» Strict Parents

OK, I'm going to do the obligatory rant...
...before someone beats me to it.

I was trying to think of some stuff that I could post, but my parents are genuinely messed-up people and most of what I could come up with would merely be disturbing and not in the spirit of the board at all (though I promise to think of some actually funny stuff and post it later).

That being said, some of these little twunts whining about not being allowed to do stuff 'under their roof' even though they are 'twenty something' 'work full-time' 'have graduated uni', whatever...THERE IS A REASON FOR ALL OF THIS.

I wouldn't want to be woken up by my precious little sprogs rooting like jackhammers in MY house. To the little bastard who SWORE at his MUM on CHRISTMAS DAY because she wouldn't let him play his precious friggin video game, your behaviour is unbecoming to a guest, and a loving son anyway, whatever the content of those games. I'd be pissed off if I slaved over a hot friggin stove and spent weeks choosing pressies for you so that you could piss away a family event in front of a flickering computer screen. Stating your age only hammers home how ungrateful and immature you are.

To the 26 year old girl whose parents won't let her keep stuff in the fridge, given that you haven't come up with any other hilarious anecdotes about their CRAZY behaviour, they're probably trying to GET YOU THE HELL OUT OF THEIR HOME at your RIPE OLD AGE so that they can actually enjoy some peace, quiet and privacy for the first time since they were wiping your crappy little arse five times a day and waking at 3am to feed you. That was 26 years ago by your own admission. Take the hint!

I'm 21 years old by the way. I moved out 3 days after my 16th birthday and put myself through my final year of highschool and all of uni. Even then, my mum was DRIVING PAST MY HOUSE to get to Christmas when I was 18 and I asked for a lift as public transport halfway across the city on a public holiday (with all of my lovely baked goods) would have been a big hassle....she demanded petrol money in cash as soon as I got in the car.

*wanders off muttering about spoiled brats and awaits the flaming sure to ensue*
(Sat 10th Mar 2007, 7:02, More)

» Addicted

*breathes*
Okay. I'll admit it.

I am a lump-lovin', skin-examining, pustule-popping ZIT ADDICT.

I have, many a moon ago, caught myself picking at my ex's spots in broad daylight at the train station.

Another ex asked me what I would do if he stopped getting them- I told him I'd surreptitiously rub Big Macs in his face as he slept.

I have all sorts of techniques for dealing with all but the very worst spots- ranging on the horror-scale from 'wiggling' to 'knuckling' to the dreaded 'needling'. Sometimes I'm too excited (or drunk ) to bother sterilising the needle (gee, I wonder why I'm single?).

People are impressed that I can reach one arm over my shoulder and the other over my back and hold my hands. I can do this left-over-shoulder and right-over-shoulder. They wouldn't be so impressed if they knew it was a developmental response to the frustration of back pimples I couldn't reach previously.

One of the highlights of getting my tattoo was squeezing the blackest of all blackheads out of it a week later (and I once dated a guy with technicolour bacne cos of all his varied tatts- and still think about those happy little pus-bombs).

Sometimes I see the word 'pussy' and my first thought is that it means 'pus-filled'- hang on....ewww. WORST ENTENDRE EVER!

The kinds of pimples have different names- and some repeat offenders (of the genus 'phoenix') even get their own names which are hilarious and sweary. I trash talk them as I kill them. Out loud.

I get trigger fingers around people with really obvious pus-pin~atas (sorry don't know the key for the squiggle*). I don't know if I've ever been caught but I dread the day. I'll be working out exactly how I'd go at it, and I'm experienced enough to reasonably predict volume, type, and shooting-pressure of pus. So much so that if the friend who lets me do his is sick of it and tells me I can only do one, I'll pore (whoops, a pun!) over his face like a kid at a lolly-shop window clutching a lone coin, choosing the biggest and best. And usually try to sneak a few more before he yells at me.

I have even *shame* taken photos of really awesome ones so that I can admire them later. You can't keep them you see, they dry out and shrink (probably good for me though, otherwise I'd probably have grotty jars-ful- actually, that's turned even my stomach, so probably not).

I squeeze my own zits in the mirror at least three times a day. I've even started doing the obvious ones that spring up during the day at work while I poop, with my compact mirror set up on the toilet-paper dispenser. If I find a really bad one in bed at night with my fingers, and don't want to get up, I'll do it by feel with ridiculous accuracy. And sometimes be disappointed if it is an awesome one because I would have loved to see it come out.

I did, however, once stumble across a vid on youtube that put me off for literally days (and no, I wasn't searching for pimple porn- I saw the link somewhere else). I figured it'd be lik e on Jackass when that one guy squeezed a blackhead at the camera. Oh no...

It was a giant infected sebaceous gland (okay, well they all are, but this was rank), the size of my fist in the middle of a guy's back. It was being tended to by some freakin backwards witch doctor or something, surrounded by onlookers. He burst the monster with some kind of instrument (couldn't see what). Rivers of pus spewed down the guys back, and the core itself was like a giant squiggly blackhead, about the size, volume and consistency of toothpaste. Come to think of it, the vid may well have put me off brushing my teeth too.

I didn't even make it to the end. I managed not to throw up and ventured off to warn the interweb in another forum I frequent. Some among us were nurses and very strong of stomach (as am I, usually). They made it to the end and told me that the infection was finally evacuated completely by a swish-around of the witch-doctor's bare fingers in the now gaping wound.

So I'm not the worst in the world- result!

Length, etc. But I got it out in one unbroken, squiggly piece, so by gum it was worth it!

*and if you are similarly disadvantaged, do not ever wish someone happy birthday in Spanish by typing it up. "Cumpleanos feliz" without the squiggle means "Happy anus". Word to the wise!
(Tue 23rd Dec 2008, 8:13, More)

» Call Centres

I've always been a helpful sort of person.
Done a lot of customer service, and always had a smile on my face and a spring in my step when it comes to elderly people whether in or out of work, out of fondness for my older relatives, most of whom live overseas.

So when I got a call late one night in the flat I lived in alone, in Australia, from a confused sounding older lady in Britain, searching for a relative, I felt bad that she'd spent so much money connecting to a wrong number (which I'd had for over a year at this point).

I had a friendly chat, despite the fact that it was late at night, and that she was a bit deaf, adding to the frustrations of an international call plagued by static and delay.

I managed to coax out of her the name and address of the person she was looking for- it took about twenty minutes.

Digging through the White Pages, I found the number she was after, wished her all the best for her night and her call, bidding her farewell.

She roundly abused me for being unable to simply transfer her to the number she wanted in the first place- from my private home phone, which I explained over and over was simply not possible, only to cop more foul language.

Ingrate old slag.
(Fri 4th Sep 2009, 17:34, More)

» Stupid Dares

I ate a beetle.
I ate it live cos I didn't want to taste its squished guts, and didn't want to choose a dead one cos I wouldn't know what it died of.

That is all.
(Sat 3rd Nov 2007, 8:17, More)

» Where is the strangest place you have slept?

How I lost my protest virginity.
When I was sweet 16, due to an awful bunch of circumstances, I found myself starting uni while in a sharehouse where I was scared to fall asleep. Never mind the typical b3tan "they've shaved my eyebrows off lolz I'll kill the pricks", I was a young girl in a testosterone-fuelled nightmare from hell where the drinking game of choice of my housemates and their boofhead friends was to sit and rate my tits if I dared to venture into the loungeroom. It actually progressed beyond that at one point and I won't go into the details here.

So I found myself literally phobic of sleeping, crashing on friends couches for two or three hours at a time in a desperate bid to stay away from my house while I found somewhere new.

In the middle of this, I had the opportunity to go to my first protest ever, which was exciting as I had dewy-eyed visions of Vietnam-era hijinks and fun when I decided to go to uni in the first place. So off we toddled to make the government feel our wrath for locking up hundreds of refugees for years on end.

The downside was that it was in the middle of a desert in South Australia, a two-day bus trip away. With other smelly students, anarchic twats, and some idiotic movie starring 'THE ROCK' on repeat as it was sooooo ironic to rip the shit out of it.

I worked out on the trip that I had slept around 15 hours in two weeks at this point. I dozed off on the bus with my head between my knees, something which I had perfected while working the markets with my stepdad a few years previous. With a big pile of blonde hair at the time, everyone thought I looked hilarious and spent so much time ripping the piss that I kept waking up, thus defeating the purpose of my endeavour. At one point I woke up and started screaming at them, only to find that they *had* in fact moved on to something else now, and I had dreamed the ongoing mockery. Got some funny looks after that.

The big tamale was to come when we arrived there. As a properly-leftist kind of a set-up, I perused the 'massage tent', where you could rub sweaty hippies with oil in exchange for a backrub of your own, before wandering off to the 'autonomous wom*n's space' which was designed to be some kind of Gaia-loving, utero-centric peace enclave. Score, methinks. If I'm going to be able to relax anywhere after all this time, it'll be somewhere where any bloke who walks in will have to pay with the wrath of a hundred militant-lesbian harpies for desecrating their space. Bonus!

So I wander in, and despite the tent not having any furniture spare a couple of sad old cushions, found myself nodding off. When next I woke, the air felt different, as though it were charged and crackly. The sun was going down and the dust had been stirred, and through my sleep-caked eyes I could see a bit of bustling activity going on.

I flagged down some girl walking past, who seemed a bit out of it, and asked what was happening.

"Oh" quoth she "we stormed the fences and broke a bunch of refugees out. Now the police are searching tents".

Aha, I think, this mad bint has some choice drugs. I'll have to remember her face for later.

Nope. I wander out, the police are running through the camp in full riot gear, cracking scones and pulling tents apart. It took me over an hour to find my tent in the confusion, and my mates had put a refugee in there seeing as I couldn't be found to put it to a vote. Thanks guys!

Funnily enough, we didn't get caught, but that is one of the weirdest things I have ever woken up to.

Other highlights of that trip mostly came about from a hurried ingestion of all of the pot to hand (a weeks supply for a bunch of hippy uni students in the desert, you work it out) resulting in my mate nearly burning the tent down while refilling his Zippo inside the bloody thing (and burning his arm quite badly in the process), and me deciding that flashing my tits at all the police cars that came by in the evening would be a fabulously subversive way to overthrow the conservative regime. I even convinced some other idiots that it would work, and I have never seen that many U-turns in one small space before.
(Sat 30th Dec 2006, 2:32, More)