Horses Never Learn

You'd think those clutching brown paper bags would be more subtle in their law breaking. Or even just a little clever about it. The drowning of sorrows need not be an obvious misadventure to society. In fact if one was indeed clever enough, it would be apparent that breaking the law in a place where Big Fish regularly loomed would prove rather costly.

Lesbianisn Is Not A Fucking Pop Song!

Apparently gay is the new black, the new rehab, the new binge drinking. All the celebs are doing it. Guess what, I kissed a girl and I liked it too.

The word gay has been associated with insult for far too long. Gay is not an insult. Being gay doesn't make you special but it doesn't qualify as grounds for derogatory terms either. Being a lesbian does not give people the right to call me names and shrug me off into another stereotype. It does not place a flashing neon sign above my head screaming 'STARE AT ME! I'M A WALKING FREAK SHOW'. Nor does it permit the right to threaten or violate me.

It's the year 2008 and it's hard to believe that homophobia is still such a common thing. The fact that people have been bashed and even killed for being gay is unthinkable. Treating your choice of partner as an inhuman crime that must be corrected or god save us all! I am no different from the rest, I'm human too, I want to love and be loved just like everyone else. I want to marry my sweetheart and start a family too. We want equal rights, without compromise, without shame and without the fucking taboo that so often casts looks of disgust upon us. Our love is just as important as everyone else's. It's just as sacred and just as special.

Why is it that in the 21st century we are still battling with such ignorance and homophobia from all walks of life. Life is hard enough for every single human being already, without feeling the need to apologise for our existence, for our life choices. What happened to acceptance and tolerance? Why are humans so fucking bad to one another when it's all we've got.

I dream of the day when my partner and I can be legally recognised as a couple and granted the same equal rights given to heterosexual couples. The day when I can walk down the street holding my girlfriend's hand and not be stared at. Being gay is not a show, it's not rebellion and it's not wrong. It's life, it's love and it's normal. Accept it.

May The Force Be With You

Carrying a canvas home is like battling it out with higher forces. Forces such as mother nature and the stupidity of man. It seems I am being constantly tested as I bear the responsibility of taking home a canvas. I can't recall a time when it hasn't been windy during these occurrences. A wind so powerful that if I didn't hold on for dear life with my two little hands I'd be blown right off into the air, canvas in hand, like a misshaped cloud.

She's testing out my resilience I'll mutter to myself as I struggle to make it home in two pieces. Seeing if I'm worthy to battle it out with the big fish. Seeing how long I can handle the heat before calling for a ride home.

Sitting behind her lavish desk she watches down on me, her laughter booming, with every exhale my little body is thrashed about. My seemingly constant battle with mother nature is physically exhausting, but it is my battle with mankind that is far more debilitating.

The stupidity of mankind is something that has baffled scientists for as long as people were...well people. What baffles this wind swept blogger is the stupid questions that arise when one carries home a canvas. "Do you paint?" "No buddy I fucking surf! See this canvas, it's my surfboard. I carve up some pretty gnarly waves on that sea of pthalo paint." Of course I didn't actually say that but you can bet your white canvas that I thought it. Replaying the scene in my mind then laughing as the horse in question scurries away in shame. "Take that!" I'll boom.

Returning to my original point, which is my curiosity as to why the obvious questions? We artists are not aliens, you need not make conversation with us unlike any other. In fact I'd much prefer to be treated as an alien, thus securing a force field between myself and society.

Oh and by the way I don't want to know that you can't draw. Do you think I'm offering lessons? Does me carrying a canvas immediately grant me a smudge of artistic ability? No, like I said, I surf.

Some Motherfuckers Think They're Born To Dance

Curse those big fish! I shake my angry fists.

A superior presence lurked outside as we pulled to a halt. The law makers were about to meet the law 'breakers'. And this mover and shaker was about to break.

A gruff voice shook me from my daze "you're going to have to come with us". "What why!". And off I went. Hauled off the bus like some common criminal. Thrown in the basket with the other dirty rotten criminals I came across daily.

My pleas went unheard as they deemed me inferior. To them I was just a law breaker and they were the law makers on their big power trip, I the little fish was their target. "Oh what's this" I hear them mutter. My eyes roll as they take out microscopes to examine the evidence. "Just as we thought, dirty rotten criminal!". This was going to go on my permanent record! And here we have exhibit A: Little Fish, illegally joy riding on the t-way.

Moody and broody I fumed as my case went unheard. Those big fish just couldn't wait to get their slimy hands on a little fish like me. Couldn't wait to make me drown!

State Revenue Protection Agents? These big fish will make up anything and slap it on a badge to make themselves look important. Surely the time and money could be better spent catching REAL criminals and not innocent little fish trying to catch a ride.

As an afterthought I considered the possibility that the wearing of fingerless gloves in daylight made me look suss...

And if I WAS going to illegally joy ride you can rest assured it would NOT be on a bus, I mean really? Have you no class.

The Fabric's Wearing Through And It's Wearing Me Out

It has been brought to my attention recently that ALL of my socks have holes in them, some holes are the size of golf balls, others have thinning fabric that will inevitably lead to a hole. Some might say that the holes in my socks are the result of my excessive sliding down the hallway, these people are fools. I've taken a more complex approach to this mystery.

I have come up with two possible theories:

1. My draw is housing a family of invisible moths that only eat socks and nothing else, they don't mind which colour they love them all. Although black seems to be a favourite. I'd take a stab and say they are lonely moths.



2. My other theory is that my soul is trying to escape through my feet.
   

Now I'm no detective but i believe something odd is going on here..

Why I Became An Artist And Not A Chef

My culinary skills leave a lot to be desired. I am an impatient chef. I hate, no I despise waiting for water to boil. Thus I wander off in search of a superior form of entertainment, which usually comes in the form of the computer. This wouldn’t pose a problem had the computer been in the kitchen, you know your typical kitchen layout. Oven, bench, stove top, computer, fridge. Of course my computer is NOT in the kitchen, the problem with this is that sometimes when I have to wait for water to boil or something to cook in boiling water I tend to forget. I walk away like it’s someone else’s responsibility. I’m having such a great time on the computer I completely forego the fact that I have something boiling on the stove. This reminder brings about an Olympic gold medal worthy sprint down the hallway and into the kitchen where I return to find:
a. water boiling over the edge
b. burnt food or
c. food that’s still not ready!!

The times that I do decide to wait in the kitchen ever so domestically I still practice impatience. My rice is still hard. My pasta is too chewy. My vegetables are still frozen. Oh dear girl step away from that stove, you’ll be the death of us all!

It is for that reason that I simply love the simplicity of a stir-fry. Just throw it all in and watch it snap crackle and pop right before your eyes. None of this boiling water business in sight.

I have also been chastised for eating pasta without any sauce. Like it’s some kind of sin that I’ve committed, ultimately offending any pasta eater out there. Good lord I cry out! There was no sauce! My hunger pains were far too immediate to contemplate improvising. But what is pasta without the sauce I hear you say with gritted teeth. It is pasta my friend. Sure it wasn’t the best meal of my life but some bloggers cannot afford the luxury of pasta sauce. What an extravagance she will say when she sees I’ve scrawled pasta sauce on the shopping list.

I’d like to think I was hypnotised by the swirling pasta. Akin to a whirl pool, but with more elegance and less demise. The pasta swirled gracefully and freely, like a swan perhaps. A messed up swan, but nonetheless a swan.

Tonight my pasta floated like a swan. And tonight I ate chewy dry pasta.

P.S. I really am a good cook, just ask my girlfriend! Despite the fact that every time I light up the stove or turn on the oven my mum walks past exclaiming “is something burning?”.