On Being Socially Awkward (Most Of The Time)

If only I could do this with style and grace instead of arm flapping and awkwardness. 

I have never been able to figure out whether basic social competency is supposed to come naturally. Honestly, sometimes it seems like everyone else in the world but a few of my associates and I spend hours each day on a tough regime that teaches you exactly how to interact with the people around you WITHOUT being painfully awkward and off-putting. It seems to be something like exercise or studying- it takes what seems to be a bloody lifetime to actually show any results, and even then, all the evidence of my efforts disappear the moment I become lazy. Seeing as everyone other than myself seems to be a natural socialite, this hardly seems fair. However, if there's one message I'd like to impart in all my ramblings, it's that nothing in life is ever really fair.

Having said all that, I think I'm getting a touch better. When I enter a room, I don't immediately dive for the corner any more. I can semi-comfortably chat with the people who I sit near in lectures and tutorials (even though we never end up speaking ever again). I can pick up when I go to a bar, but I can't ever get the guys to talk to me again (and honestly, that's not one I can figure out. Trust me, I love meaningless dalliances fueled by alcohol as much as the next single sozzled first year, but it'd be nice to have a little acknowledgement now and again. Nothing huge, just maybe a "hey, we made out once, let's chat occasionally and never mention it" rather than an "oh my God, I'm so ashamed, please never make eye contact with me ever again."). I probably have more friends than I ever had at any other time of my life, excluding when I was an infant and Mum made all my friends for me, and yet I still feel like I'm lagging behind. While the rest of the herd is galloping ahead with their beer bongs, Sunday sessions and coffee dates, I'm the gazelle with the bung leg, limping along. And everyone knows, if there's one thing you don't want coming with you on a coffee date, it's a gazelle with a busted leg. For one thing, it attracts lions. Anyway, as usual, I'm digressing. Basically, the fact of the matter is, while university is this huge, great mess of social activities and opportunities... I still only have the social skills of a fourteen year old caught masturbating. Okay, I'll give myself a little more credit than that. Maybe a fifteen year old caught masturbating.

Pretend this is a metaphor. I am the duck and the shark cat riding on a roomba is every uni organised social activity ever. 

I think the issue is less the introductory phase and more figuring out how the hell to keep these things going. If there's a formula that causes people to keep on talking to you, I'd love to know it, because the embarrassing is, I can't usually get past that first conversation. Or if I do, whatever energy that goes into maintaining this new social contact quickly flickers and dies. I'll admit, sometimes there's reluctance on my part. I do have this horrible habit of getting rather high and mighty if there's a percieved imbalance in efforts when it comes to making friends. In fact, usually this is how my brain operates:

PHOEBE:  Pfft. All this making friends bullshit is easy. Just start asking people for their names and facebook them if you really think you'll continue to get on well. It's not weird. People add people they don't know all the time. At least you've actually had a conversation with them.

PHOEBE'S BRAIN: But why do you have to be the one to do it? You always end up making the first move! Why can't they want to keep in contact with you for a change? Would it kill them to say hi?

PHOEBE: To be fair, I don't say hi either.

PHOEBE'S BRAIN: BUT WE ARE SHY. You know that!

PHOEBE: Maybe they're shy too! I doubt I'm the only socially awkward person in the world.

PHOEBE'S BRAIN: You know what helps with social awkwardness? Drinking a lot of alcohol.

PHOEBE: *glug glug glug*

Coincidentally, I may mention that drunk Phoebe is markedly better at socialising than sober Phoebe. Fantastic stuff, alcohol. However, I don't know if this applies only when I am drunk (I do feel a lot more sophisticated and charming after a bottle of wine) or when I am drunk and around other people who are similarly intoxicated. The only proof I have regarding these outlandish statements is that I've always ended up making substantially more friends at house parties than in any other circumstance. However, perhaps this is just a universal phenomenon I'm blowing out of proportion for my own needs.

I have been doing a bit of observance to see if I can better my limited social skills and become the stunning, charismatic sex goddess I've always had the potential to be (okay, you can stop laughing now. It's been fifteen minutes. That's just cruel). So far, from what I've observed, I've made the following assumption:

People just walk up to each other, start a conversation and go on their merry way. Rinse and repeat.

What I've concluded from this is that I am woefully inept at being a human. Just walk up to someone? Start a conversation? Surely it can't be that easy, or everyone would be doing it! Wait, what's that? Everyone is doing that? And they've been doing it since humans first developed the ability to speak? Well, then. Clearly the problem is all down to me. When the doctor pulled me out of my mother using a glorified suction cup, they clearly also sucked away the part of my brain responsible for being able to relate normally to other people. Also the part responsible for basic coordination skills. And whatever other people have that allows them to be organised. Okay, so there's a lot wrong with my brain, I know, I know.

But this is one mystery in particular that I'd like to crack.

The reason behind this desire is complex. Obviously, I do like to act as if I don't give two shits about other people most of the time, not in the sense that I'm cruel, but rather that I'm not overly swayed by their opinions. However, like most of my outward behavior, this is something that I cleverly fake. Of course I care about what other people think! It's human nature! It's a complex, evolutionary design there to stop us from committing social suicide! The only reason why I (and the majority of others) try so hard is because we don't want the rest of the world looking down on us. If we truly didn't care, we wouldn't bother getting out of bed and spend our lives reeking of shit and piss because we're too busy watching youtube videos to clean ourselves up. Like it or not, we are affected by the opinions of others. We crave their praise. We flinch at their disapproval. And most of all, we want everybody to be our friends, because there's nothing worse than feeling like no one knows you exist.

The simple fact of the matter is, I know in order to for my life to get better, I am going to have to improve my interactions with other people. You never really know who will be useful to you in life, and even with that selfish motive set completely aside, it just feels nice to know you have a fair few people out there who like you. It's a bit of a confidence boost to know that you can meet people a few times and they're interested in keeping you around. However, this does not mean you get to sit on your arse and wait for the entire world to come to you. If you want friends, you have to be willing to make them. This means saying hello first. It means having the guts to try to talk to someone, even when you're not really sure if they want to talk to you. It means realising that however hard you try, you're still not always going to be successful and that's fine. At least it wasn't because you did nothing. Funnily enough, this doesn't just apply to social interactions- it can be applied to anything in life.

I may not be as charming as I think I am. Truthfully, most of the time, I don't know what the hell is going on with most things, including my own social life. I also can't dance to save my life. But as inept as I am, there's still a chance I'm going to get better with age. And if not, well... actually, fuck that. Things can only improve. Except for my dancing. Pretty sure that's never going to get better, but hey, it's part of my charm.

I can only dream of one day being this fly. 

Some Words to Tell You I Miss You (A Tribute to My Grandmother Lydia)

One ability I have always held in high regard is the ability to tell a good story. Few people know the magical combination that gives a story meaning; a rich tapestry of experience, genuine emotion and a way with words that is both poignant and uplifting. Storytellers are not born, but made; carved by years of trials and instances that leave a lasting imprint on their lives. My Grandmother was a woman with a life that lent itself well to telling stories. When I visited her for the last time in November, I remember she sat in her armchair in her pink dressing gown; small, but with such an undeniably commanding presence that it felt only natural to sit at her feet and wait for her to speak. Her voice was calm as she told me story after story; about her life, and the pain she had suffered, and the people she had lost. Not a trace of sadness was in her voice; she simply told me what had happened, accepting that life can often be painful and that in order to love others, we must be prepared to lose them. Grandma Lydia is one of the first people in my life who I have loved and lost; and while knowing that she is gone leaves an ache in my heart, having the opportunity to love her was well worth the pain of loss.

I first met my Grandmother when I was less than a month old. My mother, Julia, brought me to Oldham to meet her and Grandmother Lydia later repaid the favor by visiting us in London. There is one photo of our meeting. I am tiny and swaddled in a blanket, and my Grandmother holds me like a woman well-practiced at holding newborn children; four of her own, and countless others who called her their grandmother, great grandmother and even their great-great grandmother. It is oddly wonderful that this woman, who lost her own family at such a young age, became connected to the lives of so many. This was not without hardship. My Grandmother frequently reminded me that she started out with absolutely nothing. Born into poverty, she was forced to leave her family and flee to a foreign country; utterly alone in a place where no one spoke her language. She spoke often of how many of her brothers and sisters perished in her childhood; a particularly heart-breaking example being her little sister, who sat up early one morning, cried for her mother and then quietly passed away. They wrapped her in a shroud; made from some material Grandmother Lydia had been saving to make a new dress. She had begged for the material from one of her relatives and never got to do anything with it, as the material went with her little sister into her grave.

There are so many more stories Grandmother Lydia had, each one of which were capable of breaking your heart in two, but this one in particular stuck out to me. This one gave a glimpse into my grandmother’s life as a young girl; a girl who wanted so little, and throughout her life would never have much. However, this never made her bitter. My Grandmother took each hurdle in her life with a grace and serenity rarely seen in our impatient human race. What she experienced would be enough to send an ordinary person reeling; but instead, she internalized any pain she felt and kept on going. Through countless periods of grief, hurt and difficulty, she worked three jobs to feed her family; using every last reserve of her energy to keep them fed and clothed. She sacrificed her time and energy to make others happy, and in her old age, was finally given an opportunity to be looked after by the ones who loved her so dearly. This may have been the only time in my grandmother’s life where she was given a chance to rest. For a woman who gave up so much to give to other people, it is only fitting that we all gave her something back; a loving family, who she treasured above all else.

If you ever needed proof of how much Grandma Lydia loved us all, you would only need to go to her home and look at the many pictures on her walls. In her living room there are countless smiling, familiar faces; the faces of the people who were dear to her, right until the very end. Whenever I visited, we would go through more photos together; kept in old boxes on top of her wardrobe. Pictures of my mother’s first wedding, of my Auntie Linda and Uncle Tony in their early twenties, of Alan in his Boy George phase and countless photos of her grandchildren, sent to her by their loving parents. That she still went through those photos after having them for so many years says a lot about how important we were to her; as does the way she always told me to take care of my mother and father, or how she ended every phone call with “God bless”. For Lydia, nothing was more important than her family, and it is only right that now she is gone, we have come together to celebrate her life.

Grandmother Lydia was a woman of great strength; and without that strength, so many of us would not be here. There were many times in her life where she faced horrors that are too great to be imagined; but she survived against all odds and made a new life for herself. My Grandmother began her life surrounded by death, but rose above the pain and desperation, waging her own private war with the world beginning at the tender age of ten. It is only fitting that she passed away surrounded by life, leaving peacefully in the midst of a group of people that loved her dearly.

There is one lesson Grandma Lydia imparted upon me with her countless stories; something that should never be forgotten, because it is crucially important to living a life that is good and whole. That lesson is that no matter what a person may suffer, they should strive to love the ones around them unconditionally and without bitterness. My Grandmother, despite how much she suffered, tried to see the good in everyone. She never judged, or spoke to me in anger. She simply let me know that I was loved, and I’m sure she did the same to everyone around her. If more people could approach life and love with the same grace and dignity as my grandmother, the world would be a much brighter, understanding place.  She was a perfect human being and the centre of our family, and although it breaks my heart that she’s gone, her love will never leave me. 

The Finite

Part of being alive seems to be a lack of understanding of just how fragile life is. We are at the centre of a constant dizzying whirl of changes; growing up, growing old, growing stronger, growing weaker and we never stop to think that one day, everything we hold dear is not going to be here any more. Not only that, one day we are not going to be here any more. So we fritter away our time on the meaningless and trivial, because that's the only way we know how to live. Unfortunately, a big part of being human is not realising how much time you waste from day to day.

I'm not writing this to gather sympathy. I write this only to impart a lesson upon you all- a lesson that should not have to be learned in such a painful way, but often is, because there's no other way for it to sink in. What I want to tell you is to appreciate your loved ones. Let them know how much you care for them, because while they probably know, there's no harm in letting it be said. Spend as much time with them as you possibly can, because you don't know when they are going to leave you. You don't know when it'll be the last time you'll get to tell them how much they mean to you and how much you care. The last time you give them a hug goodbye. The last time you hear them on the phone. The last time they tell you goodbye.

At this current moment, there is nowhere I would rather be than in a hospital room in Manchester, surrounded by my relatives we watch over the woman who is responsible for beginning our family. My Grandmother Lydia is a woman who should not have survived. Born into one of the most poverty stricken countries in the world, she watched her father and siblings die slowly of malnutrition, and was separated from the rest of her family when she fled the Nazi invasion of the Ukraine. Grandma Lydia was barely a teenager when she last saw her mother and sisters, and she always told me that all she wanted to do was go home, hug her mother and give her a glass of water. I find it so oddly painful that right now, I want the same thing; to go to my grandmother, smooth her hair back from her forehead and give her a glass of water. I've been calling her on and off these last couple of days to let her know that I love her, and I miss her so much... but without being able to touch her, I feel like I can't say goodbye properly. And while there's the slimmest, most minuscule chance she could still fight her way through this, I don't dare to hope. I don't dare to hold off on my goodbyes.

I went back to the UK a few months ago for the first time in ten years, which was when I last saw my Grandmother. I remember thinking about how small she looked- small, and old, but still so strong and sharp. My family has always told me that I inherited my stubborn nature from her, and it's something I'm proud of, because it means that I am a fighter, just like her. This woman suffered so much in her lifetime- never once getting a chance to have a break, a brief respite from all the hurt that plagued her. Where most people would have given up, she traveled to a foreign country and started a family in a place where she couldn't even speak the language. She lost her own mother, but then became one to four children; four children that love her so dearly, and know that despite growing up poor, she gave them so much.

My Grandmother used to work three jobs to support her family. This often meant she couldn't always be there, but she kept her children fed and clothed, and they never doubted for a moment how much she loved them. She was often sick- years of malnutrition does that to a person- and there were times where she was so ill that her children were placed into care. Even then, it took so much to separate my grandmother from her family. She never wanted to leave them. Even now, as she's lying in hospital hooked up to an oxygen machine, she's telling us she doesn't want to go. And God, we don't want her to go.

Her one want was for all her family to stay with her as she goes. And although my Mum and I can't be there, we've been told that we're in her dreams. Sometimes, she tells them that we visited only a few hours ago. I remember when I saw her for the first time in a decade, she thought for a moment that it was my mother, back at age 18. I know that she's just hallucinating from her pain medication, but it feels comforting to know that she thinks we're there. I've managed to skype her at one of her more lucid moments and while she couldn't really talk back, she tried to smile at me, even though she could see how hard it was for me not to cry.

Grandma Lydia has always tried to keep the family together; and she continues to do that, even when she's so close to leaving us. My mother and her sister spoke the other day for the first time since before I was born, and finally apologised for all the hurt they caused one another. When I last went to England, I met my Uncle Tony for the first time, and now have another whole element to my family I didn't know existed. I only wish all this could have happened sooner, at a time when my grandmother was still well. I only wish I could have had more time, because I love this woman so much and all I ever wanted was for her to be happy.

I know I have a fair few issues with people. I expect disappointment. I expect hurt and misunderstandings. But my Grandma Lydia is someone who has never let me down. In my eyes, she is the perfect human being; a person who does not complicate things with hate and grudges. All she ever did was love me unconditionally. I doubt there's anything I could do to make her pride in me diminish. She always provides me with wisdom; every time we talked on the phone, she would remind me to "be good to your Mum and Dad, because they're the only ones you've got". She reminded me not to be bitter. And every time I had something happen in my life, something that would knock me back for a fair while... she would remind me of what she had been though, and that I have the strength to survive anything.

There is still a part of me that is hoping someone will call in the next day and tell me that's she's getting better. There's been a few of those calls already, but they are slowly tapering off, and I fear the next one I get will be the one that lets me know she's gone. And I know that if that happens, I'm going to say it's not fair that I didn't get more time. It's not fair that I couldn't say goodbye. It's not fair that a person I love so much is not going to be here any more. But there was never any illusion that life could be fair. We can only recognize this and do our best to live and love regardless. If Grandma Lydia has taught me anything, it's the importance of allowing yourself to love, regardless of what has happened to you. You may become bitter. You may be afraid of being hurt. But to love one another is infinitely more important, as at the end of the day, all we have is each other. 

Living Out of Home (It's Pretty Damn Great)

Hello everyone. Nice to see you all. Yes, I realise it's been awhile. We do have so much to catch up on but obviously not right now because we aren't actually having a conversation, I'm just using a specific writing technique to appeal to you on a personal level so your interest levels will rise and you'll be more likely to finish reading this sentence- hey! Did you just open another tab while I was talking to you? Is that- wait, are you ignoring me to watch videos of small baby animals? Okay, granted, watching puppies roll over is a credible way to spend your time, but come on, don't you at least want to maybe finish this paragraph before you click away from my page? Aren't you the least bit curious as to why I've been completely absent from the internet for the better part of the month?

And you're looking at hardcore pornography. Very well. If you ever get sick of watching a dwarf climb in and out of an adult man's anus, I'll be here, waiting.

About a month ago, I was complaining a lot because a fuckton of not-so-amazing things decided it'd be fun to forecibly enter my life all at once, like a pornstar with ten dildos shoved in their ass (I was up late watching porn, shut up). This is just how life goes-when the shit hits the fan, it rarely sprays in one direction. It splatters everywhere, leaving you standing there, wiping the faecal matter away from your eyes as you try to conjure up fond memories of an easy, shit-free existence. Life fucks with us, but rarely do we remember that it's never one-on-one, consensually, in the missionary position. Life is a kinky bastard that calls up his friends and organises surprise sexual attacks from all directions, armed with stainless steel dildos, spiked buttplugs and sounding rods. Extended rape metaphor aside, the simple truth is, my personal life was in absolute shambles. Ultimately, this doesn't matter, as everything ended up turning out okay. Although I was kicked out of home and wrote off my car within the same month, I quickly found a place to rent conviniently located close to my uni, shops and public transport. At the moment, I am safe, secure and pretty content with how my life is progressing thus far.

However, there's a few things I should comment upon regarding moving out that genuinely surprised me. Especially in regards to sharing with friends. Honestly, at the moment, the biggest suprise is how much time I spend cleaning up. If I'm not picking something up and putting it back where it belongs, I'm sweeping the floor, wiping down counters, washing dishes, stacking dishes, drying dishes, scrubbing couches, mopping the bathroom floor, wiping down the shower, emptying out the leftovers we never ate from the fridge etc. Sometimes I feel like shoving a brush up my ass so I can just sweep as I go. Although I've done chores most of my life, the amount of time I need to put in to make sure I don't end up rotting in my own filth is astounding. I'd estimate that I spend an hour a day cleaning up at the very least, and if I don't, the house quickly starts to resemble the giant space trashball from Futurama. I'm not sure how three people can make a place so filthy, but I already have so much repect for dilligent mothers everywhere for managing to keep on top of everything a hell of a lot better than I do.

The other thing you have to watch out for when you gain independence is how you regulate your time. I'll admit it, because at the moment I have no real responsibilities, my routine is now getting up around 10AM and spending a few hours on reddit. BOOM, half the day is gone and bye bye productivity. The whole day has been sucked up into funny pictures of Nicholas Cage and bad puns. Throw in the nights I spend either out or too tired to function from being out the previous nights, and I am wasting a lot of potential for improvement. Could I probably have written a decent amount of short stories by now? Yes. Did I? No, because I was either drunk, tired or wasting time on the internet. The same goes for my room mates. I can't think of the last time any of us did something that actually contributed to society. Of course, I don't care what they do, as long as they help me clean. Fuck this house and how often it needs cleaning.

Getting the balance right in regards to household responsibilities is also difficult. I live in a house frequented by 18 year olds and while we're usually pretty good with this stuff, there's something about being around other teenagers that makes a person inherently lazy. Maybe it's the lack of parental pressure, maybe it's just the simple fact that no one likes touching plastic bags full of food scraps and used condoms, but whatever it is, it means certain stuff doesn't get done as soon as it should. This can sometimes create tensions. I'll admit, I can get a bit passive aggressive over whose turn it is to do the dishes. This is yet to result in an all-out war, but if anyone hears gunshots in St Lucia, don't panic, we're just trying to figure out who's supposed to be washing and drying tonight.

Having said all that, there's something pretty great about achieving your own independence. Turns out a lot of the stress in my life comes from parental pressure- remove the parents and it's no longer an issue. Without going into details, life suddenly become a lot more enjoyable when there isn't a constant source of tension present in the place you live. I know that personally, in the last three weeks, I haven't had one moment where I've felt like crap because of the people I've been forced to be around. Sure, sometimes I get frustrated over household duties and who's not doing them. That's a given. But when I get to come home to people who will have a fancy dinner with me on Valentines Day because we all live too far away from our SOs to do anything, or who will get drunk and watch musicals with me any night of the week, or who will even take care of me when I'm sick and hungover I can't get off the couch... it's very worth it.

In closing, although this whole journey began with a clusterfuck of badly timed stressful events, it has ended on a rather positive note and I can only see things getting better from here. My first lecture is tomorrow and I am excited to continue this pathway towards achieving true independence. I still have a fuckload to learn, like how to get dried weetbix off bowls and how to drink in the shower without severely diluting my alcohol. But this will all come in time... and what a great time it is going to be.

Moving Out (Is A Terrific Pain In The Ass)

For those of you who follow me pretty intently (a grand total of five people, I'm assuming, including Anson Nesci. Hello, number one fan), you may have noticed a lack of written word explosions emananting from my general direction. There is a good reason for this- recently, after spending a good few months after the HSC cutting loose and generally attempting to stay inebrieted consistently, I decided I was ready to take on some adult responsibility and began making plans to move into my own residence. This may prove to be one of the more stressful decisions of my life, up there with actively encouraging my parents to divorce (I was seven. They didn't take my advice until around 8 years later, and I'm still not sure they should have) and moulding myself into a competitive overachiever who views a mark under 90% as abject failure. While I'm sure when I'm kicking back in my cool student pad in a few months, all this stress will seem laughable, at the moment, I feel like shaving my head ala Britney Spears and having an utter meltdown. The reason for this is simple; this whole "moving" process unfortunately combines a fair few activities I hate into one big bundle of awfulness- namely, driving around in a cramped car with no air conditioning, spending a lot of money of fuel, dealing with new people, dealing with people in general, Brisbane traffic and the possibility of all that effort being for absolutely nothing when our applications are undoubtedly rejected. Add three friends who are relying on you to be their spokesperson and organise the technical aspects of house hunting and you can see why I'm this close to running outside, laying on the super-heated tarmac and yelling "I QUIT" at the next vehicle that comes along.

However, as I don't think it's far to expect the Tweed Shire council to scrape my remains off a suburban road (or indeed do anything at all except conduct roadworks in the wrong places), I will repress my self-destructive tendencies and try to handle things like a person who isn't being driven half-mad by this appalling heat. Fuck you, Australia. Your country is so hot, they had to use a whole new colour to record temperature readings for your centre. It's ridiculous, you should behave more like your charming mother country and be subjected to wind, rain and hail 9 months of the year. Or like your brother Canada, and be covered in snow and moose. Anyway, back to moving. 

I am not sure what other people have experienced with moving out, but I assume most people are able to outsource help from various family members and trusted adult figures. I mean, most of you would have parents who'd only be too happy to sit down with you and tell you what on earth all these stupid, needlessly bureacratic forms mean. An added part of my stress regrettably comes from the fact that the parent I currently reside with couldn't possibly be taking any less interest in what I'm doing. In fact, because of the negative atmosphere permeating my current residence, I have considered vacating early and couch-hopping until I have somewhere to live... providing of course, that I don't take advantage of the hospitality of my friends. I mean, I do have a perfectly good car to live out of, and now I regret writing that because it'll undoubtedly cause a mass panic and I'll have to get on my podium and explain that me living out of my car is indeed a joke. Being perfectly honest though, I have begun Operation Go Home As Little As Possible today.  There is a yellow backpack in my car with enough essentials to last me a few days before I have to think about doing some laundry. I've taken all my important documents so I can sort this moving out thing on the go. This all sounds pretty silly and childish, I know, but without me explaining finer details that probably don't belong on the public forum of the internet, you won't understand why I don't want to be at my home any more. Besides, to be very brutally honest, it's not my "home". It's the place I go to sleep occasionally. I sometimes manage to feed myself there (read: not often). I keep my stuff that won't fit in my car there. That's about it.

The worst thing about moving out, I'm finding, is it makes you feel quite small and useless. Usually, I love to brag about how confident I feel about being part of the adult world (read: porn industry. Just kidding. Hopefully I'm not naked on the internet somewhere) and my ability to handle most of what is thrown at me. But when you're dealing with feeling totally out of your depth all of the time, while knowing you're being pitted against numerous people who have way more of an idea of how things work than you do, and realising that most of the time, you can try your hardest and see no results... I get scared. I feel like exactly what I am- a financially dependent kid with no real life experience other than knowing how to cook, clean and wash my own clothes. And I hate that, because I want to skip the hard stuff and just be a cool, indepedent uni student as soon as possible. I hate it, because I have no idea where to start asking for help or if I'll even get any. Asking for help in itself is a problem for me because I a) have an engorged sense of  pride and b) never want to inconvinience others with my meaningless, insecure bullshit. So no matter exhausted and strained I get, I will continue to try and mask it behind a veil of dry wit, because it's the only way I know how to deal with these harsh periods of life. It could be so much worse, I acknowledge this. I acknowledge this and I try to deal with it as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, sometimes my methods of dealing with these sorts of things is to cut myself off from others and become incredibly self absorbed. So, I apologise for not being the best human being I can be at the moment. It's shitty, it's selfish, but I need to focus on meeting my own needs right now. When I do, I can open myself up again.

It's times like this where I wish I could let go of my pride and just admit that I wish I could be looked after and babied for the rest of my life. When I daydream, it's frequently about being brought up in a nice, standard middle class family, because honestly, those who are in them have no idea how much support and stability they get. No family is perfect, but there's a distinct difference between the occasional argument with your parents and the fear of having nowhere to live and being utterly broke because for whatever reason, you can't communicate with the person who's supposed to love you more than anyone else in the world. You kids need to appreciate how lucky you are. You're cared for. You're taught how to handle things. It's not a huge muddle of guesswork that might result in you being completely fucked over for a few years. There's a safety net; and it must be so lovely knowing it's there. I wish so much I could have had that. But I didn't and that's okay. I'll deal with what I've been given, because it's the only thing that can be done.

I am well aware this post sounds a tad more emotional and pleading than usual, so I'm going to kindly ask whoever is reading this not to worry too much. Most likely, I'm exaggerating the situation and will laugh about it later on when the shit really hits the fan. But I'm not going to lie- I feel like crap at the moment and I think I want the world to know that. Not to get help, not to make excuses, but simply because it's so nice to be honest about how utterly shitty I feel right now. I feel like shit, but I'm going to get better because things always have a habit of working themselves out. And if not, I'll make them, because there's no other choice.

Peace.

Being Honest (And Why Not Many People Do It)

In a world that seems to thrive on creating false images for its citizens to aspire to, there is nothing more important than developing a sense of honesty. It should be simple enough- as children, we are taught that lying is wrong and that dishonesty will always be punished. But, that particular lesson never seems to stick, as when we grow up, we realise a harsh truth about the world; self preservation nearly always overrules a person's ethical code. And honestly, it really isn't surprising that so many people are driven to lie about themselves. While you're spoon fed ideas of tolerance and understanding from the moment you're able to talk, it's not enough to combat the insanely judgmental nature of the human race. Whether this behavior is residual from our tribal days where all social interactions were based around resource efficiency and finding a healthy mate or because the human race is a bunch of self-absorbed -pricks is irrelevant. Basically, we are in an environment where any wrong move could cost us the respect of our peers. As I said before, with that kind of pressure, no wonder we're driven to lie.

I doubt many people can say they've been 100% honest throughout their entire life. I know I certainly can't. In fact, my almost confessional style of brutal honesty has really only taken hold in the last two or so years, and I still wouldn't say I tell most people everything. It used to be worse- when I was younger, a lot more insecure and extremely depressed, I'd make up all sorts of reasons for people to leave me alone. Sometimes, it was reasons for me to be thought of as less pathetic than I actually was. I still remember a time in primary school where suddenly, all my friends had boyfriends (okay, I'm trying to stray away from using brackets any more because it interrupts the flow of my writing- thank you to the person that told me that- but seriously, come on. Having a boyfriend at age eleven is like a baby holding a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of Jack Daniels, they think it makes them look cooler, but we know they have no idea what they're doing). Of course, my reaction to this as a socially awkward nerd girl who no one wanted to date because she was taller than everyone else was to make up a boyfriend who occasionally bought me cheap trinkets suspiciously similar to those you could pick up at Kingscliff markets for under ten bucks. Unsurprisingly, no one bought this crock of bullshit I was offering up, so I resigned myself to being the butt-ugly nerdling that would never, ever possibly be desirable to the opposite gender. This, along with other incidents such as the time where my best friend told the first boy I ever had a crush on I liked him and his friends chased me around the playground all lunchtime heckling me until I burst into tears and hid under some playground equipment, or the frequent times where boys and girls would walk up and call me ugly seemingly randomly, almost scarred me for life romantically. However, as no teenager will ever realise until they've almost finished with being one, these things get better with time, getting puberty done with and learning how to apply make-up correctly (or if you're a boy, giving up on that pathetic scraggly bit of bum fluff hanging off your chin and going for a clean-shaven look). So, while I'm probably never going to be comfortable with accepting compliments on my personal appearance and will nearly always act incredibly awkward around those I fancy, I know I'm not a troll-faced harridan doomed to the life of a maiden aunt. Anyway, the reason why I just unleashed all these embarrassing stories upon you readers is to stress how easy it is to hide these horrible moments deep within your past and just pretend you've been cool, confident and mistake-free from birth. Don't want someone to know that you once vomited so hard from alcohol poisoning that you peed your pants? Just don't say anything about it. It's very simple.

However, I don't like this particular approach. I never have, as it means you start out in your personal relationships on very uneven footing, just waiting for some embarrassing detail to slip out and trip you up into an entanglement of social faux paus. And it will always happen, because unfortunately, most people that you confide in will one day let you down and tell someone something they shouldn't. The way I see it, if you're upfront about everything at the start, there's less risk of something turning around to bite you on the ass later. No one can talk about something behind your back if everyone already knows. However, this doesn't mean you should ever take it upon yourself to blurt out something someone's told you in confidence. Complete trust is a rare and wonderful thing and all too easily ruined forever. I don't trust many people because I'm naturally cynical, but when I do, I prize it over almost all else, except maybe having others trust me in the same way.

Recently, I was drunkenly burbling on about this kind of honesty, and a person who I rarely speak to any more because of personal differences seemed to take offence to what I was saying. I don't remember too clearly what happened, as a drunken haze had fallen over my brain,  but it sounded like they were saying my idea of honesty is selfish because it has the potential to hurt people. I would like to clarify one area where I don't think brutal honest is necessary- where the act of being honest is just going to result in someone being extremely emotionally damaged without any sort of gain. As the cartoon rabbits said in Bambi, "if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all", unless someone's actually asking you for constructive criticism or said person is not getting the extremely obvious hints you've been dropping and needs to be told point blank to fuck off. If you're using your perception of honesty and truth to hurt others, I feel sorry for you, because that's a sad little existence you must lead. I remember what it's like to feel that sort of insecurity and truly feel sorry for you. However, it's never too late to wake up to your own dickish behavior and change for the better.

I've always found myself trying to surround myself with people who believe in this type of honesty, as it's a welcome release from the constant bombardment of lies targeted at us by our modern culture. To have the ability to be genuine with the people you care about is probably something I'd view as one of the most important aspects of life, as if you can't bring yourself to show who you are to the people who are least likely to abandon you, you have some serious insecurities indeed. If I can tell a bunch of strangers on the internet that when I was fifteen, a guy I liked rejected me without even knowing I liked him and it made me cry on the floor all night, you can tell your friends that you once made a homemade enema out of a shower head, or whatever it is you kids get up to these days. Being embarrassed about your past is counterproductive, as there's nothing you can do to change it. It's better to be able to express your finer failings to others, as it's much easier to get over these things when other people are laughing with you.

Being Polite (And How So Many People Fail To Do This)

Yet again, I've gone from planning my blog post around some conventional topic such as the abject misery wreaked upon all humans by the breakdown of (sigh, I really hate this word) relationships to writing about a topic I thought of on a complete whim. While everyone should be used to my absolutely chaotic and unstructured approach to life by now, for those who are not my nearest and dearest, I apologise, as every time I mention that I have half-written a blog post that will probably debut a week later, the odds are is that it will stay that way- half-written. I know the mark of a good writer is being able to plan and structure your work, meticulously check it for errors and then post it online for the ravaging hoards of elitist wordsmiths to rip apart like a den of rottweilers in a pile of paper chains. So if anything I've mentioned as a planned segment has caught your interest, sorry... following through on plans is not my strong suit.

Today, after managing to gather around three hours of sleep in the last 48 hours, I decided to brave an excursion into the pit of misery that is Tweed City Shopping Centre, despite the numerous amount of hoons in customised utes I'd have to battle with to secure my position of the road. Every time I visit this particular location, I have to approach it as a chance to observe the inner workings of human behavior and be completely objective, otherwise I risk becoming extremely depressed and setting the whole thing on fire (for any law enforcers that may be reading this, that last part is something us young people refer to as a "joke". I do not have any real intention to set any major public buildings aflame, the extra gas tanks in my car are just for emergencies). Not once have I visited there and thought "ah, bless, the coming together of these people provides me with greater hope in the human race, as how else can we unite except by cutting off each other in the carpack and annoying others by using our mobile phones in the cinemas?". Maybe it's something to do with the lack of airflow and bad lighting, maybe it's just because if you cram me into an enclosed space with enough people, I will start thinking of many creative ways to murder them, but being there always puts me on edge. While not everyone is bad, on some days it is like the whole place has been hired out to showcase the very worst kinds of people society has to offer.

Maybe it's because of my British heritage, but I've always had an almost anal retentive regard towards politeness. While it can be argued that I can be very crude, especially with my fucking language, I have this compulsion within me to try and be uncannily gracious in all social interactions with strangers. This manifests itself in me doing things like awkwardly holding doors open for people that are standing slightly too far away, offering to hold screaming children, anxiously hovering around dirty dishes at other people's houses offering to clean them and occasionally refusing offers of food simply because I don't want to inconvenience anyone. Of course, as I get to know people and their parents, the barriers go down and I reveal myself for the crass, uncouth slob I really am, but there's always that initial compulsion to present the perfect picture of politeness.

Because of this, the rudeness of other people, to put it in colloquial terms, really shits me off. Many people who have seen a film with me at a cinema in recent years know that I am currently conducting a one-woman war against people who text during movies. I'd like to think I'm above chucking popcorn at the back of people's heads, but it does get tempting when my light-sensitive eyes are blinded by the unwanted glare of an iPhone 5 screen, only for the sweet release when the phone is finally stowed away to be interrupted by the annoying jangle of a polyphonic ringtone as the person sitting on the OTHER SIDE of the cinema receives their blasted text message. I mean, really, are you that repulsed by each others' bodily odors that you can't possible sit together and whisper? Did you two swallow magnets as children and so cannot come into close quarters so you are not ripped apart by negative forces? Or better yet (and this goes out to all those people who think it's perfectly acceptable to shout like they're at a football match when I'm trying to watch something I paid ten bucks for), you could just shut the fuck up and watch the film. See, that really boggles my mind. Why on earth would you drive out to a public location, pay money to see a movie... and then spend the entire time on your phone like you're reclining in your own lounge-room? You could probably set fire to ten dollars to get the same money-wasting effect, AND then I wouldn't have to see your sub-intelligent selves at the cinema. Anyway, to make this brief, all I'm saying is that if I ever find myself in a position of power (I was voted most likely to go into politics back in year ten, and we all know how that's a great indicator of our futures), my first decree will be to threaten all movie-texters with public execution. Or at least make it so they're paraded around the cinema with an "I HAVE THE INTELLIGENCE OF A PROLAPSED DONKEY ANUS" sign on their chest. You have all been warned.

Another pet hate of mine when it comes to issues of being polite is the use of car horns. As a person that used to burst into tears if she got beeped at (I hardened the fuck up though, as if you drive in Queensland, you must get used to it), I can testify that it is not a pleasant or helpful sound. I think the human equivilant of a shrilly beeping horn is a little fat man with a red face yelling "GO FUCK YOURSELF, YOU INCESTUOUS EMBARRASSMENT TO THE HUMAN RACE" while flipping me the bird and sodomising my various family members. Because, you know, nothing helps a panicked driver than a sound that is basically reminiscent of being shouted at for being a dumbass. Honestly, I think the sheer hostility of the sound itself has made people use it more out of anger than due to actual road safety. Who hasn't slammed their hand down on their horn and been like "what a fucking idiot.Obviously legally blind and I bet he has a small penis too" (or, for the ladies, "what a fucking idiot. Obviously legally blind and I bet she's on her period"). But menstrual cycles and small penises aside, I think car horns just sound too hostile and rude. It would comfort me greatly if we could install a more comforting alert into our steering wheels, like a selection of soothing nature noises. I'd love it if the next time I was cut off in traffic, I could press a button on my car and make the noise of a mating whale at the errant driver. Until that happens, I will continue to hang my head out of my car and make a rough approximation of the noise myself.

One other thing that particularly annoys me is when people ask really blunt, personal questions or make potentially upsetting comments that the conversation could have safely done without. Just a heads up, if I've only known you for about a day, I'm not going to like it if you ask me how many people I've had sex with. Or what my favorite position is. Maybe I've just been unfortunate enough to talk to a lot of opportunistic perverts, but my stance on that information is that I will only discuss it if I feel that our friendship is worthy of that kind of trust. The sad truth is, while everyone should be able to be loving, trusting and open, because people are human and therefore fail at doing basically decent acts all the time, there's certain information that one simply can't be free with due to the possibility of it getting spread and distorted through gossip.

Similarly, I do not like people making personal comments to me. As probably none of you are aware, I like to pretend to be a strong independent woman that don't need no man, but on the inside, I can get shaken very easily by what people say. This doesn't make me any lesser for admitting it, being impacted by the thoughts and opinions of those around you is a very common thing. So if you come up to me for the first time in months and immediately cheerfully tell me that I've "put on a little weight", do not be surprised if I make an excuse to leave the room so I don't immediately fire back "and so did you, you fat cunt". A big one that I used to get back in high school (it's a relief to say it, even though I've only been out a few months) was "gosh, Phoebe, you look tired". There is really no nice way to say this, unless you're giving someone permission to go to bed and will be following them with a glass of warm milk and an illustrated version of The Hobbit (incidentally, boys, if that sounds like your idea of a good date, let me know). You're basically saying "God, you look shitty and exhausted, I'd better say something about it so you know everyone's noticed". It's especially awkward for us olive-skinned people who are born with the type of under-eye bags usually only gained from six months looking after newborn triplets with colic. I know most days, I look like I haven't slept for a week, but that's honestly just how I look. Now stop commenting on it, or I will find an excuse to take all your family pets and replace them with murderous cassowaries.

In a nutshell, while I'm not saying we should return back to Victorian sensibilities and refer to trousers as "unmentionables" and treat the exposure of legs like a graphic view of a man's genitals, I think modern society could benefit from realising that being polite to your fellow human being is a pretty good idea. It's nice to do things like shake hands, hold doors open and make conversation with cashiers that go further than a standard "how're you going?" "good". It's also nice knowing that people don't think you're an asshole for playing on your FUCKING PHONE through AN ENTIRE GODDAMN MOVIE (look, I told you all, it's like a pathological issue with me. I hate it so much). So next time you're out, try to be a bit more mindful of others, even if they aren't mindful back. There's not really anything to lose, and what can be gained is a knowledge that you are intellectually superior to all beings that dare text their friend across a cinema while I'm trying to watch the last Harry Potter movie.