You see them walking across the road in packs, or even solo. They look like a strange mix between an adult and teenager, wearing things ranging from designer gym clothes to Kmart sale items. Their hair is either fabulous or a mess (I never understood quite how to make time to do the former, given that I start at 8am most days).
They carry around this huge overpacked baggage, as if they were boarding a flight to some exotic foreign continent (hah *sheds a single tear*), within – a hoard of treasured items can be found.
A coffee mug. The best (and most expensive) friend of the University student, guarded fiercely.
multiple assignments with coffee stains – usually printed double sided to conserve funds
books with half written lecture notes – usually a friend has “borrowed” a few pages.
Gum for emergencies (I.e spontaneous hookups)
And of course,
the 10kg $200 textbook that she/he STILL hasn’t used.
Upon observing (and unfortunately interacting with) these hormonally driven beings for the better part of 3 years now. I’ve noticed the appearance of such mammals follows a seemingly predictable trend.
For females; dead set panda eyes coved dutifully with concealer, sunglasses on forehead and usually one fashion statement item, Nike or converse as the choice footwear. The same outfit is repeated on a weekly cycle – an attempt to hide the fact that the female student doesn’t have the time nor funds to afford luxuries such as clothing items – a tragedy indeed.
The typical male university student looks very similar in appearance to his fellow “sick c*%#€”, “top bloke” or “mate”, as he adresses them- (amongst other terms), the dialect of the university bogan is hard to understand, even harder to duplicate. Those of the most testosterone driven are found at the “gym” – a communal area devoted to acting like a complete ass. I’d say avoid these types.
These are of course just generalisations, there are plenty of normally normal personalities in the world. And not everyone is a sleep deprived, financially, socially and mentally drained, gym fanatic slash full time student with no fashion sense…
Oh wait, I’m just describing myself now.
I hope you all have a great week regardless, if you see me frothing at the mouth and in a seemingly terrifying state of mental stability – don’t worry.
I’ve been in a few jobs during my short life, my first job was at a themepark, followed by a chainstore chicken shop known for it’s tongue-in -cheek ads (you can probably guess which one).
Like anywhere, jobs have heirachies. I started out as the plate and sauce cleaner.
And like many others, I was, at first- ecstatic about my job.
But before long the terrors of my choice became clear. My lord, the spices in that sauce mix were something else. The combination of steam and chilli made your eyes water and if you rubbed your eyes, you’d be screwed.
All of this combined with the searing heat of the industrial tap, hissing at you in burts of 2minutes at a time, did not make for a good time.
You can guess why I soon left that job, looking towards greener pastures. My next job landed me with the company I currently work for, however this time there was no devil sauce or hissing faucets. This time there was hotdog juice and cinnamon sugar. I got to interact with customers more too, and being a naturally happy person – the supervisors of the next themepark down the road saw the potential of such a cheery disposition suited to a better department.
And so, shortly after, I secured my current job in sales. My managers are adamant to hold onto me this time. Constantly placing me on Vendors – a kind of self run retail cart which I love, because it gives me the freedom to do my own thing.
Being one of the happiest people in the park(besides the kids) I also get asked to work special events- such as my last one….
I got to ride the famous Tumbler!! (It’s actually a lot more spacious than you’d think!)
Some might say that my job could be better, I could be paid more or do something degree related. But for me, I love my job, I love doing something unconventional and different. I do know that in my eyes, my job is the best in the world.
Historically known as ‘forceable invasion and ostracisation of indigenous Australians’ day.
Nationally celebrated as ‘let’s f*ck up our liver’ day.
Being Australian myself, I make it a habit not be found engaging in the annual behaviour of:
1. calling in sick
2. binge drinking
3. attaining diabetes with lamington overdose and finally….
4. finding yourself lying unconscious, poolside (or beachside) on a couch – surrounded by the wreckage of VB cans, cheap plastic cups and cold sausages.
I do however, love beaches.
Unfortunately, today… I was working!
Though, my shift got cut short (Great job once again Aussie weather).
I found it interesting though, in the space of two humid hours; my snapchat stories had been quietly accumulating. My phone repeatedly buzzing. Muted but none the less annoying – notifying me of new drunken updates.
I wasn’t surprised when the majority of my ‘friends‘ had sent me short snippets of their booze fuelled public holiday.
Watching everyone have a good time via social media always fills me with a mixture between regret and relief. Regret for missing the occasion and relief for not being exposed to those socially awkward situations in the first place.
Atleast tommorow I’ll have a clear head, whilst a quarter of all Aussies will probably fall victim to the post Aussie day hangover.
My unsteatated liver is quietly thanking me for now – don’t worry liver, the cruise will sort that out.
Hope you all had a great day, whether you be a sober Aussie, a drunken Aussie, or not even Aussie at all.
We haven’t met, but I see you all the time on television. I absolutely adore what you did with our forecast during June and July – you know, the WINTER months?
So now the compliment sandwich has finished it’s complement aspect…
I don’t know if you’ve had a rough week, or your boyfriend just broke up with you.
But girl, you need to calm the fuck down.
Yesterday I was in direct line of your BFF the Sun, and I was getting backsweat WHERE THERE SHOULDN’T BE BACKSWEAT.
Okay, i’ll admit it.
My mum (adorable as she is clueless), suggested I should have surgery ON MY ARMPITS – because they smell that bad.
When I’m trying to sell stuff, I really don’t need to have the wavering odor of corpses protruding from my underarms at the same time.
Hell, was it really that hard to chuck a random cloud in there sometime, you know to let my BLOODY PORES BREATHE?
What’s the go with the wind too girl?
like I had NO BREEZE yesterday.
I was drenched in sweat – my SOCKS were swimming in it, my armpits smelt like dead eggs, I looked like an absolute mess – combined with screaming at people to buy various cheap Chinese toys.
I probably looked mentally deranged.
Since we are a culture of lists, here’s my:
Top 5 things you can fix about yourself, you crazy bitch.
Now I’m not asking for much.
Some RAIN would actually be lovely, fuck the mosquitoes. I can complain about those when I feel them. Do I need to do a bloody Rain dance or something? Because I WILL DO IT. I don’t have friends and my reputation will not precede me. By all means, feel free to rain on my parade. I’ll even sacrifice some old carrots i have lying in the back of my fridge.
And when I say Rain, I don’t mean the thundery-stormy type (which I also know you’re a fan of at this time of year). Just the nice gentle drizzle that moves people out of the park and gets me home sooner.
What the heck is going on with this humidity too? Like I like my saunas just as much as the next person, but honestly, Do I LOOK LIKE I WANT TO GO BACK TO LIVING IN CAIRNS? I DON’T.
Also, feel free to rain all during the weekdays when I’m working. But girl, when I have my time off I want to actually get a tan this summer to prove I go outside. So please, just rain on certain days. NOT when I intend to go outside and look reasonably cute.
Finally, do you see my car just chilling out of the garage there? THAT MEANS RAIN ON IT. I don’t intentionally put my car outside for birds to adorn it with their shit. When I see clouds, I EXPECT rain. Don’t keep messing us around like this.
So Weather, I know you’re probably not feeling that hot right now, but can you just pull your head out of the clouds for a fleeting second and fix this damn psychedelic pattern you have going on?
Veterinary and Orthopedic research Scientists have shown that low magnitude, high frequency vibrations between 25-100 Hertz can actually aid in repair of bone tissue!
In a 2008 case report in the journal of Orthopedic research suggested that the application of mechanical low magnitude signals can improve bone healing and speed up recovery in the peritosteal region of sheep with fractured tallus’ (1);
At 10-weeks post-op, the callus in the Experimental group was 3.6-fold stiffer (p < 0.03), 2.5-fold stronger (p = 0.05), and 29% larger (p < 0.01) than Controls. Bone mineral content was 52% greater in the Experimental group (p < 0.02).
These data reinforce the critical role of mechanical factors in the enhancement of fracture healing, and emphasize that the signals need not be large to be influential and potentially clinically advantageous to the restoration of function.
And, the American acoustical society filed a report referencing the fantastic felines themselves :
Domestic cats, servals, ocelots, and pumas produce fundamental, dominant, or strong frequencies at exactly 25 Hz and 50 Hz, the two low frequencies that best promote bone growth/fracture healing.
These four species have a strong harmonic exactly at, or within 2 Hz of 100 Hz, a frequency used therapeutically for pain, edema, wounds, and dyspnea (2).
Perhaps the best way to heal a skull fracture after stacking it at your next basketball game is to put a cat on your face.
They went further to mention that this supposed ‘healing mechanism’ of purring may in fact, be used by cats purely in times of stress – when the cat’s are injured or sick.
So all along, when I thought Fuku was loving my weirdly close hugs – perhaps was getting over the stomach bug, or had nausea, a headache?
Next time I cuddle up to Fuku, i’ll make sure she’s okay first.
Goodship, A., Lawes, T., & Rubin, C. (2009). Low-magnitude high-frequency mechanical signals accelerate and augment endochondral bone repair: Preliminary evidence of efficacy. Journal Of Orthopaedic Research, 27(7), 922-930. http://dx.doi.org/10.1002/jor.20824
I hope you all had a fabulous Christmas and New year, filled with food, joy and happiness.
If you’re anything like me; the last few weeks in December race by in a flurry of colour, sound and madness. Almost like some bizarre play in which there is no sense.
Shopping becomes laborious, the energy sapped out of you the moment you walk through those automated doors at the shopping centre.
Almost like another world, you’ve entered ‘Humanity’s Christmas Zoo‘.
You see the circle of unmoving, relentless mothers picking through the clothes aisles. The children at their mothers hip holding a toy of somesort and begging for it to be bought, with big pleading eyes – and a cry to match. Or spotting the chance at escape….
The cheapskate or, last-minute shoppers; who buy the bare minimum and know it’ll just suffice. Eyes darting around anxiously, looking for another deal.
And then there’s those that buy too much… Extra of everything, cakes, bowls, presents, placemats, toys. They hoard the belongings with the excuse of ‘just in case‘.
And in the end, whether you compiled and completed your Christmas list or not; the 25th races by – all too quick for many, and all to slow for some.
The shops from whom you bought overpriced ornaments, have since slashed their prices overnight and you’re caught in the relentless cycle of buying, giving and buying again.
The Christmas zoo is an interesting place indeed. I’m left bittersweet; nostalgic for it’s passing but sure glad it’s over for another year.
Amidst all the chaos of Boxing day sales, overjoyed in the surge of new cash or presents that you’ve been eagerly playing with for the past few days…. you forget that the new year has been sharpening it’s claws – ready to strike when you’ve almost completely forgotten about it.
Then it hits you, before you even have a chance to recover from the massive feast you had on Christmas day – New Years Eve is upon us. And you’re left with multiple options; fireworks, dinner, partying or staying at home.
It’s like a double whammy of celebrations in less than a week. Complete with grandiose displays of fireworks and masses of drunk people who shuffle the night away.
Echoing cheers of ‘HAPPY NEW YEAR‘ – similar to the screams of a howler monkey; returned some distance away with the same (or more) enthusiasm from likeminded partygoers.
This year, I went out with a few friends to Surfers Paradise – a notorious spot on the Gold Coast for nightlife.
Well, it certainly lived up to it’s reputation.
Masses of people,young and old; dominated the strip by the beach. Music was blasting out of every nook and cranny – muffled only by the shouts of people who were singing, laughing and screaming.
I went to a few cheap bars with my best friend and partner in crime; Ash. Dancing to 80’s pop hits; we were the odd ones out in the group of 40-somethings that dominated the dance floor. People my age would usually be down at Shooters, Cocktails or even *shudder* Sin city on a night like this.
I can say I thoroughly enjoyed it though. Despite the mockery of behavior that us humans display in our drunken state; I danced with some very able bodied 50 year olds to Queen’s ‘I want to break free‘ that night.
The sky outside; clear blue, it’s currently a comfortably uncomfortable 28 degrees celsius (90F for our american cousins), expected to reach 34 by mid morning. The leaves of an unknown tree murmur outside in the non existent wind. My window blinds have been replaced by a towel; the Australian national flag as it’s print….. It’s good to be home.
Just 24 hours ago I had walked back through my wooden, stained glass front door; reeking of unwashed hair and sweat, with sleep remaining solidly in my eyes . We dragged our suitcases through the door and dumped them there. Our dog; Skip, went crazy, licking our legs, swirling around in circles and reeking of well, dog. I had a quick COLD shower and was under the blankets in a doze sooner than you could say Vegemite.
38 hours ago I was just departing Dubai airport, most of the people gave me a suspicious look regarding my casual t-shirt and shorts attire. I heard it was uncommon to have your arms uncovered, even in the airport. I shrugged, It was hot, and I was in no mood to negotiate. Especially when I was confusing my brain enough with the fact that I should be sleeping, not walking around looking for the next gate at that time.
45 hours…. I was stuffing my face with (my last) classically huge pizza- the type you can only get in Rome; a simple and pleasing Margherita, fresh out of the oven. There was no triple bacon, megameat, cheese crust, hambuger stuffed, meatlover pizza in Rome (that I could find anyway), sorry to disappoint
A week ago… Was I checking out the Collessem? the Spanish steps at Spagna, the great St. peters Basilica or the Trevi fountain-nestled away in the backstreets of Rome?
I was looking in the Ghetto of Rome; half lost, half exhilarated – but determined not to drag out the city map and risk looking like just ‘another ‘ tourist.
What were we searching for exactly?
We had traveled across to the other side the world, taken three conjoining flights in the space of 48 hours, walked down unfamiliar streets and fallen victim to the dreaded lag of jet. All to find our feline friends, that had no notion of becoming our friends to begin with.
My mum came up with the idea; she had seen street cats dash through the autumn leaves at dusk behind our cozy rental apartment. It had been a mission ever since to find them.
“Seek and ye shall find”, it had been my Dad’s definitive saying for over a decade.
And find them we did.
We stumbled across them, almost by accident.
Ruins, as many did in Rome; just appeared out of NOWHERE! you’d seriously be walking down a normal street and then BAM, Colosseum. Completely and utterly dominating your view, you’d think you were standing in a postcard. Colossal (as the name implies) and oftentimes chipped to nothingness in places- most structures were just remnant slabs of marble, shells of their former splendor.
Absolutely breathtaking nonethless…
Anyway, back to the ghetto cats.
The ruins I’m talking about were nestled in the city centre, a tad tricky to find by foot, to be honest we just kept walking around until we found them.
Eventually we stumbled upon the theater of Pompey, located at Palazzo della Cancelleria. Formally a large wooden (later decorated with marble), multipurpose theater in which formal meetings took place in the late republican era. The theater’s claim to fame is tied to Julius Caesar; the authoritarian and epic dictator (also the namesake of the decadently creamy salad), and the place of his assassination in 44BC. Nowadays an olive tree has been planted to mark the place whereupon he met his untimely end.
You wont find this in the Wikipedia site, but the Theatre of Pompey; whilst a marvelous site to look at, today serves a more particular and rather, residential purpose.
Whilst the ruins are blocked off to the public, on the west side there’s a small stairwell with a sign, the face of a cat imprinted on it’s front. The stairs lead down to a small shack-like shelter, and the strong smell of musk mixed in with heated air hit’s you in the face as you walk inside. A second afterwards the smell of cat becomes almost overpowering. The site is now home to over 200 individual cats. A handful of volunteers scuttle around, mewling after the cats like felines themselves. Whilst a small lady with jet black hair tied in a ponytail, welcomes us with the trace of some European accent I can’t quite place.
“Welcome to Roma del Gato, we are a non-forprofit charity shelter with over 150 cats, running for over 10 years...”
For 30 lovely, smelly minutes I was living the life of a cat lady.
Cats in their tens, twenties and thirties crowded in every nook and cranny of this small hut like shelter, the mewling, purring and meowing was like nothing you could ever imagine. All cats miraculously managed to ignore each other, even though they were basically top and tail next to each other. And all completely clean, well fed and content (well, as content as a cat could be I suppose).
It was incredible, my mum for one was in love the instant we set foot in the door. She bought an 18Euro top and was reluctant to leave. And as if the cats knew she was helping them out, one large tortoiseshell actually CLIMBED on her and stayed in her arms, a paw over her shoulder! as if to give her a hug and say ‘thanks’! I’ve never seen a cat do that before, and the other cat-loving visitors eyed on with apparent jealousy.
Well, my mum is more than keen to go back to Rome now.
Well, as we did throw our coins in the Trevi… It looks like this won’t be the last time I visit the Eternal city.
So it’s currently 3:12am, I went to bed at 12:00am. The darkness of this room cannot ease my restless mind, the gradual, predictable, annoyance of ticking from my wall clock does no justice to the buzzing that’s going on in my head. I was hoping to get some shut-eye before being rudely awakened by my alarm at 6:00am, but the vision of waking up at some (normally) non-ridiculous time of 8:00am (and miss his flight arriving) haunts me. And thus, my mind does the opposite of sleeping and insists I stay awake through the whole ordeal.
Trust me, I tried falling back into peaceful sleep. Covered in the warmth of these blankets, but everytime I do, I see him. In my minds eye, it happens over and over. A Groundhog Day of a memory, his incredible face, the smile of an angel, the rapid and urgent rattle of suitcase against tile, awkward strides closing the meagre space that keeps us apart.
Then, the warmth that spreads from his arms around me, as I find the space where my face fits onto the crook of his neck.
We stay there, we remain like that. In eachother’s arms. Obvilious to everyone’s glares or glances. I can’t let him go, I feel the heat and sweat on my own skin spread. I don’t care, in that moment I never want it to end.
It’s all in the struggle of the long distance relationship.
I’ve known him for a little over 7 months, the first time I met him was April this year, when I travelled to Auckland for 5 days in the break of my University mid semester (I was supposed to be studying, hah)
And those magical 5 days went much too quickly, as soon as I had arrived it seemed as if I was headed homebound.
Time does no favours, nor makes considerations for need or want.
He simply sits at his grand table, observing the world through dark spectacles. Countless souls ask for it to speed up, slow down for more or less. But, like a tight lipped pensioner, he is stoic to the pleas; hording the time he has at his disposal. Time is time, or it is up. There is no fast forward or rewind.
So in the silence of this night, I gingerly wait. Wait for the sun to make his gradual dance across the sky and at the first notion of daylight, I’ll be a vassal to the rushing of my own heartbeat. Soon the world will wake, and the kookaburras will laugh at the silliness of their song. The lorikeets’ call will fill the dawn with vibrance whilst the magpie’s melody will provide the body and form of an incredible few weeks to come.
‘STOP WAIT A MINUTE…. fill my cup put some liquor in it!’
……Were the lyrics that I awoke to this morning when my Pandoraradio started my rotation of ‘feel good’ music. Unless you are a complete termite and live under some rock or something, you probably wouldn’t recognize the lyrics above as being Bruno Mars’; ‘Uptown funk’. Dubbed one of the many songs that reflect today’s ‘quality music’. Deemed so by our elusive top 100’s billboard of modern music. So today, avid reader; I’m going to start this new blog with something I find very interesting!
What is it that makes music so #catchy? I later checked out the lyrics and after a bit of heavy research (ahem, lyric meanings.com) was appalled at the message it was sending.
I gasped as i realized…. I had fallen victim, as many have; to the ‘pop culture of today’.
Now you could talk to my Greece/High school musical crazed best friend Ash… she would preach that musicals and pop culture was the definitive ‘style’ of music that keeps life interesting.
Then you could talk to my Boyfriend and if you even mentioned a whisper of ‘Remix, Top 100’s or RnB’, and he would literally stare you down.
What is it that draws us to like certain styles of music?
I personally like a mix of 80’s 90’s and the earliest songs of this millennium. I must admit though, you might catch me bobbing my head along to some of Taylor Swift’s ‘Style’ now and then.
I remember reading an article a few years ago, stating that all Music plays with our emotions subconsciously, whether it be with a message, a progression of chords that we find appealing, down to the very voice whom owns the song.
(for me it’s got to be Coldplay, i don’t know why, but Chris’ pitch and tempo is perfect)
What i found particularly interesting however, was the fact that a lot of 3/4 time signatures ( the typical 1,2,3 and a 1,2,3) of modern and reminiscent music alike, in fact, correlate with the beating of our hearts.
‘The investigators report that listening to music initially produces varying levels of arousal – accelerated breathing, increased blood pressure and heart rate – that are directly proportional to the tempo of the music and perhaps the complexity of the rhythm.’ (ABC news 2005)
which has little to no use of emotive, expressive or influential language whatsoever.
Just check out the lyrics honestly;
‘The bass and the tweeters make the speakers go to war!
Ah, the mighty trumpet brings the freaks out to the floor!
The bass and the tweeters make the speakers go to war!
Ah, the mighty trumpet brings the freaks out to the floor!’
~ Timmy Trumpet, ‘Freaks’ 2014
But if you for a moment listen to the beat of the song from :55 to 1:00 and then for the remainder of the song from 1:55 to 2:56 you can actually hear the overriding beat behind the song as a definitive; one, and two and three and four, repeated over and over.
Does this not correlate somewhat to a heart beat?
Take another example, one that was an absolute rager during my schoolies week ( but that’s a story for another time)
b) Martin Garrix’s ‘Animals’.
EVEN LESS emotive, expressive and empathetic language then the previous one.
the entire lyrical analysis of the song can be summarised in four words.