I’m powering through a lot of books this lockdown and recently finished Truman Capote’s Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Call it an unpopular opinion, but I am failing to understand the iconic appeal of Holly Golightly. Someone needs to explain to me how a narcissist, manipulative criminal has become the poster girl for most middle-class cis white women, purely because she’s stylish.
The subtle hints to her profession are not the problem. She’s just an awful, awful person haha. I feel like I’m missing something.
Maybe it’s a Holly thing.
I did try to watch the film also, but you know. Being half Japanese, Mickey Rooney playing an embarrassingly cartoonish Japanese man is extremely offensive.
Problematic, Capote. Problematic. I might re-read In Cold Blood. Now that was a good’un.
I’m far too tired to come up with a witty endo pun for a title. These past two weeks have been debilitating. My body is rotting from the inside. Again, I will try to condense this as much as I can.
I’ve been experiencing Endo pain since I was about 12, and I first heard the term when I was around 18. But you know, anything related to the female reproductive system isn’t taken too seriously until you cry on the floor of the ER that you’re in sheer agony and feel like you’re giving birth to an alien as it rips your insides apart.
That crazy (under) exaggeration was a year ago. My body finally caved. In about October 2019, the pain just got too much. It was multiple trips to the ER. Multiple trips ending with me being sent home with a prescription for hard painkillers and a “you’ll be fine, come back if it gets worse” imprint on my brain. It got worse of course, so back I go. Six months of this back and forth nonsense, scans, endless ultrasounds. And finally a technician says one evening,
Have you heard of endometriosis? It could be that.
Nah, ya think. This was in February now. For the upteenth time, I had crawled to the ER, screaming bloody murder and crying like the unhinged female they wanted me to be. I answered the same routine questions that I had on autopilot.
Yes, I’m sexually active.
No, I’m not pregnant.
No, I do not have a STD.
No, it is not (god damn) menstrual cramps.
Yes, I’m in (fucking) pain (you god damn devil woman idiot moron bitch fuck youuuuuu, why do you think I’m fucking here, I hate you.)
After so long of being in agony and answering these questions on high rotation, the poor nurses became my internal target. They remained internal thankfully, but I do still feel bad they copped my invisible wrath.
It was this last hospital dash in February that got the ball rolling. I refused to leave until someone booked me into a gynecologist to actually identify the problem instead of just sending me home with codeine. This young, scruffy, somewhat attractive doctor comes in, calls himself a tosser because he’s male and talking to me about endometriosis pain, and breaks the news that the earliest appointment I can get is in July. He could see the heartbreak, and the pain that I was in. But what else could I do? It’s the public health system. So off I go, appointment booked, crawling back home which was thankfully just around the corner from the hospital.
Fast forward to late July. Oh yeah, we’re now in the middle of a global pandemic (see previous posts for rants on that one). The stage 4 lockdown in Melbourne has pushed the government to cancel elective surgeries (aka non life-threatening treatments) to free up beds for Covid patients. This is where I fell. I had waited five months for my appointment, still in pain and with a higher tolerance to codeine. And two days before, I get an SMS that said appointent is now a phone consultation instead of in-person. The internal tantrum, I swear. I probably should have made it external. So – we get on the phone. And it wraps up with:
Oh, we really do need to do this in person.
I just had no energy left to vent on the public hospital system anymore. I conceited defeat and just agreed. What else could I do? A few days later, I get the confirmation letter in the mail. Appointment booked for early September. No changes to be made. My heart sunk, but if I could get through those five months (and an additional fifteen years on top of that), then I could carry on for another six weeks.
That appointment was three days ago. It remained in-person thank god. And the doctor even said:
The fact you’re here in person means this is really serious.
Off to a good start. This is where this post is going to take a turn. In a way, I’m glad I don’t have a following on here. Because I’ve only had this conversation with select family members and very close friends. And I’m still very much processing and trying not to break down in public (failed at this a few times).
The gynecologist confirmed that surgery was necessary. With endometriosis, surgery is not a simple solution. It’s a last resort. It comes with complications that don’t even guarantee successful treatment. And then of course, endo being endo, it will eventually come back and you rinse and repeat all over again. But the damage with me is severe. It’s so severe I am now in constant pain (up until a month ago, the pain was sporadic so I would get days or weeks of feeling like a normal person). Two days before my appointment (so five days ago), I collapsed in my bathroom. I didn’t faint per se, but the wave of pain through my body sent me from my sink to my floor in a nanosecond. I couldn’t contain my groaning in agony for about half an hour, trying to use the tiles to cool my face as I couldn’t pull myself up. That was just a few days ago and I have been in pain since. The burning sensation through my back has me walking like my late grandmother, and the fact that walking now feels like a chore has made me question whether I should be working at my job right now.
So, surgery was a go, for whenever the government opens up elective surgeries. It could be months. It could be years (I don’t know what I would do…..). But it’s in the system and all I have to do is wait. But now down to those details. The surgery isn’t going to be as straight forward as I thought it would be. To summarise, Endometriosis is a disorder where tissue that usually lines your uterus, grows outside of it on other organs – primarily in the reproductive system. For me, it has targeted my ovaries and fallopian tubes. Removing the tissue from the ovaries is doable. The tubes, that’s another story. And they’ve caused a lot of damage to my tubes. The gyno, who reminded me a little of a cute little Ian Holm, told me that once the tubes become blocked or inflamed, they’re almost impossible to clear out. And out of nowhere, he asked me for my consent to remove them. This was my first proper consultation. I wasn’t expecting to have a conversation about fertility just yet, let alone agreeing to remove vital organs that are needed to have children. I was wearing my face mask, but he could see it in my eyes immediately. I was trying not to cry. And of course, someone just has to ask are you okay and that’s it, you lose it.
I gave the consent. If the damage is there and it’s irreparable, then what other choice did I have? It will only get worse over time and cause me more pain down the line. That was Thursday. It’s now Sunday. I spent Friday numb and not feeling much or saying much. I wrapped myself in bed with my heatpack under my back for the pain, and a terrible, TERRIBLE film on Netflix I won’t name. But I had the company of my wonderful foster dog Jax, who maybe chose the wrong place to chill, but you can’t be mad at those eyes for very long.
Jax. The most wonderful foster dog and endo buddy.
My mum tried to keep it together over the phone when I told her, but I could tell it was breaking her. I haven’t mustered up the courage to tell my father. And I can’t bring myself to talk to my brothers yet as I know I’ll break down, just like they did when mum told them. I’ve had the conversation maybe three times so far, and I definitely need at least a week to sit on this before I go to tell more people. I’m at the age where people start thinking about this, and where people start questioning why it hasn’t happened yet. I guess that could probably be the rest of my life. I’m going to be 40 one day, with people asking me why I don’t have kids. I know there are other options obviously, but one step at a time I guess.
There are a lot of emotions running through me. About endo, about infertility, the public hospital system, about the state of the world right now. I’m trying to take it one day at a time. But the searing pain in my abdomen and back can make that difficult sometimes. So here’s hoping I get some good news in the next few months, so it’ll be one less thing to swirl around in my head.
Just like everything else that is going on right now, I’ll get there eventually. I think I’ll leave it at that.
Ooh, hasn’t it been a hot minute. Reading back on my old posts, it would take several novels to go through everything that has happened since. But here’s a quick overview of where I’m currently at. It’s now September 2020, I’m back in Melbourne, I’m 30 with a 25 year old mentality (soon to go up I’m sure, when I detail what is currently happening to my body). I released my first book in March of this year, two weeks before the world shut down. The world is spiralling out of control, battling a global pandemic that has infected almost 30 million people and killed almost a million (this is always rising, because you know, conservative political parties still don’t think this is a big deal). Donald Trump has legitimately destroyed America from the inside out, they are honestly on the brink of civil war. White cops are killing black civilians, the Black Lives Matter movement has EXPLODED – there are riots, protests, looting, people actually being killed on the street during all of this. All while ignoring battling a pandemic that sees them topping the list for most cases and most deaths per capita. Oh and lets not even get started on climate change, that’s a novel for another day.
I’m going to try really hard to scale this down, because I could rant on about this virus and it’s consequences for hours. It’s so complex that I’ve actually written a book about it – so I’ll try to condense this and not turn it into a full length essay. Coronavirus/COVID-19 (or as Trump calls it, the Chinaaaaah Virus) reared its little head from China in December 2019. It was a little distant problem for most countries for about two months. And then in March, it suddenly rampaged through almost every country in the world. Countries shut down, lockdowns were imposed, people were not allowed to leave their houses, families were separated. If someone got infected, whether hospitalised or not, they had to isolate alone with no physical contact with anyone.
Excuse the poor quality. But those headlines sum up our life right now.
That was in March. It’s now September. And Melbourne is still in lockdown (we had a few weeks reprieve in June but it didn’t last long before cases rose again and we were sent back in to isolation). Melbourne is currently in one of the strictest lockdowns in the world (despite being nowhere near the hardest hit countries). We are in what the officials call, Stage 4. We are only allowed to leave our house for essential reasons; work, health, groceries and exercise. We can only leave the house for 1 hour a day, and we have a nighttime curfew from 8pm-5am. No visitors are allowed, no physical contact, face masks are mandatory whenever you leave the house. Almost all businesses are closed. Australian domestic borders are also closed, so millions of families have been separated in some way or another.
There are multiple trials going ahead for a vaccine at the moment. But unfortunately, we all know this will be a long and drawn out process. They’re hoping to secure one by the end of next year. But then how do you roll out a vaccine to seven billion people? And how do the third world countries afford it?
At the start of the pandemic we were all optimistic that this would blow over by 2021. But reality has hit hard. Our pre-covid lives are dust. Economies are crumbling, and will keep crumbling. Millions, if not billions, of people will continue on without work, poverty is rising, government help is skyrocketing, people are dying alone while their families have to pick and choose who can attend their funerals. Socialising won’t be the same again either. Goodbye to the days of cramming into dingy bars, flirting with random strangers over pints. I recently went on a ‘covid-safe date’ – and it was the unsexiest thing ever.
Anyway. I think I will leave this here. As the Hilltop Hoods song goes, twenty twenty is nothing but an unshaved ballbag. We still have another month of Stage 4, if the numbers stabilise enough. If they don’t…on we go. Covid-19 is the tip of the iceberg of this fucking nightmare of a year. On a global scale and a personal level. This. Year. Blows.
So this one is tough for me to write about. But I need to get something out, because I feel that if I try to talk about this with someone they’re not going to understand. Just over a year ago, I met a really incredible guy. He was two years older than me – and I met him at a party in Melbourne. We quickly figured out we were both from the same town in Western Australia and even had mutual friends there. And even quicker found out that we were in similar situations in our relationships at the time. This is not even an exaggeration when I say, that this guy was genuinely one of the kindest people I had ever met. He was gentle, caring, generous and had a helluvah cheeky sense of humour. The first time we met, we sat at this party and he unleashed on me what was bothering him in his life at the time – apologising frequently because I was literally a stranger. But it seemed like he needed to get some stuff out, so I let him. The conversation turned deeper when we both realised we were in the same situation with our relationships. And we were able to immediately open up to each other about the ups and downs of them. It was an instant understanding.
I bumped into him a few times after this, at the same parties. And our conversations were a mixture of confessions, stupid pranks on each other, and just good old banter. He was always asking me how I was feeling about my situation, and happily sat down with me to try and steer me in the right direction. We eventually drifted apart when around the same time, I moved to Canada, and he moved to Sweden to be with his girlfriend (the same relationship he was needing advice about). Again, we were kind of mirroring each other.
He died three months ago. A week before Christmas. And I have had this deep heaviness in my gut since. Because I feel that if I talk to our mutual friends about it, they’ll think “You barely knew the guy”. While our time was swift, he left an impression on me, and I thought of him often after I moved to Canada – because he was fresh off the boat in Sweden and trying to settle into his new life there – as I was here.
He was so god damn caring, he was fine sitting down and talking deep stuff with someone he had literally known for an hour. And looking at his facebook profile, the stories people have written on his timeline since his passing have shown me how beautiful this guy was to everybody.
I always get that pinch in my stomach when he pops into my head randomly. His face has even appeared in a dream or two over the past few months. And in a way, it kind of doesn’t feel real. Maybe if I was back in Australia, it would feel more raw. And I most definitely cannot listen to Flume’s Never Be Like You ever again.
To the man who took him away, I genuinely hope you spend your days rotting from the inside. But at least my friend spent his short time here doing some good, for others as well as himself. There’s even a hilarious baby photo of him in a famous cafe in Fremantle and I’ll be sure to check in from time to time and make sure it’s still up there.
For a random reference – our whole friendship reminded me of the Phoebe episode of Lovesick. I’m Luke, I guess.
This is all kind of making it sink in a little deeper. Must dash.
So I’ve been in Canada for just over six months now. I’m not going to lie, it was a pretty rocky start. I didn’t realise uprooting your life and relocating to the other side of the planet would have such an overwhelming effect haha. And given what happened to me over those first few months, I feel like I only ever used social media to paint Toronto in a really nasty light. When in fact, it’s actually been pretty bloody great. I dunno, I’ve just woken up this morning feeling really good, and feel I need to write about how amazing this city has been, outside all of those nasty incidents.
I got a job at a hostel within the first week of moving here. And honestly, it was an absolute godsend. In the beginning, mostly for my mental health. I was meeting people, it was distracting, and it was getting me out of the house (house? I was airbnb-ing with a hairy middle aged Argentinian man called Federico). And even now, six months later when I’m mentally back to 100, it’s still the most rewarding job I’ve ever had. I meet people from all over the world every day. I’ve come to appreciate more cultures. I have great chats with guests on the daily (to the Korean guy I taught aussie slang to last night – you’re my new fav!). And I’ve even made friends with guests who are new to Toronnnaaa and are staying at the hostel for the first few days of their new life (which for most, not just me it turns out, are incredibly fragile).
I’ve spent the past few months detailing on facebook the number of sexual harassment incidents I’ve encountered in this city. And it’s a pretty horrific number considering how long I’ve been here. A few of these happened at my work, and I’ve had so many people tell me to get a new job OR go back to Aus. But I don’t want to. And there are so many reasons why the hostel is so damn special to me.
It saved me from myself when I was in a really dark place (which got worse over Christmas because of said harassment). It was really the only place that made me feel good. And here’s why –
Nearly all the friends I’ve made here have had a connection to the hostel. On my first night here, I went down to the bar for dinner, joined a random table of people who showed me around the city that night, and they’re still my friends today.
The staff are just one big giant family of the most special people on the planet as well. I’ve never had a job with people my own age, or on the same wavelength as me, so to work with so many cool kids who understand and support each other (and get giddly drunk together probably a bit too often haha!) is damn near delightful for me. I think I feel the most at home at work because I know I can talk to someone about anything or everything. The walls of the smoking area outside must have heard some crazy stories over the years haha. So I guess when people tell me to go and get a normal job – an office job that pays better – they don’t understand the sacrifice. Sure it’ll pay my bills and then some, but it’ll be a creative and mental roadblock.
The hostel was also special to me even before I moved here. I spent six weeks travelling between the east of Canada and the US last year and stayed at the hostel for a few nights. I traveled with some really incredible people on that trip and met one or two peeps at the hostel that are still really special to me. People lose touch or choose to carry on with their life, but I still hold some pretty great memories close to my heart.
Outside of work, I’ve also come to really appreciate this city. Even at 3am, when I’m totally brain-dead from work and in an uber home, the skyline of the city is just so majestic (sure, the CN tower probably takes up 80% of it, but let’s roll with it). Looking at the city every night kind of reminds me that I’m not here forever, and one day I’m going to look back at this and realise it was the best and craziest experience of my life – and I don’t want to spend it miserable because of a few disgusting sleazebags. That’s them winning and we can’t have that.
I have walked the streets of Toronananah for Halloween, surrounded by witches, werewolves, Donald Trumps and Putins. I’ve gone to a Lady Gaga bookshop party and danced with drag queens, I’ve met Shia LaBeouf who seemed totally chill until telling someone behind me to fuck off, I’ve seen some of my favourite musicians live (beauty of living in a city where nearly every act comes to town – sorry Straya, Canada obviously wins this one). I’ve walked through Montreal and travelled back to 19th century France, I’ve gone through Calgary and drank the best coffee of my entire life (seriously). I’ve survived -40C temps in Fernie and supplied an entire party with ugly christmas sweaters.
And soon, I’ll be crossing the border again to find some actual sun and heat. I really do love Canada, but these aussie legs need some colour man.
Oh, and I’m also making another film. There’s that lil gem of info for ya! Anyone got a few million so I can cast Tom Hardy? Nah? Fine then, be that way.
So yeah, it took some time. But I’m finally settled here and I’m really excited to dance, drink, travel and get super creative for the next 18 months.
I knew this was going to be too long to post on Facebook. Self high-five. Byeeeee. X
Two words coming together to put a negative twist on a woman’s right to say no. A silly synonym for rejection, because that word is clearly too strong for a man to accept. A phrase so common, we chuckle at our guy friends who have been shoved into the ‘zone’ by the woman they fancy. A phrase so common, people use it because society has forced a label on women to try to justify why we’ve rejected someone, and how we should really feel guilty about it.
Get. Fucked.
We should NOT have to feel guilt for simply not being attracted to someone. I will not go out with you because I’ve been made to feel bad. I will not go out with you because YOU feel bad. I will not go out with you because you feel emasculated. I’m simply saying no (politely of course), because I am not interested.
The tipping point hit me today. A good friend confessed on Valentine’s Day how he felt about me. He dropped off a bag of chocolates, rose petals, a teddy bear and a card saying “It’s a surprise”. Although I pretty much knew who it was from. It was one of the sweetest things anyone has ever done for me. (I feel nothing for Valentines Day – but the gesture was still nice).
I didn’t know how to address the situation though, and I got caught up with a lot of different things, and the gift took a backseat. And then two days ago, he turns up at my work, makes me feel uncomfortable in front of my colleagues and customers, and then drops a line of guilt before leaving the bar without saying goodbye. Yes, I felt a tinge of guilt because he’s my friend and he was upset, but I was also frustrated at his child-like tantrum exit.
But today, he sends me a long message – confessing his feelings further. I quote, “I took a HUGE risk by putting my cards on the table”. Guilt attempt #1. After a lengthy response from me, trying to let him down as softly as possible – he just replies with “Friend-zone it is I guess.” Guilt attempt #2.
No.
I will not be made to feel like I owe you something – a pity date, an apology, my dignity. I was asked for honesty, and I gave honesty – and apparently that warrants a response that tries to belittle me. If the tables were turned, if a woman was persistent and guilt-tripping, she’d be labelled crazy. But apparently this is considered romantic?
This kind of attitude is so ingrained in our culture, that guys don’t even realise they’re being offensive or annoying most of the time. And yes, I am fully aware that some girls milk these situations and can be incredibly manipulative. I’m definitely not speaking on behalf of all women. But we’re not all like this. And I shouldn’t feel condemned for simply saying no. You’ll find your lady, friend. It just isn’t me.
So I’m going sober for Dry Feb, to raise money for the Canadian Cancer Society. No one is donating, but hey I’m feeling pretty great physically. I’ve been sleeping better, I’m working out 4 times a week and I’m more clear headed. My lil convex beer baby is a shrinkin’. My wallet is growing and my skin is getting so much better.
I’m also feeling more confident with my writing, after months of seriously considering quitting all together, due to just down right depression and insecurities (and some incompetent person actually telling me my writing sucked – I’ve read your screenplay too mate – and you thought mine was bad).
Anyways. Saul Goodman.
What is this thing called adulting? It feels weird. But grand.
I have woken up in a T-shirt that says “You Beauty”. Safe to say, that was a great Australia Day, and I couldn’t have spent it with better people 🇦🇺 🇦🇺 🇦🇺
Having spent the past few years with wide-eyed friends getting Game of Thrones style aggravated that I had never seen Black Mirror, I finally found myself on Netflix last week – browsing for something new to binge in my PJs while eating takeaway food watch. Wanting to hush them up and to join their society, I binged four seasons. Yes. FOUR seasons in one week. As short as the seasons are, it was a lot to absorb and it definitely exhausted the psych. To the point where I felt I needed to get some thoughts out on each episode. Some were emotional and poignant, some were action packed, and some most were just downright fucking crazy.
Black Mirror is an anthology series, but to anyone that hasn’t seen it (now I can say WHAT, WHY!?), the connecting theme between all episodes is how technology has a grip on society, and we witness characters dealing with the consequences of its overpowering of humanity. Creator Charlie Brooker has birthed a masterpiece of storytelling, but all I kind of want to do now is smash my phone, deactivate Facebook, and go and live in the woods or something.
Anyway. I gotta talk about this, likerightfuckingnow.
Season 1 Episode 1: The National Anthem
The pig one. Oh man. As far as series pilots go, this one may go down in history as the most ballsy. British Prime Minister Michael Callow (Rory Kinnear) is woken to the news of the kidnapping of Princess Susannah (Lydia Wilson). The ransom is issued, and the PM must do something just…downright grotesque to ensure her safe release. Similar to how we would probably react in real life, I spent the first half of this ep nervously laughing and convincing myself they would find a way out of this predicament. But by the end of it, I was sharing the expression of those sods in the bar watching the TV.
“There is no way they would actually do this – seriously – oh fuck – FUCK – OH MY GOD THEY ACTUALLY WENT THERE.”
To be honest, I think I said something more or less along these lines for most of the Black Mirror episodes.
Brooker’s pilot was a perfect introduction to the series. It becomes pretty immediate that technology (in this case, social media) has a role of its own in this chapter, and it highlights how swiftly it can sway the opinions of the general public. There is no filter, no editor to approve your work, you can post to Facebook, Twitter, Youtube, Instagram in a heartbeat, and one status can drift or landslide your opinion in 140 characters or less.
I think above all else, this episode puts the spotlight back on us – highlighting our sick fascination with the disgusting and the unbearable (As Callow’s wife states, “I know people. We love humiliation”). Just recently, Youtube celebrity Logan Paul posted a vlog from Aokigahara (aka Suicide Forest) a few weeks ago, and filmed himself with a real suicide victim. It went viral and even I was guilty of trying to find the original video after it was taken down.
Of course, Brooker wraps up episode 1 with a twist. Maybe not as explosive as some of the ones that follow it, but it definitely locks in his theme of human observation in times of crisis. The importance of TNA doesn’t revolve around the ‘incident’, but more so on how society reacts to it.
The National Anthem is by no means a personal favourite in the Black Mirror series. But it’s a stellar intro to the most unique show on air right now.
Emily Kiko Komiyama 