Three days ago I involuntarily unleashed a sound and scent from my body that caused me to question my ability to love myself. I couldn’t even begin to think about how it affected my boyfriend who was standing a mere meter away. Sure, I’ve farted in front of him plenty of times before – hell; I’ve probably even farted on him, but this fart was different on so many levels.
Never before have I released gas that would have caused an echo if we were in a canyon. The noise rung out for longer than it takes for most British royalty to be announced – in fact that fart itself probably deserved its own royal title – it certainly was impressive. Though I can’t say my boyfriend felt the same way and as soon as the last note rang out I could feel a change between us – and it wasn’t just that the temperature had risen thanks to an increase in warm gasses, no it was something more complex than that. At first I didn’t think too much on it – he was on his way out the door to work but as I went to kiss him and he pulled away exclaiming “god it even smells bad too” and promptly walked out the door, I started to think that something was truly wrong.
As I continued my morning, spending far more time thinking about the fart than I should have, I began to wonder, would this be the gas that broke the camel’s back? Had my flatulence caused an irreparable rift between us? Would he ever be able to hold me tight again without being worried that he would squeeze another one out, producing further discomfort for his airways? I almost certainly ruled out ever being proposed to at that point – what if when gently placing the ring on my finger he gently tugged on it by accident?
Sure it was his idea to have Indian food the night before – so he couldn’t really blame anyone but himself. Everyone knows that Vindaloo is the ultimate wind breaking dishing, he really should have had a bit more foresight when jumping on Menulog but I guess I couldn’t lay the blame on him entirely, I could have held it in for a few more moments, though the sheer relief of letting that beast rip certainly can’t be put into words – despite the stench it caused.
He isn’t innocent either – I mean love is all shaved legs, tidy lady (and man) gardens and sweet smelling perfume when you’re first trying to impress each other but as soon as you shack up that seems to go out of the window. Never have I lived with a man who sheds so much body hair all over the house – I know the local plumber just as well as I do the guy at the bottle shop (which is pretty well, in case you needed clarification), my last live in boyfriend had less body hair than a baby dolphin and now I share a home with a yeti. He may be an adorable one, but he’s a messy yeti none the less. Staring at clumps of man hair in the shower is gross. As is having to yell for him to bring you toilet paper because you’re stuck on the loo with none, as he neglected to replace the roll after his last visit – so maybe he deserved the fart. Yeah, unbeknownst to me at the time, it was a revenge fart – for all the times that he’s been an icky manly man. One time he even drooled on my pillow, so yeah, he deserved to suffer through that stench – and instead of being ashamed of my fart I decided to Google the world’s longest fart. I’ve got a bit of training to make it to the 2 minute, 42 second world record but luckily there are plenty of useful food options within a short stroll.
P.S somehow he still loves me…which I think says a lot about him, but I’ll leave it up to you to work out what that actually is.
I’m not crying, you’re crying…okay I’m bloody crying, there’s a torrential downpour of salty dampness falling from my peepers and I bloody love it, okay? Okay. I did this to myself, I have no one else to blame and I regret nothing.
This is exactly how I feel after watching Cool Runnings. Or Save The Last Dance. Or Dirty Dancing. Not because they’re sad, per se – sure it’s sad that I’m sitting here in a Friday night, sure it’s a bit sad how (spoiler alert) the fast running dude doesn’t get to go to the Summer Olympics and it’s definitely a kick in the guts when (spoiler alert) Julia Styles’ characters mum dies, and it’s definitely a complete tragedy when Baby’s sister embarrasses herself by singing – but it’s not ‘choke on your Kahlua and milk because you can’t breathe between tears’ level sad. But somehow that’s exactly what I manage. Every. Single. Time.
And yet I go back for more. Time and time again. My go to movies don’t fall into a specific genre; some are dramas, some are comedies and hey, there are even a few musicals in there (I’m looking at you Hairspray) but the one thing that they all have in common is clear. There’s always a character that is in some way inspiring (for example, Baby (Dirty Dancing) inspired me to always carry the Watermelon – if the opportunity presents itself) and without a doubt, the ability to make me feel like I could take on the world while simultaneously feeling like the most inadequate human in the world. Standard day for me though really.
Unfortunately Netflix doesn’t exactly have a genre called “Happy Sad Movies That Make Me Doubt What Exactly I’m Doing Here and Question Every Decision I’ve Made Up Until This Point”. So I decided, after a brief survey on Facebook, combined with my own experience, to compile a completely non-definitive list of movies like that – because I bloody loves me a good emotional cry sesh.
Four dudes from Jamaica decide to start a bobsled team despite having never seen snow. They go on to compete in the Winter Olympics and despite numerous challenges and trash talk from the Swiss (those sassy Swiss). A good time is had by all, Sanka has a lucky egg that never breaks and even more miraculously never goes rotten which I am led to believe is a thing that eggs do.
4/5 on the inspiration scale – it makes me feel like surely even I could get into the Olympics – right?
2/5 for tear factor (it would be more if Sanka broke his lucky egg, but the happy tears come from the egg surviving)
Bonus points for being based on a true story
3.5/5 for overall feelings of sadness & mediocrity
The Breakfast Club
Five crazy teens, varying in levels of delinquency spend a day in detention together. Kookiness ensues as their wacky supervising teacher mostly leaves them to their own devices. They have a shared experience that the kids today would refer to as ‘a spiritual awakening’ (kids these days are mostly idiots) and admit to personal failing that most of us only begin to comprehend in our late 20s – at the earliest.
2/5 on the inspiration scale – they don’t do much more than learn not to be assholes and they don’t even do much of a good job at that.
3/5 for tear factor – I’m now too old to experience something like this and that makes me sad
2.5 for overall feelings of sadness & mediocrity
The Pursuit of Happyness
Right in the feels – that’s where this Will Smith movie hits you – a sentence that has never been written about Wild Wild West. That was a shit movie.
It is basically the ultimate triumph over adversity. Feel like you’ve had challenges in your life? Nah, the true story of Chris Gardner will make even your biggest challenge feel like all you did was feed yourself and manage to only spill one mouthful on your jumper – you idiot. Bonus points for an adorable Jaden Smith – before he got weird and nonsensically philosophical.
4.9/5 on the inspiration scale – anything is achievable if you’re real good at Rubik’s Cubes
4.5 for tear factor – all the feels.
4.8555 for overall feelings of sadness & mediocrity
Leonardo DiCaprio, the boy of my teen dreams escapes the burden of his (I assume) privileged Western existence to explore the exotic wilds of Thailand. He buddies up with some babin Frenchies and they find an exotic island filled with weed, inhabited by crazy Tilda Swinton and some other hippie kooks. A dude dies because a shark bites him. It all gets too much for Leo. He returns to the ‘real world’ having had a wild experience. He is still a bit of a twat. But now he is worldly. All the characters are twats.
3/5 on the inspiration scale (the scenery makes me want to travel)
2/5 for tear factor (I shed a tear for all the misguided youth who took this film as gospel)
2.5/5 for overall feelings of sadness & mediocrity (.5 bonus points for the bloody killer song by All Saints in the sound track)
Julia Roberts won a shit tonne of awards for this film. Like heaps of them. Steven Soderbergh won none (but he got them for other stuff so yay him). Erin is an unemployed single mother who takes on “the man” (in this case, Pacific Gas & Electricity), because they have been real shitty. Like they make kids have cancer – indirectly of course.
Erin is a hero because she makes them pay out heaps of money. Kids still probably died.
4/5 on the inspiration scale – I wanna save the world after seeing this. Every. Damn. Time.
3/5 for tear factor (true story and all that jazz)
3.5/5 for overall feelings of sadness & mediocrity – I am realistic enough to know I will never be as motivated as Ms. Brockovich – and that does make me a little sad.
Sienna Miller is an absolute babe as Edie Sedgwick (let’s be honest, she’s a babe in everything she ever does) and Guy Pierce is probably the creepiest Andy Warhol that ever there was. Like ten times creepier than actual Warhol. The real tragedy of this film is that. Guy Pierce in real life is actually a bit of a babe. Anyways, there’s drugs, wasted life and a smidge of sexual abuse. Its trauma wrapped up in a bow and I bloody love it.
2.5/5 on the inspiration scale – I wanted hair like Edie for like two seconds
2.5/5 for tear factor – I morn for missed opportunities to see Guy Pierce be a hunny.
2.5/5 for overall feelings of sadness & mediocrity – enhanced with the addition of red wine. BYO childhood trauma.
Little Miss Sunshine
Dysfunctional family. Adorable child. Someone dies. Heaps of adversity, heaps of overcoming of said adversity. A totally sick dance scene which I am not afraid to admit that I spent half a day learning when I was supposed to be studying for my year 12 exams.
4.9/5 on the inspiration scale – I want to throw caution to the wind and dance to Super Freak 24/7
4/5 for tear factor – the beautiful little sweet potato that is Abigail Breslin has more confidence than I ever will. Damnit.
5/5 for overall feelings of sadness & mediocrity. It bloody gets me every time.
15 year old William Miller, played by Patrick Fugit, lives a far more exciting life at this tender age than I ever will. I am strangely attracted to him. The actor and the character. Luckily I googled it and he was definitely of legal age at the time of filming. Phew.
The scene where they sing Tiny Dancer is completely contrived, incredibly unrealistic and makes my cry a waterfall of regret and inadequacy every time I see it.
2/5 on the inspiration scale – none of this is ever achievable
4/5 on the tear factor – guys, Kate Hudson is real blue. She tries to kill herself with Quaaludes.
4.5/5 for overall feelings of sadness & mediocrity. I will never be ‘impersonate an air hostess’ level of cool
Okay so people in this movie literally turn the world from black and white into colour, just by banging. I haven’t been able to even make a child (thank god) and I’ve done heaps of banging, let alone change the world. This movie is nostalgia on crack and I bloody love it. It makes me sad that Betty Parker is so old that her son is almost an adult before she experiences an orgasm for the first time.
2/5 on the inspiration scale – motivates me to listen to the sound track, that’s about all
4/5 on the tear factor – the lack of orgasm sympathy is the main motivator here
3/5 for overall feelings of sadness & mediocrity. It’s the nostalgia that does it.
Sooooo yeah. I’m gonna go drink. And cry. Go forth and make the most of your steaming service of choice.
I would like to tell you that this is a happy story but it is not. At the beginning of this experience I was a happy go lucky young lady. Well a lot has happened since this morning and I write to you as a broken and fragile woman. This is not a tale of heroism; it is merely a tale of survival. There was no triumph over adversity in my adventures today however a simple and gracious, acceptance of my own mortality did occur.
This morning I awoke with only one simple goal – to purchase a pack of millinery brooch pins from Spotlight. A ten minute drive to industrial suburbia should do the trick and then I would be free to explore the surrounding stores within the 62,000 square meter compound of home making ‘bliss’. Right. I set out with all the determination of a true crafter (I woke up and watched outright abused my Netflix subscription for two hours in my pyjamas on the couch). By eleven thirty I was on the road, passing by a number of precarious establishments claiming to be ‘motels’ but better known as the safe house of many an affair.
It wasn’t long before I was navigating my trusty (often breaks down with no rhyme, reason or explanation) Ford Fiesta into the car park of an establishment that is likely responsible for more marriage breakdowns than Ikea and reality TV combined; The Gepps Cross Home Maker Centre.
If aliens visited earth and landed here, without a doubt they would get right back in and go back where they came from. A monstrosity of concrete and Mecca of capitalism taken most advantage of in the form of twelve month lay-buys and interest free plans by residents of surrounding working class suburbs; visiting this place is a risky voyage for the most mentally of sound individuals – unfortunately it attracts those who are not.
I undertook the voyage alone, not sure enough in the strength of my long term relationship to take that level of risk. I could have taken a friend however I value my friendships far too much to gamble what we’ve built on such a volatile yet petty expedition.
I entered Spotlight with all the trepidation that such an undertaking deserved. I was keen to get in and get out quickly so that I could soon reward myself with an overpriced warm drink in a nearby cafe. My goal was to engage as few people in conversation as possible – I would have no such luck. I made my way to the area that I expected to find the pins and in the process achieved my entire required daily step count, yet what I was looking for was not to be found.
Next step: engage a staff member – a task that turned out to be far more difficult than finding a genuine connection on Tinder. A few more laps of the store layout, a conversation with two staff members who looked at me as if I had three heads (to their credit I’d forgone makeup application for the day) and finally I found reached my goal, however satisfied isn’t a word I would use to describe myself. Looking at the selection of millinery brooches I was forlorn. Six for $3.50. In the past I’ve purchased 50 for around $10 in the same store however I wasn’t ready for my trip to be wasted. I grabbed two packs and headed for the checkout.
This, dear friends, is the moment where I truly began to see my grip on reality fading away. Two very young and determined yet hopeless staff members had around thirty middle aged women, a few broken husbands and a handful of bratty children lined up and expecting to be served. A saner person would have dropped their potential purchase there and then and headed to the nearest fast food restaurant to eat their sorrows into oblivion however by this point I was determined – I had my overpriced pins and I was going to buy them – even if it killed me.
By the fifteenth minute waiting I started looking at the woman in front of me, wondering, if I got the rest of the ever expanding line to team up with me, could we take her down and survive off eating her body until we were rescued?
The situation began to get dire when a woman marched through the line to get the drinks fridge near the front – she swiftly took water back to her shopping buddy who was clearly becoming dehydrated – in the mid-winter chill.
Never before have had I experienced a group of people share such a strong, negative emotion as they did when a woman marched through the shop door and immediately approach the front of the line exclaiming “I’ve just got a quick question!” – she was swiftly shut down and sent to the back of the line, where she is probably still waiting, five hours later.
I was almost at the front of the line and I heard a woman paying $950 for the collection of curtain rods and throw cushions in her trolley. I couldn’t relate – I use milk crates for all manner of furniture in my home.
Finally I was served, paying resentfully for my overpriced pins, attempting to feign a mixed look of sympathy and disappointment towards the assistant as I left.
I took a deep breath of what felt like my first taste of fresh air (which is reality was steeped in outer city fumes) as I walked out into the overcast day and appreciated my life in a way that I never had before. Whence previously I had looked forward to an afternoon alone strolling the 62,000 meters looking at Italian designed, Chinese made furniture that I could never justify buying, I was now just searching for the quickest escape.
As I got into my car and drove off, I experienced a feeling of freedom the likes of which I had never felt before. While my feeling was temporarily dulled by a red light causing me to stop and reflect on the hour that had felt like eternity, I had a new appreciation for online shopping and drive thru fast food.
Now as I sit here, now full of food that I took myself out to eat, to console my broken soul I Google “millinery brooch pins” and look what I find. Fuck bricks and mortar stores, it’s eBay for me here on out.
The airport is a great melting pot of people, all mixing together with one key objective; to safely board a flying chunk of metal, without engaging in confronting communication with their fellow travellers. While it could be said that every airport around the world has the same old commuters passing through, Adelaide is just a little bit special.
Here are my fave 10 people you’ll meet at Adelaide Airport:
1. The Fashionistas
Ready and searching for a bargain before they’ve even left the state, the ‘fashionista’ probably stopped by Harbour Town on the way to the airport and they’re keeping an eye out for rare ‘sale’ signs in the airport outlets. In two days time they’ll be holding up the check-in line at Melbourne airport as they attempt to repack their bags after piling on all the clothes they bought over the weekend. It doesn’t seem odd that they’re wearing three hats, two coats and, most curiously, five bras, on the flight home, in order to avoid excess baggage costs.
2. The Footy Fans
A group that is heard before they’ve been seen, loudly singing the team song or discussing post game stats. Have you ever been stuck on a plane with a team of excited Port Adelaide fans (#sorrynotsorry for the blatant stereotyping) on their way to Melbourne in September? I’ll give you this advice for free; at all costs, try to avoid it — for your own sanity.
3. The High Flyers
You can spot an out-of-towner in a number of ways; they’re usually more stressed than your average Adelaide Joe and let’s be honest, they’ll probably be drawing attention to themselves by speaking loudly on the phone, whinging about the shitty day they’ve had in, “This hell hole of a city”– being Adelaide. How dare they!
Dressed uncomfortably in a suit not made for the climate, they’re itching to get back to their corporate-jerk job and inner-city home that has them mortgaged to the hilt. What they don’t know is — we don’t want them here anyway!
I should probably start this by explaining that I am certainly not the most sophisticated of women; I buy my make-up from the supermarket and I wouldn’t even think twice about eating an entire Dominos Deep Crust all to myself. However, when I was offered the chance to try an eye enhancing treatment thanks to the excellent folk at Essential Beauty, I was intrigued.
Furthermore, when I found out that it would mean I could get flawless eyes without having to wear (and therefore remove) any eye make-up for at least two weeks, well that’s when this lazy girl was sold!
To read the rest of the article, head on over to Adelady.
Attending yet another friend’s wedding recently, with my boyfriend in tow, I was struck by the gorgeous decorations that adorned the venue, remarking to said boyfriend; “Isn’t that some lovely bunting?” What happened next left me gob smacked, in a state of shock and absolute despair, my boyfriend replied by saying; “what in the Lords good name is bunting?” (okay, that’s not what he said but I kind of wanted him to sound cutesy and proper, he actually said “what the fuck is bunting?”). It was at this point that I began to question every decision that I had made about my life up until that very point – how could I be planning to spend the rest of my life with a man who does not know what bunting is? Slight overreaction, perhaps however I was in a little bit of shock.
The mark and sign of adorable hipster gals and guys worldwide, decorative bunting is a diverse thing of absolute majesty. Being a bearded man who, when it pleases him, refers to himself as a barista and at other times a comedian, I assumed that he would have knowledge of such things. It turns out that I put too much faith in him.
After pointing at the delicate material hanging from ornate ribbon strung across the venue, I expected him to be impressed however my explanation was simply met with a shrug and ignorant comment; “Ah right, just looks like bits of scrappy material on a string to me”. The feeling of disappointment once again filled my being, I would never be able to commit to a man so ignorant of such beauty.
Lucky for him, my love can look past him lack of knowledge about this simple facet of society and my mind got to thinking. Bunting is a staple of many happy households, cafes, bars, baby showers, weddings and awkwardly nostalgic 60th birthday parties filled with relatives that you’d secretly hoped were already dead. It is diverse in its application and a thing of much excellence, could its purpose not be bigger than we had previously imagined with our feeble narrow minds?
Bunting could probably fix marriages that are on the brink of destruction, it could likely cure cancer and without a doubt end many a mental illness.
Bono (of U2 fame, just in case he is not longer relevant at the time of publishing, as is the nature of the world we live in) recently suggested that comedians could end wars, with jokes spreading laughter far and wide soldiers would not be able to resist the urge to laugh and their hearts would inevitable be filled with joy. Bono is an idiot however he could be onto something, filling the hearts of soldiers with joy could in fact end all wars and if there is one sure way to bring about joy then that is, without a doubt, bunting.
So let’s all raise a glass, to that oft overlooked, at times misunderstood, beautiful addition to any life: bunting.
Today I went for a walk, look at me go! Unfortunately, being a public holiday, the rest of Adelaide seemed to have the same idea. The thing is, when you get a whole heap of people in the same place, suddenly some people just seem…worse than others. Rather than enjoy the scenery, I kept myself distracted by noticing the flaws in those around me and I choose to share them now with you, in this blog post – enjoy xx
Car Park Wankers
Without being reminded by my fellow walkers, I already find it weird that I am DRIVING MY CAR to go somewhere to WALK. Growing up in the beautiful surrounds of the Adelaide Hills, you just go for a walk where you live however since moving to suburbia, I’ve had to get comfortable with the concept of driving to nature – rather than just stepping out of the front door and into it.
On top of this, on a day like this, the park was absolutely full to the brim with a number of cars (predominantly ‘tough’ 4WDs) parked in non-designated parking areas – ALL OVER THE NATURE. The cars were parked on the nature that their inhabitants were there to enjoy. I just don’t get it. For the record, I parked further away and…here’s an abstract concept…walked to the walk.
Croc Sock Dag
Someone is very embarrassed to be related to this human. Not only was he wearing crocs, he was wearing them with socks on a hike up a rocky hill. Go home.
She may not have been able to hear it but surely she could feel it? Sure she was blasting T-Swiz pretty loudly through her noise cancelling headphones but that is no excuse for farting loudly whilst walking past another group of walkers. None at all.
Taking photos with an Ipad is bad at the best of times however when its half way through a three hour hike you really have to question everything you ever thought you knew. Furthermore, if the photographer in question is dressed head to toe in bike riding Lycra with not a single road nor road bike in sight, perhaps it is in fact time to give up on this world.
This lady was wearing the same sunglasses as me so walked out of her way, just to tell me. It wasn’t a huge shock as I could in fact easily see that we were wearing the same glasses myself. Wearing the same glasses is not reason enough to become friends and someone should explain that to this woman. After pointing out out common eye wear to me, she then tried to continue the conversation – lady I just wanna enjoy nature on my own – enough!
Next up I was stuck behind Michelle and Lucas; Lucas barely ever empties the dishwasher and having to constantly ask Lucas to do so distresses Michelle as she is very conscious of not nagging him. My life is enriched with this knowledge.
Selfie Stick Owner
They are big, they are awkward and they are pointy and you look like an idiot.
Star Wars Spoiler
I’m torn, I can’t decide if this is adorable or super shitty. Whilst catching my breath in the car park before heading back to my car I could over hear a woman reading out the Wikipedia plot overview of Star Wars to her incredibly eager child. Now I haven’t seen Star Wars however I am incredibly familiar with the Wikipedia plot overview – because I’ve read it just to keep up with pop culture and to make sure I’m down with the youth. So anyways, my gripe? While it was kinda cute how much the kid was loving it and how adorable the entertainment method was I was concerned for THE PEOPLE – the woman’s voice was kinda loud and what if the other people didn’t want to know any Star Wars spoiler alerts? WHAT IF?
10/10 Douche Bros
For a solid three minutes, the absolute worst of my life, I was stuck within hearing distance of two ‘roided up twats who felt the need to rate every single woman that they spotted on a scale out of ten, pulling apart every aspect of their physical appearance in a terribly degrading way that only a truly insecure person could. They were terrible people and I hope that their dicks shrivel up and their hair falls out. For the record, I’m a seven with a great butt who could ‘lose a bit off the thighs and should check out fake tanning ’ while they were far too muscular for my liking with faces that only a paper bag could improve and personalities that could never be saved.
Up the hill, down the hill, super fast on the flats and constantly making us non-runners feel inadequate. Runners are not your friends, they are super human beasts put on this earth to keep the rest of us in our place – and they deserve every shin splint that comes their way.
So if you ever decide to go on a walk and spot me out and about, perhaps have a nice trait that I can write about next time I do this?
I should have started writing this at least ten minutes ago (okay, twenty…) but I found myself distracted by my old friend Tinder. I wasn’t even looking – I mean, yes I was “looking” but only in the sense that I was using my eyes to peruse while my fingers did the swiping (on the screen that is). Technically I’m currently otherwise satisfied – but I haven’t got to the point where I’ve deleted the app yet; that’s the kind of thing that signifies real commitment and I’m not sure that I’m ready for that yet. Two of my friends recently made that call in their blossoming relationship and the very thought of it made me break into cold sweats. I’d be more prepared to walk down the aisle and commit to someone I was matched with via an online love calculator on a reality TV show than commit to deleting Tinder. Why, I hear you ask – well boys and girls, the list pretty much writes itself, so without further ado; my top ten reasons why I won’t be deleting Tinder (any time yet, that is…)
(oh and for the uninitiated, a swipe to the left means “sorry mate, better luck next time”, while a swipe to the right means “good one sweetheart, something has sparked my attention”)
1 – Shameless – every last one of us…
I’ve got no shame – regular readers on my blog should have figured that out by now but even those people with standards and self respect seem to lose it all the moment they sign up for Tinder. Remember, I’m on there too, so every negative thing I say could also be about myself (but let’s be honest, it’s probably not). People are upfront about everything – start a conversation and you’ll be surprised at what you find out – and your suspicions that every member of Gen Y is a self absorbed twat will probably be confirmed
2 – I don’t have a cat and free to air TV is boring…
I feel like if I had the patience to rear a pet then I’d probably get one and that way I’d be entertained for hours on end. Otherwise I could sign up to Netflix – but that also requires effort. What requires probably equal amounts of effort but has a better pay off is swiping through Tinder. Sure striking up conversation can be a pain in the ass but hey, most of the time the shit that my Tinder matches dribble is more entertaining than an episode of Home and Away – plus if I’m lucky, they’ll invite me to their place that has a Netflix subscription – and if I’m even luckier they’ll have a heater / air con (seasonal variance, obviously) and that’s great because electricity is expensive.
3- I don’t need to search ‘hot shirtless guy’ to get my kicks…
FREE PORN SAY WHAT?! Okay, ‘porn’ might be an exaggeration but as someone who proudly admits to enjoying the occasional male strip show (I’m only human after all…), I do enjoy swiping, swiping and BAM RIPPED AS HOT TOPLESS DUDE. Thank you gods of Tinder – you know just what I needed on this lonely, cold Tuesday night. It’s not like I’ll swipe right – I doubt that any guy who posts a shirtless gym pic is the kind I’d want to introduce to my parents but that doesn’t mean I can’t look…and screen shot for later.
4- I live in a post land line world…
Back in the day, basically before my dating years, if you wanted to ask a girl (or a guy) out, you had to dial a landline, never knowing who would answer. Did they live with their parents still? What if they had a psycho housemate who liked to mess with potential suitors? WHAT IF? That kind of fear could weed out the weakest of contenders however with the ease of direct contact through mobile phones and messenger apps, it’s now way too easy to contact the person that of your desires. For that reason, the short description under Tinder photos is now part on an essential veto process. A quote from Anchor Man? It says he likes that movie – and that’s alright, it’s a funny movie, but he lacks creativity and he’s probably dull as can be. A Dad joke? I like your style. An upfront admission to being a sexist creep? Well I’m glad we got that out the way! Or you could be like Jacob*, 28 from Adelaide. He’s in a polyamorous relationship and wants to broaden his horizons – good for him, and good for me. Glad we cleared that up, I’ll be swiping left and going on my way.
5- I live in Adelaide and I have a really big family
I can literally swipe five times and bump into someone I know – or am related to. It’s like walking down Rundle Street in March. Okay, I lie, I’m exaggerating a bit – it took me fifteen swipes tonight before I found a kid I went to primary school tonight. Finding these people always puts a smile on my face – not just because I enjoy making sly judgements about what they choose to put out there but because it’s nice to know that they’re still alive and kicking. This counts for family too – as creepy as it is to almost swipe right on your first cousin (and no, it doesn’t go ‘your cousins and then your first cousins’ – it’s all as bad as one another…) it really is nice to know that they’re getting out there – I do have a huge family and if I had to keep up with their lives using Facebook and human contact alone, I’d run out of time to sleep (around).
6 – I’m a stickler for good spelling
Communicating via a message app allows me to make judgement calls based on your spelling and grammar. Sure, I could do this via text messages but by that point you’ve already got my number – you could deceive me with your dulcet tones down the line rather than accidentally revealing your major flaws. Let’s have a text only probation period – and that includes no sending of pictures, I want to judge you on your conversation skills, not your package…I’ll save that judgment for later.
7- I’m a sucker for compliments
I chose five of my most flattering and interesting pictures to adorn my profile; in them I look pretty and fun. Little do viewers know that I usually wake up looking like a swamp monster and that sometimes (regularly) I’d rather cuddle up with my electric blanket and a good book than go an drink in a bar. They don’t need to know the truth so early on – let them be fooled and falsely believe I am the coolest babe going around. I will therefore accept the compliments that follow; “hey beautiful” – oh you! “You do comedy – that’s so cool – and brave!” – oh thanks (it’s not cool, it makes me neurotic and crazed but I’ll let you believe it’s cool)! “What, you’re on a diet? Don’t bother, you’re so sexy” – says the guy that will never get to see me naked or learn the bumpy truth…
8 – Being a judgmental jerk is way easier behind a screen…
Can’t we all be bitchy from time to time? Probably better to do it in a setting that won’t get you death stares across the dance floor. Just swipe left or right and reap the joy and satisfaction that they power of your phone gives you – because feeling powerful from Tinder is healthier than starting a death cult.
9 – I’m paranoid…
That my fingers will get fat if they don’t get their daily swipe-ercise. I may be grasping at straws for reasons to not delete the app but c’mon, I’ve made some valid points so far!
10 -The excitement of getting a match is too much to deny myself…!
That thrill of my phone producing that distinct long and low buzzing sound can be matched by no other. It’s either keep Tinder or become a drug addict, clearly the choice is simple.
*Name changed because I don’t want to be a total bitch – but I’m sure he’d know who is and probably be totally fine with being named and shamed – Tinder is public after all!I