Sometimes I get bored and write inappropriate, childhood-destroying fanfiction. Here’s a picture of a panda.

 

Fanfiction Time is never a good time to weigh up your life's achievements.

 

 

They let me back into the playground. That’s how Outside feels now. One long six-month detention, a few recesses on day release, then the nurses told me I was safe to walk among the sane minority and the many crazies who aren’t in hospitals. I’m the latter. Adulthood is one long recess.

I look around Tapwater Springs and remember when I was half the door’s height at Abatti’s Pizza. Christ I’ve gotten tall. I duck under the door frame and bells jingle in my eardrum. They peep one last startled ting on account of the door slamming behind me. Behind the counter, I smell Nonna Abatti before I remember she’s gone. Gone like my childhood, my orange dresses. My parents’ marriage. Gina Lash. I told her those pastries would kill her and she told me to stop being a jealous bitch on account of her parents were still together. I told her to choke on icing sugar, but the gods didn’t give her such mercy. Depressed fat girls have trouble noticing the symptoms of diabetes. Her face grew a permanent scowl, she became one of the teenagers whose wrinkles made her look 30. Now I wear the square butch face and skin wooden from sadness and Gina Lash poisoned herself with fat before she could look like me. Lucky whore.

The ginger-bearded owners greet me behind their thick lenses. The sign outside lies. Abattis? Like hell.

Even their squeaky Canadian voices are pale. “Hey! Just a table for one?”

How do I look so alone? In the hospital, they kept us in groups. I sacrificed my days watching TV with an anorexic American, a schizophrenic and two heroin addicts. They called it health. If our system is better than America, no wonder they’re either obese or bony Barbie doll cunts.

A deep girl’s voice screams “Angela!” and I melt knees-first. I prepare to turn and Josephine Praline’s fingers hook into my back. Her full breasts clench into mine and our nipples harden against each other, even through her corset. She holds the small of my malnourished back. I touch the shaven patch above her industrial ear piercing. She pulls me and I taste her black lipstick. Josephine Praline. If we’d known how similar we were, long ago when she prayed and I daydreamed, we could’ve fucked for a decade.

“Aww, look at the happy couple. Table for two?”

“Yeah, two,” I call over my shoulder, by which I mean “How often do you paste your brother’s pubes onto your chin?”

Across the wooden table, Josephine’s eyes repeat my thoughts. We stare long at each other and she giggles. My heart stops on account of how long it’s been since I heard her laugh. A giant thump rattles my chest and I’m reborn.

“I know you were going to get out, Anna.” Anaconda. Serpent. Temptation. She loves that I’m named after something evil. “I mean you’ve been out, but not … forever. My family rang. My mother told me, stop worrying about that crazy girl. Come back to Jesus. Who does she think I am?” Her fingers cover mine. A silver goat’s head pendant nestles in her cleavage.

“Tapwater Springs. The only thing that changes here is the amount of wrinkles the people have.” Before the sentences finishes, I think of my cropped hair and sunken cheeks. Josephine Praline’s thick mascara and undercut. Gordy Rhinehart with his muscles and family and happiness. Last time we talked, he looked at the nearest mirror more than me. He announced he’d dropped his asthma inhaler on Mount Everest. He’d kept it so that his past could live and that now, all our childhoods had died. Josephine kissed me in front of him and he walked off mid-conversation. He’d been just as cold at Gina’s funeral with his new girl.

The front door chimes hard and in the windows, a blue beret floats translucent. Blonde curls bounce over a long grey coat. I tuck down my head and let my short hair disguise me.

“Well if it’s not Simone de Beauvoir and her bald lover.”

Fuck.

“Actually Nanette, I’m a Satanist. There’s a difference. You wouldn’t know, stuck in your tiny little world.”

They glare at each other and all the hatred pierces me.

“Come on Anna, don’t let her talk to us like that.”

“Sorry I didn’t get an itinerary for the circus. Oh wait, they call it a civil union now.”

I can hear the ghost of two voices behind her. Nanette’s cronies disappeared when they found themselves. Now only Nanette wants to be Nanette. Her thick makeup contrasts her soft, coconut scented hair.

“Suck my dick, Nanette Manoir. You’re a bitter catlady and men are terrified of having their junk snapped off inside you.”

“Crass as ever. Don’t get dust in your mouth when you eat each other’s rugs.”

She sneers and sits beside the window. We’ll see whose mouth is stuffed when I’m finished with you, Nanette.

You like the freak show? Step right up, I’ll show you the amazing ladyboy. I’ll tie you to a cage. When my panties drop, I’ll be even more Anaconda than Josephine can handle. Don’t scream, it upsets the bearded lady. Wait, that’s not a bearded lady, it’s just that you’ve been stripped naked and you are upside down having your head plunged in cold water, like they did to mental patients once. Gods, your nipples are hard. That’s not just the cold? Straddle me. Our clothes may be off but our buttons are touching. “Anaconda! Anaconda!” you will beg. Open your mouth Nanette Manoir, I’m going to stuff it with dust.

The pleasure fades and I feel the wood under my thighs again. My mouth’s open. I snatch a vial of pills from my pocket.

“Did you have another episode?” Josephine squeezes my hand.

The coffee steams. I gulp it down, slam the empty mug and rub my eyes.

“It’s the usual. I forget they’re not real. They say it’s not dangerous, but … shit. Shit! The things I imagine.”

Nanette’s coat hugs her figure.

“I disgust myself.”

I wrote to The Age

http://theage.com.au/comment/switch-off-the-tv-babes-for-some-real-news-20130501-2it0o.html

 

In response to that old man, I wrote:

I’m good looking and male. Can I read the news? I’ve been an attractive young journalist for eight years (seven if you penalise that one year I never exercised) and by the merit of my talent, people assume I’m far older and uglier. The article has usefulness because people believe this. Youth and looks don’t make you stupid, but our instincts keep saying otherwise.
Newsbabes are usually intelligent in several ways. I know blonde reporters and they’ve all seen the world, at least twice. The illusion of airheadedness is just the nonchalance of the young. It’s the ability to accept you still have something to learn and the acceptance that humans are sexual. Sex can even advertise your service while it’s happening. It takes a certain social IQ, one of the journo’s most crucial intelligences, to use that knowledge.
This is a business. Headlines are ads, just like pretty faces. This article’s writer and I are the honesty that keeps the media from becoming daytime drama.
Our friend Geoffery is wrong, but millions of people share his view. They assume everyone knows. That’s the 30-second report’s shallowness.
If you want less superficial news, try a book.

The letter 'a' in Italian.

The letter ‘a’ in Italian.

Dear ‘a’ in the word ‘soya sauce,’

How does it feel to be useless? I can imagine your pride, sitting at the end of a word where you don’t belong, on a bottle where no one invited you. To humans, you’re more silent than the silent ‘e’ in sauce. You’re the ugly member of the boy band who gets pushed to the back of photos and was put there to please hirsute gay men who like hirsute gay men. Do you know what that means? You’re a bear in a beauty pageant judged by teenage girls.

Remember those really smart fat kids in school who just sweated and died in P.E.? They were so useful everywhere else, but for that one hour they were as small inside as they were obese outside. That’s you, letter a in soya. Maybe when we’re not looking, you also cry tears double-salted by McDonald’s and your own fat which your body devours so that it can’t smother your arteries anymore. That’s what the word soya is doing to you. It’s so full on you, it’s choking on you, but it must gurgle you down and flush you out to save itself. Don’t you feel nauseous for it? Of course not. You’re too busy being as useful as a Dreamcast. You’re the appendix in the hip of the word. Most people don’t realise they have you until it almost kills them, then they pay to remove you because it’s that important for you to stop existing. The first day the word ‘soy’ appeared, you felt nothing. You feel nothing. That first bottle of ‘soy sauce’ was missing salt, because it no longer tasted like the tears of English.

You exist because redundant things exist. It’s your fault that Hank Hill had to compete with that propane store across the road. You’re every Coles dairy farmer that starving the other dairies. You caused those last few drinks that probably made the Titanic’s captain sink it. You are like serifs on Comic Sans. You’re every other shitty track on a one hit wonder’s album. Hook turns are your fault. Printing you is like wearing two eyepatches. You’re that argument between two religious people who don’t realise they’re saying ‘God’ in two different languages, then they kill each other for believing in the same thing with a different spelling. They burn each other’s holy texts not realising it’s their own. That’s you, a in soya. You started every war.

Soy-a sauce. Are you trying to be Italian, you Jersey Shore hairgel molesting white sneaker skyfister? You’re just like those MTV rejects who get tanned orange. You’re the one skin colour that we can tease without being called racist. No one defends you. If you were a good guy in an action movie, you would die at the end … after five minutes. If Cicero, Barack Obama and Littlefinger had a three-way, their manbaby couldn’t make a good argument for you (Obama would take the most convincing, but it’s Cicero and Littlefinger so they’ve got this). You’ve already died several times. You didn’t sprawl across the bottle like a martyr, you just disappeared and no one noticed. You’re like tits on a bull. You’re a cock flavoured lollipop. You are Nickelback’s fifth album. You’re a black light in a brothel. You’re going to die alone, like Neal Cassidy but colder. Go hassle rhythm, it doesn’t have any vowels because you never showed up to make it a proper word. It looks almost as silly as you.

The A in Soya Sauce

Steroids

Dear Steroids and Their Bubble-Biceped Hosts,

 

There was a Greek demigod named Narcissus. He looked in a pool at his own beauty and tried to embrace himself. He couldn’t claim the lover in the pool’s reflection because it wasn’t solid, it wasn’t him.
Unlike Narcissus, you can all fuck yourselves.
You’re right. You are the most glorious being created by a perfect universe. When you decided to look just like every other bulging, shit-shaped dollop of douche on the planet, you became just as attractive as those other ugly punchfaces.
All that muscle makes you comfortable, yes? Think. Ugly but comfortable. Don’t you see? You are human Crocs. Your faces go inward as if something newsworthy happened to you, you’re full of holes from needles and you aren’t even that comfortable. Nobody who stares at themselves in a mirror for hours, jacks off a piece of cold metal, pinches their bicep-nipples, is comfortable.
If you all wore fluro pants, every Friday night the gym would fill with shirtless 40-year-olds who thought they were in a gay bar. If any gym manager knew their market, they would fill the men’s toilets with beds. Those steroids are changing you. I’m going to stand outside the gym, pick every bulger and offer them sex. You ugly fucks will make me rich. I’ll spend the earnings on more roids to fill you with pungeant gay lust. When desire sends you mad, I’ll leave for a month. The gym will wriggle with your lumpy bodies, trying to bum each other senseless. Your man-clitorises won’t go in each other, which will make you grunt and try harder. You’ll be the music video for the Benny Hill theme. I will laugh until I spew blood and lube.
When you wear purple and grunt, you imitate Lumpy Space Princess from Adventure Time. You are a joke whose punchline has flattened your face. What would your mother think? Don’t worry, here comes your vagina. Swanfucking Zeus, you’re what Victor Frankenstein thinks about when he wants to feel better.

Self,

 

You’re getting old. The morning blurs and you can’t read for at least ten minutes and a tea. You want to rise early with the sun but nights are too quiet to abandon. You play silence like you used to play your guitar, long and obnoxious.

Have you shaken your head at Twelve Year Old You today? When the parents grow, the kids care for them and teach them morals. Your inner child is becoming your superego and every time you put on a scarf, you need someone to hear you yell “You’re not the boss of me, I’ll wear what I want! All my friends wear them, why don’t you call them gay?”

You remember you did, once.

You’re getting old, life is frantic and easy. Remember when you had one career and everything else was illegal? You weren’t casual, but the grades they paid you changed every week. Uncertainty is death and children always think about dying. The bosses promised that when you blossomed, you could start living and count as a person. You could flower when they were finished looking down at your desk. You dropped out and started teaching them. Do you swell inside, knowing that you write lessons to them in a newspaper and pay them nothing?

You’re old. Don’t think about acceptance and rejection, they mean nothing. Your wrinkles are your press pass and you always wear them, so report. You’re old. Do something about it. Also, you’re gay,

 

Love,

12 Year Old You.

Image

Hi, I’m Peter and this is the No Grown Man Has Asked Me To Go See Les Miserables At The Movies With Them Yet rant.
So, I thought my friends were men. They like fit young soldiers and anti-heroes and bandits. They like nothing more than a fast-paced fight based on a book where half the characters get brutally killed in one goddamn sentence. Oh wait. That’s their middle aged mothers.
Boy, I’d love to come see The Hobbit with you instead. But I was planning to do something manlier, like rolling in daisies while I fellate a pink lollipop. And I know, God I know, that you don’t want to sit next to a sobbing woman and endure the sight of blood. You get enough of that in your Sewing For Beginners class, I understand. But you’re asking me to turn down stiff man-voiced drama to watch short people ride ponies for three hours. If I wanted to see the Melbourne Cup, I’d get brain-dead drunk and have my picture taken squatting for a public piss in a long dress. If I wanted to see hairy-footed people living in a hole, I’d move to Griffith.
You know how Victor Hugo described the battle in Les Mis so well? He was there. Tolkien sat in his room and wrote a Spergland fake language, then told stories about it using elves. Motherfisting elves. Prancing immortal knife-eared sickly looking beardless ladyboys. Speaking of which, this movie is not archaic. It’s beyond its time. It’s beyond our time. You know what Paris in 1832 can do that you can’t? Grow a fucking beard.
When you change your mind, load your musket and come find me behind a brick wall. Those Industrial Age bullets can tear you in half.

Dear People Who Make Gluten Free Wraps,

These are delicious and no liquid could possibly seep through them. They could double as frisbees. You have to try these things – since you obviously never have, you neurotypical non-allergic hipsters.
I had one today. For half a minute I wrapped it and watched it tear open under its own weight, like a flower opening. If you designed people, they would live for 20 seconds then disembowel themselves just by living. Your wraps don’t wrap, they break. They are gluten free breaks.
Just now I made one and put it on a clean plate. If this is how gluten free products work, you need to start making gluten free plates with grippy rubber. It slipped off the plate – by itself again – and covered my keyboard in mustard. My external keyboard, since my normal one is still broken and missing keys in an unrelated act of artistic brilliance. I’m not sure what kind of mithril you pound into these, but they are twice as strong as my teeth and more slippery than a pond bottom. Which is probably what you use to make them. I’d tell you to make your escape artist foods from something not belched from the Seventh Circle of Hell where liars go, or any kind of Hell, but that’s impossible. Freedom Foods is in Leeton.
Freedom Foods, I’ve been reading Jean-Paul Sartre. He’s a French philosopher who believed that freedom is Man’s highest ambition. He wrote a whole novel about your wraps. It’s called Nausea. Another favourite of his is The Age of Reason, as in “When will you reach the Age of Reason where everything makes sense and gluten free wraps are both wrappable and free from gluten, not just my mouth, you scarf toting ironic food making probably-got-the-recipe-from-a-Kings-of-Leon-song soy scented hybrid driver fartsmelling lensless undercut ironyfucks?”

All I want is a homemade kebab.

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The modern charity worker.

 

Dear Floppy Armed Charity Lady Who Wants Me To Stop For A Minute,

Nope. Hahahahahahaha, nope.
I already give to charity every month. You and the rest of those blue-shirted fake smiling happy gas addicts have a very potent power. If any of us with a conscience had that power, we would use it to make the ATM feel like it hadn’t given us money when it already had. We would make the bartender feel like he’d given us no drinks while we stood there with an armful of vodka. But you use it to make people who donate feel like they never donate to charity. You are sociopaths. You are basically those people who abuse the waiter who brings them Pepsi instead of Coke, but with charities instead of cola. The only people who act like you are two-year-old children who haven’t been told not to talk to strangers and those junkies on trains who always, always come and talk to you. The main difference is, heroin addicts are likeable. PLEASE if you’re going to run up to me like a pooch who wants to be patted every day for a month, try to act more like a smack addict than a fucking charity spruiker. God I’d love that. Maybe you could play a harmonica or tell me about the government controlling you or something. I’d rather you stab me with a syringe than a guilt trip for not doing something I do. You all jump around so much. You must be on cocaine. Use that energy.
You know what, you’re right, you powder nosed eurotrash. I don’t give enough to the children of Ulaanbaataar or the Every Housewife Gets A Donkey Fund or whatever the fuck, honestly I’ve stopped listening. I should feel terrible. I only give to local causes who don’t spend all their funds on street spruikers full of nose candy who get a cut of every sale they make. God I am ashamed. I am a very naughty boy. Of course I’ll blindly sign up to your charity which I’ve known about for two minutes. This is the best idea since Kony 2012.
Fuck it. Next time one of you asks me to make a daily commitment to someone I’ve just met and your shady cause, I’m asking you to marry me. Go on. I dare you. You don’t know exactly how much good your contribution to my life will do. I might even take everything you give me and sell it to the warlord downstairs, because that’s what happens to charities in war zones. But it’ll sure keep you in the country and that’s all that matters, because you are a salesperson in a marketing position. Also I will get you heroin. Trust me, it’ll increase your sales.

A suit made from Lycra, the serious cyclist's material.

A suit made from Lycra, the serious cyclist’s material.

Dear Northcote Cyclists Who Use Separation St,

WHY DO YOU EXIST?
You are the Magikarp of life, but there are SO MANY of you. I think I understand your motivation. God, I’ve tried. I’ve even hypnotised myself to wake up in the morning and straight away, think “What’s the best way to get to the organic soap shop in Station St? I guess I’ll take the bike lane down Arthurton Rd, High St, then I’ll use this major road that’s barely wide enough to fit one car. If I time it right, I can do it behind a bus. I’ve always wanted to cut off my genitals live on Twitter, but I just hate myself too much. I’m going to jack off to a bottle of soya milk.”
Wow. You are so edgy you shit set squares, but only because you spent the first ten years of your life entombed in your mother’s overprotective cunt. Maybe that’s why you risk your life by riding almost at the speed of a car on a bike with no gears. You are SO CLOSE to doing something noble. By riding that bike, you could give the earth one more breath free of deadly car gas, if you weren’t collecting cars behind you which will take longer to get home. Did you ever read The Secret, you edgy placenta-reeking lycrabastard? All those drivers are manifesting fiery death in you at the same time. If thoughts can psychically create action, you are about to be hogtied in the middle of a stud farm wearing an arseless gimp suit. Oh, I know, Dharamsala Ukulele or whatever the fuck you call yourself now that you do that yoga class no one knows about, I also wish you had an Instagram feed on your handlebars. Here, I’ve written a list of bike friendly routes you can take from Bar Nancy to the Northcote Social Club to Organic Gertrude, without creating a convoy of people who want to kill you:

High St > Mitchell St > Station St
High St > High St (the other way) > Westgarth St > Heidelberg Rd > Station St
High St > Mitchell St > Gillies St > Duncan St > Station St (this way, you can get there without taking the big scary right turn onto Station St, or walking your bike for one block and being mistaken for someone who doesn’t ride a fixie)
High St > Cocksucker Hell

All these places suit you better than a street constantly packed with four sets of wheels abreast, the size of a duck’s corkscrew shaped cock. If you want to check, you can find ducks beside the road at the Northcote park. No one will stop you because it’s fucking Northcote and everything there is art, even animal molestation. Especially animal molestation. You’re probably doing that right now because their feathers remind you of the cobwebs you passed when you turned 11 and your mother fired you from her vulva in a splatter of lube made from canola oil or whatever bullshit you grew up eating. I CANNOT believe you’re a real thing. Have you EVEN BEEN to Northcote before? Of course not, you just heard that Melbourne gives you the most praise for looking like you care for the environment. You smell like fucking palm oil from the very last Amazon trees, but no, look how From Melbourne you are. You are SO From Melbourne, Jesus fucking potatoes just look at your Doc Martens and coupon at the vegetarian restaurant where you saw the most undercuts. You are all human contradictions and you only exist to keep surgeons in business from the hundreds of horrific injuries you do yourselves on bikes every year. Maybe if you tried changing gears and OH WAIT YOU CAN’T

YOU SELFIE TAKING SOYA-MILK-MASTURBATING-TO NARCISSIST LYNCH MOB INSPIRATION, DON’T YOU REALISE THAT THE BRUNSWICK SIDE OF SEPARATION ST HAS BIKE LANES BECAUSE THAT IS THE PART OF TOWN WHERE YOU’RE MEANT TO BE CONTAINED, YOU SUB-HUMANS

WHY HAVEN’T WE MADE CAMPS FOR YOU PEOPLE YET

 

 

Afternote: Wait, that last bit was harsh and in bad taste. I meant to say, why haven’t we made compost heaps from you people yet, SO THAT FOR ONCE YOU CAN ACTUALLY TELL THE TRUTH ABOUT CARING FOR THE ENVIRONMENT