December 23rd: Froot

What I love about Froot Loops is that, really, they're no bullshit. You can see the diabetes in every bite and it's wonderful.

Do not substitute the milk with beer though. Just don't do it.

December 22nd: A Tough Year

Dear Liv 2k16,

There is no such thing as a good year. Every year someone you love is going to leave, something you dread will happen, and you'll feel every ball you're trying to juggle just crash around you feet. You'll feel like you're dying, like you're caught in a cave with no exits, no light and no one to tell you it'll be okay.

But it will. You'll stop for a moment, just a second, and then you'll keep going. You'll pick up those balls, you'll dig until you find an exit to that cave, and you'll be okay. Because you have to be.

You'll meet amazing friends. You'll fight for something you believe in. You'll test yourself, and you'll win. You'll cut corrosive people from your life. You'll find something that makes you feel better than you have all year. You'll try something new. You'll see someone differently. You'll learn.

So chin up, eyes front, and remember to smile, 'cause last year may have been hard, but fuck it, it's over. Make next year amazing.

Regards,
Liv 2k15.

December 20th: The Special K

It's hugely important to celebrate the little things. You finished a pizza in under ten minutes? Congratulations, have another. You drank a whole bottle of Bailey's? No, you shouldn't do that, don't have another one, stop. You watched every Tom Hanks movie in one sitting? Excellent! Probably shouldn't do that again, but good on you, eat some cake. There you go. 

I don't have a ritual for finishing a book, not yet. I reckon I need one because THIS BITCH IS SO FUCKIN CLOSE TO THE END OF HELL 80 SHE CAN TASTE THE TEARS.

I should buy a car, but I'm too poor. And I can't drive. 

I should buy a cat, but I have a cat, I have two, and they both hate me. 

I should go out, buy a bottle of absinthe and just drink it all. No, I really shouldn't.

Nope. Keep trying.

I am going to go watch Forrest Gump and cry for nine hours. 

sixty-six fucking words. 

forrest

run.

December 11th: Thought

I think the best way to become a functioning alcoholic is to start as an arts student. 

***

Working in a Carpark and a bar is fine until you try to ID drivers. 

***

No, you're right. That big flashing FULL sign is just for decoration. 

***

Is soup a food or a drink?

***

Goal for this week: don't spend half of pay check on pizza. 

***

On one hand I don't think I spend that much money on food, on the other I generally have no money and that's because of food. So really there is no right answer.

***

Text tone is Kim Possible. 

Gets text.  

Guy beside me in Maccas asks: what's the sitch?

His mates laugh. 

The room laughs. 

I laugh. 

The room explodes. 

There are no survivors. 

That is the sitch.

***

It bothers me that children are so short. 

***

Count update: it has been 0 days since I've poured coffee on myself. 

***

So like, I have no money, but should I order pizza?

***

Ma'am, your dog is rediculous. 

***

Bored Liv is one problem, bored Liv on payday is another issue entirely. 

***

 So I checked and yes, Gravity is still a thing. 

***

These have been my thoughts for the day. 

December 5th: Unreasonable

It might just be a perverted little love of mine, but unreasonable customers are my favourite (lie).

Even with my goal of being an internationally appreciated and totally loaded author and entrepreneur, I expect to have face-to-face contact with those unhinged fuckers from now until forever, lest I get bored, shrivel and die. And today was a perfect example of how deep my love burns for those twat-fuckers.

One of my jobs requires directing people through a theatre car park. As one would expect, a Saturday matinee of Les Mis, one of the most internationally successful musicals of all time (not an actual fact, speculation), is quite popular and so it is generally wise to pre-book parking and if you arrive sans pre-booked parking ticket and are directed to travel the whopping hundred metres (WOAH) to the next car park where they can take care of you, you say 'okay' and go park your car. It isn't a difficult concept to grasp. This lady, however, believed it my fault that there wasn't a park for her. I haven't been serving customers for that long, not really, but I am accustom to the abuse of the service industry none the less and so I kept calm, explained her options and nodded sympathetically. Cars started filling the drive behind her. She sat in her car, screaming (I wish I was exaggerating this point, but the dozen necks that craned to hear her operatic assualt of the auditory senses could not be faked). She began demanding that I refund her theatre ticket for the show...in the middle of a filling car park...that isn't attached to the theatre...as it's not a fucking theatre...it's a fucking car park.

So after what felt like hours of trying to calm her down, suppressing the rage that rippled through my arms and back and filled my senses with the sudden urge to spurt wings like a dragon and burn her up, I got my supervisor and went to tend to other cars while he dealt with the psychotic fucktard. The other drivers were sweet, sympathetic and, in the true Australian way,  defensive of my position...what honies.

The bitch did a shit u-ey and screeched out of the tunnel.

I don't think I'll ever get to see her again or find out whether or not she was, in fact, eaten by a waiter-turned-dragon. Alas, some stories don't have an end. Good. Because I would like to go on believing she was eaten by a mythical beast summoned by her explosive nature. I would like to share that stories with the grandkids one day.

The Onion Man

As many of us are unfortunately aware, Australian politics is a bit of a punch line. One year, we had three Prime Ministers, one of which asked for a public apology from the Genius, Robin Williams after he called Australian's, and I quote, "English red necks". Kev. Buddy. We are. 

One of our most recent National 'Leaders' was Tony Abbott or, as I like to refer to him, Onion Man. 

He hasn't done anything recently as he's been kicked out (apparently a tradition among Australia's pollys). However, MrrrAbbott had some interesting ideas about what represented the average Aussie. He thought we were all middle aged, Catholic white men for example, not requiring health care or education. He thought budgie smugglers were appropriate beach wear, the people in need were a bigger problem than de-funding health care and global warming, and that onions were the shit. The average Australian view, obviously.

I wrote this little scene while this professional Funny Man was in power but alas, as his arse has been removed from the public's chopping block and now he must be removed from mine. 

Farewell, my dearest, local Trump, you have not been missed. 

***

A middle aged politician was once lying beside his wife in bed, a bowl of onions beautifully piled beside the stubbie of VB.

“What we going to do, love?”

“About what, dear?” She asked, still reading the news.

“The weather in Queensland. It’s bloomin’ hot up there.”

“Well darling,” she said, “why is it hot?”

 He thought about this for a moment.

“Hmm, those bloody refugee’s.”

“Right so what should we do about them?”

“Hmm,” he began again, “stop the boats?”

“Okay dear, whatever you say.”