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The Cozy Spot

25 posts categorized "meaningless drivel"

September 14, 2007


This year has been about getting through, and I liken it to some of the subjects I took at university, those that failed to resonate deeply. I’d go through the motions; a hefty bowel motion offered more satisfaction or relief, than the hairy thought of cramming, or spending an entire night, up until the sun greeted the day, torturing myself with paragraphs, theories and assertions. To this day I have an image of my biochemistry tutor, a postgraduate student at the time, going on (and on) about the importance of memorizing all the essential amino acids (by formula and organic structure, which can be a bitch considering their length) because that was all that he had going for him at the time, the cornerstone of his dissertation, something I didn’t take seriously, that eventually saw me pop No Doz pills like m & M’s a few nights before the exam. How I loathed biochemistry. It wasn’t the theory, but the method; a dry fuck, if you will. Nil passion. I’d muddle, or plod through, to get through an examination, and feel like I’d feel after a god awful intimate encounter (often resulting in the Bonnie & Clyde quick getaway), one that held a lot of promise from the outside, only to crack open the walnut and find a rotting core. This feeling has been a regular visitor this year.

One week can blend into the next…

The reemergence of a fly by night lover surprised me this week, he existed more than a decade ago. Seventeen years to be exact. He is the porno moment of my adulthood; sex where one least expects to have it, at the most unpredictable time.

Continue reading "Solo" »

July 23, 2007

Female Bonding (Cough-Cough)

I don’t like it when people call me sweetie, beautiful, or any syrupy word from the very beginning, and I’m not talking about the male gender, I’m talking about women. The transparency of these endearments unsettles me, especially if they’re used from the beginning. To use sweet endearments requires some close relationship, so when a person comes right out and says it, I always ask myself what they want. It actually gets my back up.Perhaps it's my Cancerian streak; too close too soon, and I'll nip and walk sideways. It's 'shutdown'.

‘Yes sweetie!’

Talk to my arse.

Nine times out of ten, the person who pops out the ‘sweetie-darling-beautiful’ rubbish faster than a fart has ulterior motives, who tries to get on one's good side while sharpening the serrated blade. I can get it after a reasonable period of time, but I don’t like it when endearments are offloaded in the course of the first week, and they become a weekly thing. It so happened to me, the honey-tongued women sweetly requested details and she was as transparent as a pair of crotchless panties (offering an eekie view), and drove the point home, as I knew she would. Now I can't reveal the context or environment of this verbal transaction, but take my word for it, it wasn't a conversation between a relative or girlfriend.

‘Hi sweetie, how was it (party). Was he there?’

That’s all she wanted to know, I know why and I thought…

You really take me for an idiot if you think I’m going to give you any low down. You backstab me once, shame on you. Backstab me twice, shame on me.

Actually it reminded me of my recent visit to the DVD shop. The store assistant recommended renting Notes on a Scandal. It’s the latest release to the store, and she said, ‘after you watch that you won’t want to talk to interfering old women.’ Notes on a Scandal stars Cate Blanchett as a younger high school art teacher who develops a relationship with a schoolboy, for the old biddie to blackmail her. I don’t know why, maybe because she has nothing in her life (hobbies, pastimes, a pet pooch).

I don’t need to see a film to know that. Those little old biddies don’t have to be in their Sixties, Seventies or Eighties, they can be sexually frustrated forty year olds who need to know everything; because they have no life, hobbies or interests other than a childish need to screw a person over with scandalous bullshit – thinking it makes them feel or look young, when it exacerbates their ‘old biddie’ status. The other culprits, on a par with the senior no-lifers are the Body Clocks; thirty and upward, on the lookout for sperm donors and providers.

These sticky beaks usually have husbands, boyfriends and other partners, or occasional fucks, but they’re never fucking satisfied; they need to stick their beak in whenever they find it convenient just so they can tell the immediate world, to ‘bond.’ If I want to bond, I’ll talk to my cat. I've had bad experiences with this, and I'm not too open minded about 'sharing', and how that's supposed to indicate 'caring.' Bullshit. More often than not, it's involved so much 'caring' that the biatch dishing out 'darling-sweetie-honey' outclasses herself; I somehow end up hearing that I've said terrible things about men I've been interested in, or other nasty things that are foreign to me. So I live and learn. Live in a city, watch your back. It's no longer about 50's and 60's Leave it to Beaver or Gidget dating. It's about Survival of the Fittest, taking no prisoners (or body clocks) and showing no mercy, especially where one's reputation is concerned. And I don't care if their body clock is ticking, screw me over, I'll stomp - hard. Screw the faux sisterhood. As far as I'm concerned I have a child to raise, bills to pay. Screw me, and I'll screw you in ways you never knew, and I don't care if you have a vulva like me. So what?

It’s often been like this; women in a social circle or in some workplaces wanting to be updated on my sexual status. They often cannot understand why I’m single.

How about…

I like it!

If I didn't like it, I'd be doing the date-go-round. Using common logic, I'm not doing the date-go-round, therefore I don't mind being single. It's rather obvious really, because I don't partake in 'date post mortems', where every date is dissected and diagnosed. I couldn't care less. I'm not a teenager, for Christ's sake.

July 18, 2007

Curiosity Killed the (Wannabe) Stud.

It wouldn’t matter if I had three chins, a paper bag over my head, or be a Cyclops, he’ll still talk a mile a minute, try to find a spare moment to practice his pick-up skills or try to apply the skills he’s observed on his European holiday to humble Old Sydney Town. It’s not about me, per se, it’s about honing his skills – much to my irritation.

I sat at the usual seat, planted my butt so the radiant heat from the outdoor gas heater came my way, took my pen out and started jotting whatever I could. I had less than an hour as I was on my lunch break, and damn I can’t stand being disturbed by wet behind the ear wannabe pick up artists. On the days I lunch with a gf, he’ll cop hairy eyeballs each time he prances by, telling her to ‘smile’ or asking ‘waz up?’ with a cocky leer. She'll then give him a hairy eyeball, he'll frown and slink away like a sullen kindergarten lad (he's in his mid to late twenties).

So he kind of, well he did, crash into my private moment. I’m not a glamorous writer, and I don’t care about the décor. No thing has to be perfect when I jot or write things. The world can come tumbling down for all I care. The other day I almost tripped over the stack of piled books and magazines in front of my nightstand and I made do without making my bed that morning, I had a late night, didn’t have time in the morning but I couldn’t care. I had the laptop. Have laptop will travel, and sit in a pile of chaos to write. That’s me, I don‘t care about the ambience. On this occasion I had the usual midday banquet; coffee and smokes.

So when he opened his trap, to start some conversation, he really impressed me with (not):

“Have you thought of attaching an exhaust pipe to your mouth?”

I couldn’t think of a comeback straight away. I was dangling in a paragraph; trying to sort out a sentence on my notepad (I don’t lug my laptop to the workplace. I have a desktop there, that’s enough).

I was two thirds through my coffee, glanced at it and eyed his petite bod. Seriously, if I did the dirty thing with him, I’d most likely squash him.

“Make yourself useful, another coffee. Thanks mate,” I said. I don't normally use the word 'mate'. It comes out when I'm restraining vitriol (during such circumstances, or any perceived invasion of privacy.), and I then continued with the sentence at hand.

He pursed his lips in an effete manner, and stomped off; the metrosexual emotional response. It's not like I get my rocks off during these moments, but it really gets me when waiters assume that you're there to engage in a deep and meaningful (or lengthy) conversation with them on a social level. That's not service, that's being a nosey parker/sleazebag (depending on the approach)/lazy arse.

Now if he asked me about my jottings, I would have told him to piss off. It's something I used to do in my senior year of high school, when I'd head to Bondi/Coogee beaches to sketch for my high school art projects: 'oh what are you drawing? I wouldn't say it in so many words, but it would filter through my gaze. "I'm not here to talk to you, I'm here to work. Piss off!" But in the case of the over zealous waiter on roids, I sit on the edge of opening my trap and saying something. Just like the saying: there's a time and a season (for picking up, flirting, etc), and my writing time (whether it's five, ten or twenty minutes during lunch. I'll take whatever I can get) isn't the time.

I don’t discuss my writing, what I’m writing, what germinates the seed of a story or any thing like that in great detail. It’s private. Intimate, and on a different scale or dimension to what I do on this blog; others may think, on viewing this blog, ‘oh my that’s a bit adult and explicit,’ but the origin of the story, the seeds of thought are more explicit or intimate for me, than the final result, a post. I’ll never discuss the thoughts, and/or accompanying emotions that lead me to an idea or concept. It's sacrosanct. A lot like real sex,come to think.

But exhaust pipe? Seriously, there is a select group of young men out there who have no fucking idea on initiating the simplest conversation. It’s pathetic.

July 11, 2007

In Bed with a Madonna of a Flu

I visited my local library branch this afternoon. I had a few returns to make, but my trip to the outside world today had more to do with visiting the local medical center, something I had to reschedule for later this afternoon as the surgery was packed to the eyeballs. We’ve had a flu extravaganza. It appears that the most recent bug has migrated across the Tasman and it’s really amusing considering all the security measures that are taken at airports, where the prospect of taking baby formula on board is enough to cause a micro existential crisis. I sometimes believe the bugs will kill us all in the end, microbes that cannot be scanned on the body of each passenger.

I’m not severely afflicted with flu; then again I may be delirious after having paracetamol for breakfast, lunch and dinner over the past three days. I’ve even spared a thought for my in tray at work, even though I’ve spent a couple of nights penning (during my more lucid moments) a short story that sits on the other end of the occupational spectrum. Then again I’m most content being free to explore many topics without the added pressure of succumbing to mainstream jive, in other words pen words for safe publications like those that grace the newsstands here in Sydney, often featuring headers such as ‘Have Everything You Want: Fuss Free Hair, a Ten Inch Cock and a Little Villa in St Tropez, bullshit like that, things that you know you won't receive in the workplace unless you suck your boss's right testicle and call him Daddy. Fuck that, I think.

The little things can be sublime. I went to buy my usual round of coffee, and I tell you, the dude that makes it has kaleidoscope eyes. Yes, just like the Beatles song. The kind of eyes that you can look into, and divine your future even if that future hovers around a brief sexual explosion in the vicinity of one’s groin. Time isn’t a linear quantity. But I looked like fucking Rudolph, the red nosed reindeer as I stood there waiting for my latte, reining the urge to scratch my nose in response to my crusty nasal cavity. Not a good look. On the days I do make an effort to sex myself up, I only have the pleasure of being approached by a Sydney street beggar looking for a spare smoke. When I’m holed up at home on a weekday, I’m infected with flu germs fighting over the television.

Housemate: I want to watch Oprah.

Me: And you call yourself a man!

Continue reading "In Bed with a Madonna of a Flu" »

July 05, 2007

Here Kitty, Kitty

It's terrible enough to hear people, namely women (in my neck of the woods), whining about having difficulty finding action. It reaches an alternative dimension of irritation when the USS Kitty Hawk is in town (we're looking at around, mmm, an additional 5000 or so cocks!) and more excuses are added to the pile of bullshit:

"But they only want sex!"

Um, d'oh. If I'm on a ship for lengthy phase, I'll step off it wanting marriage right? Fuck, I wish some would make up their minds. First it's the 'I can't find any man to have fun with,' and then it's the 'ewwwww but it's just sex for them, and they've slept with HOW MANY women!'

Even though this was unfolding, I could see the glimmer in their eye; oh yeah, they were entertaining the possibility. Women who say they don't (at some point in their life), are liars. It's difficult to ignore a hot, toned seaman or multitudes of seamen (no pun intended :P) walking the city streets.

Jeez, if I disembarked today, and was in Sydney until the followingTuesday, I wouldn't have time to meet the parents, book a reception hall, buy rings and have a bridal fitting...! So sex is the logical conclusion. Is it so terrible?

I don't really get the faux virgin attitute that's dished out by some women these days. Not sure if the abstinence movement-Rules-Surrendered Wife-Bullshit fad X (insert whatever takes your fancy) is responsible, but mention the word casual sex, and you may receive the 'oh-my-god-you're-such-a-slut!' gaze. After I suggested condom usage (in response to, 'ew but sailors sleep around!'), I was asked the 'what if it breaks?' question (a condom can break during sex with a postal worker/accountant/mechanic), I offered some wisdom:

Use two condoms; layer it, darling.

It makes me laugh when people go on about condom breakage; the only time I've ever experienced breakage involved mind blowing physics (in terms of the angle of entry), coupled to intense thrusting. Condoms don't break that easily.

What if it breaks...?

Oh please!

Those around, looked at me like I'd confessed to giving head to Osama Bin Laden. It's another reason why it's great blogging about sex; anywhere else, and one would have to deal with the Madonna-Whore Syndrome of, 'I'm a virgin in public, but a whore divine anywhere else but I'll frown in disgust just to flaunt my faux virtue and prove you to be a whore.'

I can't stand women like that or the kind that may as well screw entire football teams, to then give me the hairy eyeball ('oh, you're so rude Ana!'), when I'm sitting inside the third year of unexpected abstinence. I may be in my thirties, but it doesn't mean that I've sewn my vagina together and taken a vow of religious celibacy, or that I have to be some sexually conservative 'all paths lead to marriage' type of gal.

Marriage today, can be as difficult as the Tour de France. Add the romantic element, and it's set up for disaster the moment romance is stirred into the soft centre; centuries ago people married for survival, wealth amalgamation and dynastic succession. Today it's supposed to be about romance...

Yeah, right.

July 03, 2007


I was reminded of a quote made my a famous arsehole political identity, this week. It unfolded as a general comment that was aimed like a gun at me or my identity, and I thought 'If I don't wallop you, one day, you'll be lucky indeed.'

I really can't stand the cultural comments of, "All (insert culture)'s are hopeless." I looked at the person's face as they said it, and admired my inner calm, but the below quote came to mind.

"The Greek people are anarchic and difficult to tame. For this reason we must strike deep into their cultural roots: Perhaps then we can force them to conform. I mean, of course, to strike at their language, their religion, their cultural and historical reserves, so that we can neutralize their ability to develop, to distinguish themselves, or to prevail; thereby removing them as an obstacle to our strategically vital plans in the Balkans, the Mediterranean, and the Middle East." - Henry Kissinger, addressing a group of businessmen in Washington

Well Mr Kissinger, democracy is one thing your president can't patent or copyright - μαλάκα άνθρωπε.

So yes, the comment during my 'work day', made me think of plenty things, like how some women can be bitches when they have nothing else to contribute or positive to say to someone. At least Kissinger had economic objectives, but even so, no one has been able to force a Greek to conform (LMAO!). As for neutralizing the ability to distinguish 'themselves', that section of the quote only displays Kissinger's arrogance, and ignorance; the Greek culture distinguished itself before Kissinger's kind could read or write, let alone fashion a flushing lavatory. In other words, his kind has been given the tools, tools that have existed for millennia, and what contribution has he made to the world? War, diplomatic bungling, illegal invasions and occupations (during Kissinger's active service, Cyprus). I don't know what's more embarrassing, him saying that about my culture, or him being regarded as a 'statesman', when he's more like a racist bigot motherfucker.

I'd like to see him write an epic, and for that epic (such as Homer's Odyssey & Iliad) to last a few millenia, just like I'd love to see the 'person' (who aimed their comment at me at work) write something of merit, something other than a standard response. It's a lot like the concept presented in The Emerald Tablet of Hermes Trismegistus: "As above, so below," or as in the microcosm, so in the macrocosm. Ergo, in the common workday, there'll be a small fish moron, and on the stage of world politics there'll be a a-list moron.

On the sexy scale of everything, I'll rate the past couple of days a 4; the man of my dreams sauntered past wearing opaque sunglasses, thinking he's Elvis or something.He tried to resist, but I waved at him, almost sticking my hand in his face (on bloody purpose, mind you). Oh the attitude! Here comes King Cock! The only thing missing was an entire entourage (nanny inclusive, men like that are babies, or 'little virgins' as I prefer to call them); in your dreams, buddy. Please spare me, I thought.

I haven't updated much on here over the last couple of days; my hands are sore, specifically a couple of my metacarpals of my right hand, those near my ring and little fingers. I've been continuing on with a larger body of work on my laptop, and struggled to add two thousand words over the weekend, while popping Tylenol like they were M & M's.

I did manage to have a girlie moment over the weekend, and pampered myself something stupid. I got the hair done, and if I may say, it's looking quite good (and a bit outrageous for the office, but I couldn't give a shit about that).

Next on my list of stuff to do: tattoo number three.

June 21, 2007


I’ve never played matchmaker; never in my entire life. I don’t plan on starting. I think it’s a gross invasion, and this thought is related to being on the receiving end of ‘good intentions’. The reason behind the inverted commas relates to the skepticism behind this supposed kind act. Really, when people pair their friends or associates off, or assume that their friend will ‘look great’ or ‘be good’ with a person they see or know, what is actually going on in their minds? Do they play God? Is it about something else entirely? Moreover, how can one be certain of their friend or acquaintance being a good match for another? If only I could be compensated for all the times people in my life have played matchmaker against my will, or behind my back.

Is there a behind the scenes interrogation going on? To be on the receiving end of such intent can be viewed in many different ways. It can depend on one’s mood, life circumstance, anything really.

I tend to view it as an insult, but that’s just me. I’m a cantankerous biatch in such circumstances, and often see it as a gross invasion, that’s never requested from my end. I’d hate it if one pictured me as a perfect match for another unwitting person, and then tried to manipulate situations based on one’s ‘view’ or assessment; like they’re an authority on all things that flick my personal switch.

I’d like to say that I can handle it well at this point in my life, but I don’t handle it well. More often, it’s a case of things occurring regardless of my input, and of it resulting in me standing knee deep in so much shit that I care for.

Continue reading "Υπομονή" »

June 08, 2007

A Day in the Life of a Failed Fashionista

So, today…

The gods came out to play unleashing gale winds, and I really wanted to stay in bed except that we have a long weekend coming up, and calling in a sickie would have been pushing it. Friday is casual day, so out came the jeans. The jeans were paired with a nifty pair of ankle boots. The boots boasted a seven-inch heel, the average length of a penis when I think of it, and after the hair, and makeup, I thought I nailed the look. It was all right as I left the house. The light sprinkle of rain was no match for my oversized black umbrella.

I decided on the heavy-duty brolly; my blue and white mini designer brolly died yesterday afternoon, after being inverted by Mother Nature, after slicing a sizeable chunk of skin of my left index finger. I thought I was doing well. I arrived in the city, fended off a passerby who tried to convince me that he’d met me at a party in Punchbowl (a suburb no one else, outside of Australia, has probably heard of). I felt like the Impulse body spray model of the Eighties, and Nineties, who is stopped by a (note: handsome, except that this dude didn’t resemble current hot male model Nicholas Lemons) a bloke who hands the damsel a bouquet of flowers, and then, just as I was about to cross the road at the intersection of George and Market Streets, I almost stack it. My lofty heel tangled in my bootleg, so I took a tumble, but managed to land on my feet as my boobs did things that obeyed Sir Isaac Newton’s Laws of Motion.

Continue reading "A Day in the Life of a Failed Fashionista" »

June 02, 2007

The F*ck Yardstick?

One of the most amusing moments of the week entailed a crossing of sorts, which rewound me to a distant moment that contained ample sexual opportunity. There I was with my hands down his pants, his tongue in my mouth, horny beyond my comprehension. The accelerant or catalyst that launched me into the hot moment wasn’t the complex cocktail of alcoholic beverages, the late evening (that saw the sun rise), but the self constructed idea of emptiness that can follow after a long involvement. These types of encounters are associated with one word: rebound. I tried substituting one for the other after the moment exploded in an unexpected manner, except that logic kicked in late in the piece, just as the car arrived to a stop and the blatant morning sun eradicated the nocturnal cloak that hides an array of sexual foibles, and it also elucidated other elements that I couldn’t ignore.

The person I was embroiled with, if only for the moment, was involved with a revolving door of pussy, all of which sought him out. Physically attractive or symmetric people don’t have to do much, sad but true, it is what it is and it’s not enough, or wasn’t enough to persuade me to take the moment further.

So I chanced the person, who had to walk past three or four times, just so I’d see his tight ass, wide shoulders and strapping physicality, one that pays its dues at the gym on a regular basis. A nice view, sure, but so what? I can’t rate my sexual arousal or attraction on the number of visible abdominal muscles. I have to admit that I’m drawn to things that are considered flaws by popular publications, films and sexual merchandisers.

Continue reading "The F*ck Yardstick?" »

June 01, 2007

Comfortably Numb

I decided to borrow the title as I was jotting things, and downloading songs (some Pink Floyd) while pondering the idea of masculinity, and beside this concept, the idea of masculine pursuits within modern day society. These ideas of mine follow on from the highlight question of the week, something that arrived like a tarnished bullet:

“Why are you still single?”

This is such a loaded question, only because it often hides things:

“You must be flawed to the bone, an unhinged lunatic cum stalker who probably picks her nose and eats it. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Instead of the above, it’s ‘why are you single?’

I remember moments where I’d sit and jot it all down in longhand. I’d nut out flaws and list my personal effects or responsibilities, basically all the things that didn’t fit into the modern male scheme. I’d never make it through the honeymoon phase and I solved this problem, or arrived to a finite conclusion. Let’s just say that 8.5 times out of 10 (I’d like to make it 9, but I’d be pushing it), sex plays a role. Quick sex doesn’t close the long-term deal. It’s one of those continual double standards that prevail. Despite all the sexual revolutions that have come to pass (in theory and supposed reality), the quick fuck hop does little to establish faith, security and assurance.

Continue reading "Comfortably Numb" »

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