“Fuck maccas get your shit together. It goes sauce, then meat then cheese melted on top in a cheese burger. Cheese on the bottom doesnt work, means I have to turn the burger upside down…it fucks everything up man!”— Pat Ward, 4am Maccas run gone wrong.
It seems only fitting I write this rant on my one night off this week.
As per the last…ooh I don’t know…..48,957 Wednesdays, I am without a cent to my name on my big party night of the week.
Alas pay day is Thursday and thus by the following Wednesday I am heads-down-bums-up in my car scrounging around for enough spare change to buy myself a can of coke (obviously far more important than say, milk or bread).
(This isn’t even touching on the fact that Wednesday is also ‘Cleanersday’ and coincidentally the day I miraculously wake up before 10am in order to bail out of the house before sweet, naive Sam and Sue arrive and realise they’re $22 short and have vaccumed my room for squat.)
The thing that gets me every Wednesday is that I can’t for the life of me figure out where all my money has gone.
I work my ass off. Crazy, stupid hours that have warped my body clock so much so that I am only mentally capable between the hours of 10pm-5am.
Sure, there’s things such as ridiculously expensive rent (the Paddo terrace is totes worth it babes) health insurance, my car, my phone bill, general house bills, eating, the occasional Amaretto sour after work and of course feeding my boyfriend kitty Archibold…but I honest to god do not understand how every week without fail I come to this.
The point where I am heating up hawaiian McCains pizza singles (do they still count as ‘singles’ if you’re actually cooking the entire box?) and stealing a glass of lemonade from my housemate’s bottle on their side of the fridge like a rebel without a cause.
May I add that these pizza singles were in fact donated to me by a friend who felt sorry for me. So in theory, it’s not even my food.
My plans for later on in the night consist of watching ‘Dear John’, trying to co-orce my cat to come out from under my bed and let me touch it anddddd if I’m really feeling like letting my hair down, a bit of RedTube by candle light.
I should be out on the town, attending expensive dinners with friends or seeing a movie or getting absolutley shit faced because it’s my ONE night off this week but instead I am stuck here, typing this, with a burnt mouth because I couldn’t wait for the pizza to cool off. Delayed gratification has never been one of my strong points.
My problem is saving.
I work enough hours, on a good (enough) rate. It just seems like saving for me is about as easy a task as nailing jelly to a tree. It just doesn’t happen. I’d like to blame the invention of the ‘Commonwealth Bank’ i-Phone app and the subsequent easy-as-pie instantaneous money transfer that can be achieved even after a round of ‘Gas Chambers’ (do not ask)- however that would indicate that my lack of saving was only a recent problem and lets be honest, I’ve been living beyond my means since day zero.
I’m not asking for a lot. I’m not asking to be rich and rolling in it, so bored with money that I’m asking my friends to choose between an aquarium scene and a tropical island image that will be blown up to act as a ‘feature wall’ in the ‘DJ room’ of my brand new apartment. So comfortable with my bank balance, that I Twitter flowery updates about shucking my own oysters for lunch before popping down to Iceburgs, Bondi for “the most delectable tuna nicoise- yummy!”
All I’m asking for is that I dont have to worry about the plate colours when I go to Sushi Train.
I want to be able to watch that soft-shelled crab make it’s way around the room, pick up the plate and casually enjoy the little fucker, washed down by some miso.
I want my friend to turn to me and go “No wait Tully! That’s a red plate!” and for me to look back with a look of disinterest and say “Oh was it? All I saw was plate.”
Just discovered your new Tumblr ‘Fill My Bucket' and have a few thoughts on the matter.
1) Why the sweet shit has there not been a picture of me drawn yet?
2) For your information, I have already completed one of your bucket list tasks…
Insert dreamy flashback sequence here…
During my first day of interning at FHM magazine, I was called into the editor’s office. Grabbing my little notebook and tugging down my skirt to a (subjectively) more respectable level, I nervously approached his desk.
Him: “Hi Tully- how have you been settling in?”
Me: “Well thanks. I’m loving it so far.”
Him: “Goodo. How do you feel about being hypnotised on camera tomorrow for the launch of our new FHM website?”
At this point, various responses came to mind; first and foremost was that surely it was against some ‘Occupational, Health and Safety’ regulation to get the newbie brainwashed on their second day of work experience.
However, being eager to please and feeling slightly without options, I agreed.
I spent the entire next day hoping that by some miraculous coincidence everyone involved in the activity would have forgotten about it over night, only to be rudely thrown into reality around about lunch time.
After briefly considering claiming I was actually a Scientoligst and as such it was against my religion to have any fun let alone let myself be hypnotised, I admitted defeat.
Long story short, over the next two hours I found myself sitting in a nearby pub that smelt of piss with some overwhelming old dude in a suit telling me to lay my palms out on my knees while he and his monotone voice cooed out cliche instructions such as “Clear your mind” and “Concentrate on my voice”.
To be honest, the fact that I was hell bent on not letting his techniques work (not to mention the cameras and microphones in my face) probably didn’t help the entire process however- my dear Georgia - what I can tell you is that all I took from the experience was a flushed face and a slight feeling of nausea; both of which could have been achieved by doing black Sambucca lay backs at World Bar on a Saturday night.