme of things, English isn't going to count towards anything, Yeah, that's true. But I didn't take English so I could flunk it, and waste my time. I took English because I love it, because I'm good at it, and because I grow and learn so much in English. And yes, the mark I did get isn't so bad. In another subject, I'd probably very happy. But I have my own standards. I know what is good and bad for me, and state averages aren't much of a comfort to me. An Olympic swimmer isn't going to be satisfied with what I would consider a fast lap time, but he'd probably take my essay scores, even my 'bad 'ones, anyday. All I know is that I normally do better, and now I feel bad. 

So I'm going to do it again. I'm going to take a break, catch my breath, and throw myself into it. Just like I did, a long time ago, as a scared year eight girl out in the big world.

But for now, I have to finish my very, very humble pie.

Sunday, November 06, 2011

Operation Get Fit: The rewards, or, how to get a glutton to lose weight.

Update: Aunt Flo being a bit temperamental, but otherwise I am down to about 54.5kg. Woot!

When I was my old 57kg self, I told myself that my life would not get any better if I was skinnier. That there was no point; it wasn't worth the effort. I was in a pretty happy place, and I'd been skinnier before, but I'd also been unhappier before. I had lost, probably for the greater good, the connection between weight and happiness. But just because I was happy being 57kg doesn't mean I would necessarily be happy and continue to pile on weight. I had reached 57kg after a 7kg slippery slope since my first bout of depression three or four years ago. My reasons for eating had changed, but the point was I was still eating, eating, eating.

I am a self-confessed, happy-go-lucky glutton. I have always loved food - specifically, I love good food. Food makes me happy. Going to my favourite restaurant and realizing the food has turned shit is akin to being dumped. The consequence of my epicurean habits is that I have often used food as an anti-depressant. Not such a good idea when I suffer from depression. Food as an anti-depressant + person who suffers from depression = one fat, depressed person.

So here is how I to get a glutton to lose weight:

1. Don't quit cold turkey.

You can't quit ice cream cold turkey. In fact, in my opinion, if you do quit ice cream you've lost any reason to live ;). Slow and steady really does win the race.

2. I wish I could lose a dress size every time I walk the dog. But it doesn't work like that.

It has been about 3 weeks since I started Operation Get Fit, and I have lost 2.5kg. This isn't losing a dress size, but it is losing a muffin top. It does work, eventually.

3. Big tip: Eat sloooooowly. 

Multitasking whilst eating is a big no-no. When you're chewing, don't think about what you're going to eat next, or arrange the next mouthful on your fork. When you're hoovering down food you almost always eat too much.

4. The people who love you tell you you're fat.

My mother has been nagging me about my weight for ages. And to be honest, it really hurt to have my own mother tell me I was fat. But the people who really love you tell it like it is. K used to swear I wasn't putting on weight. No points for guessing who's the douchebag out of the two.

5. If you look for them, the rewards come thick and fast.

Things that have changed since I've lost some weight (and this is only 2.5kg!):

1. I no longer have insomnia.
2. No more muffin top!
3. I fit into all my jeans now (jeans hate me, because I'm too short for size 10 but too wide for size 12.)
4. I can climb up two flights of really steep stairs without dying.
5. I can run to class without dying.
6. My boobs look bigger ;P.
7. I'm off ramen. Strange, huh?
8. 'Healthy' options aren't all that gross, as I've found out. Replace salty, oily chips with semi-dried tomatoes and crackers. Yummy.
9. Losing weight isn't as hard as I thought it would be. I still eat - a lot - but I'm already losing weight and I already feel the difference.
10. My weight doesn't fluctuate that much. I mean, it still does, it probably always will. But now the difference is like 1kg, not...you know...7...


Friday, November 04, 2011

sometimes it's nice not being all hormonal.

 As you may have guessed, I am a bit of a lovebug.

I'm not exactly a love magnet, but that's another story.

But sometimes it's nice having guyfriends. Guys who hold no attraction to you apart from laughs, back massages and good times. As silly and girly as I can be, sometimes all I want to be is one of the boys. I hate being all self conscious and shy around guys, especially when I know I'm wasting my time and that nothing's going to happen, ever. It's tiring and frustrating and in the end, I'm the one who ends up getting hurt.

There are a handful of guys now that I'm truly comfortable around, and for a change, the non-romanticness is mutual and comfortable. We talk about school and stuff. I can ask them someting academic without worrying about sounding nerdy. It doesn't matter if I'm not wearing makeup, my hair's a mess, etc. There's lots of hair ruffling and shoulder punching and sitting on laps. No kissing, no flirting, no hugging, no asking out, no goo goo eyes. Just how I like it.

I haven't had effortlessly platonic relationships with boys for ages and ages and ages, and it's endlessly frustrating. I remember back when I was little I had lots of friends who were boys and playing with them was some of the best times of my childhood. It was so nice to be around people who haven't got that Inner Female Bitch Gene. I acknowledge I've probably messed up two perfectly good friendships - BSC and K - by falling in love with my best mates. I mean, I love my girlfriends to pieces, but sometimes you need a bit of yang to your ying. Platonic yang.

I think some guys - especially the guys that, ahem, seem to go through girls fairly quickly - are a little envious of all these guys who have lots of girl mates, the kind of guys who have probably never gone out with anyone but have no shortage of female company. In some ways you can be closer to your friends than you ever can with a boyfriend or a girlfriend, because attraction is completely out of the equation - it's like even if I was going out with someone, there would still be some things I'd only talk about with Cristy and my friends and not said boyfriend.

I love being myself. I've tried to be myself around everyone, even people I really, really, really like, but that doesn't always work out. I love being myself, and I love having friends. I don't care that my guyfriends don't look like Brad Pitt, and they don't care that I don't look like Angeline Jolie. Girlfriends - at least my girlfriends - aren't picky like that, and it's probably because the attraction isn't skin deep like so many high school romances. Sometimes with guys, and friendship, romance really is the kiss of death.

Wednesday, November 02, 2011


dreaming of meeting kindred spirits <3

I feel as if I was made
To walk this earth alone
But people cross my path
Like black cats and
Smashed mirrors
I'm always walking under ladders.

I feel as if I was made
As a kind of trick,
The joke's on me.
I'm walking onto Noah's Ark
Without a pair
I used to be scared, but

Now I cannot take human company,
I dream of something more ethereal.
I have to win this gamble,
I must win this game;
My soulmate will not be fully human,
For I am not fully sane.

When I was just a girl,
I thought I could rule the world.
But now I see,
A queen must have a king.

When I was young and idle
I dreamed of meeting
Friends for life.

I never realized that
I dreamed of nothing short of paradise.

for my partners in crime,
belephant and renegade. 

Inspired by 'Paradise' by Coldplay

Princess of China

if you had hated me
as i loved you
we would have been complete.

That is the difference between

a crime of passion
is a passion nonetheless.
but to live and die
is the greater punishment.

you are the kind of man
who can walk away from
the greatest of prizes.

the kind of man who takes for granted
what other men only dream of.

at least,
that is what i am told.

i was a Princess of China,
you could have been king...

now we are neither,
and as our castle burns down

you smile.

Inspired by 'Princess of China' by Coldplay.

Incidentally, I am just a little self conscious now that I know exactly who is reading this blog, but life goes on. Or blogging does, at any rate. It's called strength of character, and not being a floozy.

Sunday, October 30, 2011

Operation Get Fit: Why teenageness makes you fat.

Update: I have lost a kilo! 55, baby!

In my opinion, the teenage years are the worst for people who have slow metabolisms and tend to pile on weight easily (read: me).

Firstly, there's the hormonal crap. Did you know that teenagers can gain up to 50% of their normal bodyweight due to hormonal craziness? Female puberty prepares women for childbearing, and fertility requires fat. Which is why you bulk up a bit during adolescence. How sucky.

But mostly it's our eating habits. When we're studying, we're so frenzied that we'll eat finger foods so that you can multitask with your physics homework. Sit down meals seem like an incredible waste of time. But when you multitask with food - so studying and eating, watching tv and eating, etc - you lose track of what you're eating and how much you're eating. For example - would you seriously go through a jumbo box of popcorn if that's all you were doing? No! But at movies we steadily chomp through unreasonable amounts of food because we simply don't realize we're eating at all, half the time. Habit eating, which is a rather bad habit of mine, is a sneaky cause of weight gain.

My other little vice is what I call NOTHING IS GOING RIGHT IN MY LIFE WAHH I'M JUST GOING TO EAT EAT EAT EAT BECAUSE FOOD IS MY ONLY FRIEND!!!!!!! I have been known to go slightly off my head at times, and with that, I go off my face with food. My biggest binging times were:

1. Year Seven, aged twelve - The last time I was under 50kg. I was SO OVER eight years of PURE HELL, so I concentrated all of my self-pity into daily binges of ramen noodles.

2. Year Eight, aged thirteen - Lose a boyfriend, gain a kilo (or three). Basically, more ramen.

Since then I have pulled back on my ramen obsession, but I haven't really been very conservative with portion control - okay, I had no concept of portion control until recently. I ate until I couldn't get another bite in and always went to bed feeling very full and slightly sick. My theory is that all the food you eat until you're no longer hungry goes into energy and fat reserve, and the food you eat until you're full just turns into, well, fat. My eating patters were also different to normal meal times, so I found myself eating when I felt like it (a full meal midmorning and after school) AND during normal mealtimes (breakfast, lunch, dinner). That's five meals a day!

My love affair with food continues, but we now have a pre-nup. Portion control.

Saturday, October 29, 2011


The Queen is in Perth today.

No, I haven't seen her.

No, I don't plan to see her.

No, I don't hate her.

But yes, I am a republican.

Friday, October 28, 2011

the narrow mindedness of getting the hell out of here.

There are two problems with Australian people: we shamelessly advertise our country even if we know we're a leaky luxury ship, and we insist on pretending everything's okay when most things are not.

I'm a cynical second-generation immigrant. I don't have cash to burn; my 'back up plan' is Centrelink, not an inheritance. I really don't have any room to fail, nor do I have any interest in experimenting with failure. It's become a taboo to love to succeed, to love to win, but I do and I'm not ashamed of it. I don't have a bleak outlook on life; I have a bleak outlook on some people in my life. I complain a lot. I don't really fit in.

I have spent pretty much all of my life in Perth. I have also spent pretty much all of my life trying to get out of Perth. Don't get me wrong, Perth is a lovely place to grow up, because it's nice and boring and pretty hard to run into trouble. But I'm fifteen, and I'm a rebel without a cause. I'm tired of lovely, nice and boring. I have been for a very long time.

I've wanted to go to Oxford since I was eight and my mother explained The Story Behind Her Oxford Jumper. Now I have a jumper of my own, and I'd still love to go to Oxford, but it's appallingly expensive and notoriously difficult for undergrad international students, so for me it's more a postgrad plan. Yes, I am one of those nerds who wants to do postgrad. Got a problem with that?

But Oxford is in England, and going to England involves getting on a plane and waving bye-bye to good ol' Perthy. And people don't like that, because it's acknowledging that Perth is a boring, lonely place to live.

I want to get a lit degree. I want to do big things. I don't see many other options aside from going abroad and trying to strike it big. Nobody is going to listen to a little Perth schoolkid, and uni degrees mean less than nothing now. I need to have more than that. I need to be the kind of person that people sit up and listen to.

I told my teacher that, and he said 'you've failed already'. Gee, thanks. Just what I want to hear from a teacher.

There were two hypocrites in that class in which this conversation took place. I'm sad to say that one of them was not a clueless student.

The clueless student, with permed hair, makeup and fake nails, said to me 'I think you're too obsessed with what people think about you. I mean, it's not our fault you're so insecure that you need to do all this stuff to make yourself feel better'.

The clueless non-student said 'Right, now lets go listen to JUSTICE MICHAEL KIRBY who was a FORMER JUDGE in the HIGH COURT who went to the UNIVERSITY OF SYDNEY. We're REALLY PRIVILEDGED to HAVE HIM HERE'.

So, according to the above, Michael Kirby is obsessed with what people think about him and is insecure, and we would totally be skipping class to be listen to seventy-year-old dudes, even if they weren't HIGH COURT JUDGES or similar. If they were just random nobodies.

Just like me.

I'm not narrowminded for wanting to leave this unintellectual place of eternal boredom. It's not a flippant decision. I've lived here for FIFTEEN YEARS, and I think that's quite enough time to establish that this is not the be and all and end all of everything. There's nothing narrowminded about wanting to see the world, step out of my comfort zone, become the sort of person I want to be and to respond to a higher calling. I am not so idealistic as my dear Perth lovers. I am a nobody, and nobody listens to a nobody. My goals aren't the only way to establish yourself, but establishing yourself not only on a local level, but also on an international scale is the only way to make people shut up and listen. Because we all have good ideas; we all have the potential to be geniuses. But we don't live in a time and place where people throw money at nobodies with potential. You have to be somebody to do something.

Tuesday, October 25, 2011

Relief Teachers.

Being a relief teacher is tough and irritating, but don't expect too much sympathy from students; after all, it is your job, and you do get paid for it. You're replacing probably a much-loved, easygoing laid back teacher, and any kid is going to be grumpy about that. So don't make it worse. 

1. Go with the flow.

Students are creatures of habit, and dislike breaking routine. A teacher who is obsessive compulsive about method and procedure really shouldn't be a relief teacher, because it never, ever works.

2. Don't deprecate yourself.

"I'm new here", "I don't understand what's going on", "I'm just a math teacher, I know nothing about history" and "can someone please tell me what to do" sounds wimpy, and students love to pick on wimpy people. Be strong.

3. Get a kid to do the roll.

A whole slew of badly-pronounced names is irritating and a waste of time, not to mention a huge potential for massive embarassment on your part.

4. Follow the old teacher's rules.

Many teachers take a very relaxed approach to teaching - these are often the classes that don't have behavior ir discipline problems because the teacher treats the students more like human beings and less like puny insects. So if the old teacher allows it, you should allow it. Let the kids sit on the tables and listen to iPods. Deal with it. It won't kill you.

5. Don't ask one single kid to explain every detail of day to day routine.

They'll always get it wrong or make it up. I guarantee it.

6. Don't set yourself up for mockery.

The normal teacher can probably get away with mumuus and purple lipstick You never will.

7. Don't demand TOTAL UTTER SILENCE.

All you will get is TOTAL UTTER HATRED.

8. Remember that students have many outlets for revenge.

And most of them are very, very public.

Monday, October 24, 2011

Operation Get Fit: Who you callin' fat?

Update: I have lost about half a kilo in a week. So my weight now fluctuates between 49.5-56.5. Anyone know how to stop it from moving around so much?

Most people I talk to put weight down to a number, a dress size, a particular appearance. For most women, 60 is the magic number, as in 60kg. Under 60, and you're pretty trim. That's the main idea.

But it doesn't always work like that. I'm a good four or five kilos under 60, and I'm not really the trimmest person to walk the planet. In fact, I'm pretty sure if I ever hit 60 I'd be one chunky monkey. So it does vary, a lot. For some women (like me), 50 or 55 is pretty much the max. Other women can hit 60, 70 or even 80 and still be healthy.

You can't tell how healthy you are by your appearance. Fat cells are decided genetically - as in, you can't control it. You'll always have a minimum weight that you can't avoid without becoming seriously ill. You gain or lose weight by filling these fat cells with fat, but they're always there, and they always have a little fat in them. It's healthy and perfectly normal. This is also why some people find it hard to gain weight. Fat, and acceptable levels of fat, is also dictated by your racial and ethnic background - for example, if you're white with a medium build you can probably get away with a few more pounds than someone who's the same height but Asian with a slightly smaller build. Conversely, some races are just naturally plump to endure conditions in native lands (i.e. Eskimos).

Fat is also only one factor in general wellness. You can be fit and active and still be 60kg with generous love handles, but you'll be miles healthier than a skinny stick who smokes and eats burgers all day. The problem is that in this day and age we associate general health far too much with the number our scales churn out, and a lot of people think they're fine because they're thin when in fact some are more unhealthy than people who are a trifle overweight.

You can't always tell if you're the correct weight by appearance, either. Fat in different places mean different things, for example, fat in the breast, buttocks and thighs are actually healthy and essential for female fertility, but fat in the stomach is linked to diabetes and heart disease.

Stretch marks can be caused by weight gain, but are more often caused by pregnancy or the sudden growth spurts in adolescence. This is why babies have such lovely fat rolls, because this is when human beings do the most growing - if babies were as slender as adults they'd have stretch marks all over.

BMI calculators are also pretty flukey, because they don't take into account ethnicity, metabolism, age etc - Arnold Schwarzenegger would actually be chronically obese according to his BMI (he probably is now, but I was talking about his Terminator days). I have a pretty low BMI, but it doesn't mean much - a BMI calculator is useful in ensuring that your goal weight, if you're trying to lose weight, is healthy. I would like to be about 50-53kg, which is still well within the healthy BMI range. That's pretty much the only time I'm going to use the BMI calculator, because according to it I could go up to 63kg without being 'fat'! I'm 'fat' already!

My advice about getting fit is not to stress too much about it. Focus on being fit and healthy, not the abuse your scales give you. A little bit of icecream won't kill you, and no matter what, you're never going to look like Miranda Kerr.

I'm always going to be a big girl. But big girls still have to climb a few flights of stairs without having heart attacks. It's part of life.

sex appeal is overrated.

in other news, I met JACKIE FREAKING FRENCH today! again.

Sorry, I'm one of those people who gets startstruck by authors. But it was very, very, very, very, very, very cool.

Anyway, about sex appeal...

I'm one of those people who's a bit slow to hear about music. As in, I've only just gotten into Viva la Vida. Yeah. That slow.

One of the songs that's kind of stuck in my head lately is 'Superbass', by Nicki Minaj. But I can't always watch the video. To me, it's just too overly sexual.

Now, I don't really have a problem with the lyrics. Strange, huh? But I honestly don't mind it, even when he make you drip drip/kiss him on the lip lips. I mean, I would be comfortable with a two year old singing it, but whatever.

It's the video that bugs me.

It's not jus the fact that every second frame is a full-frame shot of somebody's boobs. It's the six packs and just the overall obsession with physical appearance.

I've grown up in this world where everyone is obsessed with how everyone looks. I grew up genuinely believing I wouldn't be happy unless I was 30kg and six feet tall, with a six-pack husband. So, essentially, Orlando Bloom and Miranda Kerr.

Now that I'm older, and hopefully wiser, I've accepted that I'm not going to get that. But apart from that, I sometimes feel like I'm the only person - at least in high school - who can almost completely see past appearance and appearances. It doesn't mean I haven't got an appreciation for beauty, because I do. It doesn't mean I shy away from the sexy and the sexual, because I don't. But I'm human, and I'm tired of being pressured into being a plastic doll, liking plastic dolls. I guarantee I'll be just as smart, just as dumb, just as clutzy and just as annoying if I had 32DD and could squeeze into size two dresses. I'd be the same person with a slightly creepy and extremely temporary shell. But that's not what I want.

One day I'll be fat and fifty and I want to be holding hands with someone fat and fifty and think 'you and I were young and beautiful once...but now we're not and I still love you, and you still love me.'

Have a Heart for the Homeless.

I am truly disgusted at our country's immigration policy. It truly makes me sick. It makes me ashamed to be Australian.

People don't understand how important innocence is to innocent people. If you put people who have committed no crime other than to seek a safe place to live in a prison, it's going to mess with their heads. People don't realize just how much of a prison detention centres are; they don't realize it's a breeding ground for mental illness and insanity. People go insane in there. I know I would.

We treat immigrants worse than we treat murderers and rapists. They are victims of war, of poverty, of illness, famine and corruption. Things that many of us cannot even contemplate, and yet we treat them like animals until they behave like animals. Can we not take some responsibility for the riots in the detention centres? Or, more importantly, can we not take responsibility for the suicides and self-harm in the detention centres? Every day we keep these detention centres open and running we get more blood and shit on our hands.

We are a racist, xenophobic bigoted lot. We don't know what it is to be hungry, persecuted, unwanted. We take for granted food on our tables and roofs over our heads. We take for granted the ability to pursue a free and happy life and to raise a safe and happy family. There are many people the world over who can only dream of these rights, and we shun them because - well, why don't we say it like it is? They're black, poor and foreign, and we just can't take it.

Have a heart for the homeless. This is Australia, land of the free.

Sunday, October 23, 2011

Viva la Vida.

A funeral.
In a dreary graveyard.
The funeral director,
Too fat,
Cried oniontears for mum and dad.

We called him
Caesar Grandfather;
Which was a polite way of saying
I cried oniontears for mum and dad.

The next day.
Where everything runs smoothly with
a little
catnip and

As I walked past locker E46
I whispered:
The old king is dead,
long live the king.

Inspired (vaguely) by Viva la Vida by Coldplay.

Saturday, October 22, 2011


I just watched Mistletoe. I now have to find a place to throw up.

Really early Christmas greetings from Justin Bieber and the Cranky Spinster.

Recipe: Semi-Dried Tomatoes.

This is SUUPER easy to make and super versatile; add to pasta, sandwiches, or eat with brie cheese and crusty bread. Yum.

You will need:
~ Tomatoes - any sort, and as much as you want.
~ Thyme and/or Rosemary - again, as much or as little as you want. I suppose you could use basil, oregano, etc. For about 2kg of tomatoes I used ten big sprigs of rosemary from our garden. Use dried if you can't get fresh.
~ Garlic - mince finely or it'll burn. I used almost a whole globe for 2kg of tomatoes, but you can use as little as one or two cloves.
~ Olive Oil
~ Salt - about 1tsp per kilo
~ Sugar - about 2 tsp per kilo
~ Boiling water
~ Iced water

1. Preheat oven to 100-120 degree Celcius.
2. Wash and de-core tomatoes, score a cross lightly into the bottom.
3. Place tomatoes in boiling water for 20 seconds, then place into iced water.
4. Peel tomatoes and slice in half.
5. Finely chop herbs and garlic, combine with salt and sugar and cover with olive oil. Stir.
6. Arrange tomatoes on baking trays and smother each with the oil mixture - about 1-2tsp for each tomato half.
7. Put in oven and forget about it.
8. Bottle with any oil on the tray. Cover with more oil if necessary.
9. Will keep for 2-3 weeks

How long do I cook them for? The tomatoes won't do anything for at least two or three hours. I normally take them out after four or five hours, mostly out of impatience. They're good and cooked by then, but still juicy. Some people leave it overnight. Be careful oven is not too hot because garlic and herbs can burn. Tastes best when slow cooked in a slow oven.

The Most Important Things I've Ever Learned.

1. High school is essentially the bargain bin of boys. You get what you pay for, no refunds or exchanges.

2. Life is too short not to order the chocolate cake.

3. Butter makes everything delicious, a two year old will eat anything if you drown it in ketchup and when in doubt, put on bright red lipstick.

4. The only friends worth having are those you would trust your Porsche and your Tiffanys with.

5. No matter what, your mother is always the best cook.

6. Never buy a dress or date a boy that needs altering.

7. It's fine to spend all day in your pyjamas, but people who wear crocs have given up on life.

8. Coffee is not a substitute for sleep.

9. Never understimate knitting grandmas. It's frickin' impossible to knit.

10. A man should always walk curbside, open doors, offer his jacket, wear his wedding ring and pay for the first date. We have to go through labour and PMS.

11. You're only in love when you can hang out with someone as if you were hanging out by yourself: air-guitaring and bad karaoke included.

12. Don't listen to the critics. There's nothing better than a chick flick on a lazy Saturday night.

13. Don't kid yourself. Everyone likes ballroom dancing.

14. The best cure for a cold is ramen noodles.

15. The Devil really does wear Prada.

16. Real women eat steak.

17. You're never too young or too old to dye your hair bright red.

18. Any good Korean can fix anything with ginseng and chicken soup.

19. Quick-dry nail polish never dries quickly

20. We gotta work together. None of us gets out of this alive.

Monday, October 17, 2011

I'm a renegade, it's in my blood.

I'll let you in on a little secret...

I often pretend to be much more tolerating of other people's religious beliefs than I actually am. Deep down, I am often very impatient and skeptical of the whole institution. Perhaps a little too much so for the benefit of civil peace.

People often accuse atheists of acting superior or being condescending to the religious sort, and to be honest, it's often very true. But is that any different to anyone else? No matter how tolerant or accepting one person is of another person's religious beliefs, or lack of religious beliefs, we all secretly think that we are right. I would not be an atheist if I did not genuinely believe that there is absolutely no God, and if I did not genuinely believe that there is little point in prayer or worship. And I reserve my right to think so.

There's no shame in the 'I'm right, you're wrong' thinking; it's why we are religious or anti-religious in the first place. It's not just religion; we all slip into 'I'm right, you're wrong' every now and again. How many times have you battled with your parents, with your children, with your friends over the most trivial things because each person thinks that they have a better idea? The world still turns round despite this.

The key is tolerance. The key is pretending to be much more understanding than you are. The key is to not let it bother you; in the end, does it really matter what religion everyone is? There are religious differences even in our circle of friends, but it doesn't bother us even though we do talk about religion quite a lot. We all have a different opinion, but that's not the problem; the problem is when we forget to agree to disagree.

Sunday, October 16, 2011

Things that Are Uniquely Australian (that sometimes confuse the hell out of tourists)

1. Tipping is rare and usually not necessary, given the high labour costs and massive spike in the prices of goods such as petrol and fresh produce. It is, however, expected that you give someone a tip if they are a friend or acquaintence and/or they did the work for free. Tipping has also become a cliche expected at first dates.

2. There are no hard and fast rules at restaurants. Some prefer you wait at the door; others don't mind if you wander around and pick a table. Some have waiters to take your order, others prefer you to order at the counter. Most of the time the bill is paid at the counter, not brought to you in a folder.

3. Thongs in Australia are sandals, known as flip flops or slippers (don't call them that here, it's weird). The underwear known as a thong in Australia is known as a 'g-string'. Bathers and nappies are swimsuits and diapers; pants are trousers, not underwear - underwear is boxers or jocks for boys and knickers and undies for girls. A singlet is any kind of sleeveless top; a boob tube is a strapless top.

4. A creek in Australia is a stream or small river, a paddock is a field, the bush is just country areas in general, and people use the word 'mate' for absolutely everybody in pretty much any context, even if they're pissed off; i.e. 'WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING, MATE???' A man is a bloke, a woman is a sheila, but only in the outback. G'day is used interchangeably with 'hello' or 'hi'. A cuppa is a cup of tea, damper is bread cooked on an open fire.

5. There is not one universal Australian accent; it varies from region to region and also by socio-economic status. The working class tend to use more localized grammar, Aboriginal-loan words and slang vocabulary, whereas the richy rich try and fail to be people fresh out of Austen. A good way to tell is whether they call the last meal of the day 'dinner' or 'tea'.

6. Chips are crisps, as in the ones sold in packaged air. Hot chips are chips, as in the ones in fish and chips. Fries are skinny chips.

7. If the soft drink is black, it's Coke. If the soft drink is yellow, it's Solo. If the soft drink is clear, it's Lemonade. The word soda is only used in a cocktail context, and nobody ever calls anything cola. To be safe, use brand names. 

8. Nicknames pop up ALL THE TIME. Barry becomes Bazza. Nobody ever calls anybody here 'Christopher' or 'Edward'. Bluey is common for people with red hair. You can get away with pretty much anything except for abo or nigger.

9. If you're unsure what to call something, use the British English term, especially amongst older folks. However, most Australians will know both the American, Australian and British term for most things (it's like knowing three languages!)

8. A bikkie is a biscuit, and is usually sweet (savoury biscuits are crackers). Zucchini, snow pea, eggplant, capsicum and rockmelon are courgette, mangetout, aubergine, pepper and cantaloupe. Most people know what a courgette, aubergine and cantaloupe is. Nobody knows what a mangetout is. We know that a pepper can be a capsicum but for us it's almost exclusively the spice.

9. Tomato sauce is ketchup. We don't understand why the Brits and Americans must call every sauce by its colour (red sauce, brown sauce, orange sauce, white sauce). Most people have forgotton what McDonalds is - it's always Maccas. Always.

10. A dollar is a buck, and is a coin. If it's a large amount of money, it may be referred to as 'smackaroos' (e.g. it cost me a thousand smackaroos).

11. A flat white is an expresso drowned in enough hot milk to fill a cup or mug. A long black is a flat white made with water instead of milk. A short black is an expresso.

12. Cheapo wine is very popular, and sold in casks, known as goons. Some people take the bag out of the box (taking the silver lady out to dance) to get every last drop, and to use it as a pillow.

13. Almost everyone here loves sport. Having a football team is almost mandatory. It is judged by geography, but people who live in an area with a shit team sometimes say, or pretend, that they used to live in /grew up in another area so that they can support a better team. The hierarchy of teams is known as a ladder. Cricket and tennis is also super popular, although baseball is not.

14. Football, footy, Aussie Rules and AFL all refer th Australian football. Soccer is for ther European-type football, and nobody really plays American football. Rugby is known as, well, rugby, and also league, union or thugby (although don't say that to a rugby player!)

To barack is to support a sport team. People don't 'root' for a team because root means sex (dunno where that came from)

15. A ute is a pick up truck, and an SUV is a 4WD. A truck is usually one of those big industrial road trains.

16. The big vans used by the police for random breath testing is known as a booze bus.

17. A soldier is usually known as a digger.

18. The words 'vacation' or 'abroad' are very rarely used 'holiday' or 'overseas' is more common. Fall is Autumn.

19. A stubby is a bottle of beer.

20. Dressing standards are extremely casual, and people often walk around in nothing but board shorts or a bikini. However, thongs, hats and singlets are not permitted in some high-end restaurants.

21. The legal drinking age is 18. The legal age of consent is 16 in most places, 17 in a few states. You can drive at the age of 16 (learning).

22. White Australians are notorious for attempting to impose Western manners onto others; malicious intent or not. This is a terrible generalization, and of course there are plenty of non-patronizing people of all races in Australia. But if it happens, don't take it too seriously, but don't let them get too condescending.

23. Australia's a weird place. You learn to live here.

you know...

I'm making semi-dried tomatoes but they're taking ages to, you know...dry...

I'm pretty sure I saw Sam Worthington in the city today, but he was wearing sunglasses and, you know, all Aussie blokes wearing sunglasses look the same...

School starts tomorrow and I'm, you know, freaking out...

I went for a run last night and I, you know, died...

Saturday, October 15, 2011

Operation Get Fit.

I am on a mission to get fit.

On the side, I would like to lose a little weight before ball. Not something crazy. Just three or four kilos so that everything is nice and smooth. I'm not actually too worried about the weight - I'm more concerned about getting fit.

It's no secret that I'm not fit - I never have been and I never will be super duper trooper fit. But I feel tired all the time, super sluggish, and I cannot walk long distances at all. My biggest killer are staircases - and in a school like mine, I walk up and down about twenty staircases a day! Even more when I catch the bus!

This is my main concern, because it's making me chronically fatigued and really not nice. I would like to be able to walk up a flight or two of stairs without feeling like I'm going to DROP DEAD.

I also have a heart condition, so I really should be a bit more careful about my health than I am now. I don't eat chocolate or candy anymore (I don't like it much, anyway) and I've restricted the unhealthy stuff that I do like, like ramen noodles. At the moment I'm working on portion control. But the most important thing is to never stop loving food - life is too short not to order chocolate cake!

The third thing is weight. To put it out there, I'm about 5'3" and I weigh about 110-125 pounds. The reason for so much variation is that my weight fluctuates a LOT - on a really good day I'll wake up about 50kg, but after eating and so on I'll normally fall asleep at about 54 or 55. If I'm bloated or pigging out too much it can go up to 56 or 57. Now, this might not sound so bad - and I know lots of girls my height who can get away with being 60kg - but I only have a small/medium frame, and I'm Asian, and Asians don't do so well with weight; statistics show that the Asian anatomy combined with a Western lifestyle is a bad combo and can lead to birth complications and health problems later in life. I'm also pretty short, and I don't have the lovely voluptuous gene - it's more dumpy than voluptuous. Because of my height I can only wear small or medium clothes, but size small is getting a little, well, small. Also, my weight is not really where I want it to be - fat around the hips, thighs and buttocks of a woman is actually quite healthy, as unsightly as it may be. But I have trim legs and decent hips, so all the weight is on my Buddha belly - between my waist and my hips; this not only looks weird but is actually the worst place to have fat (this is why men, despite having lower levels of fat then women, are more prone to fat-related health issues). I also have an hourglass shape figure, which means that stomach fat on me is even worse. So I'm not trying to be super duper skinny. I love having hips and boobs. I love being curvy and I know that if I drop below size ten I'll look really unhealthy. I love being an hourglass shape. But the bottom half of the hourglass just as to trim up a bit. 

I think I was the unhealthiest when I was about twelve or thirteen - I was sad, bored, frustrated and depressed. I hated school, I didn't have many friends, and I was beginning to discover just how fun douchebag immature pre-teen boys are. I drowned two successive dumpings and countless unrequited loves in cookie-dough icecream and potato chips and endless bowls of ramen. I began replacing boys with food, friends with food, a fulfilling education with food. I spent all day dreaming of what to eat and when I came home I ate like there was no tomorrow.

Obviously, I'm over that, but that still doesn't mean I'm fit. I don't want to go to the Olympics or walk on a catwalk. This won't end all of my problems and get me my happily ever after. But I just want to be happy and healthy. 

So I've started Operation Get Fit. Wish me luck.

Friday, October 07, 2011

In Memory of Steve Jobs

Rest in peace, Steve Jobs.

Now I'll never know how to get my iPod to behave again.

Steve Jobs 1955 ~ 2011
Co-founder of Apple Inc.

Thursday, October 06, 2011

Would all the gentlemen please stand up?

I have decided that

A place like Australia

And a setting like a high school

Is not really conducive

To the kind of Darcy boys

That I know



In a far off world

With their

Caroline Bingleys.

Wednesday, October 05, 2011

Rome: Social Hierarchy.

Rome was a sprawling multicultural metropolis, but it was as hierarchal as it was motley. The social hierarchy, as I understand it, is as follows:


The patrician class, also known as the Famous Families, was the social elite, and only patricians had access to the prestigious religious, political and military positions. Patricians had full Roman citizenship and were descended from the founders of Rome, and, apparently, from the gods - the Julii (the family of Julius Caesar) claimed to be descended from Aeneas, son of Venus - the Roman goddess of love. To be patrician did not automatically equal wealth, however, they had a certain social standing that could not be disputed. Patricians adhered to the strict naming conventions and married confarreatio, which was a traditional patrician form of marriage that was binding for life, and notoriously difficult to divorce from. Patricians married other patricians; it took a very wealthy and influential equite or pleb (known as a New Man) to secure a patrician wife. Gaius Julius Caesar is a patrician of note, being a member of the noble house of the Julii. It is estimated that less than 1% of Rome's population were classed as patricians.


It is often difficult to differentiate equites from nobiles, and they do overlap and the terms are used interchangeably from time to time. An equite is someone of either patrician or plebeian status who is wealthy enough to buy horses and serve as members of cavalry in the Roman army, as opposed to a mere foot soldier. A nobile is someone of either patrician or plebeian status who either is a consul, is related to a consul or is descended from a consul. Some equites and nobiles are not considered patrician because they either come from plebeian backgrounds or they were of 'new money' - their wealth was not directly hereditary. The term nobile does also extend to cover patricians, however, it is commonly used for 'New Men' such as Gaius Marius or Cicero, who both rose from non-patrician, non-consular Roman families with Latin origin. 


A plebeian or pleb was someone who could not claim direct ancestry from a founder of Rome and/or a god, but had full Roman citizenship - this included some equites and nobiles. Plebs were divided into classes according to wealth, and this determined one's place in the army and therefore one's political prospects. A common way for plebeians to rise was to gain money through investment and business, become a tribune of the plebs (a role off limits for patricians), marry a wealthy patrician woman and then crawl their way to the top - someone who achieved this was known as a 'New Man'. Plebeians married into all classes, although a marriage between a wealthy plebeian man and a patrician woman or a poor patrician man with a wealthy plebeian woman was common. Perhaps a good example of a plebeian who rose to great heights is Tiberius Sempronius Gracchus Snr, who married Cornelia Africana and was a renowned consul, and father of the legendary Brothers Gracchi.


The proles, or 'head count' were the poorest of plebs and had the lowest prospects, however, they still had Roman citizenship which was prized above both money and prospects. Proles very rarely changed either their social or economic status as patricians and plebeians considered proles to be beneath them as spouses or business partners.


There were many immigrants in Rome who sought trade and business opportunities; evidence of Egyptians, peoples from other parts of conquered and unconquered Africa, the Middle East, Jews, even people from the Orient would have lived in Rome. They lived amongst the plebs, and some even had ties with the patricians - however, they were not Roman and didn't have Roman citizenship, and so were considered below the proles.


Ex-slaves, or people descended from slaves. They were bound to their former masters in a patron-client relationship, and could be resold as if he were a slave if the ex-master found it necessary. Freemen were often from conquered lands, and were therefore neither Roman or had Roman citizenship.


It has been estimated that up to 70% of Rome's urban population were slaves, and they had quite an unusual place in society. Slaves were imported as spoils of war from conquered lands; some were barbarians or proles who sold themselves into slavery. The most well-off slaves were learned Greeks who, after educating themselves, sold themselves into slavery where they educated young patricians in the fashionable Greek arts of rhetoric, metaphysics, geometry and philosophy. After saving up they bought freedom, and then aimed to seek Roman citizenship. Sex slaves, male and female, were both valuable and highly sought after; patricians and plebeians required slaves for both domestic use and as a symbol of wealth and prosperity. Slaves were generally treated well in domestic settings, and often were trusted confidantes and assassins.

Monday, October 03, 2011

Rome: Naming Conventions.

Finally hopping back onto the Rome wagon ;).

One thing that PISSED THE SHIT OUT OF ME when I first started studying Ancient Rome was that they ALL HAD THE SAME NAMES. I mean seriously. Caesar? Which Caesar? Sextus Julius Caesar? Lucius Julius Caesar? Gaius Julius Caesar the Elder? The Younger? The Stupider? WHOOOOO?????????????????

Let's take the name Gaius Julius Caesar for example; because everyone's familiar with it. Gaius is the praenomen - his given name. Julius is the nomen - his family name. Caesar is his cognomen - his clan name. This means that the 'Julius Caesar' is the hereditary bit, and all men in his family will share this. This is the part that confuses a lot of history rookies; we always assume that his first name is 'Julius', when in fact referring to Julius Caesar as 'Julius Caesar' is like referring to Tommy Lee Jones as just 'Lee Jones'. Every family had their own set of rules when they were naming their sons. Some have a set order - for example, Sextus was the name given to the first born son of each Julius Caesar, followed by Gaius and then Lucius. This is not always followed; some sources claimed that Lucius Cornelius Sulla should have been properly named Publius Cornelius Sulla as he was the only son. Sometimes the eldest son was named after the father, and then the younger sons after grandfathers and uncles - this is essentially why everybody has the same name, because they're all named after each other.

For some poorer patrician families it was not profitable having more than one son; 'surplus' sons were adopted out to wealthier families - a son of a senatorial family was nothing more than a burden until he married and brought a daughter in law, children and a dowry; he was not of any political importance until he entered the Senate at the age of thirty. For example, Publius Cornelius Scipio Aemilianus was not an actual Scipio; he was adopted by Publius Cornelius Scipio and named after him, but because he was originally the son of Lucius Aemilius Paulus this is acknowledged in his agnomen, or fourth name, 'Aemilianus'. How you referred to someone, and how someone preferred to be known was a status symbol. For example, prior to Caesar's rise to power he was merely a member of a senatorial family, and would have been formally referred to as 'Gaius Julius' - just 'Gaius' by friends or relatives. As Caesar grew to power everyone, including himself, referred to him as merely 'Caesar' - this is saying he is not just 'a Caesar' but 'THE CAESAR', and has eclipsed everyone in his family in fame. Yes, Caesar did refer to himself in the third person.

Caesar did not acquire an agnomen in his time, which was common after prestigious military or political feats. Sulla became Lucius Cornelius Sulla Felix, which means 'lucky' - Gnaeus Pompeius didn't have a cognomen so made up for it with the hilariously up himself agnomen 'Magnus', which is 'the Great', and is now known in history as Pompey Magnus. Some, like the aforementioned Aemilianus, had several agnomens: his full name was Publius Cornelius Scipio Aemilianus Africanus Numantinus, although he is now known in history as 'Scipio Aemilianus'.

By the late Republic patrician girls were not given praenomen; they only existed in the lower classes. A girl was named after her father's nomen - so Gaius Julius Caesar's daughter was Julia. This meant that all your sisters, paternal aunts, grandmother, cousins, nieces ALL HAD THE SAME NAME AS YOU. Girls were 'distinguished' by either the use of a cognomen or by nicknames, for example, Julius Caesar's daughter was referred to as 'Julia Caesaris', marking her as the daughter of both a Julius and a Caesar. If there was more than one daughter they could be Julia Major and Julia Minor (Julia the Elder and Julia the Younger), or Julia and Julilla, or they could be given a numerical nickname; Servilia's daughters were known as Junia Prima, Junia Secunda and Junia Tertia (Junia the First, Junia the Second and Junia the Third). If you were minted onto coins (not common for women, but not unheard of) you could be distinguished by your male relatives; Julia Caesaris was minted as 'Julia Caesaris, Caesar's Daughter, Pompey's Wife' and Caesar's mother Aurelia was known as Aurelia the Mother of Caesar. Aurelia was not the only woman known by her offpsring: Cornelia Africana was always known as Cornelia the Mother of the Gracchi - Cornelia was known as 'Africana' because her father was Scipio Africanus. It was also common for women to take their husband's nomen; the Julia known as Julia Antonia was actually a Julia Caesaris, but married an Antonius. Some women were named to boast their father's importance by using his agnmomen the daughter of Lucius Caecilius Metellus Dalmaticus was known as 'Caecilia Metella Dalmatica' to boast of his defeat of the Dalmatians. Have I confused you enough already???

Tuesday, September 27, 2011


1. Do not read a blog with the blogger knowingly present.

2. Do not directly ask questions about a blog or the content of a blog.

3. For fuck's sake, do not fucking swear, WRITE IN CAPITAL LETTERS, spel tinges rillie badli or be rude when you comment. It shits me.

4. Bloggers are real people. They occasionally write shit, typos, doggerel and silliness. Bloggers do not have editors and spellcheck don't work so well in a world where TTFN ROFL LOL LMAO AWOL BRB SJRTMSRTHSERHSBFRGSAWRAHRJNASRD is considered satisfactory communication. Take it all in good humour.

5. Do not post real names, addresses, phone numbers or other personal information.

6. If you don't like it, don't read it.

7. Have fun. Smile. Be happy.

gifted education.

The best thing that has happened to me was when I was removed, at the age of twelve, from my mainstream government primary school to high school for the academic elite.

Now, it's not as dreamboat as it sounds. There are still crap teachers and dumb people. But the EPIC AWESOME THING is that there are actually SMART PEOPLE and GOOD TEACHERS here and there, every now and again. IT'S SO UNBELIEVABLY AWESOME.

Another really cool thing is that I've been able to 'tailor' - bullshit - my entire high school curriculum. I can do more of what I like, and what I'm good at, and less of what I HATE WITH A PASSION.

There are some people who don't like the idea of academically exclusive school. They think we don't deserve special treatment, that we're no better than the rest, that it's not an average child's fault that they're, well, average, etc. Some shit like that. But I'm all for it. And I'd say that even if I didn't get into an academic school, even if, in the future, my children don't get into an academic school. I just think it's so important.

Lets look at the emotional side of things. It is inevitable that a gifted child is going to be bullied at some point in their lives. People feel threatened and put out by smart-arses and teachers pets. Teachers hate them too, for some reason. Now, bullying may not affect everybody drastically, but to some it can cause great psychological damage, social problems, and even mental illnesses and suicide. Is it not every child's right to have a safe and secure learning environment? The theory of academic elite schools is that like minded peers don't beat the shit out of each other so much. 

Another thing is that there are specialist schools for everything: sport, music, art, languages, etc. If you have a talent, you need proper training; any fool on the street knows that. If you want to be a plumber or a chef or a carpenter, you need a proper apprenticeship. An academically elite schooling is an apprenticeship for the academic world. 

Three, we were born this way.

Four, a gifted child has the equivalent of an IQ of 130 or higher. I say this because IQ tests are neither an accurate or conclusive way of testing intelligence; nor are they particularly effective for children. I'll put it out there that my IQ is only about 120-125, because an IQ test is numbers and patterns based and, well, I'm more Shakespeare than Hawking. An 'average' IQ is 100; a 'retarded' IQ is 70 or lower. This means that the difference between an average and a gifted child is the same as the difference between an average and a retarded child. I don't know anyone who thinks it's either fair or healthy for a retarded and an average child to be educated together in the exact same environment under the exact same conditions, so why do we impose this onto the gifted and talented?

Some say that academic selection, grade skipping and enriched programs spoil a child, and alienate him from society. But the thing is, we're weirdos anyway. Nothing people do or say is going to change the fact that gifted people will always be treated differently, for better or for worse.

In the end, it's a...strange experience being a 'gifted' child. You grow up knowing you're different, but pretending you're not. It's my worst kept secret; it's my pride and joy and my greatest shame.  

born this way.

Often people tell me that my talents 'don't count' because, you know, I don't really work for them.

It's often true. I have been known to scribble my essays down on the night before, and to do all my reading on the way to school. Well, I can't really do that now that I'm in year eleven, but I did it rather prodigiously until then. I've never in my life studied for a spelling test or struggled to read a book. I've had a sound grasp of language for as long as I can remember, but I can never in my life remember working for that.

But it's still a talent, nonetheless, and I deserve all the trophies and rewards and praise I can get my hands on for it, because I was born this way.

People are born pretty - I happen not to have been born pretty. Those people don't work their pimples off, they never had pimples in the first place! They're the ones strutting down the catwalk and being cooed at by lovestruck boys, not me. People are born smart, or they're born dumb. People are born pretty, or they're born ugly. And people pick on people when they're dumb, or ugly, even though it's really not their fault. So it should work vice versa.

People are born athletic - sure, they might work for it, but there is no way in hell that I will be an Olympian or a footballer, yet there are people who seem to be born with a cricket bat in their hands. We have to understand that sometimes we have things that we don't work for, but because it is natural for us to pick on natural shortcomings, we should also strive to praise natural gifts as well. 

I've had my fair share of down time for my slights and faults and shortcomings. I know I'm too short, too tubby, too snappy, not great at maths, and not the hottest chick on the block. And it's no secret; people delight in telling me, berating me, scolding me, punishing me. But I can write, and I can write damn well - but people look the other way and say it 'doesn't really count'. How fair is that!?

Feeling smug.

it turns out a lot more people Know about this blog than i think.

i have been shamelesslY promoting my bLog sincE it launched a few years back, but i never thOught anyone paid attention to it. But i never knew that a lot of people who read this bloG are people i know.

my parents reaD this blog rEgularly, aNd tell me off when I swear too much.

the propaganda minister iS one of my classmates, and calls me 'young one' with the pretext that i am a year younger and a foot shorter than him. he studies politics and literature with me, and is a little bit of a history nut. actually, he's Just nUts.

belephant is, you may have gueSsed, cristy - my parTner in crime.

i Am almost sure that the boy, also kNown as rochester, reads this as well. bsc read this when it first began, and k has been knOwn To stalk tHis occasionally - rEfer to oldeR posts from a more PathetIc version of me. actually, i've long forgotten why he was ever Called bsc in The first place.

the rest of them appear to be the dUmb bums, the peRoxide blondEs, the wannabes and The queen bees Of my years of schooling. i highly douBt they Understand one iota of what's on this blog; i'm pRetty sure the majority of them caN't read. sometimes i get to school people are like 'oy! why the hell did you write that oN yOur $%$&#* blog!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!' but As i said, anonyMity is bliss. and i'm feeling a little smug about that.

what has cOnstantly bUgged me over the years is that i have giveN douchebags and hearTbreakers the right tO anonymity. there have been three i have been itching to name; but perhaps only one truly, utterly deserves it - i mean, they all do, but this one more than the rest. i wonder iF there's a way around that? ;). when you're being bullied, there is no anoyMity; there iS no privacy - it's all humiliatioN anD degredation. when you're being dUmped, the whole world knows; the whole world knows that you put your hand in the fire but he didn't want you, and you weren't good enough for hiM. when you feel alone and isolated, you're still not nameless; my name has been used and abused by the young and the heartless. i'm young and bitter, but hey, it makes my writing better. and in the end, that's all that matters to me. the only thing that matters to me in this world is what i write and what i write about.

over the years you learn a lot of things. you learn never to trust your father to wash wool. you learn that the biggest conundrum you will ever face is 'to c cuP or not to c cup, that Is the questioN'. you learn that boyfriends are a poor substitute for mummy huGs and mummy cooking. you learn that heels are painful but Going barefoot In a mosh pit full of heels is a bad idea. you learn that being five foot three isn't as bad as some people make out. you learn to neVer usE your Sisters 'drY and damaged hair' shampOo by mistake on adolescent oily hair. yoU learn that the british have the best sense of humour anD that the chaser boys are epIc. you learn that you should never paint your nails on a bloGging spree aNd that everythIng can be cured wiTh chicken soup, honeY and ginseng.

Monday, September 26, 2011

Sunday, September 25, 2011

The Things That Make Me Asian.

Recently I blogged about being a lousy Asian, but then I realized; I'm much more Asian than I think, I just don't always notice it.


1. I feel intensely uncomfortable wearing shoes around the house, or anyone else's house.

I have never in my life been allowed to wear shoes inside the house; it is a very Asian tradition. I have fond memories of crawling on my hands and knees whenever I forgot something but was too lazy to take my shoes off. When I was in Korea my uncle's apartment had a small room at the door dedicated to taking shoes on and off, and when entering more traditional restaurants or public rooms within restaurants you were expected to abandon your shoes at the door. Special shoes are worn in the toilet and are left at the doorway after using to prevent germs from the toilet floor spreading around the house. I always feel very strange walking around people's houses with my shoes on.

2. Alternative therapy for the win. 

Our cupboard is full of strange potions that smell like chicken marinade for insect bites, bruises, tight muscles, colic and stomache ache - Asian babies never have colic. My maternal grandmother in particular is a big fan of alternative therapy, and my paternal grandmother swears by the traditional Korean remedies of honey and ginseng for, essentially, everything; whenever we go there we bring lots of premium Australian honey and in turn we are given 20 years supply of ginseng tablets. Being Asian, we are also introduced to the faithful worship of the mystical powers of chicken soup, in which are hidden all sorts of lovely stuff including, but not limited to fish maw (stomachs), grubs that look like maggots, starfish, shark fin and sea coconut. I have never had an illness that could not be fixed by a big batch of steaming chicken or beef bone soup. Whenever I'm sick, I always amuse myself by making a big pot of congee; or the lazy-girl version, which is essentially rice drowned with boiled water and eaten with canned fish. Like most kids, I hate pharmacy cough medicines that smell like vodka and strawberries and taste like RAW HYDROCHLORIC ACID BEING TIPPED DOWN YOUR THROAT - but unlike most kids, I have an alternative; a thick syrup made of loquat and honey extract which is strangely addictive. I know most people think that this is hokum and yes, I have shown up at school smelling like a chicken wing; but I don't care. This shit works.

3. I eat chicken feet.

Every Chinese mother dreams of fighting with her children for the last chicken foot; I hope I can share with my children the intrinsic joy that is wrestling a foot and spitting out the bones. Chicken feet are a delicacy from the Guandong/Canton province of China, and is an essential part of any dim sum/yum cha experience. As I understand it, the chicken feet are deep fried and steamed to make them puffy, then slowly stewed and simmered in a sauce of black beans, soybean paste and sugar. I suppose it's like haggis or snails; if you don't think about what it is it doesn't bother you; it never bothered me that I eat feet on a regular basis. Chicken feet do not have a lot of meat, but are very gelatinous; think of it as anti aging, because chicken gelatin contains lots of collagen. I have been eating chicken feet for as long as I can remember, but to be honest, the best part is watching the look of SHEER HORROR on people's faces when the see them.

4. Fueled by Ramen.

To be honest, two minute Maggi used to taste like salt and now, 'new and improved', it tastes like celery. Our cupboard is stuffed with noodles in various sinus-clearing flavours such as Tom Yum, 'rich and tasty soup', beef and - get this - one of them is just called SPICY. Proper Korean ramen is cooked for five minutes, with an egg cracked in with 2.5 minutes to go, and eaten with chopsticks and kimchi. Bowl and washing up optional.

5. Rice. Ooh-Rah. 

We eat rice at least once a day. Even the dogs eat rice. When we're not eating rice we're eating rice congee, rice noodles, rice cakes...

6. The wok is my mother's best friend.

For as long as I can remember my mother has had an enormous iron wok that was used and abused on a daily basis. It is used for absolutely everything. I'm pretty sure it has a mindreading function, too.

7. I am bogan in a very un-bogan way.

I love bargains. I cannot contemplate spending more than $20 per head at a family dinner. Food is good, life is good, but both must be cheap, lah.

Oh, I must add something else:

8. Don't be silly. There no God lah.

Now this might sound slightly strange, given the ridiculous SPIKE in Christianity across Asia, but it is true; only Asian parents like mine could be so hardened and jaded towards the idea of God. There are no greater skeptics than a pair of Asian parents in a philosophical debate in their second language with their lit-freak daughter. I worship more sentient things, like food. And food. And food.  

Saturday, September 24, 2011


I read about four blogs regularly. They are, in no particular order: Mama Natural, Passionate Homemaking, Karen Cheng's Fashion and Life, and more recently, MetroDad.

Mama Natural is a blog run by Genevieve Damascus, with her partners in crime Mike and GriffyD (her husband and son). She uploads videos twice weekly about natural living and bringing up her adorable son, and she's very, very, cool.

I honestly have no idea why I read Passionate Homemaking. It's written by a bunch of give-it-all-up-for-the-LORD women, and is mostly managed by Lindsay Edmonds, who is 'first a lover of Jesus, wife, mother of three, homemaker, writer and doula'. Exactly my cup of tea.  I think the real reason why I read it is to open my mind up to new things, to new people; to learn from others and to learn to accept them, the way they are, even if I don't agree.

Karen Cheng's Fashion and Life is perhaps the most famous and well-known blogs from Perth. Karen Cheng is a graphic designer/artist/illustrator/SAHM who blogs regularly about fashion and her life with her husband Andrew and her three ADORABLE Scottish/Chinese boys Callum, Sean and Liam.

MetroDad is written by Pierre Kim, an American-Korean living in Manhattan who blogs about life as a single father to his adorable daughter The Peanut and his ex-wife BossLady.

Originally, I thought I could relate a lot to Karen Cheng. And in ways, I do - but she's more a projection of the future. I enjoy reading about her life because I can see myself in it, one day. But not yet.

Actually, the blogger I can relate to the most is MetroDad. He is a kick-ass writer, and he's given me faith. He's given me faith that no matter how weird, alien, bizarre strange and sometimes downright shitty it is to grow up as a foreigner, an outsider, a pariah; life goes on, and life is pretty good, too. But he's much stronger than I am. He's recognised that he didn't have the most idyllic childhood, or the most perfect parents; he's open about it, but more than that, he accepts it. He's resolved to be a more understanding, conventional, openly loving parent than his Korean father was. From one ABK to another.   

Flyin' Solo

Cristy celebrated our Year Eleven Dinner Dance with a toast: SINGLE LIFE SUCKS!!!

However, mosh pits really are for flying solo, because when you're in the middle of a mosh pit you are simultaneously That Idiot Trying To Dance, That Sweaty Chick and TEH SEX. If you're with someone, you are only allowed to be the latter.

We singletons ate like there was no tomorrow, drank about fifty litres of Sprite, and danced the night away in the arms of about fifty different boys. Okay, maybe not fifty. But the poor 'taken' girls hardly dared to look at their guyfriends, lest Mr Boyfriend sees.

Really loud music allows you to do all that you want to do as a bitter spinster that you're not normally allowed to do around people with unimpaired hearing: 'obliviously' playing the third wheel, bitching about various couples, etc. 

The missuses stood, with their boyfriends, shoes on, hair up, awkwardly bobbing to the music.

They also miss out on the beautiful moments: sharing food with your girlfriends, taking pictures with your girlfriends, dancing with your girlfriends, singing 'Firework' with your girlfriends, bitching with your girlfriends.

Boyfriends can't do that.

And that's why I am flyin' solo.
My back hurts.

My legs hurt.

My feet hurt.

I've got the most alarming sore throat; I think from the lungs up I am RED PUFFY AND SWOLLEN.

I am regressing back to Year Nine Slobbery - pjs, blogs and YouTube.

I am on a steady diet of honeyed water, heavily sweetened tea and cough syrup.

I was stepped on about twenty times with killer stilettos, I had a massive foot cramp right in the middle of the dance floor and I have a disturbing cut on my leg accompanied by a strangely green bruise.

But it was all worth it.

I love parties.

Thursday, September 22, 2011

A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down.

A mother gives her child medicine and tells him to suck it up. This is the harsh mother.

A mother gives her child sugar and waits 'until he grows up' for the medicine. This is the spoiling mother.

A mother coaxes, begs, threatens, bribes her child to take medicine, to no avail. This is the weak mother.

A mother gives her child neither sugar nor medicine. This is the bad mother.

A mother gives her child a spoonful of sugar to help the medicine go down. This is the good mother.

The Secret World of a Propaganda Minister.

I have estimated that I have perhaps 100 steady readers.

Of them, I suppose a dozen or so are people I know. Mostly people I love, and people I hate. And The Propaganda Minister. He's in a class of his own.

I do urge you to check out his blog, The Secret World of a Propoaganda Minister (I wonder where he got that from?). The Propaganda Minister is an extremely intelligent, capable, witty political young man - although not as much as he thinks he is - and has some, um, unusual opinions. And some lovely graphics of our school principal and the Prime Minister.

FYI, TPM, Ein Joll looks exactly like Umbridge.

I cave.

Tonight I am performing at the Perth Concert Hall in the WAYS Alumni Concert.

It's a sort of last hurrah for my formal music career.

When I first got involved in the concert, I swore that I wouldn't put any more time into it than I had to. When I found out that the dress code was black, I decided to wear velvet trackpants. Because I'm a bogan.

But today at the rehearsal all the girls were talking excitedly about dresses (black?) and lipstick and heels, and I sort of caved.

So I have fashioned a dress out of a black shirt, school tights, a lace camisole, a belt and one of my mum's pre-pregnancy business skirts. It's not one of my most fashion-forward moments, but...

Oh well. Lipstick solves everything.


A few weeks back we had an English assignment that was pretty much open topic. Whatever we wanted. And I really, so desperately wanted to write something funny. Black comedy. Blue humour. Irony. Sarcasm. Etc.

It didn't work, and I got the bone-shatteringly appalling mark of 88%.

But now I'm here, bored out of my mind, trying to write a proper straight-laced academic essay on Emma - which is perhaps the most boring book in existence despite my attempts to say otherwise. This is not the best essay I've written, but it's mind-blowingly hilarious. It reads like a parody - mostly because I'm pissed off, and because I've written the majority of this essay in varying amounts of pain; antibiotic-induced nausea, sleep deprivation, stomach ache, back ache, hunger, PPMS (Pre-Pre Menstrual Syndrome) - this has made everything I write have a slight edge to it, the kind of dry humour I so desperately wanted a few weeks back.

I love it. I'm just not entirely sure it's appropriate.

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

And So The Uncool Ship Sank.

You may have noticed that there is no longer a reactions bar under my posts.

To be honest, I am rather sad to part with that.

But I know that it was mostly just being used as an ego basher, and as unorthodox and eccentric and, God forbid, intelligent as I am, I know I don't deserve that.

Now, I'm quite resilient to this. I have been bullied since I was five years old. But I have school to do the ego bashing. I have peroxide blonde girls with bubblegum and bad deodorant to make me feel like shit. And I get more than my fair share, believe me. So when I come home and my baby is throwing the shits, I've had enough.

The reactions bar was installed for people too lazy to comment. So that I could gage what people found interesting, and what made people's eyes bleed. But now all it shows is the small percentage of people who have a brain and appreciate my work and where I'm coming from, even if they don't agree, and the majority, who for one reason or another hate my guts but don't have the brains to figure out that my blog and the opinions I publish will never change and will never stop pissing them off.

It's a sad reflection on society, and the cybersphere. When I first started blogging when I was twelve I never had to put up with this shit. I didn't have to worry about people were saying or commenting; mostly because nobody read my blog, but anyways. But then, that was back when I naively assumed that most people have a brain and a vague sense of decorum.

Tuesday, September 20, 2011


you are all store-bought
instant gratification.

but there is no depth,
no complexity;
merely sickening sweetness.
i the connoisseur
am left wanting,
just searching,
never finding.

you're sweetly wrapped
but not worth my time;
a penny today, tomorrow a dime.

i am not
as you are.
i know what i am.
my caramel has battlescars
but i am not afraid. 
can your chocolateyes look at mine
and repeat that?
chocolate melts in fire.

you are
you are a beautiful sculpture
and then put together.

so hollow.
so empty.
so shallow.
you do not seek as i do,
you are scared of what i know.
and i know you better than you think.

you make me sick,
but you cannot see pain,
because you are afraid of flame.
all you see
from me
is a sugarcoatedsmile.
and a chocolatetear.

so go find your
i am made of stronger stuff
than brittle

CONTEXT: I offered a boy a chocolate because, you know, I don't like chocolate. But such is the world that Random Acts of Kindness are not appreciated. He probably thought I poisoned it. I thought he was being a bit shallow, and I got offended. So I wrote a poem. As you do.

Monday, September 19, 2011

Damn You, Plutarch.

Cristy and I read Ancient History. D and E do not. D does not do Lit, either.

Cristy: Have you found your sources yet?

Me: No. You?

Cristy: No.

E: What's this for?

Cristy: I can't find any ancient sources!

Me: I know! I found Suetonius, that's it. Suetonius, Suetonius, Suetonius.


D: Whuzzgoinon?

Cristy: I found Suetonius and some modern dude.

Me: Which modern dude?

D: What's Suetonius?

E: What about Plutarch?

Cristy: We're not allowed to do Plutarch.

D: What's Plutarch?

Me: I was trying to find Cicero, but all he does is ramble about some other shit.

Cristy: Suetonius was talking about Cicero talking about Caesar.

Me: Helpful.

D: What's Cicero?

Me: I have so much work to do. Have you started your Austen essay yet?

Cristy: No.

D: What's Austen?

Me: Are you doing Marxist or feminist?

Cristy: Marxist.


Sunday, September 18, 2011

Random Things About Me (that you may know from being a serial follower)

1. I've never broken a single bone or had a single cavity in an adult tooth

2. I've never actually read an Austen novel cover to cover, although I have read about 85% of Pride and Prejudice. I've also watched both the 1995 and 2005 adaptation of Pride and Prejudice and the 2009 adaptation of  Emma.

3. I never read more than one chapter of the first book in the year nine reader in English - the year that I skipped a grade.

4. For a hospital baby I have an extremely low pain threshold. In my defence, I also have quite a high pain tolerance, which is a really stupid combination in my opinion.

5. I've never actually had a crush on an Asian guy. I have racist hormones.

6. I've had this hunch for quite a long time that I'll probably end up with someone white, ten years older than me and a math professor. I don't really know why.

7. I want two or three children: two girls, one boy.

8. I have an elder sister, who is seventeen and skinny and pretty. In contrast, I am fifteen, short and kinda dumpy. I think she would rather walk over hot coals and eat a live whale than write as much as I do.

9. I found out last year that I am allergic to opiates. Something you only really find out if you're a hospital baby or a drug addict.

10. My family (paternal side) has one of the oldest extant printed genealogies in East Asia, with over forty generations recorded. We are directly descended from Silla and Koryo nobility and our family include several queens and concubines to the Joseon kings - so we are related to the pretenders to the crown of the Empire of Korea.

11. I am a former makeup addict. Now I only wear it when I feel like it.

12. I have weaned myself off chocolate and most confectionary.

13. The first M rated movie I watched was Mean Girls, when I was about eight.

14. I only watch three shows on a regular basis: Mythbusters, The Big Bang Theory and The Gruen Transfer.

15. I don't like wearing shoes.

16. I have a phobia of waiters and air hostesses.

17: The most played song on my iPod is 'Playing God' by Paramore.

18. Out of my Top 25 Most Played playlist, 16 songs are Taylor Swift.

19. Some people are a little confused about my grade skipping. Essentially, in year eight I did year nine English, and in year nine I did year ten English and Social Science. Now I am a full year eleven.

20. I kissed goodbye maths and science with a 'C' grade in year ten state-level maths and an 'A' in Perth Modern School year nine standard science last year.

21. I have trypanophobia, which is a fear of hypodermic injections.

22. I have been an atheist since I was about thirteen years old.

23. I have Asperger's Syndrome, which is a higher-order autism. I get pretty weird obsessions - Enid Blyton books, Elizabeth I, Tudor history, Pirates of the Caribbean, Star Wars, Korean history and now...babies. Not the most socially accepted obsession for a fifteen year old.

24. I don't wash my hair on the weekends. I don't really know why.

25. I am completely desensitized to blood. I have quite a strong stomach for blood, but I am squeamish about surgical procedures for personal reasons.

26. I love to cook, and I'm very bad at it.

27. I know how to knit, and I'm very bad at it

28. I used to tell people that I'm allergic to eggplant and mushroom so that I wouldn't have to eat it. But now I've encountered a slight problem; I LOVE shiitake! What am I supposed to do!?

29. As much as I whinge about not having a boyfriend, I don't actually know what I'd do with one. I've seriously only considered what would happen if I were in a relationship involving marriage and babies.

30. This list is much longer than I wanted it to be. I'm just experimenting with different kinds of posts and their popularity. Feel free to attack the uncool button if you NEVER WANT A LIST LIKE THIS EVER AGAIN.