Born To Sink

I love tattoos.  I can spend hours browsing through websites and magazines, poring over designs.  That said, I’m not an expert.  I generally adhere to the adage: ‘I may not know much about art, but I know what I like’.  Which, when it comes to deciding to permanently mark your body, is about the best you can do.  I don’t believe your tattoos need to be coated in fifteen layers of meaning to important to you.  Art because you love it is an equally as valid reason to permanently etch your body.

When browsing tattoo art there are some images that keep cropping up again and again.  These traditional designs are classic as they timeless pieces that generally resonate with a lot of people over generations.  The anchor is one of these icons that has long history.  It originally started as an identifying mark among sailors and has gradually entered the main-stream as a symbol of stability and steadfastness.  In U.S Navy, there is a famous tradition that a person will only get the anchor tattoo if he has crossed/sailed the Atlantic Ocean safely. Religiously anchor tattoo is worn by a person who is faithful to Christianity (source).

I’ve recently noticed a glut of anchor tattoos hinged with the line ‘refuse to sink’.  Every time I see one I internally cringe so hard I practically collapse in on myself like a dying star.  I just don’t understand the message it is trying to send.  As mentioned earlier I’m not of the school that believes that on the only tattoos worth doing are those that are deeply meaningful.  The thing is though, the ‘refuse to sink‘ anchor tattoo is clearly communicating a meaning; it isn’t a hotdog wearing a wig smoking a blunt tattoo (that is to say, a tattoo whose meaning is either ambiguous or non-existent), it’s an anchor and some script, the meaning of which would be obvious to someone even with little knowledge of tattoo iconography.

The reason for my supernova-like cringe is that anchors are meant to sink, that is like literally their purpose, hence their use as a symbol for stability (and also their practical purpose of anchoring ships).  It’s the addition of the line ‘refuse to sink’ that gets my hackles up.  I just don’t understand what it is you’re trying to say (you’re in the pejorative sense, I need to direct my frustration at someone, even if only generally).

Is it that you are the anchor?

You are born an anchor, your whole life, upbringing and genetics are literally setting you up to sink, yet, through perseverance and tenacity you manage to fight your very nature that has made you and moulded you specifically to sink to the point you simply refuse and against all odds float. Is that what this tattoo is saying?  That yes, you’re an anchor, you are meant to sink – it’s your raison d’être, if you will – and against all the odds of your nature, and hell, of physics, you float – because dammit you will not sink!  In fact, you refuse.

Well that’s all fine and good, but you’re an anchor, don’t you want to sink?  Don’t you want to live up to your full sinking potential that is born within the very depths of your being?  Why would you want to be shitty at floating when you could be awesome at sinking?  It’s your destiny, it’s fundamentally who you are, who you were born to be.  You can’t just throw that all away because you want to float like a buoy.  Buoys float, anchors sink – that’s life.  You can’t just buck the trend and simply refuse.  Refusing won’t stop you sinking; you’ll just go down fighting your own nature till you hit the sandy bottom.

But you're an anchor?!??

But you’re an anchor?!??

A note from the author:  I was going to include an example of the 'refuse to sink' anchor tattoo that I speak of
in this post but I didn't want to directly target someone's tattoo or work.  If you have no idea what I am talking
about google it for yourself.  That said, get the tattoos that make you happy, don't listen to some jerk on the

What I’m Thinking Today

Way to bury the lead, this is quite literally a list of shit I’ve thought about today.

In response to my cat crying after my boyfriend went to work: ‘I wonder if the controlled crying method works on cats?’

No cereal yummy cereal in the house means: ‘Two cheese and bacon rolls is totally fine for breakfast.’

All the clean clothes I own are on the washing line: ‘why is the backyard so far away?’

When I realise that exhaling via my nose causes a light breeze to rustle the hair on my upper lip: ‘fuck this meaty pre-corpse!’

Listening to Coolio: ‘whatever happened to Coolio? Didn’t he have a guest appearance in Fast and the Furious? I think that was Ja Rule? Whatever happened to Ja Rule? Hmmm… Well we all know what happened to Paul Walker.’

Reading about that bloke who didn’t know how to sign at Nelson Mandela’s funeral: ‘this would never have gone down at Paul Walker’s funeral, Vin Diesel would be up there cracking skulls.’

Tooling about on Wikipedia (that shit is my jam, mind you, I never donate because I’m an asshole): ‘holy shit! Shirley Temple’s still alive.’

‘Download ALL the Christmas movies!!!’

After I missed a call from a new recruitment agency: ‘if I don’t return their call, they can’t reject me. I can no longer conceive a future in which I will have a job.’

Three in the morning, unable to sleep, listing my thoughts for the previous day in the vain attempt it will appear like a sardonic a look in the mind of an affable, if, easily distracted job-hunter, when I realise that this post is as lazy as I am: ‘huh? Just realised I am too lazy to even be bothered by being lazy – does that count as a win? Eh, near enough if good enough.’

Don’t Confuse Laziness with Depression and Vice Versa

This post By Mikael on A Manic World recently ‘freshly pressed’ (just like fresh squeezed OJ).  Although that means it has reached a huge audience I am nonetheless re-blogging this myself as it is now officially required reading for all humans.

Enjoy.  And thanks Mikael.

Don’t Confuse Laziness with Depression and Vice Versa.

Why I’m Not A Nurse

Are you ok? Do you need anything? How do you feel? Is it your stomach? Your head? Are you nauseaus? Do you want some water? What about ice water? Perhaps some Hydralyte? Have you eaten anything? When did you last eat something? Do you want some dry toast? What about some crackers? Maybe a lolly to suck on? Are you too hot? Too cold? Do you want some blankets? Maybe a fan? Is the cat annoying you? Do you want more cats? Or maybe a different cat? You have a headache; do you want a Panadol? Some water? What about iced water? When did you last drink something? Can I get you a cold compress? A warm compress? A room temperature compress? Here’s the drink you wanted. Drink it anyway. Is there anything you want? Please let me bring you something. Anything. I must bring you something; it will make me feel better.

A Post About Palimpsest’s

I learned a new word.  How wonderful it is to learn a new word as an adult.  As someone with a self-reported firm grasp of the English language I am always astounded to learn a new word.  It’s as if it has been hiding from me for 27 years.  How dare it go unnoticed, unread and undefined for so long.  Imagine all the others out there just waiting to be found; cheeky bastards.  I could die tomorrow having never uncovered all of the words waiting to be uncovered.  If ever there was an argument for being widely read this would surely be it.

Do you know what the first word I ever learned to spell was?  It was ‘freak’.  It’s true.  Have you seen the Disney film ‘Dumbo’?  In it one of the mean adult elephants refers to Dumbo as an ‘F-R-E-A-K’ – because if you are going to insult an elephant with enlarged ears it is best to spell your insult lest he understand it.  Incidentally, I don’t think I knew what this spelled, or even what it meant, I just went around repeating it – constantly.  Kids say the darnedest things indeed.

I kind of gave away my word discovery in the title – way to bury the lead.  Just to spell it out (literally) the word I learned is palimpsest.  Palimpsest.  Say it with me. I love the way this word rolls around in my mouth.  In case this is a new word for you as well a palimpsest is a manuscript or piece of writing that has been effaced to make room for later writing.  Essentially it is an early form of recycling although unlike our current notion of recycling the aim wasn’t to reduce waste, but to minimise costs.  Parchment was expensive and rare so reusing it made sense.  This takes the whole notion of new words waiting for discovery and amplifies it; there are entire works, books, ideas, stories buried under layers of other ancient text.  Imagine that.

“After centuries of mistreatment, the Archimedes palimpsest is in bad shape. During its thousand-year life, it has been scraped, singed by fire, dribbled with wax, smeared with glue, and ravaged by a deep purple fungus, which in places has eaten through its pages. Without the use of computer technology, the Archimedes palimpsest would be largely illegible. But modern imaging technologies, similar to those that helped experts read portions of the Dead Sea Scrolls in 1996, allow for astonishingly precise views of faded text.”

Since learning this new word two more things have come to my attention.  First: This word is everywhere.  Second: This phenomenon is known as the frequency illusion.  Seriously, I can barely go a day without seeing the word palimpsest somewhere.  To be clear, I am not spending my days immersed in ancient documents in some museums dusty basement.  Hell, I’m unemployed and barely get out of my pajamas most days; yet I keep seeing it.  The same thing happened when I learned the term ‘olfactory’ (and no, I don’t know how I got to approximately 25 years of age never having heard or read the term).  Perhaps it’s due to the word palimpsest being somewhat unique that I am more likely to notice it when it does crop up.  Perhaps I’m going insane.  I can’t rule either out.

Image and quote source

There Are Scarier Things In The World Than Murderers

Ugh, Halloween.

OK, so – Halloween you say. Well, it’s not really a thing in Australia, some retailers are trying to suggest it in a ‘just the tip, just to see how it feels’ sort of way, but it’s not really taken off. To be honest if Halloween hasn’t grown some legs by now then I doubt it ever will. Besides, spring isn’t exactly a spooky time of year.  Shit, I mean it doesn’t even get dark till like 8.30pm.

Nevertheless, we’re talking about Halloween. The subject has come up among friends, the conversation tends to go:
“So Halloween is this week”,
“sure is”,
“what day?”
“wednes (checking phone) day. Wednesday”,
“I ain’t opening my door for any punk ass kids”.

Yeah, OK, boring conversation aside, this is pretty much what has transpired between and multiple people. And no, I’m not opening my door Wednesday night, and you can go straight to hell for even suggesting I share my candy…The nerve!

One conversation I had didn’t quite follow its usual flight plan. Alright, so it started off the same – Halloween, yup, what day, checks phone (can’t remember it’s Wednesday each and every time ho), Wednesday, ain’t no kids stealing my skittles – and so it goes. But instead of just veering off the cliff into the dead-end conversation wasteland, it instead took a turn…

“So, will you be scared?”
“Halloween; you’ll be alone won’t you?”
“Scary stuff happens on Halloween”,
“Such as?”
“I don’t know, scary stuff, wasn’t that what ‘Scream’ was about, or something”,
“Who was behind that mask? And why did he kill everyone; that seems kind of important.”

Yes, my friend was correct; I will indeed be alone on Halloween.  Am I scared – no.  There are way scarier things in the world than an arbitrary day celebrated in another country.  I mean, let’s use the ‘Scream’ example.  As I recall he likes to call people to freak ‘em out a bit before he slices and dices.  Well that’s not going to work if bitches like me don’t answer their phone.  I mean he could text perhaps, or even write on my Facebook wall, Twitter is probably out as I don’t check that too regularly – point is that he will have a hard time doing the initial set up if I am not willing to play ball.

So I guess he could skip that part.  Too bad really; that is the bit that gets the heart pumping.  Anyway, the scream mask guy is nothing if not resourceful so I am sure he will bounce back. So I guess he just has to break-in.  Now, I can’t really give details of how he would accomplish this as I have yet to find a way to do this myself.  I get locked out a LOT and there is just no way to get in without smashing some windows.  I’ll be honest, I don’t care for the window smashing if you are going to murder someone – it has no finesse.  Its fine if your just wanting to rob and vandalise the home, but not for serial murder.  I don’t know, maybe I’m just traditional that way.  So he is in.  Spooky – or it would be.  He finds me sitting at my kitchen table covered in piles of papers.  Gesturing opposite me I ask him to have a seat.  Of course he doesn’t sit, he wants to chase me around for a bit, but I’m having none of that – I won’t run on the treadmill in my garage, I’m not running around for him, simple.  I insist that he sits.  Begrudgingly he takes a seat.

“You like scaring people, don’t you?”

He nods.  Dude doesn’t talk, typical.

“Well let me show you something really scary”,

I turn my laptop to face him, I watch as he studies it for a moment.  I swear I can see him furrow his brow under his mask.  He pushes the computer back and stares at me.

“Scary, yes?”

He nods in agreement.  Of course it’s fucking scary, I just showed him my bank account summaries..

“Look at this then”,

I slide over a pile of papers all of which are more or less identical, except for the escalating number at the bottom of each.

“Yeah, those are notices of demand for my car payments”,

He nods again even though I didn’t ask a question.

“Do you know what these are?”

As I say this I point to another pile of papers.  He shakes his head.

“Well, these are various requests for different medical tests I require.  I can’t afford them so I ignore them.”

He nods again.

“You see, I’m broke.  I’m ignoring creditors and ignoring my health simply because I’m broke.  You see what I’m getting at.  Then you come in here – thank you for not breaking my window by the way – wanting to chase me around and chop me into little pieces?  You can see why I’m not scared can’t you? “

As I was about to launch into a pretty lengthy speech about the economy and employment he had already picked up his scythe and was out the front door.  Annoyed, I get up to make a cup of tea when I see where he was sitting he left me a couple of twenties.


Happy Halloween.

Tom Jones Is Bigger Than Us All

I hereby am giving notice to one Tom Jones and the only 2 lines I know of his song ‘It’s not unusual’ to vacate my head.  I mean really, it’s been days with no reprieve.  I don’t even know why I would get this in my head to begin with – I mean, sure, I’ve heard the stories of Mr Jones’ rambunctious ways, but even I thought he would draw the line at subliminal penetration, apparently not.  I honestly feel as if I have a week-night show in Vegas in my head; soon seniors will start complaining about their seats and women will start relieving themselves of their panties.

I am not even sure Tom Jones can be stopped.  I mean, really, who is going to stop him?  Carly Rae and her ‘call me maybe’ malarkey?  Ke$ha and her ‘blah blah blah’-ing antics?  I don’t think they have it in them.  They are but wee babes in the wood still wet behind the ears compared to the Tom Jones.  I need to bring out the big guns, but who?  Who is up to the challenge?

Who can defeat Tom Jones?



He is bigger than us all!

Free Serum, And Restricted Blood Flow To My Vital Organs? The Answer, Spanx™

Which is better: super-duper or ultra?  Inquiring minds (mine) wish to know.

For my money, I am going with ultra.  I guess because I equate ultra with ultimate, which by process of deduction would exclude anything other as being lesser.  Whether or not, etymologically speaking, that is true or not is par for the course really as this is my impression, and impressions count if you are going to rank things: medium, super, super-duper, and ultra[1].  To help you decide I should probably mention that these rankings refer to the ‘slimming level’ as determined by the good people at Spanx™.  You see, while I am evenly proportioned[2], I would preferably like to smooth over the edges a bit[3] – blur everything together if you will.  I have hopes that by shaving off a few centimeters[4] I may even fit back into some old clothes, which makes the purchasing of Spanx™ the more fiscal decision[5].


I’ve never owned a pair of Spanx™ or even a similar type of garment.  I did once try one on… Well, that’s not true; I more wrestled with it in a tiny change cubicle for 15 minutes until it judo-chopped me the fuck out of there.  I think I might have had the wrong size.  Since that day I haven’t tried on anything tighter than a pair of sweat pants outside of the comfort of my own home.  If anything tighter wants to encase my body it will do so on my turf; where I control the temperature[6], and have ample space – then we will see who wins.  I do not abide by the saying ‘just because you can get it on doesn’t mean it fits’, like a LOLcat, if I fits, I sits[7].


I’m not a total fool (See footnote 7); I did learn something from my last tussle with shape wear, that is: measure.  I simply cannot overstate this enough.  If I recall correctly I grabbed a medium when I was in the department store.  All I can say is “medium?  pfft! Who are you trying to fool with your medium!?” According to the sizing chart I am at best an extra-large.  My humiliating defeat is all starting to make sense[8].  I have narrowed my choices down to two.  They both are similar in appearance – sort of like a one-piece bathing suit with the bust-section missing[9].  While they are similar in appearance (and presumably function), there are three notable distinctions:


  • Price – for some reason there is a difference of thirty dollars between the two.
  • Ultra V Super-duper – the ultra is cheaper, this perhaps suggest that is in fact super-duper with the most slimming power[10].
  • The cheaper ultra option comes with imbedded[11]serum’ for some reason[12].


Despite my little internal tête-à-tête of ultra versus super-duper, I’ll probably choose the cheaper one because, really, isn’t that what all things eventually come down too?

It’s About Nothing. Or, Why Life Is Like A Bento Box

You would think it impossible to be about nothing, owing to the simple fact that even nothing – once it is written about -, is something.  Yet here it is, in all its glory before you, being read; being shaped by your own unique facets of being.  In other words, being turned into something.  You’re doing that, not me.

I’m just the train carrying the sushi.

You are the one experiencing the sushi.

Not I.

Life is like a bento box - deal with it.

Life is like a bento box – deal with it.

I act as a merely a conduit for your own mind to shift into gear.  That’s what all writing is.  Don’t misunderstand; I don’t seek to put my writing on a pedestal – or any sort of platform, shelf, or even a pile of old magazine and newspapers.  It is what it is, the stark reality of interpretation.  After all, humans have been interpreting various written works for thousands of years.  Their slant, always being the author’s one true intention.


Of course I’m being factitious.

If writing and story are like a sushi train then it only stands to reason that life is like a bento box, and not a box of chocolates as first hypothesized.  The most strident argument supporting the bento box theory is that at some point in your life, you will indeed have soup.  If you should make it to old age, the consumption of soup will exponentially increase until you eventually depart.  Upon departing, you may find yourself being returned to the earth whereby you will decay, insides liquefying – thus becoming your own version of soup.  Not quite chicken soup for the soul, more like human soup for the earth.  Don’t despair; you could end up looking like the contents of an ashtray.

Like I said, even nothing is something, and therefore nothing is sacred.

Image Source