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I am growing very weary from this scene that keeps happening, as I feel it is something that should be confined to the halls of a high school full of hormonal teenagers. Not that this way of thinking is encouraged for any age groups.

Scene: A bar. Or maybe at work. The bus stop? A Disney movie? I don’t know. I’m losing count of where these conversations take place.


Me: ….So basically, it just didn’t work out because he didn’t have a vagina.

A dear friend: Oh yeah! I mean guys totally, totally suck. Not that I could ever date a girl. Girls suck too.

Me: Really? I think girls are awesome! And what’s that between your legs girl?

ADF: Yeah but like I’m not like other girls I’m really like a guy! All my friends are boys and I eat meat pies and drink beer. Like, really! Girls are so emotional -

Me: We smell better.

ADF: – and then there’s the PMS. Those mood swings! -

Me: We understand each other more.

ADF: And girls gossip so much. And are waaaay too competitive.

Me: You’re offending us both right now.

ADF: I dunno, boys are just cooler and bla bla bla AD NAUSEUM.

This is probably a scene that has repeated itself well before Winona Ryder ate vomit in Heathers. For myself? It started in primary school. I liked a boy. His name was Michael, and combined with his last name, the sound of his full title was so phonetically pleasing it reminded me of liquid chocolate. But alas, Michael liked another girl. Michael liked Kristy. She was pretty, tall, blonde, tanned, athletic, and – the real nail in the coffin for awkward wallflowers everywhere – POPULAR. All the things I wasn’t. I was fairly plain, of average height, had curls I severely detested, and my nickname was Ghost. I was also bad at sports, which in Australian suburbia means you are bad at life.

Heartbroken over my unrequited playground lust, I responded in the most rational way I knew how. I wanted to get at Kristy. I hated hated hated her. During class, whilst feigning a bathroom break, I snuck out to where we stored out school satchels. I stole Kristy’s packet of CC’s. And I ate them.

A stern scolding and a lunch time detention didn’t teach me any lessons. Why wouldn’t I play nice, accept my flaws and see this girl for the awesome human she really was? We could have played jump rope, we could have shared Barbies. Instead, I chose jealousy. And it got me nowhere.

I continued my girl hate right through high school. I’m sure many girls have experienced that sickly, nagging feeling. A pretty girl walks past. She has killer shoes. Maybe she’s got a bangin’ body. You turn to your posse and through gritted teeth you snarl “Skinny bitch“. It might make you feel better briefly. Apparently, humans bond a great deal more over their mutual hatred of something than a shared interest. You like peanut butter? Cool, yeah, me too. But oh my god, don’t you just hate that bitch over in cosmetics. This, of course, relates back to that whole pack mentality, but that’s a whole different blog post.

Girls possess a particular knack for breaking each other. We can wear each other down and destroy each other through purely psychological means. We see a girl. She’s confident, she’s successful. Basically, girl has got it goin’ awwwwn. Something clicks inside of us as we snarl through stifled breath ‘She must be destroyed!’. But where did this attitude come from? When on earth did we decide that awesome-sauce was in such a limited supply that those who have found their inner sparkle must be detested?

We’re all familiar with the tale of Snow White. Queen Grimhilde, Snow White’s evil step-mother, had a nasty dose of girl hate. Poor Queen Grimhilde (for I really do sympathise with those who feel they are severely lacking) didn’t believe that the world was big enough for two beautiful, intelligent and inspiring women.

They could have gotten facials.

They could have shared clothes.

They could have gone to mother daughter outings and gone shopping.

But instead, the Evil Queen chooses to see Snow White as competition.

And where did that get her?

Oh, that’s right. She dies.

Remember what I said about pack mentality? It relates back to that age-old phrase ‘Birds of a feather flock together’. It is true that people, and particularly women, can form strong bonds over a mutual disagreement. Like attracts like. So, by default, shouldn’t extraordinary people attract those of a similar ilk?

I remember hearing on one of Gala Darling’s podcasts that we are the sum of the five people we spend the most time with. Imagine what you life would be like if you were surrounded by inspiring, creative, successful and intelligent women. What if you made friends with that girl? What if you realised that it has nothing to do with her? A lot of hatred stems from our own low self-esteem. And that girl? Maybe she’s looking at you from across the room and admiring what you’ve got.

Don’t be a hater. Try girl-love for a change.  It doesn’t mean you have to hug women with your legs, but try dedicating less of your energy to shit feelings of self-hatred and jealousy, and more towards being supportive of your fellow sistahs.

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I feel like the web has been awfully sleepy this week! I think this means people have real lives. Like, they’re actually doing stuff IRL.  Oh dear. I am alone in here? COOOEEEE?!

Here’s what’s got my gears going this week.

Misery loves company. So do bitches. Wouldn’t it be fan-freakin-tastic if we bonded more over stuff we were over the moon about? If we all just grabbed some glow-sticks and jumped up and down squeeling about what ever is making us feel too fucking good to contain? Nay to negativity!

Super sparkly motivational thinkers Pace and Kyeli talk about connectivity vs control. What exactly are they on about? Basically, they suggest we help co-workers, rather than manage, that we make suggestions rather than convince or manipulate people, and that we nurture children rather than raise them. I think this philosophy is 101 different kinds of amazing, and can be applied to all areas of life. Have a read – it’s quite short, and consider it a taster for the other amazing things they write about. High fives and low tens for this awesome super duo.

Jane Martinson talks about the ultimate form of self-love – Whilst I’m all for being good to your body and getting down with your bad self, I do think that we have a right to choose to talk about masturbation or to not talk about masturbation. Whilst I applaud the Guardian’s efforts for trying to get a dialogue going on the taboo of women openly enjoying sexual pleasure, I personally don’t like to talk about such intimate acts. Why? Because like I said, it’s intimate. Just as I wouldn’t want to walk in on a friend having sex or masturbating, I expect the same sort of respect for myself. It’s something between just myself and another person, or occasionally myself and my right hand.

Heaps of cool free shit over at Yes and Yes! Instant pick me us, play lists and more!

And once more, with feeling, from Courtney Love. Read this hilarious interview. If you have the time, that is. Not for the TL;DR crowd.

I have a really good story to tell. I’m  honest. I’ve seen a lot. A lot of people feel like they know me—they see me as a drunk and a show-off and a mess, but that’s really not the truth.

I had this intensely fucked up childhood: my mother abandoned me when I was a teenager. I lived through my husband’s suicide. There was a period when drugs completely took over my life. But I also went out with Edward Norton for four years and didn’t do any drugs or walk a single red carpet in all that time.

There’s no denying that I’ve done a lot of dumb things. I’ve been wasted and written emails and texts that were really hurtful to a lot of people. Sometimes I can be a bit self-obsessed. But contrary to public opinion, I’ve never had a drinking problem.

I hate that people still stereotype me as a junkie or a crackhead. The truth is, I did heroin for a while and weaned myself off it. I did crack for six months straight and then I stopped.

I don’t particularly like Courtney as a person. Whilst she is slightly crazy (ok, she’s insane), I admire how outspoken she is and her courage to slam all that wrong her.

Seema Dugall over at Mamma Mia talks about her experiences with depression, and how basically trying to reach out to other people is like describing childbirth to a man.

I confided in one other person – someone I considered a best friend – but she simply told me to “toughen up”, and reminded me that the hell I was in was of my own making.

She was partly right – my thoughts were the culprits of my torture, and I couldn’t blame anyone else for them. I couldn’t blame the boss who had been sexually harassing me, or God for taking away the woman who raised me, or the fashion industry for giving me no real friends, or my businesses for inflicting more pressure than I knew how to cope with. My feelings were my own reactions to those things, and I had to take responsibility for them.

But in other ways, she was wrong. I needed her to listen to me and to tell me that everything would be okay, even though my depression lasted a long time and, as she described it later, I began to sound like the boy who cried wolf. I needed her to tell me that she would know and care if I died, not that she would check my Facebook to find out. I needed her to understand that I couldn’t be as happy for her as I liked, because I had forgotten how to be happy and her good news made me feel my own unhappiness intensified. I needed her to call me and to pick up her phone, but she cut me off because I was in “such a foul mood”. I was, but her avoidance made me so much worse.

I  touched on this issue in a previous blog entry. I feel that a lot of people don’t realise that depression is a disease. Because the mind is not a physical body part, the symptoms of depression aren’t tangible. You can empathise with someone with a rash, or a runny, red nose, but you can’t visualise how a person is suffering on the inside. I probably can’t describe it as eloquently as Elizabeth Wurtzel, but imagine you’re taking a shower, and it’s really fucking hard to pull yourself out of there. Not because you enjoy it, and definitely not because a mental disease can be likened to the warm and delicious feeling of hot jets of water on your bare skin, but because actually making that first step requires so much more determination and effort than just standing right where you are. It’s not a switch you can flick off an on, and it’s certainly much more than being ‘sad’. It takes more than a conciliatory pat on the head and a simple ‘there, there’. I could go on.

Elly of Quiet Riot Girl writes about the fine line between being a metro male or bisexual. Girl+Girl=sexy, edgy. Boy+Boy=gay. Girl+makeup=social norm. Girl=object. Boy=objectifier. Double standards, no?

But I find that wherever I look there are discussions about ‘‘the objectification of women’s bodies” or “sexual violence against women and girls” or “pornography and women”. It has reached a point where I have to ask, without irony, “what about the men?”

“The rise of male behaviors, practices and tastes characterised as metrosexual are made possible in large part by the decline of stigma attached to male homosexuality. While this stigma made life difficult for homosexual men, it also had an instructive, not to say repressive, effect on all men.” In contrast metrosexuality means masculinity is no longer black and white, “no longer always heterosexual and never homosexual or always active never passive, always desiring never desired, always looking never looked at,” says Simpson.

Since movin’ over to tha WEST SIDE and away from the crazy hectic lifestyle of Sydney, I’ve become super addicted to amazing sparkly people. People who are dedicated to making their bodies sing. I discovered Gabrielle Bernstein via Christine Arylo, whom I discovered via Tranquility Du Jour. All women are bound to charm your panties off with their guidance to making life your bitch.

Speaking of radical rabble-rousers and full-time spirituality hustlers, Alexandra Franzen has created a fairly bombastic list for living life like it’s yo 21st birthday part-ay everyday of the week. Check it!

Mia Freeman on pretend shopping, spending spree guilt, and the semantics of ‘need’. Oddly enough, whilst most girls are only too eager to share their purchases with their friends and spend hours squeeing over new shoes, I usually down-play my disposable income (most females only do this with their partners). I feel like ever since 2008, people give you the stink eye if you spend more than $100 on a single purchase. Doesn’t a lot of this relate to the idea than females are frivolous spenders? It’s all about where you get the most gratitude. If I find that purchasing new pajamas improves my comfort and thus my happiness, then by Joe will my wallet get a sucker-punch. Whereas my father’s need for a new monitor/CPU/computer-what’sit seems unnessecary to me, but it makes him happy (and me too. The man has serious techno-aggravation and spends far too long swearing at machines).

Zine Making 101 for Riot Grrrlll dummies! I usually just use InDesign, but I get the feeling I’m committing feminist blasephemy. Or something.

And now I leave you with new music from The Grates! These guys always put me in a super yummy happy mood.

 

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P7C52UlwiNI]

p.s: just found this gem. Glorious kookiness!

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Rwbzwp_Z3k&feature=relmfu]

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I don’t consider myself a ‘nice girl’. I’ve informed friends before that I don’t think of myself as a particularly ‘nice’ person. Most people assume I’m fishing for compliments, that I need my delicate ego stroked, so they respond with a stroke of the shoulder and a a cooing reassurance. “Oh now don’t be silly young girl! Tut-tut! You are the epitome of sweetness and light! You bake cupcakes, for christ’s sake!”. Or something as equally well-meaning yet condescending. I do indeed bake, and I do indeed have friends, but my personality is a little more complex than that of a bubbly, warm and kind-hearted young girl with a penchant for knitting. I think most people, let alone women, can relate. We’re kind to our friends but horrible to our mothers. We give to charity but steal from strangers. We offer seats to the elderly but forget siblings birthdays. We’re ying, we’re yang, and all matter of grey in between. We aim to be nice, to be fair, to be honest, but sometimes we fail catastrophically. And sometimes, nice just doesn’t cut it.

I read this book by Elizabeth Wurtzel last year titled Bitch. She’s one of my favourite writers, who gained fame during the fin de siècle of 90s decadence. I devoured one of her earlier books, Prozac Nation, back in high school. Driven by my own depressive black hole and appetite for angst, I needed something a little grittier than the Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants (FYI: I have read the entire series. Great escapism). Wurtzel’s story struck a cord with me, and I lapped up her raw, poetic, unashamedly and brutally honest memoir of a woman who’s always felt a bit shit, didn’t know why, and would take it out on herself and others. No holds barred. As a high-schooler, this resonated with me at a time in my life (and I’m sure many other young girls’ lives too) when you’re not too particularly happy with yourself, nay, have fallen into a pit of self-loathing and unexplainable resentment towards the universe. Including yourself. Especially yourself. Everyone else appears like a bombastic super nova; friends are more like radiant shooting stars whilst you feel more like Pluto. You’re not really even a planet. Just a lump of rock, drifting through the universe.

So when I got my hands on Bitch, I was enthralled by deliciously degenerate accounts of misbehaved women in all their immoral glory. Elizabeth Wurtzel had captured my attention yet again. She writes of women who openly talked about masturbation, women like Courtney Love who gyrated on stage in baby-doll dresses and smeared lipstick, and responded to the adoration of idolising fans with a growling retort – “You don’t even fucking know me“. As a 21-year-old university student working in a bar, my mind began to open like a thorny rose in spring. As a woman, I was expected to act a certain way, be a certain ‘thing’. To smile, all the fucking time, to be cheerful, to hold my tongue, to flirt with customers if I wanted more tips, to look pretty even if I felt like complete crap, to take criticism lying down. I was getting pretty damned well fed up.

As I’ve gotten a bit older, and I like to think a bit wiser, I’ve started to realise that it’s okay to be imperfect. To have fights, to be called a bitch, to be a goddamned rabble-rouser if you bloody well feel like it. To not fit this mould of sweetness and light, of delicate austerity and soft-spokeness. I doubt the Women’s Suffrage would have achieved the right to vote if they’d stuck to their pleases and thank yous. Growing up, I was taught that difficult women were abhorred. I loved Alanis Morrisette, and although I didn’t understand some of sexually explicit lyrics, her rough-edged acidic voice pulsated throughout me. I was taught to sit still, to be seen and not heard, and Alanis taught me to let go and scream and cuss because being female did not equate with being idle. I was taught that characters like Roseanne Barr’s fictional anti-heroine were repulsive with their deviation from the norm, their self-indulgence and back-talk to the man of the house. “But these shows aren’t even funny! She’s crass and rude misbehaved!” I was told. She’s perfect, I would think.

When someone tells me that I’m nice, or sweet, I do find it quite superficial. People tend to have this illusion of depressed women – that we’re pretty when we cry, that there’s beauty in the breakdown. Anxiety and depression can wreak havoc on your personality, render your actions and thoughts inhumane, violent, unprofessional, uncouth, anti-social and un-feminine. I should know. However, I’m also strong. I can channel my anger into productive energy, and I know when to speak up if I feel I’m being wronged.

I don’t hate myself for being nasty. The hardest part of growing up (do we ever really? At times I still feel like that slightly overweight 12-year-old, lost in the mirror with a predeliction for despair) is getting to know yourself. I’ve learnt to accept that I’m impatient, a poor listener, hot-tempered, selfish. I could go on. But I’m okay with these things. But are other women? Someone said something interesting to me this week regarding self-love and the acceptance of all of yourself. In order to truly accept and love yourself, you’ve got to admit that hey, sometimes you fuck up, nay, sometimes you are a fuck up. You’re messy, you procrastinate, you don’t always return phone calls. You’re not the prettiest, but perhaps you’ve got a razor sharp wit. You’re not perfect, but perhaps you’re perfect enough?

“I am not a pretty girl, that is not what I do. I ain’t no damsel in distress, and I don’t need to be rescued so put me down punk. Maybe you’d prefer a maiden fair, isn’t there a kitten stuck up in a tree somewhere?”
-Ani DiFranco.

Here’s some more amazing quotes to channel your inner mischief maker!

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