An Explanation of How Stupid I Am

Some of you may notice that I did not update my blog yesterday. For most people that might not seem like a big deal. However, I don't know if you've noticed but two entries per day is a slow one for me. And it's not that I didn't have any ideas, far from it. It is just... well, let me explain from the beginning.

Remember how I have a fractured sternum? You know, because I am the smartest person alive and all. Anyway, I have been unable to work since the accident, but now my medical certificate has expired and centrelink has been telling me to get a job. Instead of actually throwing myself back into the workforce, I thought I'd test my strength by doing a volunteer shift at a local op-shop. It was fantastic and I will tell you all about it very soon, but when I found myself in a fair amount of pain after just a few hours of light labour, I figured that I was not ready to go back to real work.

Now, yesterday morning I woke up feeling a bit shit. I was aching from pushing myself too hard yesterday and I was in a bad mood. Vegatrain was kind enough to get me a spinach pastry from the bakery down the road, which I ate a bit too quickly. A funny joke was made and I started laughing.

So, this is the combination of factors that are going on here:
a) fractured sternum, meaning my chest was already kinda sore
b) My heart was beating fast from laughing
c) I got heartburn from eating the pastry too fast

The heartburn would not have been a problem except for the fact that, in a comic twist, I have never actually had heartburn before. Naturally, I thought I was dying. I should probably also add to that list that Meattrain has been watching House lately. Now, I don't watch much TV but I watch enough to know that I am going to die and it is going to be awful. I don't think I have ever got around to watching a full episode of House, but this is what I keep hearing amongst the background noise:

"Patient is fine, normal cold and flu symptoms but nothing... we have a code blue, patient is suddenly and inexplicably bleeding from the eyes and fitting."

So, because I now think that the simplest of symptoms means the worst possible thing is about to happen (hypochondria - totally a disease in its own right), this combination of things - the sore chest, the fast heartbeat, the heartburn - I thought I was totally having a heart attack. Never mind the fact that I am a 5' 1", 22 year old vegetarian female who exercises regularly and so not exactly the most likely candidate for heart failure, I was convinced that I was going to die. According to Vegatrain, I was nearly in tears.

Let me explain something else for you. Recently, I read about Paris Syndrome. My interpretation of this phenomena was that it was a disorder that you get when everything around you is too beautiful for you to handle. My reading about this syndrome coincided with the arrival of my amazing lapdesk which is cushioned and has a drink holder and pen holder and a little light and it fits my laptop on it perfectly with room for a mouse. There was a moment when I was trying out my new lapdesk, there was nice music playing and I was eating grapes. Earlier, I had, shall we say, been drinking some tea. Listening to some jazz music. Talking to my friend.*

Naturally, I got a bit overwhelmed. Everything around me was amazing and I could feel my face flushing. I could feel a bit of the Paris Syndrome coming on. Since then, I have started saying this regularly, whenever anything good happens. I now judge how good something is by how likely it is to give me Paris Syndrome. Vegatrain has been getting very annoyed at my repeated insistence that I have a medical condition that I basically made up.

But then the events of yesterday occurred and I was lying on the couch, having a mild anxiety attack. Vegatrain came and sat with me.

"Smackie, you're not dying. You just ate a delicious pastry a bit too fast, laughed too hard at a joke and got a bit overwhelmed. That's all. I guess you could say that in all your insistence that you have this stupid made up Paris Syndrome, you actually kinda gave it to yourself. You just need to learn how to not get so worked up over these things."

It was then that I stopped to evaluate my situation. I had invented a disorder that was based on a joke, gone on to actually get symptoms of the disorder under farcical circumstances and was now being given my daily life lesson. I was in a fucking sitcom. I would wager that this is actually a plot that has been used and if not, why not? I could hear the damn theme music in my head.

When I realised this, I did tell Vegatrain that it was giving me a touch of the Paris Syndrome, but jokes! And we hugged and moved onto the next wacky adventure.

-Smackie Onassis



*Rejected: "burying some bones in the backyard". There is nothing good that can mean.

Children's Books Were So Great When I Was A Kid

There are alot of political posters up around the streets of Adelaide at the moment. There is an election on the way, you see. The problem is that many of the posters somehow manage to be so mind-bogglingly offensive that I find the best way for me to avoid a nervous breakdown is to ignore all of them. But the other day one caught my eye. I was driving Meattrain's car, minding my own business, when suddenly I found myself narrowly avoiding slamming on the breaks.

"Was there just a political candidate named after a Dr Seuss character? Did anyone else see this?"

Of course no-one else saw the poster in question because they never do. It actually turned to be someone whose last name was Lomax, not Lorax and I was pretty disappointed. But it got me thinking about books I read as a child, something I do pretty often. I don't know what children's books are like these days, but when I was a kid they were pretty freaking great.

First, I would like to refer you to a wonderful tome called 'The King, The Mice and The Cheese' by Nancy and Eric Gurney. Now, my housemates will be familiar with this particular work because I regularly use it as an allegory for modern life. See, the story went as follows: There is this king, right. And he loves cheese. Can't get enough cheese. But then all these mice come into his palace and start eating it. Needless to say, the king is not happy with this situation and he orders in a bunch of cats to get rid of the mice. BUT THEN his palace is overrun with cats! Oh no! So, he orders some dogs to get rid of the cats. But then, the same problem only with dogs! I'm not sure how many different animals the poor king went through but he ended up at elephants. The only way he could think of to get rid of the elephants? Mice! And look at that, he is back at square one. What ever will he do? The book ends with the king deciding to share his cheese with the mice, and you see all the little mice eating cheese at little tiny tables. Which is nice from a moral point of view, but probably not the best way to deal with a rodent infestation.

Another book I find myself referencing in day to day conversation is a story that was called 'Little Black Sambo'. Now, when I was older I learned that this was a pretty racist name for a children's book, but I really loved the story. It was about this Indian kid whose name was Little Black Sambo (I feel like this story has since been re-released with a different name for the main character). He was wandering through the jungles of India when he comes across some ferocious tigers. The last thing he wants is to be eaten alive, so he plays a little trick on the tigers. He starts talking to them and slagging them off, but he is hidden in the bushes. The tigers get pretty angry about this. Oh, did I mention the tigers could talk? They could talk okay. Somehow, Little Black Sambo tricks the tigers into chasing each other around a tree so fast that they melt into a big pile of melted butter. Naturally, the kid collects all the melted butter to take home and everyone in the village makes enough pancakes to last them a long time. Bizarre, but heartwarming. Sort of.

Moving on. Perhaps the only book from my childhood that I actually still find myself directly quoting is 'Far Out Brussel Sprout' and all the others in that series. I loved these books. They were made up of a series of very childish rhymes and stories, which, judging by the things I try to pass off as writing, probably shaped the way I think quite a lot. The one I remember the most vividly went something along the lines of "Hasten hasten get the basin! Ker plop, get the mop". I think there were a few lines between those two, but I sadly don't remember them.

There will be a bunch of honourable mentions in this entry, but there is one that I can't get away with not giving it's own paragraph and that is Grug. I wouldn't have included the Grug series because I feel it pretty much goes without saying that I read and loved these books. I was a child in Australia, after all. But I thought I better mention it on the basis that I actually met Ted Prior. He came to my primary school when I was in year one (and again when I was in year two!) and gave us a bit of a motivational talk. Later, he signed one of my Grug books. I would include a picture of that one, but it is somewhere in the depths of the childhood possessions at my family home, which I have not visited in over a year. Hopefully it is still in good enough condition that I can get it back one day.

Honourable Mentions: 'Selby Speaks', Hundreds of old Tin-Tin comics that were all in French, Dr Seuss (obviously), A series of books that I think were called 'Young Adult Fact Finder' which I totally read over and over because I really love facts, Mr McGee Goes To Sea (apparently there is now a 'Mr Mcgee and the Big Bag of Bread'. I keep seeing it in the post office and wanting to buy it)

-Smackie Onassis

Seriously

Ok, I just had a whole entry written up and formatted, but apparently Blogger is on its period, because it refused to format it properly. As in, half of my text was visible and half was on the page, but only visible upon highlighting. No matter what I did, this problem would not be resolved. I even tried deleting the post, logging out of blogspot, logging back in and trying to post it again but still, the same ridiculous problem.

I am going to try and post it again, but in the meantime I just thought I'd take a pause to say: Suck my dick, Blogger.

-Smackie Onassis

"Unfortunate Circus Flip Incident": A Smackie Onassis Origin Story

So, sometimes people ask me how I fractured my sternum. What I have been saying is 'Well, I can't be bothered explaining it, but I tell the whole story on my blog!' which is both a subtle attempt at getting people to read my blog and also to get out of having to tell people how stupid I am. But I have since realised that I never properly explained what happened.

You will see the title up there and the words 'Unfortunate Circus Flip Incident'. That is what I have starting calling it. The accident itself had nothing to do with the circus, but I find if I preface my explanation with these words people are more likely to go 'Ha, that's kinda funny' than the alternative, which is 'Wow, that girl is really stupid'.

Basically, I thought I could get away with doing a backflip in my friend's backyard. Not that smart. Landed on my neck, had to be taken to the emergency room. I actually used the words 'Circus Flip Incident' when I was talking to the triage nurse and, bless her soul, she wrote that on my chart.

The result was that every single doctor and nurse who was on that day (and this was on a public holiday just after Christmas so that was quite a lot) came into my room with my chart in their hand and asked the following questions:

Doc: So... are you in the circus?

Me: Uh... no...

Doc: Were you drunk?

Me: (sigh) No, I am just that stupid.

There was this awkward fun-for-all-involved time when they got the x-rays back and thought that I might have broken my spine. I had actually been released from the ER at this point, so they called me up very quickly and asked me to come back. Meattrain was kind enough to drive me back there and even waited around for three hours, which I was totally touched by. So, they put me on a bed and shoved me into a CT scanner. At this point I was petrified for the possibility of having a broken spine, and yet I couldn't hold back a smile when my first thought was that the CT scan TOTALLY looked like a Stargate. It really did and that cheered me up no end.

What cheered me up the most though was finding out my spine was NOT actually broken and it was just a sternum fracture, with soft tissue damage to my back and neck. Hoorah!

I did lose my job over it, though. I can understand it, they are a small business and there is not much call for a casual staff member who is not really that mobile. It does still make me kind of angry though, due to the fact that I have no savings because of them* and as a result I am pretty spectacularly poor right now.

It isn't all bad though. It's probably only because of the injury that I got back into writing, or at least had the time to do so much of it. And I'd much rather claim the dole and take the time to recover than push myself too hard working for a bunch of total bastards.

The injury does get to me sometimes. I am healing well, but I am sick of being injured. I would like to be 100% better right now please now. There are also times when we will be making pancakes and someone will say to me "Flip! Sarah! Flip!" and I will have a Vietnam style flashback and wake up to find myself huddled in a corner, rocking back and forth while muttering the words 'sensible fun only' under my breath over and over**.

-Smackie Onassis

*When they first hired me, they continued to tell me that shifts would start "after the weekend". Because I thought I was getting right into regular employment, I didn't claim centrelink. Unfortunately, they pulled this line on me for a full two months before I got a single shift. As a result, I have no savings as I was forced to spend all my money on rent and bills.

**This is an exaggeration.

'Iron Chef: Olives' Would Be My Dream Come True

Everybody has their favourite ingredients, I guess. Things they will add to just about everything. For me, that would be olives. If I saw you making a tasty snack I might say 'Hey! If you like it then you better put an olive on it!'*

Most people have a line that they draw. You don't see many people adding banana to their cheese and ham casserole. I, however, do not have one of these lines. 

I buy some olives. I put them on pasta, that's fine. Nothing wrong with that. Throw them in a cous-cous, you can see what I'm going for. But then I'll put them on a hotdog and you won't be quite as okay with it. Then I get out the vegemite and you will tell me to stop kidding around, that no way am I about to put olives on a perfectly good vegemite sandwich.

But I do. And it's amazing. But you have to have cheese on it as well, otherwise it would just be weird.

Because this entry is pretty short, here are a few more ideas for band names:

• Infrared Laurent
• Him The Friend
• Disco Parasol
• The Feudal Ladies
• Bionic Adversary
• Joey 'Fingers' Dirtyman
• The Fistiest Cuffs
• Hey There Jimbo What's Cooking
• Science/Karate

And a few ideas from the "Bad Names For Bands" list:

• The Viney Gineys
• The Herps
• The Power of Erections
• The HMS HairArtistry

I actually suggested that last one for an actual band name, and was promptly forced to put it on this list.

-Smackie Onassis

*Also in this scenario I am Beyoncé. It's called suspension of disbelief, people.

My Sub-Conscious Is A Smartarse

I have some pretty great dreams. I have a peculiar ability in that I can't remember what I had for dinner last night, but I can remember my dreams in vivid detail. There is one that I typed out and saved on my laptop because I thought it would make a wicked spoken word song a la "A Space Boy Dream". It was about the end of the world and it was crazy metaphysical. If anyone is interested I could probably post it.

While my sub-conscious can be pretty awesome when it wants to be, there are times when I want to remove it from my brain and beat it senseless. The best example is probably that I have a recurring dream in which I have insomnia. I actually do. My sub-conscious is that much of a prick.

The first time it happened was probably the worst one. I remember lying awake in bed, staring at the walls. I repeatedly looked at the clock, thinking it strange that time didn't seem to be passing at all. Until my alarm went off and I realised with a start that I had actually been asleep the whole time.

This has since happened a few times, the most notable being the other night. I had been out with a bunch of people seeing some comedy shows. It was really great, but unfortunately I have been having low blood pressure issues and had to go home early when I nearly passed out in front of Dave Callan. He stopped to ask me if I needed to do a poo, but I was too unwell to think of a witty retort.

So, I went home and collapsed in bed. I remember wishing that Vegatrain would turn down the TV so I could get to sleep. It was playing a documentary that basically consisted of terminally ill children talking about how they don't understand why it hurts so bad. It was distractingly depressing and I thought that I was lying awake because of it. Of course, Vegatrain woke me up when he actually got home and yet again it had all been a dream.

There was another strange dream incident that I can remember. This was when I was living in not the house before this one, but the one before that. So yeah, around six months ago*. I came home from work, exhausted from doing the breakfast shift. The kitchen was a mess, but I figured I would have a nap before I dealt with it. I fell asleep in no time. I had a dream that I was cleaning the kitchen, which would not be so unusual. Except that when I woke up the kitchen was spotless. I was the only one home.

I am assuming that what happened was that one of my housemates came home while I was asleep, cleaned the kitchen and then left again before I woke up. Because if not, then what? Sleep-walking is one thing, but sleep-cleaning? Not that this would be a bad thing, mind you, I just really don't believe it would ever happen. Not to me, at least.

-Smackie Onassis

*I wish this was a joke.

Facial Recognition Issues

You know, there is actually a medical condition that stops some people having the same facial recognition capabilities that most people take for granted. The trumpet player in my old band had it. She told me how people she knew quite well would get mad at her when she didn't recognise them outside the context of when she normally saw them. It sounded like a really frustrating thing for her.

Sometimes I feel like I have just a small touch of this. There have been incidences at places I've worked where I will ask someone if they've been served when I myself have literally just served them. But, as with most things, I seem to have it in a weird way. I am always wandering down Rundle Mall thinking that I just spotted someone I went to high school with. That's usually pretty unlikely, but with the strange combination of Adelaide and Newcastle (resulting in bizarre situations such as the fact that there is a guy I went to high school with who moved across the country to Adelaide in year 11, only to finish his schooling at the same high school as Meattrain) it is sometimes hard to tell.

I was at the pub last night and with the Adelaide Fringe on there were a bunch of comedians there. One of whom I recognised (when I saw his name, mind) as a guy who was friends with my little sister at high school. And it actually was him, we had a brief chat. But the problem is that there were a bunch of other people in the bar that totally looked familiar and I had no idea whether I knew them, or whether it was just my brain misfiring.

Part of my facial recognition issues are that I am almost completely incapable of recognising someone from a photograph. I have learned this from my failed attempts at blind dates. What this means though is that with the Fringe Festival on, every time I have a random exchange with a vaguely familiar stranger, I think, 'Is that someone I should recognise? Is that someone I am actually a fan of?' 

This also kinda happened last night. I spoke to a guy while buying drinks at the bar and he seemed to have this twinkle in his eye that somehow said 'I am someone! Please recognise who I am!'. I kinda wanted to engage him in discussion, but I couldn't think of how I could possibly go about the situation. What was I going to say, 'Excuse me, but should I know who you are?'

The worst facial recognition thing I ever had was with a girl I went to drama camp with. She lived locally and I saw her quite often. The only problem was that every time I saw her I had literally no idea who she was. Every single time. It was peculiar in that this has only ever happened with this one girl. It got to the point that when someone came up and said hi and I didn't know who they were, I would just assume it was her. I was right every time.

-Smackie Onassis

Newcastle: It Really Was That Ridiculous

I try not to talk about my home town too much but I obviously don't have much success. The problem is, my hometown is the most ridiculous place in the entire world. I am frequently reminded of just how ridiculous it was. Just now, Vegatrain was wheeling me around the courtyard in the wheelchair. Being wheeled around in a strangely misleading vessel from boring sight to boring sight reminded me of one of the stupidest things about Newcastle. I am, of course, talking about the Newcastle Tram.

The first thing one might notice upon discovering the Newcastle Tram is that it is very clearly not a tram. It's a bus, ok. It has wheels, it follows the roads and there aren't even any tram tracks in Newcastle. Stop trying to pretend you are Melbourne, Newcastle, you are not fooling anybody.

It was a tourist thing, and supposedly took the bewildered traveller from historic sight to historic sight. Now, I actually rode the Newcastle Tram once and the only "historic sight" I can remember seeing was a wall. They drove us past it, claiming that it was the oldest wall in Newcastle, built by the convicts. It was no Sistine Chapel.

But still, Newcastle particularly fancied it's chances as the next big Australian tourist attraction. We had Bootmen, after all. Most Novocastrians could point out their house in at least one scene of that one. Then, there was Silverchair. A good friend of mine was personally pointed and laughed at by both Daniel Johns and Natalie Imbruglia when her dog had decided it needed to be carried home on a particularly hot walk. There was a Superman film done there as well and as a result of their location choice there are cars exploding in the background of many of my year 12 formal photos. For real, you guys.

And yet, Newcastle always missed the bar with their tourism ideas. I remember one television ad featuring picturesque locations at sunset. The song they had chosen to accompany these images was "Love This City" by the Whitlams. Naturally, the only clip of the song they used was the bits with the lyrics "You gotta love this city, love this city, love it". I would love to know if anyone involved in the production of this advertisement ever actually listened to the rest of it.

But my favourite attempt at tourism is by far, the infamous Penis Tower. This was an observation tower on the foreshore which adorned many a postcard. Apparently the architects had been really proud of it. They failed to realise at any point in the building/publicity process that it was a giant dong:

I do love the fact that I moved from a town where the most recognisable structure is a giant phallus to a town where the most recognisable structure is a pair of giant silver balls. There's a kind of poetry in that.

-Smackie Onassis

EDIT: I found a picture of "Newcastle's Famous Tram". Note: not a tram.

An Internet Resumé

I have had a bunch of jobs over the years, mainly in the wonderful hospitality industry. I have said many times that working in hospitality is enough to make anyone lose their faith in humanity. If you have worked in a busy restaurant or café, you will know what I'm talking about already. If not, just check out Not Always Right and you will understand.

Without a doubt, the best job I ever had was at the specialty tea and coffee house where Meattrain, Vegatrain and I all used to work together. At the time it was owned by Vegatrain's parents and therefore was quite a casual set up. We got to play our own music (although the mix cd I made ended up being thrown across the shop by Meattrain for including a twee pop cover of George Michael's 'Faith'). There was a uniform, but we didn't always wear it. I remember being told that I was the first person to stand behind that counter wearing metallic silver boots. I took that as a great honour. The only shirt that ever caused problems for me was a threadless number that featured a cartoon policeman holding hands with a cup of coffee and a donut. I thought it was quite appropriate, considering most of our clientele were policemen from the big station across the road. The boss thought it was quite inappropriate for that exact same reason.

And yes, we used to defend ourselves with our barbed-wire wit and use the specials board for jokes. I remember we once got a work experience kid who was a fan of Questionable Content and he nearly wet himself. He got me to recommend him some excellent bands (which I was more than happy to do. I am all for educating the next generation.) and then basically begged us to give him a job. Unfortunately for everyone, the shop ended up being taken over by a bunch of morons who didn't think they needed to have a clue what they were doing in order to run a café. It is heartbreaking to see how badly they are ruining that place.

But even in the best case scenarios of hospitality there is still a very high douchebag quotient. I always liked Meattrain's method of sussing out a customer's character. If they were paying with a card he would say "Just put in your PIN number. Oops, pardon my tautology!" and see how they would respond.

I always used to love the people who would come in and order a cup of tea. Just a cup of tea. When we would inform them that we had over 100 varieties (v... varie-teas? Ok, I'll let myself out) of tea, they would get frustrated and insist that they JUST WANTED TEA. Here's a hint, genius: you are in a specialty tea store*. If you wanted a teabag, maybe you should have stayed at home. And I am going to resist the urge to make that dirty joke. If you feel it's necessary, feel free to insert it in your heads... now.

I could go on for hours about how much I hate customers in any capacity but I thought I'd detail some other places I have worked. This being my "online resumé" after all.

The place I used to work in Newcastle was a large degree of fucked. It was one of the biggest companies there, which makes sense considering most of its profit came from drinking and gambling, the city's two official pastimes. I worked in catering, hopping from section to section. And I actually found it vaguely tolerable most of the time, even though the customers there were the rudest people in the entire world. And I say that with all certainty, having also worked a brief stint in telemarketing.

I can recall one incident where I was serving a young man at the bistro. He decided that the best thing to do was to make fun of me for working at a bistro. I could have said something about how I was actually only doing this to support myself while I was at uni, but before I had the chance the man next to him asked him what he did for a living.

"Oh... I'm unemployed," was the response. After that I didn't even think I needed to say anything.

There was a slew of regular customers, all of varying weirdness. The meals were cheap, so a lot of people would eat there every night. The problem was that a lot of them were also putting a significant portion of their hard earned welfare dollars through the pokies. As a result they had this attitude that they had already paid for their meal in some way and should be getting something for nothing. Here's a hint: that is not how gambling works. Also, the meal is actually already subsidised. If you are paying $6 for a full plate of curried sausages and vegetables, maybe don't start whinging when I can't give you extra potatoes for free?

I have a lot, and I mean a lot of stories about that place. The staff were often just as bad as the customers, but I am actively trying to be less angry at the moment so I am going to try and tell a happy story. Even with that last one I just found myself going back over to edit out the shouting. Deep breaths, Smackie, deep breaths.

There was a girl who worked there that I quite liked. Her name featured in one of my favourite songs by The National, and I would occasionally serenade her with it. Now, she worked there for a few months before her sister decided to join the ranks. Not that unusual but for the fact that they were identical twins. I don't think I was ever more excited to work there than I was on that day. I had so many ideas. I demanded that we put one on the serving end of the bistro and the other on the till. I even suggested we give them both the same name tag and start insinuating that due to staff shortages we began a dodgy human cloning operation in the back sheds.

Of course, no-one listened to me as a general rule. But that didn't mean I couldn't have my own fun. I started by telling one of them of them, casually, that she was my favourite of the sisters. The next time I worked with the other one, I told her the same thing. I built this up until I was saying it every time I saw either of them, regardless of which one it was. Of course, they never let it get to them. I guess they must be the type of family who actually discusses things. I can imagine them heading home from work:

B1: So did Sarah tell you that you're her favourite again today?

B2: Yeah. You?

B1: Yeah. She's weird, hey.

B2: Yeah.

But at least I amused myself. It was probably what stopped me from going crazy and killing every last one of my coworkers. Although that is not to say I didn't come very close some days.

-Smackie Onassis

*I was actually talking to an old friend of mine about tea the other day. He was always a loose leaf aficionado so I started telling him about the wonderful pot of Nilgiri I had recently consumed. He responded by saying "Never heard of it. Jesus Christ, you're so indie that even the tea you like is obscure."

Some of my craziest alcohol-fueled tales

I don't really drink that much these days. I am what most people would refer to as a "two-can Sam" or, alternatively, a "total pussbag". Basically I will have a couple of drinks before I start feeling a bit sick and want to go sit by myself in a dark corner for a while. But this wasn't always the case.

Back in Newcastle there wasn't a lot to do if you weren't drinking. And because none of my living situations were that great I found myself going out a fair amount. As a result, I have some pretty ridiculous drinking stories, most of which I was informed about the day after.

The first one that springs to mind was a house party I went to when I was a teenager. I don't remember the actual event particularly vividly, but I do remember everyone asking me this question the day after:

"Hey Sarah, do you remember how you nearly chased that goat off a cliff?"

No. I don't. That is not the type of thing that you do if you are in any state to remember it the next day. I do remember the goat though. For the record, I have no fucking idea where that goat came from, or what the hell it was doing there. All I remember is walking up the very steep driveway, falling down and rolling all the way to the bottom before getting up and finally making it to the street. And finding myself face to face with a goat, just kicking back in the middle of a suburban street, doing its general goat thing. I think I must have chased it because I was so confused as to why there was a goat unsupervised in the middle of the street and I wanted answers, damnit. And well, yeah, apparently there was a cliff nearby which I nearly found myself plummeting from because that is the direction in which this goat was leading me.

Another one of my favourite drinking stories comes a few years later when I was at Guitarstrings Wilson's 21st. Let's just say: there was an open bar. And then, after the bar had been open for a good few hours, someone decided to bring out the jelly shots. I could not have been any less ready for that jelly, but I consumed more than my share of them. It was my first experience of jelly shots and I was not expecting them to get me quite so blind drunk. I figured that anything that tasted that palatable couldn't contain enough alcohol to have an effect. I was so wrong.

After the party a few of us went to a local club for a spot of music and dancing. Being someone who totally enjoys kissing, I found myself making out with a random boy. I was fairly pleased with my seduction skills when the guy kept coming back to me for more makeouts. We would kiss, split up to go dance, then come back for some more kissing. Or so I thought. I was talking about the night to my designated driver the next day (he was actually present at the goat chasing incident as well, come to think of it) and he stopped to look at me funny when I mentioned this. When I asked him what was wrong, he informed me of this:

"Sarah, that wasn't one guy coming back for more. That was four separate guys."

I don't think I even need to say anything more about that one.

Now, let's flash forward another couple of years. I was at uni and one of the few courses I could be bothered doing was a really great screen-writing course. My teacher for this course was the greatest guy. I don't remember his name, but he was fantastic. For the last class of the semester, when we had our major works all finished and handed in, he put on a bit of a do for us in class. He even provided the cheap wine. And yes, it was four in the afternoon and I was in class but well, I got somewhat drunk. And made out with some guy. In class. In front of my teacher. But that's not the crazy part, believe it or not. From there, I went home. I was expecting to stay in because it was a Monday night and I wasn't really expecting there to be much going on. However, this was Newcastle. Every night is an acceptable drinking night in Newcastle. 

I received a text from a guy I didn't know very well. I remember him because he had the stupidest tattoo I have ever seen in my life. It was a surfboard with wings and it looked like it had been drawn on in crayon by a three year old. But hey, I was kinda drunk. I was feeling adventurous. I went over to his house.

He lived in a big open-plan loft kinda deal in the middle of one of the worst suburbs in Newcastle. I was always surprised that every time I went there I found the house completely open and unlocked, despite its close proximity to the local crackhead population.

Anyway, the last thing I remember that night was sitting in their lounge room, talking to a girl I hadn't seen since high school while a bearded man I knew only by the name of 'Flower' sat in the corner playing the guitar. He didn't say a single word to me, choosing to speak only through the medium of music. That is the last thing I remember before waking up in my own bed with my shoes still on. I have no idea what happened that night. I have even less of an idea how I got home. All I know is that I didn't die and that is enough I guess.

I think I eventually realised that I was probably going out a bit too much when the bouncer from one of the pubs I used to visit added me on facebook. Yeah.

-Smackie Onassis