Yeah...

I almost feel obligated to go out and buy myself some HUGE TUBE of protein powder so I can take a picture of it and stick it instagram so everybody knows I'm a gym kind of gal.
Hue hue hue.

It's kind of funny...

It's kind of funny; I always believed when I hit the end of my schooling career I would have this solidified idea of who I was, who I wanted to be. And it's come; and I honestly have no clue.
It's such a shame that after 6 years of being at an schooling institution all you get is some number placed on you that everyone seems to mark as your defining feature.
And, then (from what I've heard) it becomes superfluous. All that time you spent typing, highlighting, re-typing, re-formatting, and then maybe crying over- if you're like me- your notes, seems honestly like a waste of time. But, for some reason.
It. matters.

The worst part is, that the HSC isn't even close to being the end of the world. But at the time, it literally feels as if the walls are just melting all around you. You have this bolus stuck in your throat, a sick feeling in your gut, and that body numbness that doesn't subside until the exam is over. It. Feels. Quite frankly. Terrible.

To top it off, it is the stigma that the University is the ONLY place to go for any 'reputable' or 'real' education. God forbid you have to attend TAFE. But it's that stigma that makes me feel queasy about society. That the ONLY ATAR is a 99.95% ATAR and anything below that just means your stupid.

THAT is the bullshit they're feeding us.
And, it really is 'kind of funny', when you think about it... that THAT is what we all come to believe.

Just a short story.

Haven't posted in a while.
So, here's a short story.
Nothing brilliant or flashy.
It doesn't possess a point, or moral.. It's just simply a snapshot of a moment.

Insert deep, emotionally affecting title.

He had seen it all, seen everything; been a witness to change. The old man, his cat and his ancient, lone, stained, red-brick house standing as a testament to the past. A year, even less than, this white, sterile building crept upwards, a chasm breaking apart the very foundation of familiarity that the old man was so dependent on.

The house across the road remained undisturbed for days. It was not a home, it was a building; there was no warmth or life to it. On sunny days its sharp, square edges were defamation to the clear, blue sky and the light tufts of white-grey cotton candy that drifted past. It was rainy days that the old man would turn to his cat and say:

“Ugly. Ugly! The building does not deserve the suns sweet caress!”

When the weather was foul, the old man felt it was one of his agents revealing the true colours of the building, across the road. He could taste the tones of grey, the sharp acidic sting of its corners, and the musky, bitter taste of industry on the tip of his tongue.

*                                                                        *                                                                        *

The old man stared up into the ceiling. The small particles of dust bouncing upwards filling the room with every movement he made. The sun sifted through, spilling over the gaps in the blinds, unwavering. It captured each spec, turning ordinary dead cells to life, shimmering and hovering in mid-air. A single sigh, he turned to his side. A wrinkled hand reached out, tracing the frame of a wedding photo. If it wasn’t for the stark, icy blue eyes of the man within the photo and the old man, the couple would have been barely recognisable.

With sudden vitality he shot up and the startled cat leaped from the bed into the floor.

It was routine: kettle—on, radio—on , cat—fed, water—boiled , tea, two slices of buttered toast and marmalade jam, sound of a loud automobile and a shrill voice?

“Darling it’s perfect, magnificent, simply divine, a masterpiece of innovation!”

“Poppycock” uttered the old man as he took an irritated bite from one slice, “She must have no taste, no taste at all!”

Revelling in disapproval he gave into temptation. He had to steal a glance.

The burgundy vehicle sat stationary in the front of the building across the road. Its fumes mixed into the air, making a noxious concoction. He watched on. Out came a women—slender figure, trench coat the colour of perfectly baked bread, short, bobbed, neatly curled hair and a navy, velvet hat.

She leant languidly on the car lifting a small foot enclosed in a tailored, leather heel into the rim of the door. She caught the glimpse of an outline protected by window shades, turned towards it and gave a delicate, warm smile and a little wave.

The old man stood frozen, paralysed, by his first glimpse of her face. The gentle outline of her lips, the shining, emerald eyes and peachy cheeks filled his body with a tingle he had not felt in years—starting from the centre of his body reaching out to the ends of his toes. It was nostalgia. He dared to look away, to compare. The frame was sitting just nearby on the side table, the one he touched every morning.

Taking one last glance, he pulled the blinds shut.

People.

Getting to know someone is like eating peanut butter or nutella, out of the jar, with a spoon, at first it seems like a brilliant idea to do it all in one go.. But, very shortly afterwards you realised it might have been a better idea to save some for later, or space it out over a period of time.

One of the greatest joys in life is getting know someone...
Even if it leads us to find things we don't necessarily like.

Looking back at the people I've met in my life, even if we are not friends anymore, I can still say that I enjoyed getting to know them.

Life is pretty shit. Literally.

You've held on for what seems like an eternity, but you can't for any longer. You're pretty much one hundred percent sure you're sphincters are at their last stretch and any moment now they're are going to cop out on you.

You rush into the closest, hopefully deserted toilet and... Well, it comes rushing out...
Then suddenly you hear nearing footsteps, the familiar squeak of a toilet door opening.
Your bowels clinch shut. Like hell are you doing your business with another human present.

You hold on. Face red with the exhaustion and pressure. The person finishes in the cubicle next to you, makes a snide remark on the stench. The turn on the tap.

SHHHHHH.

With such precision you time your bowl evacuation to correlate with with sounds of the tap.

When it finishes- so do you.

The person shuffles out briskly and you can almost gurantee they were holding their breath.

You finish up and feel a sense of relief wash over you.
You giggle to yourself for the poor fucker to has to come in next and reach for the flush.

You push down. Nothing happens.

You try a few more times, getting progressively more violent. WHY WON'T YOU WORK!?!?!
A little man inside you're head is screaming nooo NOOOOOOOOOOOO whilst banging his forehead viciously against the flush button.

You remain calm. And, go into ninja stealth mode...

The Things I Hate About Customers

- When they fucking drop their food directly after you've served them...
and it's not as if you didn't hand it and it slipped. They've been holding onto it firmly for at least 30 seconds and BAM right on the tiled floor.

- People who unwrap their slurpee straws and leave them on the counter. Like fuck you, so badly. Is it that hard to walk to the bin? Or, even to just hand it to me?

- People with really thick accents who order something and get offended if I don't understand...
Seriously though. When COKE and CONE sound exactly the same IT'S NOT MY FAULT~

- People who get offended when you say 'Was it Coke with that?' and answer with a pissed of voice 'No, Sprite'. And they do this face >:
Fuck off. Do I look like I'm psychic or some shit?

- When they complain about someone else "pushing" in. Fuck off. If you didn't look like you knew your order right away I'm not going to waste my time for you to go discuss with your shitty little kids whilst I could be serving someone else.

-Adults who think it's cute to ask their children what they want when there is a massive queue behind them. YES YOUR KID IS ADORABLE, to other people. BUT I'M NOT OTHER PEOPLE AND I HATE CHILDREN.

-People who add shit on after you've processed things through- 'Oh, sorry, can I not have pickles?' Bloody 5 minutes after.. AND the burger has already been made. NO, NO YOU CAN'T NOT HAVE PICKLES. WANNA KNOW WHY!? BECAUSE IF YOU REALLLLLY DIDN'T WANT PICKLES YOU WOULD HAVE SAID SO....TEN MINUTES AGO!!!!!!!!!!!!

-People who order Oreo McFlurries.
I hope none of those people expect it to be properly "flurry-ed" during peak hour. Because, I am not standing there allowing all the Drinks and Desserts to build just so you, the customer, can enjoy an ice-cream dessert with a smooth consistency!

-'Fries with no salt, please' =.="

-'Family dinner box, please' =.="

- When they pull out there little bag of coins during peak hour to pay for a $20+ meal...
OH MY GOD.

There are many other things that are BAD about working at McDonalds. But, those are just the ones I experienced today. :

'MY cat has a fatter head!'

I love to gloat. I love the thought of gloating. BOASTING about all the great things that have happened to me....

I rarely do. But, when someone. Oh just someone you REALLY DEEPLY hate just walks past and you've beaten them at a sport. Your mouth opens for a split second and you suddenly turn into some barbaric whore.

and first it starts off small like 'hahahahahaha' and suddenly it just gets louder and louder 'ahahahahahahahAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH'
Soon you don't even have ANY control over what the hell is coming through your mouth and you're fucked.

Cause then after that moment you're labelled. Everyone hates you.

So in the end you don't gloat, you suck on that 'reward'... a 50c cent ice block [the green one, obviously.. cause all the other flavours are shit] and stick to the hypothetical gloating circulating in your head.

Everybody can gloat. Very few can put up with someone elses gloating.