How to eat pancakes forever.

Dear Lacksadaisy,

I'm having trouble with getting my jam to set. My husband complains every time a batch comes out slightly foamy or runny. Any advice?

Judy.

Dear Judy, 
Thank you for your question, it's been a while since I've been called upon to solve the great quandaries and conundrums of modern living and jam production.  I've gone through my stock footage and found some beautiful photos of jam to kick us off for 2015. 

Picture #1. Bad jam. Scummy jam.
Possibly isn't even jam, but some kind of seeded chutney. 

Picture #2: Good jam.
(This is also what jam looks like on top of a water container.)

Judes, two words: human slavery. Because at one point, probably in the 1850's or some other point in history when people ate butter like cheese and drank beer like water, slaves probably made jam; and also to many people marriage is a form of slavery. So I think I've probably already helped you enough, but I'll continue on.

I recently had the privilege of enjoying the Qantas club lounge (bear with me, this relates to both jammy fruits and slavery). Ooooooh did I love myself SICK! Incidentally I also made myself sick because I ate more food in a one hour period than I ate over a two week time span. Judy, I experienced a level of prestige that gave me free insight into why capitalism is so friggen wonderful and in every way perfect. One word: freepancakes. Even though the pancake machine at the qantas lounge produced a pancake that my nan could make if she mixed some of her puree'd "savoury dinner" from the nursing home with some dirt, antibiotics, a bit of corn starch and then microwaved them in a plastic egg ring, I LOVED those pancakes and let me tell you why; Because no one else, in the entire airport (other than the people in the business lounge), got pancakes for freesies. Hahaha Bloody Suckers!!!!! 

The other thing I enjoy about business lounges is that everyone acts so casual and aloof, like they are meant to be there and not excited at all, like "Oh, what? Another business lounge with free things. My life is really hard"; as if they were ordained by a holy ordinance of high-fashion to be there. There are only a few of us sparkly eyed buffet whores who see all of the free food and proceed to pump rasberry coulis into our carry on bag for 'ron. Those people are so wealthy that they can actually say 'no' to free food and exhibit a high level of tasteful restraint. 'No' to free pancakes. 'No' to the coulis. Because nothing says "I'm rich" like saying 'no' to coulis (which does NOT travel well). It also gave me the momentary realisation that perhaps I was better than everyone else in the entire world. I may have been in that lounge on a free guest pass, that my friends gave to me and their uncle gave to them, but at that moment I thought: 

"Well everyone else in the entire world is not here are they? Perhaps some kind of divine being knows that I am better than everyone else and that I am the chosen one, the King Arthur of pancakes and I'm simply the sort of person who deserves free pancakes and everyone else must be too stupid to figure out how to get the free pancakes."  

The same goes for being rich in general. Not only do you get to be rich, but you get free samples, a sense of rich persons pancake-entitlement, free bank accounts, if you're really rich and famous you get free clothes, free hotel shampoo and, lets face it, free money. I know I've said all of this before in my blog, but It really pays to be rich in this world and it made me wonder: How do I get richer?

Before I could answer that question I started to become a little paranoid about the other rich people in the lounge eating all the free pancakes. What if the machine ran out because there was such a rush on pancakes? I want those pancakes!! What if they couldn't come and refill it before I had to leave for my flight? What pancakes would I leave my children and my childrens children when they visit the Qantas lounges on their free passes?!!! 

So then I said to Gerald, the man edging towards the pancake machine:

Me: I think the pancake machine is broken.

Gerald: Oh, I'll let someone know.

Me: ooh.... oh, I already have

Gerald: Look, there's someone else using it, they must have fixed it already.

Me: No, that pancake is poison. 

Gerald: I think it looks alright.

Me: No, it's a bad one for sure. Terrible. You and he should never eat any pancakes from here again.

Gerald: (laughing) you know in the corporate world your behaviour would be considered anti-competitive.

Me: Your face is anti-competitive Gerald.

Gerald: My name is not Gerald.

Me: Don't eat the pancakes. 

As the man I called Gerald walked away I got back to thinking about my new found power and wealth and what I could do to maintain it and grow it and always be rich, at least until I boarded my plane. This was a tricky one. Could I outsource some of my thinking to India and get them to think for me? Maybe I could buy a whole person to help me out. A manservant, if you will, to ferry my things about the airport until I was forced to return to my life in economy class. 

So I turned to Siri, who often does my thinking for me: "Siri ,How much to buy a human"? 

Siri said: " Let me check on that..."

Bloody Siri. 

I'm off to Istanbul soon, so I started my Google search in that part of the world. Maybe I could buy a woman-servant there since I'm on a budget and men seem to be more expensive than women. According to Google alls I needed was between 4 and 400 camels. Then I realised that I, too, am a woman. What if the Turkish slave-trading-pimp-trafficker attempts to trade ME for my own woman-servant!

I'd say: "But I have 400 camels!!!!" 

and then the slave trader/pimp would say:

" ...And now 'I' have 400 camels AND a western woman who has convincingly fake Dior sunglasses so she can pretend to be George Clooneys wife, Amal Alamuddin-Clooney-the-Lawyer, in an elaborate scam to convince George Clooney we have kidnapped his wife and then he'll come here and get us, like in the movie :Taken 1, 2 and 3 and then I will get George Clooney's autograph. "
In spite of Amal being a kick arse human rights lawyer I figured my chances of a trade in Istanbul turning out positively for George, Amal and I were remote. 

I Googled India. In India you only have to pay $50- a month for a maid ( $250- for the fancy ones). If I sold all of my camels I could probably afford an Indian maid for at least 3 months, which would be more than enough time to ferry my bags around the airport while I ate free pancakes. 

I'll have you know Judy, in my quest for slave-purchase I discovered that slaves are soooo much more affordable than we all think. You could probably afford one to make jam for you!! You're welcome already.

According to the chairman, Kevin Bales, of some website called "Free the Slaves" :

"At the height of the trans-Atlantic slave trade, back in the mid 1800′s, the average cost of a slave in the U.S. was the equivalent of $40 to $50 THOUSAND dollars in today’s money. Today, the average cost of a human being is a mere $90.”

Soooo the cost of a human life, a whole life from start to finish, where cells divide, multiply and then die off, is a three month subscription to foxtel. I don't even get foxtel so the savings I'm making for not even having foxtel has already put me ahead. 

Many economists and other smart people have attempted to quantify and put a value on human life. It seems to be a difficult thing to do, most of the time they try and figure out how much it would cost to insure someone not to die, but really it's about how much it would cost their business if they were to die, so it's all a bit confusing. I bet none of those smart people have ever really made the comparison to a foxtel subscription. Silly.

Another interesting thing is that not only are they affordably but there are actually way more slaves today than ever before in history, pooh you "12 years of slave" movie. Supposedly there are an estimated 27 million slaves in the world.

Mr. Bales went on to say:

"Explosive population growth, impoverished communities rocked by conflict, natural disasters, disease epidemics, unprotected by strong rule of law are all factors that push people into slavery. We have a much larger pool of potentially enslavable people in the world today. In the basic notions of supply and demand that has caused a collapse in the price of a human being."

Now Judes, I hear you saying: "those human traffickers should be shot and why haven't you answered my question about my husband and my jam?" I'll get there Judy! I guess the root cause is not because they absolutely adore people trafficking, plus it makes them a stack of money in places where there is none. I'd probably do it too. There was no careers day at school where they had to choose between medicine, accountancy and human trafficking and selling people into slavery (which are two different things BTW, don't be confused and misled by my vague and misinformed blog with my sketchy references and "google searches", one is moving people around for profit another is selling them and earning money from their enslavement).

Perhaps it would be prudent to defer to someone smarter than me to put prolification of human trafficking into more eloquent terms. As someone called Ellen Johnson Sirleaf said: 

"As more men become more educated and women get educated, the value system has to be more enhanced and the respect for human dignity and human life is made better." Thank you for your input Ellen.

Anyhoo, so I had discovered that humans were cheap and if I could find the enough of the right ingredients and a camping stove, I could get pancakes really, really cheaply ALL OF THE TIME!!!! The problem was, Judzie, I didn't have any camels. I needed to get the camels in order to buy the slaves in order to keep eating the pancakes. So I went to the qantas lounge reception said: 

"Look, if you can get me 400 camels, I will give you half of my slaves and 5% of my free pancakes. You can quit your job at the Qantas lounge reception, no longer have to make those pesky flight announcements and deal with f*cktards who try and steal all the rasberry coolie. All that could be yours (and mine) if you just find me some camels." 

The Qantas lounge receptionist's name was Barry. 

Barry said 'No.'  

That was a pretty scummy thing to say Barry. 

That is where my quest ended. 

So you see, Judy, this is my point, I'm pretty sure the human race is made up of scum. Barry is scum. So it stands to reason your husband would be scummy too. I'm scummy, you're scummy, we're all scummy. I'd leave him if I were you and save all your scum free jam for your scummy self.

Oh, and add a half a cup of citrus seeds of your choice to release pectin which helps to set your jam, and don't forget to skim the scum off the top. I hate that frothy white stuff even more than I hate Barry and Gerald and crimes against humanity. By the way Judes, January is human trafficking awareness month.

Here's a link to a fact sheet*: 
 https://freetheslaves.net/

L.

*It's where I did 70% of the research for this blog and since I believe in unbiased, in-depth research I also googled "amal clooney fashion" and finally "george clooney's new teeth" and "how to write a blog about the cost of human life".  

The blog where I talk about coffee addiction and use the word "ne'er" a couple of times also.

Dear Lacksadaisy,

I think I have an addiction to the small lollies you get in jars. I like to have them with me at all times, or I get a little nervous. Sometimes I just like to touch them in my bag to calm me down. Is it really so bad? Or should I get help?

Farley.

Dear Farley,

Addiction.

Example of a tasty, tasty coffee in case you've never seen one. 

Yesterday a horror crept over me akin to that time I vomited red wine in the toilets of a friends wedding after eating field mushroom soup and maybe too much red wine. (None went on my dress though, so I consider it a win for romance.)

Yesterday I missed my coffee.

There wasn't any great story behind it, I just kind of forgot. Without a thought, ne'er a care in the world, I forgot to grab a coffee. That's all. It wasn't a thing...well, I didn't think it was a thing, but by 4.30 pm I had a headache behind my eyes so intense that it began to make me think the leather jacket I'd bought at a Korean op-shop had mould spores in it, causing a sudden and definite case of medical facial rabies and that the rabid face rabies had rabid rabie babies and had set up a kind of rabie baby colony in my brain, is all. I was tired, fuzzy brained and then, then someone suggested that it looked funny when I tucked my collar into the top of my dress (I call it “the reverse collar” and it's handy in a survival situation. I learnt it when I played touch football and I realised the whole game would be a lot less risky and involve way less tackling if people didn't have a flag hanging out of the back of their shorts and the same goes for collars. Collars are just little flags inviting a tackle from passing touch-footballers.)

Anyway, so someone said: “Why is your collar tucked into your dress?” and I said: “Why don't you just kiss my arse while I rip off your face and feed it to magical ponies”. At which point in the conversation we looked at each other kind of wide eyed and both started slowly walking backwards, while maintaining eye contact and that's the moment I realised: I need coffee. I don't want it. I need it, before “the bad things” start to happen. This was code red.

I had two options. I could replace my coffee addiction with another addiction, potentially a better addiction, like eating crayons, or crack cocaine; or I could simply find some coffee and drink it. (Detoxing wasn't a realistic option, because do not be ridiculous. What the crap are toxins anyway? According to wiki they range from bee stings to botulism and I was stung by a bee and I'm still alive, so I figure toxins: 0, me: 1.)

I set off to find coffee. I say “set off” like I strolled out of the hotel casually, in a light summer dress, while humming “That's how you know” from Disney's “Enchanted”, my hair shimmering in the Korean sun. In the happy version of the story I stopped and kissed a Korean soldier outside a temple and then realised it was a statue and then I ran away because maybe I just fell in love/lust with a statue and I can't handle the depth of that. No. It actually* went more like this: (possibly completely exaggerated*) I ran out of the hotel, barely wearing pants, maybe pants made of ground mulch and a shirt arranged by wild squirrels. While I'm arranging pants made of ground mulch I think “Mulch. Mulch looks a lot like coffee grounds” and then in desperation I put a bit of mulch in my mouth, realise it tastes like Starbucks coffee so I spit it out and run down the road screaming: “GIVE ME COFFEE KOREA, OR I WILL NUKE YOU!!” and then I remember that no one is going to respond to my veiled threat because they live with the threat of nuclear warfare on a daily basis from crazed psychopaths who, lezbe honest Kim Jong-un you've probably not had enough of your morning Java Juice, so instead I scream: “GIVE ME COFFEE KOREA, OR I WILL CRY AT YOU, I WILL DO IT”, because that is practically the worse thing you can do here.

I'm not much of a public crier, it ne'er happens (that's the second use of ne'er). In fact I can probably count the amount of public cries on one hand. There was the time I had a tickle in my throat on the bus on the way home from school and went so red and watery eyed that I looked like a pissed 1970's football referee. I also tend to cry when I'm running on the treadmill and a really sad movie like Iron Lady is playing and Meryl Streep says something, and it makes you realise that even people with bucked teeth can be deep and deeply vulnerable and then you completely lose it and remember that running makes you surprisingly emotional. (I know, I've talked about that before, but it's really, really true).

Anyway, so I'm running down the street crying, wearing mulch pants and I find a little coffee vendor. Thank you Jesus! He hands over a small cup full of what can best be described in scientific terms as “brown”. Shaking, I hurriedly take a sip and then promptly spit it out and yell at little Korean coffee vendor: “Was that filtered through a donkey's sphincter?”, but he doesn’t understand my impeccable Korean insult, because it's lost in translation because I spoke English, and then to add insult to injury he offers me sugar. SUGAR?!! At which point I go all steely and quiet and look him dead in the eye and say slowly in a Korean-English accent: “I live in Melbun for two year, do not insul(t) me again, or else...” and then I can't think of what to say next, so I just say: “or ...” and then I crush the tiny paper cup in front of his face and put it in the non-recycle bin, because I was just that crazy.

At this point I become a little delirious. I pass a small child on a park swing, he gets excited and wants to practice his English, so he waves and says: “Hello” and I yell back: “DON'T be ridiculous!!!!” while I continue running, losing mulch segments thick and fast.

And then I see it...

It's a little coffee bar, it's made of 65% wood panels and manned by a gentleman with semi-ironic facial hair and rolled up shirt sleeves. Could this be it? I could hardly dare to hope. I had suffered too much disapointment too early on and was too weak. Additionally I was starting to lose mulch off my legs and it looked like rain (which is not great in a mulch-trouser situation). I stumble in, hardly able to form words.

“La...tte...single shot...like a bullet … from a sweet-ground heaven”.

The Korean barrista looks at me and says: “Hot?”

I make myself as tall and commanding and slightly seductive as I can, lean across the bar, slam down 5,000won and say: “burn it if you have to, just give it to me quick”.

And then it arrived.

It smelt sweet, like a dream. It tasted smooth, like hair gel and was better than the time I discovered where my mum “hid” the top-deck chocolate. I drank it down and the whole world smiled and was beautiful again. I looked at the Barista and thanked him. He said “enjoy” in broken English. I said: “I would like to Marry You and play Bruno Mars at the wedding” and he laughed, but I was deadly serious and that's when I realised the real depth of my addiction.

You see Farely, I used to have a long and interesting list of requirements in a life partner. For example: must look like Ryan Gosling, can grill pineapple, plays nicely with others, likes to laugh at, with and around me, but now, my list has been reduced to: can make coffee.

What had happened? I am in serious danger of ending up with some Barissta-husband who is making coffee to pay for his eye-lash collection.

Soooooooo... I've realised that maybe I need to try this “detox” thing.

It will be hard.

It'll possibly involve a couple of sacrifices, but...you know... I will find new friends... friends who don't drink coffee... I can drink tea...or maybe Chai...I like Chai... I can have white teeth, like small children do... and will lose those cute little bags under my eyes...I'll miss those damn little bags. I could have a hot cows milk...but that might be too close...too tempting, no, I must go cold Turkey.

I'll miss you coffee.

Who am I kidding?!

So what I'm saying is, Farley, you hold onto those little lollies. You hold on to them real tight and don't let go.

I love you coffee. Never leave me again.

What to do when the Cray at the Christmas table is you.

Dear Lacksadaisy,

This Christmas is the first time I've ever been responsible for hosting the family lunch. I've always thought my mum was prone to hysterics around this time of year, but as the day approaches I find myself staying awake at night thinking about fairy lights and menus and I'm beginning to know how she feels. How do you stay sane at Christmas?

Lilly.

Dear Lil,

I understand Christmas hysteria far more than I understand Circulatory Precursory Physics. Probably because there is no such thing, which is surprising, because it sounds like it should be a thing and I think I just solved the issue of what came before 'nothing', welcome all of Physics!

As I write this I am simultaneously downloading and watching “Yogi Bears All Star Comedy Christmas Caper”, “Love Actually”, “Sleepless in Seattle”, “While you were sleeping”, “Sleeping in Love”, “Christmas Stalkers” and “I love you in a Stalky Way”. Only two of those were made up, but my point is that you are not alone, there's always someone stalking you on Facebook and also Christmas has a solid tradition of bringing out the craze.

My work life has been pretty festy of late, we even had a “decorate your door” competition. Well I say “competition” lightly. What I should have said was: “A gladiatorial style “craft to the death”. CRAFT TO THE FUCKING CHRISTMAS DEEEEEATH!!” We are performers, and thus tend to harbour an unsubtle competitive streak. It was as if our entire workplace became a Christmas South Korea and I was Christmas North Korea. I took extra biscuits from the communal area to stock pile and hoard because I thought if I could starve my co-workers of calories they'll be too weak to create christmas magic and foster any joy or hope. I purposely didn't craft my Christmas door until the very last minute for copyright protection and I wanted my entire dressing room to take a blood oath not to reveal the door plan. They wouldn't, which I think reveals peoples true colours. My neighbor door-crafter crafted a door of festive reindeer pictures, featuring characters from the show. 

This person is obviously a craft over-achiever and needed to be taken down. 

 I thought: Great! Now I've got to kill a reindeer and pin it to my door. The vegetarians will be upset, I'll be upset and the deer will be upset. But I did it and let me tell you reindeer blood becomes surprisingly appetising when you only get one drink token at the christmas party. It's also highly nutritious and iron dense, so, you're welcome everybody who partook. Anyways, the reindeer was deemed “offensive”, so I stayed up all night crafting paper stars instead. Pre- Christmas day I thought this was completely rational behaviour, but now, post Christmas, I'm not sure of anything anymore. However I am sure that early Christians would have preferred the venison. They would be all: “We can't eat paper stars, bring back the venison!! These are lean times and we were just preparing for a reindeer feast!! We haven't eaten in ages!! Selfish!”

Here's a picture of inedible paper stars. I think they look quite pretty and would congratulate myself if they weren't indicative of a deeper mental problem. 

Another interesting happening was this. In a fit of christmas hysteria at a company meeting I actually said these words: “I'd like to recite a Christmas poem I wrote”.

Um. The fuck?!

Who said that?! It certainly wasn't me. I'm pretty sure in a former life I must have threatened a Christmas elf and then he died of natural causes and then on his elven death bed he cursed me to a life of Christmas hysteria. One day I'll apply for a loan at a bank and they'll look at my records and say: “I'm sorry madam, but in 2013 you actually recited a Christmas poem to your co-workers..that you wrote and I see here that it was unprompted, to people you work with, to your co-workers....you're obviously unstable”.

I can't take back that moment in time, but I can drug my co-workers and send them to a Chinese neuro reprogramming facility that I found on the internet. 

I've decided that the only way to normalise reading a poem to your co-workers at Christmas is simply to recite a poem at every momentous occasion. New Years: I'd like to read a poem I wrote. It's my birthday: I'd like to read a poem. Someone gets sick: I've written a poem. So you see, eventually it becomes normal and they'll begin to wonder why they're not constantly reciting poems.

There's also the tricky issue of the presents. At Christmas I tend to adopt a surprisingly Biblical attitude to buying Christmas presents and I'm not talking about the charitable do-goodery parts, I'm talking Eye for an Eye Lilly, eye for an eye.

As Gandhi once said on my google image search:

“An eye for an eye will make the whole world Pirates” and that it does.

If someone buys me a present I like to rush out like a pirate-spy and buy them a present of equal monetary value. If I can't immediately find a present of equal monetary value then I'll panic and buy them several small gifts to make up the sum. For example, someone bought me a nice, fancy candle, like the ones that you get at day spas (which are different to normal spas because they have the “day” in  the title.) so I bought them 42 litres of milk.

Someone printed out a photo of us together and put it in a nice frame. I couldn't find a photo of us to print, so I gave them a lock of my hair. It's fine.

Anyway, my point is, Lil, perhaps you should lie back and embrace the shit out of Crazy-as-shit- Christmas. It seems everyone else has, including people as wise as a three wise man/men...me.

Seriously though, Merry Christmas and peace on earth to everyone regardless of their beliefs (or if you're like me “disbeliefs”), whether I like you, love you or whether you have the ability to appreciate reindeers and even those who think Global warming is a conspiracy. Peace and prosperity especially to the reindeers, who I didn't actually slaughter since only a little bit of this blog is ever true...the bit about Physics is true and the Christmas poem, unfortunately, is true; but if “Love Actually” has taught me anything it's that making an arse out of yourself will mean you get to pash someone you fancy at Christmas, so get to it, Love Actually Christmas movie and they wouldn't make that shit up. 

x

Train Spotting and the Self Obsessed Furby.

I think Blogs are a platform for the self indulgent to stand on the table during a monkey fight and yell: “Listen to meeeeeee”, while the smart people sit in the corner, in the shade, drinking intelligent drinks, reading the financial review and chatting about evolution and the descent of man into chaos. My blog is no different from the monkey yellers. It is a platform for me to pretend to be funny and wise, without having to listen to your response. Here I am pretending to understand it all. Well I don't understand it all, but that doesn't stop me dishing out trough loads of advice for sometimes fictional quandaries/ conundrums. (It keeps me entertained!) My happy “Danny Katz wannabe”, yet tiny advice blog might give you the impression I am not stymied by fear, plagued by neurosis and interested in shiny, superficial obsessions. Wrongopongodrongo.

Currently rating high on my fairly extensive worry list (not in order of importance):

I have given a vast amount of thought to buying a swimsuit that doesn't make me look too much like a seal (aka shark dinner), so I buy bathers that make me look like a tropical fish, or a pasty and confusing extra in an 80's cigarette commercial so that I can avoid getting chomped by a shark. I spend a lot of time worrying about myself, my success, my happiness, my wrinkles, my cellulite and then finally my loved ones and have vivid visions of getting hit by a bus and sometimes wonder how it would feel, I also have an unnatural fear of worms in strawberries and the descent of man into madness, oh and I worry about being painfully lonely. I like to read magazines a fair bit (for the pictures, not the articles) and wish I had loads, loads more money. So what is my god damn point?!!! Well recently a friend of mine showed me a little perspective, so I'd like to use this monkey-yelling-table-platform to share what I have learnt.

LIFE: If you're lucky enough to survive the birth canal you'll come into this world firstly asking why placenta tastes so yummy, but looks so gross, and then you'll reach your arms up to the great and almighty God of halogen hospital lamps and question “Why-why? Cry-cry!”. (It's an annoying rhyme.)

Here is a picture of a Furby cupcake to represent new life. Look at his pleading little hands, he's so vulnerable and confused. 

The question of your existential purpose, life, the cosmos and it's meaning may cross your mind a few more times during your menial existence, mostly you'll be more concerned with:

• Food
• Hugs and hand holding
• Toys and bed jumping

Then someone might introduce you to a god, but you're still young enough and wise enough to realise that this god concept is less important than your toy collection and food.

Then a bit later on, if you're lucky, you'll be concerned with sex/boys/girls and bed jumping (the toys will still feature)

Then you'll ask yourself why people take so many selfies and put them on facebook

(insert picture of a terribly awful facebook selfie)

Other things that may concern you:

• sun burn
• buy a cat and wish it was a puppy
• step on a slug
• jealousy
• war
• pedophiles
• see a doctor about a weird mole/rash/ itch
• loose a lot of money
• make more money than you dreamed of as a kid and yet you don't use your riches to buy truck loads of lollies (this was the wrong choice by the way).

You might listen to Simon and Garfunkel and wish you were in New York at their concert in Central Park in the 80's, mostly because it was free and you'd get to tell people “I was there” and that would definitely help give your life meaning, especially if facebook was invented then and you could post “Jst hang w Paul & Art in the Park, wat the fck w the q for the toilet?”.

Then you might get really lucky and find somebody to love (cue “Queen” medley), then you have babies who also pray to the god of halogen lamps and it gives your life meaning. If your life was a movie it would be called “YOU: GREAT CREATOR OF LIFE. BAM!” You have things sorted, sigh.

When you finally forget about how you felt in that magic moment when you created life once again you return to your toys and maybe to the question of “Why?” Ah, the endless cycle of questioning “Why, why, why!”

Then, if you're lucky enough to get old enough and to that point where you're very busy with your search you wake up one day and realise your eyes have gone, the balls are still there, but they function at 50% and you ignored it for a long time. Shit. It will make you super grumpy and cantankerous.

Furby has taken a turn for the worse. In this picture he still has his eyes, but he looks so sad so I thought I'd use it. 

And then, if you're lucky enough to get old and to that point you realise you can't taste the same as you used to. You'll add salt to everything, but not pepper, until everything taste like a saline rinse on your gammy gums and you'll rinse you futuristic contacts in your porridge by accident and then you'll get fucking grumpy.

And then, if you're lucky enough to get old and to that point, you might not be able to do a pooh without someone lending you a giant nappy and you'll feel like you're insides no longer belong to you. Crap (literally).

Furby is up shit creek. 

And then, if you're lucky enough to get old enough and to get to that point, you'll need someone else to help you breath and some young doctor whipper snapper will be nice, they'll be friendly, but they'll never truly understand what it feels like to be half alive....and then, maybe then you'll realise that life is meaningful. Life is precious and it's a gift not to be taken for granted and worry is a tragic waste of time. Then you might crack the shits because you lost old people scrabble.

However if you find out the meaning of life earlier than the rest of us you might try and spread the word. You might post a status on facebook saying: “If you can eat, swallow, walk and breath for yourself be grateful please”. People might listen, they might not, but you'd really want them to because you know. You've learnt what it all means. You've been to the place where you no longer ask, you no longer whinge about the weather, or not having enough of everything, or a fancy this, or facebook, or arse-monkeys, but you're simply grateful to be alive and you're going to do all you can to enjoy the fuck out of life while its still given to you. You might go to a grave yard and leap off all of the tomb stones, because you can.

I haven't figured out the meaning of life, but I would like to take a tip from a friend, who generously tried to teach it to me. We were going to meet in Egypt for some Egyptian fish and chips, but ran out of time.  I reckon he found the greater meaning in life, If he were here I think he might say we should be happy- we get to breath, we get to sing, we get to eat cake. He may also swear a bit and talk about being fucking melodramatic.  Whatever he'd really say I'm pretty sure he figured it all out and I promise not to take his lesson for granted.

Thanks Nick, you Bell-end. I wish you didn't have to be so smart.

A step by step guide to achieving celebrity-like popularity.

Dear Lacksadaisy,

Last night I went to a work party and felt invisible. There were some amazingly beautiful women there and I just stood in the corner alone, feeling like a walrus. How do I become more popular? I know you'll help me.

Nancy.

Dear Nancy, 

Don't panic. Relax and allow me to talk you through the easy and achievable steps to achieving IT girl status and immense popularity. Don't let primary school teachers fool you, there is nothing more important in life than being the most popular, or a celebrity. If possible we would all become celebrities, but then the celebrities would be the people that aren't celebrities and we'd live in an inverted world where the Bold and the Beautiful would be made up of Mathematicians chatting about Algorithms and Axioms and Maple Syrup. Oh sweet Jesus, maple syrup. (Maths is in everything Nancy).

The work party is a ruthless beast and it can leave you feeling like a lonely fisherman made of carrot in a sea of watermelon garnishes...

Simply follow these steps on becoming popular like a celebrity human and then "friend" me on facebook because I could use your numbers and friend list. 

1. Celebrities often marry funny looking people to make themselves look more attractive. Find a toothless guy and take him as your date to the next work function, stand next to him and laugh raucously at his jokes about gum disease and the government. Maybe even pash him a little, or perhaps lightly squeeze Toothless Barry's left buttock cheek all evening. People will then know you are a sexual animal and find you intriguing and magnetic.

2. Charity work. Kim Kardashian does charity work. She did a ride along with a police car to a drug bust. I bet she also went so far as to test the drugs. She has a strong sense of civic duty and this is an important thing to portray to your public. Make sure party guests know about your charity work. Maybe you could spring a drug bust on them at the party. They will find it hard not to be impressed.

3. Get shiny hair. Miranda Kerr has shiny hair. Two words: fish oil. I like to keep a bag of tiny gold fish on hand. Just before you reach the gala function, take out one of your little goldies and rub vigorously through your hair. I like to keep the used fish as a fetching hair clip for the function.

4. Always make an entrance. When the Asian celebrity who I didn't know arrived at Adelaide airport, she arrived with a cavalcade. There were 26 motorbikes, 2 hummers and a team of guys wearing a uniform of massive pectoral muscles AND she has sun glasses with spikes on them so that all she could see were spikes. This taught me a valuable lesson: vision impairment is cool. Get your own team of minders. I take my Nan because of her canny street smarts and vision impairment, my bag of goldfish and maybe some bit of stuff from the hotel lobby that gave me a wink-wink because my hair is so shiny and I obviously smell of the ocean, he can come too.

5. Learn how to smile so that your teeth look good, your face doesn't wrinkle and your eyes are dead inside. This is probably the most important. If you smile with a genuine happy smile you'll look like an idiot and probably wrinkly. No one smiles like this anymore, well maybe just people that are photographed without their knowing and the poor people from the third world who don't understand the serious importance of the selfie.

5. Image is everything so hire a publicist. When they ask you what they are meant to publicise you yell “I am a celebrity!” at them and then they'll publicise the way you achieved your shiny hair, your dating profile and your charity work and, obviously, millions will be enthralled and you'll get to go on Ellen. 

Ta da!!!! You're welcome...again. 

How to be a Nancy- Girl.

Dear Lacksy,

In response to your previous letter: 

I think you are being a bit sensitive. Sensy. A bit of a flower. Wo-man up woman! Put on your marmalade overalls and sharpie on some chest hair. It's time you learnt the harsh realities of life and gave birth to a six pack of beer. It's time you learnt some lessons from my new friend Nancy. 

Last night I put on my hardcore- hatty- hat and went to the local pub in Nerandurra. It was called “Top Pub” and to be fair, it was rather tops.

 Top Pub has all the elements necessary to make it tops. Locals, neon signs, 90's trance music, unsubtle use of faux wood veneer, male strippers and toothless guys who slur their words and rig the meat raffle. The end of the bar was propped up by an 86 year old named “Nancy”. Nancy is a bit of a legend. She nursed her stubby of VB for longer than the Three Hundred and Thirty Five years war, and when she stands up straight she comes up to the mighty boobs of the hefty, yet friendly bar lady who fetched me my urban organic cold pressed ladies cider. Nancy is a fire cracker. Nancy doesn't care about things. Nancy couldn't give a bats balls about cirrhosis of the liver, eating organic sausages and wants her cup-of-cino with extra fucking foam and a manly spoon to eat it with as it precariously wabbles it from cup to mouth as she gives the waitress a death stare. Nancy is defiant and firm in her beliefs that the 90's trance music is a pile of “doof doof” shit and has no qualms in letting the hefty pub owner know exactly what she thinks of the pile of the musical dog pooh.

Although I'm only making assumptions Nancy has most likely endured the death of a spouse, possibly a child, one vital organ failing and beaten back into submission, crippling, agonising arthritis, she has lived through a depression, the boom and bust of a country town and the close of a bank. As the Nancy's of this country are ushered into an ambulance with their 3rd broken hip and the ambulance attendant asks if they've taken any pain medication they politely say “fuckoff with your namby drugs for shilly shally girls please”. Nancy no longer cares if people think she's fool, because she knows she rocks.

So what I'm trying to say in response to your panic Lacksy is: my commiserations. Everyone knows that there are few things worse than feeling like a a bit of an mindless fool...well maybe just the Ebola virus, AIDS, world hunger, climate change and forgetting your mums birthday even though she gave you written notice and a follow up phone call reminding you it was yesterday, dying young, being drowned by a clown, being scratched by a bat, genocide, politicians and being bitten by a bull ant. Soooo....really? No biggie. Get over it you Willy.

If only I had a time machine..

Dear Self,

Could you please suggest some survival techniques to my past, less enlightened self, for those moments when you wish your grandmothers lovely broach (which is carefully pinned to your favourite- “awesome cardi”) is a MI6 style grenade, and you could just explode yourself into a parallel universe. A lovely, happier universe where you are more successful and you were bought up to think before you speak, rather than endure the uncomfortable silence which ensues after you commit a terrible, terrible faux pas and there appear to be more awkward turtles than at the “Convention for turtles with Social Disorders”.

Recently a “friend” of mine (obvi, it's me) overstepped that delightful threshold of human decorum, left polite converse in the lavvy and made a titting tit of herself...or himself...since it wasn't me (it was). There was silence and then a glorious symphony of unsympathetic crickets. Then came the fall out of judgemental “wows”, accompanied by a chorus of horrified stares.

An already awkward situation went from bad to worse when one of my superiors proceeded to make a rather emotional speech farewelling a colleague, there were tears involved. Fortunately this temporarily distracted my peers, which would have been the perfect opportunity to flee leaving people wondering whether or not they'd imagined the whole thing, but unfortunately I was basically locked in the centre of the group.  It was such a heightened, emotional speech in such contrast to my afore mentioned faux pas, which only served to make me look even more insensitive, so people put back on their judgement pants and started doing a little judgement barn dance around me, while I stared blankly into space with the thousand mile stare of a serial killer who listens to Bon Jovi. 

If only I had an overactive sympathetic nervous system! One that was capable of blushing like a hot cartoon rabbit, or someone with a mild to intermediate level of rosacea. At least then people would think I had a conscience!! Oh the luck of those bloody blushers! The moment their rosy cheeks light up people instantly feel sorry for them. It just makes me want to punch them.

“Ooooh look at that poor blusher, how rosy and beautiful their cheeks are! They could be in an ad for the kilts and other Scottish things. They obviously feel remorseful for their embarrassing behaviour...OBVIOUSLY!.”

Instead I was struck dumb, standing there in stony silence, people gawking, mouths agape, as if I'd just shouted at a funeral “I've committed carnal sins with a monkey and that monkey was your mother!”

Anyway....present self, please advise past self what I should have done in such a situation.  I feel like an island, alone with my shame. I have resorted to a steady diet of croissants and wont stop until this veil of embarrassment is lifted. That and croissants are especially delicious. Especially every variety.

Sincerely,

Lacksadaisy.

P.S

Could you also tell past self not to drink the cheap champagne. X

Dear Self,

I'll think about it and get back to you.

L x