Straight Up

The first draft of anything is shit. – Ernest Hemingway

I recently turned 30. At this age, I imagined Jon Ham doing body shots off my ripped abs. Instead I am eating cheese in front of Project Runway, and counting the hours since my last cigarette. Jesus might not have exactly taken the wheel since we last spoke to each other, but I’ve been good. And by good, I mean fucking fantastic. Cheese is great.

My birthday marked three years of blogging. Since then, I’ve had four gravatars, two blog designs, and wrote thirty posts. I also I have five million WordPress drafts and a case of writer’s block. Every time I would pour myself a glass of wine, turn up the cheesy music, slip into something comfortable, light a scented candle and lie down to write my next post, I would feel the uncontrollable urge to check my fridge, visit Facebook to determine how much my friends have changed during the past five minutes, watch three episodes of Orange is the New Black or google my Chinese horoscope. Unlike most things, writing hasn’t come easy during the past year.

(I’m a fire tiger, by the way.)

I started this blog to find and develop my voice. Over the past few years, I unbuttoned and unzipped, unleashing my big fat personality. I wrote posts about my butt and octogenarian ogling and shitty reunions. I peed on WordPress’s doorstep and pressed my boobs against the windows. I put it all out there, and somewhere in the middle, I found my ‘voice’. But at times it felt like I tried to write for the sake of putting a post out there, instead of for the joy of writing. And although each like, comment and new follower delivers a rush as powerful as the sight of Jon Ham’s torso, writing itself gives me more pleasure than any like, comment or Jon himself ever could.


Totally unnecessary.

Totally unnecessary.

A blogger friend taught me the art of editing until the end product delivers the blow intended, of crafting a post until every word adds value. Valuable advice, but right now I’d much rather agonise over the last slice of camembert than an adverb. Because, writing.

I will still serving it to you straight up, even though some of you might prefer it weaker. That won’t change. What will change though, is this blog. So expect a new look, new words and the perspective of a woman, now 30, who finally knows everything.

Eat my midnight twerk

Now that the glamour of fake pine trees, Wam and the thirtieth Michael Buble collection is gone and I’ve managed to metabolise 546 545 656 mango daiquiris and the equivalent of three hams, I am purging the memories of Christmas and its Santa toilet accessories by restoring blood flow to my daquiri-soaked ass and dragging it back to the blogosphere.

I have always come here to be my uncensored self, and have shared my struggles with mental illness, tales of margarita misery and snippets of Javier Bardem fantasy fucking. Authenticity and the search for self were the reasons for spawning WWND, and I have tried to remain true to those.

I recently received a scathing email. Maybe I humped this person’s deck chair once too often, uttered ‘butt plug’ or disturbed their aura with my midnight twerk. Maybe I’m not a prime candidate for their Martha Stewart chastity ring. Besides their obvious challenge with face-to-face communication, they also had a problem with who I am as a person. I was the smudge in their Mickey Rourke butt tattoo, the glitter dildo in their fake china display case, the dick graffiti on their carefully constructed façade.

Eat a dick

Bon appetit.

Initially 2014 brought me as much joy as a nipple clamp, mostly spent in a Ben & Jerry’s-induced coma and far from the blogosphere. But I now find myself in a state of happiness and recovery that can’t be solely attributed to 50 billion calories and The Smiths on repeat. I am finally living more fully and authentically. So as I was giving my ego CPR and resisting the impulse to virtually repeat punch Hater in the tit, I realised I am no longer willing to apologise for who I am or for voicing my opinions.

Whether all the haters eat dick or their standard portion of contempt tonight, my plate will be overflowing with helpings of blog posts, servings of blogger banter and an endless supply of comment threads. Trent, Molly, Red and Dina, thank you for stopping by my quiet dinner table these last few months.

Going forward, I will be bringing out my best acrylic, trying to serve authentic posts, pouring us a glass of snark, and inviting you to go ape shit. Here’s to sharing our stories, our thoughts and, more importantly, ourselves.



Trash taxis and tricycles

If life was a highway, my licence would be revoked. While throwing doughnuts, playing roulette with my steering wheel and revving like the shit out of my trash taxi, I’d be practising mug shot poses in my rear view mirror. But since I ended up in Australia, street racing morning commuters and tuning my whoopee wagon are behind me.

This week, I write about my journey as an expat for Michelle from MamaMick. Besides having the rare talent of writing authentic and soulful posts, Michelle runs the Life of a Highway series, which has already featured the likes of Deanna Herrmann and Nicole Marie. So, head on over and see me swop my crotch rocket for a tricycle.

Sorry, was my fat ass bothering you?

The size of my body is irrelevant, so I was reluctant to write this post. However, apologies and thanks are in order. 

It recently came to my attention that I had gotten fat. I must have overlooked these 40 pounds every morning I’ve been getting dressed in front of my mirror, never noticing the absence of the Grand Canyon between my thighs or that last summer’s shorts get stuck at my ankles. Thank you for bringing me back down to earth. No longer will I harbour illusions of being mistaken for tooth floss or wearing a g-string as a mankini. I have now abandoned my lifelong dream of being a stripper. It might take me three The Smiths albums, repeated headbutting my fridge door and burning all my thin clothes while assuming the fetal position and mouthing The National lyrics, but life will eventually go on.

I was also crushed to learn that I can’t shower in chocolate and have the body of a Playboy cover model, but thank you for being truthful. Consider me enlightened. Somehow I never thought my donut marathons or Ben & Jerry’s lovemaking sessions would have an impact on the size of my ass. I’m writing this down.

Besides expressing my deepest gratitude, I need to apologise. I am sorry that you had to witness the growing circumference of my waistline and appearance of the moon’s surface on my ass through social media.

Fat pixelated

Sorry. All better now.

But despite your eyes bleeding at the sight of my arm fat, you reminded me that I will be thinner and happier again. What a relief to hear that one day my butt will be as smooth as Sean Connery’s head, my waistline socially acceptable and my arms sporting just the right amount of muscle tone to secure me contentment. Suddenly the world seems a brighter place.

You encourage me to exercise, eat healthier and gain happiness through weight loss. But I have some life-changing advice of my own.

This might come as a shock, but now that I have gained the equivalent of a first-grader, I can still smile. I can walk to the park, inhale a jumbo full-fat latte and think about what I will have for lunch. And dinner. I still enjoy my job, caring for others who can’t do many of the things chubby people can do. I dance at parties. I have sex with the lights on, and I’d fuck under a spotlight if I had to. Because, sex. I’ll give you a moment to get over that.

Fat cells don’t destroy your personality. You’re welcome.

And although I suffer from this horrible affliction, I am just as happy as I was before.

So the next time you encourage me to suck on a fat-free low-sugar low-calorie nutrient-free processed piece of cardboard to regain joy, I’ll encourage you to suck on this:

Audrey Hepburn Middle Finger

Cocktail hour

Last week, WWND turned one year old.

It’s been twelve months since I first stained WordPress’s pages, had you peeping at raging cholesterol orgies and ordered my inner lady to kneel and suck my middle finger. To celebrate, I did what any proud mama would do – carefully opened the year-old – vintage – champagne, and poured us a glass or two:

Soon I will be celebrating my own cellulite creep and boob micro-droop with a doggy paddle through champagne and assuming the missionary position with a red velvet cake. My husband will go to bed with a 28-year-old, and I will wake up more hung over than Tara Reid’s original liver.

This year marks a decade of independence, leaving both home and school. I sadly never made it in the big wide world of high school, and crushed as I was not to be accepted by my lack of designer label sanitary pads or interest in the musical genius of Katie Perry, life inexplicably did go on. As I’d rather give Vladimir Putin a deep-throat blowjob than discuss the logistics of carrying your sixth child and holding down a part-time receptionist role, my dollar store chair won’t be filled with smugness, warm chardonnay or thrift store high fashion at the 2004 reunion.

Besides soaking in champagne and spontaneously doing crazy eights over a chunk of red velvet, I’m celebrating ten years’ university graduations, marriage, emigration, and becoming as comfortable in my skin as my worn panties on Billy Corgan’s stage by writing more. Writing is to me what $1 lipstick is to a trailer park: integral and captivating. I’ll infect the pages of my blog once or twice a week with my cerebral secretions, writing for you and for me, dear readers. (Trent, I’ll have those shaken martinis now.)

But before you start tearing off your clothes and overdosing on something artery-clogging, feast your eyeballs on the blogs of two remarkable ladies. Gunmetal Geisha and inconsistently yours nominated me respectively for the Liebster and WordPress Family Awards. While Gunmetal Geisha’s writing is rich, eloquent and impossible to cease reading, inconsistently yours has an honest and insightful mental health blog which inspires. I don’t usually accept awards – although I do appreciate all the marriage proposals and designer bras – but I have been blown away by these bloggers. So instead of celebrating by increasing your cholesterol level or speed stripping, please pay each of these ladies a visit. You won’t be disappointed. Pinky swear.

Now if you’ll excuse me, the red velvet is screaming my name.

Mixtape Mama

The days I went cell block H inmate on the first pube adorning my future lady lawn, wiped my first boyfriend’s spit mask from my face, got deflowered beneath the glow of  prime-time television, and waved my degree like I would my panties near Javier Bardem, I remember as clearly as the screwing sequence in my mom’s Mills & Boon. As with every other milestone, there’s a soundtrack to my pube panic, vagina parties and graduation.

Today, I’m unloading my cerebral spunk with a six-song life soundtrack – a mama of a mixtape – over at  the talented Christy’s Running on Sober. I’m joined by funny and fabulous  fellow Australian, Daile from kissmeoutofdesire in this Australian edition of the Running on Sober regular feature, which has hosted bloggers like Guap and Aussa Lorens.

So get your ass over to Christy’s posse and listen to the soundtracks of our lives. And once you’re there, be  sure to stick around for Christy’s ball-gripping poetry and  soulful posts. You can thank me later.


And by hooked, I don’t mean compulsively opening my fridge door, checking myself out in the mirror or fantasy fucking Javier Bardem.

Javier Bardem

Just a second.

Today I’ve been hooked by the kind bellhop from the Niagara Falls, The Hook. Apart from occasionally rupturing my spleen with his hilarious accounts of life in the hotel business, Hook also features a 5×5 interview series twice weekly. Having featured the likes of The Bloggess, Jennie Saia and Daile Kelleher, lucky guy Hook is also interviewing me in this upbeat series, so head on over and see my ego grow wings.